The Bass Wore Scales (10 page)

“
Holy smokes!” I said. “I didn’t know this was going to be such a big deal.”

“
Anyway,” Meg continued. “I’m pretty sure that once the bishop finds out who’s going to be here, he won’t want to miss it. By the way, is there a liturgy for blessing a racecar?”

“
I’m pretty sure there’s not. Maybe Princess Foo-Foo can come up with one.”

Chapter 5

I made my way into the Bear and Brew just in time to see Meg and Ruby join Elaine at a table near the back. The Bear and Brew had been an old feed store and still had the irregular pine floor boards and tin signs advertising Allis Chalmers tractor parts, Buckthorn Hogfeed, Columbia Steel Windmills and most everything else the farmer’s supply stores at the turn of the century had to offer. Now, though, instead of the smell of fertilizer, leather harnesses and saddle soap, the permeating aroma was pizza—right out of the oven—with just a hint of beer. I took a big whiff and felt right at home.

“
Afternoon, Hayden,” Ruby said. “You’re right on time. We haven’t even looked at a menu yet.”

“
We thought you’d be late,” said Elaine, “and we’d get a chance to order an artichoke and spinach pizza before you showed up.”

“
I like pizza so much, I’ll even eat one covered with artichokes and spinach.”

“
Really?” said Meg. “It has Peruvian goat cheese on it.”

I sighed. “Yes. Even with Peruvian goat cheese.”

“
Great,” said Ruby. “Then we’ll get a large one.” She said this to Pauli Girl McCollough, whom I just noticed was standing by the table with an order pad in her hand.

“
Pauli Girl! I didn’t know you were working here,” I said.

“
Well, we just opened.”

“
Hey, that’s great. Aren’t you a little young to be serving beer?”

“
Yeah. I’m not allowed to serve you beer. I can serve you pizza though and take your drink order, but the beer comes from the bar anyway, so Lisa will bring it to you.”

“
Fair enough. What do you have? Beer-wise?”

Pauli Girl smiled. ““I don’t know. They won’t tell me.”

“
Never mind. I’ll just go on up to the bar. You ladies want anything?

“
No, thanks,” came the consensus from around the table. “We’re all having raspberry tea,” said Meg.

“
Are you all donning red hats as well?” I grumbled as I went off to the bar. I returned shortly with a pint of Guinness.

“
I’ve been looking at the Bulwer-Lytton website,” said Elaine. “So I can get a feel for what they’re looking for.”

“
I did the same thing,” said Ruby. “I wasn’t terribly impressed. I know that I haven’t taught English for a number of years now, but it seems like the winners all tend to follow the same formula. The sentences are long; tightly constructed; mainly consisting of an elaborately over-inflated metaphor or simile that in the end is punctured by a ludicrously mundane or trivial final clause. We should be able to construct one of those by the numbers.”

“
Wow,” I said. “I’m impressed. So, do you have a sentence to enter into the contest?”

“
Nope,” said Ruby, smiling. “Not yet.”

“
Me, neither,” said Elaine.

“
I almost had one,” said Meg. “But it escaped at the last moment.”

“
Fine,” I said. “Here’s mine.” I pulled a piece of paper out of my shirt pocket and read.

Lola, last evening’s surprise winner of the Weehawken Symphony Competition, now hung grotesquely from the stage, her darkening features evoking the opening strains of her triumphant performance of Beethoven’s 3rd piano concerto (opus 37 in c-minor), and her corpse swinging above the recently-tuned Bösendorfer like a giant meat-metronome set on andante or maybe piú lento, or even scherzo if anyone thought this was a musical joke and one bit funny.

“
It’s pretty good,” Meg said thoughtfully. “And yet…”

“
I don’t get it,” said Ruby. “A Bösendorfer is obviously a piano, but, not being a musician, I don’t know what those other terms mean.”

“
Metronome?” I asked.

“
No. The Italian. Tempos?”

“
Yes,” I explained. “Tempos. See, the metronome is set to different tempos to tell you how fast the music goes.”

“
Well, yes. I
know
that,” said Ruby. “I just don’t know what they mean.”

“
I got the first two,” said Elaine. “Andante and pew something.”

“
Piú lento,” I said. “It means very slowly.”

“
Yeah, I’ve heard of that one. But what was the third one?”

“
Scherzo. That’s what makes the whole thing funny,” I said defensively. “A scherzo is a musical joke.”

“
Oh,” said Meg. “So when you wrap it up with ‘if anyone thought this was a musical joke and one bit funny,’ that’s part of the joke, because
scherzo
means musical joke.”

“
Yeah,” I said, as the three women nodded in understanding. “Although when you take it apart like that, it’s not quite so good.”

“
No, no,” said Ruby. “It has several components that I really like. For example,
giant meat-metronome
is really clever. And I presume that Beethoven’s 3
^rd
piano concerto actually does have a dark and ominous beginning.”

“
Yes,” I said. “Yes it does.”

“
All the better,” said Meg. “But these are all details that we, as readers or better yet, judges, wouldn’t know if we weren’t musicians.”

“
So you guys think that the musical references are too obscure?” I asked.

The three women nodded.

“
Or are you convinced that this entry is so good that none of you stand a chance and you’re trying to put me off my game?”

The three women nodded.

And, just in time, the pizza arrived.

* * *

We walked out of the Bear and Brew, and the town square had been transformed. Pete, our stalwart mayor and never one to miss an opportunity, had told me yesterday about his plans. In the hour or so we spent eating pizza and discussing my shortcomings as an author, the news trucks had arrived, and the talent had begun to set up in Sterling Park across from St. Barnabas. Dave and Nancy had cordoned off Main Street on the west side of the square, and Junior Jameson’s car was sitting on a trailer right in front of the church steps. Pete was directing a couple of city employees who were putting some red, white and blue bunting across the front of the church. Billy Hixon had the entire crew of Hixon Lawn Care out putting finishing touches on the park, and when he saw me, he shouted and waved me over. That is, I thought he might have shouted. His mouth moved, but I heard no sound above the din of a lawnmower, several weed-eaters and two leaf blowers.

“
We’re almost finished,” Billy yelled as I walked up. “I wanted everything to look good.”

“
You guys just mowed this three days ago,” I hollered back.

“
WHAT?”

“
YOU GUYS JUST MOWED THIS…”

The roar suddenly came to a halt as all the machines finished in astonishing synchronization.

“
They all finish at the same time?” I bellowed.

“
You don’t have to yell,” said Billy. “They’re finished. And all at the same time.”

“
Oh yeah.”

“
Anyway, it looks good,” said Billy, surveying the grounds as his crew loaded the bags of clippings and tools into the two pickup trucks displaying his logo. “We’re going to be on national news.”

“
Is the bishop going to be here?”

“
Yep,” said Billy. “He said he’d be here by two o’clock. I don’t think I can get him to wear his cope and mitre even though I told him it’d make for better press.”

“
Just the purple shirt then?”

“
I think so. And his big ol’ cross. But what’s the point of being the bishop if you won’t wear the outfit?” Billy complained. “I think this is something we should find out before we elect them.”

“
I agree,” said Pete, walking up to us. “It’d look a lot better on TV and in the paper if he was in full ecclesiastic regalia.”

“
You can still probably get a couple of acolytes out here in their robes with a couple of candles,” I suggested.

“
Already done,” said Billy. “And Benny Dawkins is bringing the incense pot.” He looked up toward the front of the church. “If we can get a couple of folks up on the steps in vestments, it’d help.”

“
Well, Bev’s in the office,” I said, “and Elaine will be here, right? We just finished having lunch.”

“
She’s here now,” said Pete. “I just saw her walk into the church.”

“
I’ll get her,” Billy said. “Maybe Georgia’s in there, too.”

“
You’re married to Elaine,” I said, “so you can probably talk her into it. Do you have anything on Georgia or Bev?”

“
I’ll appeal to their civic pride,” said Billy, with a grin. “And they probably don’t want to have to mow their
own
lawns for the rest of the summer.”

* * *

Bishop O’Connell showed up at 2:50 pm. Billy was getting worried and had already given me a copy of the blessing just in case I had to preside. There wasn’t much to it since everyone knew that the entire service wouldn’t occupy more than a thirty-second bite on any of the networks, and newspapers would do well to get a photo and a caption out of the whole extravaganza.

It was a fact of life in the Episcopal Church that we didn’t mind blessing all kinds of things, and Episcopal Bishops, in particular, knew that this was part and parcel of their ministry. Last year, during a “Blessing of the Animals” service on St. Francis’ Day, Bishop O’Connell was photographed blessing a possum, so the St. Barnabas Racecar, dedicated to the glory of God, wasn’t too far out of bounds. Since I didn’t have any duties to attend to, I stood off to the side with Meg and Pete and enjoyed the show as well as the beautiful afternoon.

The clock at the top of the courthouse said three o’clock, but then again, that clock always said three o’clock. It had stopped thirty years ago and had never been fixed. The town council had decided that for what it would cost to fix the clock, it would be more economical to have the St. Germaine Town Clock tell the correct time exactly twice a day. It was no coincidence that almost all of our downtown events happened at three. I looked at the clock, then at my watch, and in precisely ten seconds, they lined up perfectly.

The church bell started ringing, the two front doors to the church opened and out walked the procession—two acolytes; Benny Dawkins swinging his thurible; Bishop O’Connell, Bev, Georgia and Elaine, all wearing cassocks; and finally, Billy Hixon, Lucille Murdock and Junior Jameson. Billy was grinning ear-to-ear. Lucille was clutching her purse with both white-gloved hands and blinking nervously behind her thick glasses. Junior waved to the crowd that now numbered close to two hundred. This was a good turnout for St. Germaine, but as I surveyed the crowd, I could tell that there were more out-of-towners than locals.