Now That’s What I Call Music

The stone driveway crunched beneath the ’91 Suburu Legacy as it eased into the Oyster Harbor job site where Rick was hired to hang drywall. The sheetrock dubiously ratcheted to the Legacy’s rackless roof slid so far forward Rick had to bend and tilt his mulletted head sideways to see. He always rolled into work with the grace of a sodomized wolverine, blasting Top 40 music that served as the ironic soundtrack to his depressing life. He rolled down the windows, cranked up the volume and told anybody with ears to “check this shit out.”

Hangin’ round downtown by myself

I had so much time to think about myself …

Rick bongoed the dash, faster and harder, bobbing and shaking his bandanaed head until it came:

I smell sex and candy

“This shit is boss,” Rick yelled to the Brazilians shingling the garage roof, pretending not to hear as they muttered gay slurs in Portuguese. It didn’t bother Rick that he was 44, fat, broke and universally hated. He looked on the bright side of things, when a more rational man in his situation would have put a gun in his mouth a long time ago. Sitting there, munching on a Dunkin’ French Cruller with Marcy Playground on full tilt, in the driveway of the Oyster Harbor job site, Rick had what recovering alcoholics call a “white light experience.” With God flowing through every inch of his Miller Lite-soaked being, he raised his fists to the sky and proclaimed:

“Now that’s what I call music!,” he said as he jumped out of the car and ran to the Brazilians. “Now that’s what I call music!” Then to the painters, asleep in a nook in the basement, “Now that’s what I call music!” He burst through the door and called his estranged  8-year-old son and cried, “Ricky Juniah! I did it. Now that’s what I call music!”

He jumped in his car, pealed out of the driveway as “The Way” by Fastball screamed over the speakers. Rick tore down Route 6 as pieces of 4×8 sheet rock fell from the Legacy and exploded in giant white poofs, cascading off trailing cars and mortified mothers pushing strollers. He bobbed and weaved in and out of cars down the treacherous two-lane highway until he ran out of real estate at the tip of the Cape, at Provincetown.

He boarded the ferry to Boston, with his Legacy blasting Harvey Danger as men, women and children broke into a incredibly well-choreographed dance routine, with the second-hand embarrassment and misguided panache of a late 90’s zoot suit party. In unison they sang hit after Top 40 hit as they ripped their clothes off and started fucking each other in a mass orgy unlike anything seen in Massachusetts since the Pilgrims and Indians passed wagon keys and small pox around the Thanksgiving table 400 years ago. Rick tunneled his way from the bow of the ship through gesticulating webs of dicks and pussies until he reached the stern. He got down on his knees, bowed his head, and opened his palms to the heavens. Thunder clapped and the Earth shook and Rick the Sheetrocker from Hyannis raised his head and opened his eyes to find that God had bestowed upon him, the greatest gift to all mankind since Jesus: “Now That’s What I Call Music: Volume 1.”

1 Comment

  • S.I.123
    July 28, 2018 at 07:36

    can’t stop listening

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