Rayguns Over Texas Read online

  I looked for Ritchie at his star, but he wasn’t there. So I walked on down to Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and he wasn’t there, either.

  But Marilyn, Darth, Luke, and Spidey were. The four of them were hanging out at the same trash can and lamppost as the night before.

  I went over. “Excuse me, sorry to bother you. But have y’all seen Ritchie Valens anywhere this evening?”

  To steal a phrase from the late Houston comedian, Bill Hicks, they all looked at me like dogs being shown a card trick.

  Only Darth Vader spoke. In his deep amplified bass voice, he asked: “Is this Ritchie…a Jedi?”

  I’d had a good day, but I was exhausted and in no mood. “Look,” I said, forcing a smile. “I appreciate the whole not-breaking-character thing. But I owe...let’s call it a debt of honor, to the kid who plays Ritchie Valens. He was right here with y’all last night. Uh, Lord Vader, you even had his guitar cable here in your—”

  I reached for Vader’s cloak, and both he and Luke Skywalker had their lightsabers out in a flash.

  “Stay away from the Dark Side,” Luke said fiercely.

  At which point Marilyn sidled up to me and cooed, “Would you like a photo, handsome?”

  So I gave them some cash, took a photo of them clustered around the trashcan (with Spidey atop it), and gave up. In Texas, we pay up when we lose a bet, but this hadn’t been a real bet with a real human being anyway. I didn’t know why I had bothered to show up in the first place. Maybe my brain chemistry had been psychedelically damaged by breathing California air.

  I started back toward Hollywood and Vine, but after two blocks I had to pause on the crowded sidewalk to avoid being smacked in the nose by an old-fashioned wooden-and-glass door. A dozen people streamed out through the doorway while I waited, and as they did, marvelous fragrances wafted from within. Steak. Baked potato. Coffee. Apple pie. All manner of delectable vittles, their wonderful smells mingling in a warm and delicious sensory rush.

  That was when I remembered that, in all of the day’s festivities, I hadn’t eaten dinner. And here it was after 11 o’clock. So when the last of the people streaming from the restaurant were out of my way, I grabbed the door and went inside.

  I crossed a small bay window-shaped vestibule and stepped through another doorway. The huge dining room beyond was cool and dim, and a faint musty odor joined all of the enticing smells of good cooking. I had an impression of elegance and seediness living together, like two old lovers. And I could hear Eddie Cochran singing “Summertime Blues” from small, round speakers in the ancient smoke-stained ceiling.

  A tall, narrow-faced, dark-suited man with a thin necktie stood at a podium just inside the door. He looked me up and down, took in my Western-cut suit, and gave me a polite smile.

  “Welcome to Hollywood and to the Musso and Frank Grill, sir,” he said, pulling a menu from a rack on one side of the podium. “Musso and Frank’s is the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, and we have proudly proclaimed that distinction since the day we opened in 1919. This has been a second home to famous writers, producers, and performers for decade after decade.”

  I looked around at the big, old semicircular booths, the scattered tables with their yellowed tablecloths, and the massive oak bar. I could see that only three or four other customers remained in the place, but they seemed to be lingering. So I guessed Musso and Frank’s would stay open long enough to feed me.

  “Famous writers, you say?” I asked.

  The tall man nodded. “Yes, sir. If you like, I can seat you in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s favorite booth.”

  “Sold,” I said, and followed him across the worn carpet as he threaded his way between the tables to a maroon, leather-clad booth at the back of the room. He left me there with a large, multi-page menu.

  I had barely had a chance to glance at it when another man appeared at my elbow and filled my water glass from a 1950s-era Fiesta pitcher, the color of an old brick. This man was dressed in a semi-crumpled uniform of black slacks, a white shirt with a bow tie, and a red jacket. He was stoop-shouldered and elderly, at least 70 years old if he was a day. But his hair was still thick and dark, except for a few gray streaks, and his broad face was creased with lines that looked like the result of laughter as much as age.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said. “I’m Ricardo, and I’ll be serving you. Have you decided?”

  I was staring at him. I couldn’t help it.

  “You have a son who plays guitar, don’t you?” I asked. Then I did a quick mental calculation. “Or a grandson?”

  Ricardo grinned. His teeth still looked white and young. “Not that I know of, sir. Have you decided?”

  I looked down at the huge menu. “Uh, what do you recommend?”

  “This is Wednesday, sir, so I recommend the Wednesday Special, which is sauerbraten and potato pancakes. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had that in my life,” I said. “But I’ll try it. And a beer. Any brand’s fine.”

  Ricardo somehow managed to frown while still maintaining a smile. “Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this is the Musso and Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard. Among other things, we’re famous for our cocktails. Mr. Fitzgerald, in whose booth you are ensconced, always had a cocktail. So although beer is traditional with your dish, you might want to consider a cocktail instead.” He reached down, opened my menu to a long list of drink suggestions, and tapped it with a gnarled old finger.

  I shook my head. “I’m a beer guy.”

  “I understand, sir,” Ricardo said. Then he leaned closer and spoke into my ear. “But wouldn’t you like to try something new? And different?”

  A shudder ran through my shoulders. I looked at the list of cocktails and picked one at random. “Whiskey sour,” I said.

  Ricardo’s smile grew wider. “Up, or rocks?”

  I slapped the menu closed. “Oh, for the love of Davy Crockett,” I said. “Surprise me.”

  He gave a slight bow. “As you wish, sir.”

  At that point, I half expected Ricardo to vanish in a puff of smoke, but instead he just walked away. Pretty briskly, too, for an old fellow. He returned a few minutes later with a substantial lemonade-colored drink, stuffed with ice and a cherry, and then a few minutes after that, with a plate of gravy-soaked beef roast with potato pancakes.

  Ricardo set the plate before me and gave another slight bow.

  “Enjoy, sir,” he said.

  I looked down at the steaming sauerbraten, then closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath. The sharp, rich smell was both familiar and strange, and irresistible. And when I opened my eyes again, Ricardo was gone.

  Then, as I ate and drank, the Musso and Frank sound system played seven Buddy Holly songs in a row, no doubt in honor of Buddy’s birthday and his new Walk of Fame star. I thought it was a nice gesture. And the last two were my favorites, “Not Fade Away” and “Well All Right.”

  In short, it was a great meal. I ate every morsel on my plate and drained every drop in my glass. So by the time I was finished, I was pretty full and moderately drunk. But I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t notice when my check was brought by the tall man from the podium instead of by Ricardo.

  “I hope everything was satisfactory,” the tall man said. “And I hope you’ll come back and see us again.”

  I thought about it. “You know,” I said, “I think I might.”

  Then I glanced around the dining room. The other customers had left, and the tall man and I were alone.

  “Everything was terrific,” I said, holding up a credit card. “But what happened to my waiter?”

  The tall man glanced toward the door. “Oh, Ricardo had to leave early. An old friend of his from Lubbock, Texas, is in town. And perhaps another from, I believe, Beaumont. They’re going to catch up.” He
took my credit card. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I blinked, and the tall man handed back my card and a slip of paper to sign. My hand wobbled a bit as I did so, and I told myself it was just the whiskey sour.

  Maybe it was. But as I stood to go, I heard that the song playing through the ceiling speakers, just for me, was a Ritchie Valens tune.

  “Wellll . . . Come on, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, little darlin’! Tell me that you’ll never leave me! Come on, come on, let’s go – again and again and again!”

  If I could have picked any Ritchie Valens song to hear at that moment, “Come On, Let’s Go” would have been it. So I was buzzed and happy as I stepped out onto the Boulevard once more and started on my wobbly way eastward, toward my hotel.

  Then, with Ritchie’s music still in my ears, I stopped. Just as at Buddy’s unveiling, I had realized something.

  I still owed half the payment for my bet.

  I looked at my watch. It was 11:57 PM.

  So I spun around, almost falling over, and ran back past Musso and Frank’s, heading westward as fast as I could. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I knew I had only three minutes left to do it. And I knew where it had to be done.

  When in doubt, you always pay off a bet where the bet was made.

  I was running upstream against a steady flow of the cool, the not-so-cool, the beautiful, the ugly, the weird, the hip, the slick, the ragged, and the downright dorky. But as I bobbed and weaved among them in my drunken, sauerbraten-laden plunge, I loved them. I loved them all. And I would have stopped to kiss every one of them on the mouth, but I was in a hurry.

  As I ran past Ritchie’s star, I looked down and shouted, “Well, all right! Come on! Let’s GO!”

  Moments later, when I reached Grauman’s Chinese Theater, I hurtled past Marilyn Monroe (who gasped “Ooh!”), ricocheted off SpongeBob Squarepants, and collided with Spider-Man’s trash can. Spidey wound up perched atop my shoulders for a split second, then tumbled away to land in a perfect, four-point Spidey-pose on the pavement. He looked up at me and cocked his head.

  There was no time to explain. My watch said 11:59.

  I knew I ought to be in costume. But I was wearing a Western-cut suit and a bolo tie, so maybe that would do for Hollywood Boulevard on a Wednesday night. I hoped so, because I sure as hell wasn’t ever going to do this again.

  Facing Grauman’s Chinese Theater and its throng of tourists, I flung my arms wide, threw back my head, and sang as loud as I could.

  “Yo no soy marinaro! Yo no soy marinaro, soy capitan! Soy capitan, soy capitan! Bamba, bamba! Bamba, bamba! Bamba, bamba! Bamba – ”

  I have no doubt that I looked and sounded like a whiskey-sour-addled idiot.

  But in Texas, when we lose a bet fair and square, we pay up.

  By the time I reached a second chorus, Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, Luke Skywalker, SpongeBob Squarepants, Spider-Man, and even Darth Vader were all singing with me. And at least half the crowd had joined them.

  So maybe this Buddy Holly fan finally did all right by Ritchie Valens, too—even though I had to sing “La Bamba” by remembering it phonetically. Because that’s one thing this middle-aged dude from Texas and that kid from California have in common.

  You see, just like Ritchie…I really don’t know much Spanish at all.

  Operators are Standing By

  Rhonda Eudaly

  Manager Glornash attempts to prove just how much of a company man

  she can be in this all too real story of the unsettling world of telemarketing.

  “Good morning! Before the shift starts, I want to let you know that the new catalogs are in. We have a lot of new products across the board this cycle. Be sure you take some time to familiarize yourselves with them.

  “Also, the new advertising cycle begins today, as well. The commercials, infomercials, and documercials are done by our best producers, with extra incentives to boost revenue. That information is being downloaded to your terminals right now. Don’t forget to take your anti-hypnotics before you watch.”Clicks, clacks, hoots, and hollers answered Glornash’s announcement. She let the adulation and excitement wash over her while the translations caught up in the more complex languages. Though the Call Center was equipped with the most advanced universal translation technology in the galaxy (and not the crappy stuff they sold to their customers), it still took some time for the program to catch up.

  “Now, let’s get out there and sell, sell, sell!” Glornash raised a flipper. “What’s our motto here?”

  “Every call a customer, every customer a sale, and every sale has separate shipping and handling!”

  Glornash felt her oral cavity stretch as joy filled her pulmonary organ. She had the best, and busiest, Call Center in the galaxy. It was time to get her team moving. She slapped her flippers once more for instant attention.

  “Now, let’s not forget which segments you’re dealing with. We have a reputation to maintain. Let’s get to work.”

  With one last cheer, Glornash’s staff swarmed out of the auditorium. Bipedals automatically stepped over the occasional slime trail left by the gastropods that slithered out among them. Glornash would give them a few moments to get to their stations before starting her rounds. This would be a good shift. She could feel it. Revenue streamed in her pulmonary fluids, and today, she felt revenue pumping away.

  In her slow ooze toward the door, Glornash could already hear the Call Center coming to life. She barely spared a glance toward the production studio, but a swish of movement caught her optical nerve. She turned to see an organic spokesbot’s appearance slip from the Earth pitchman, Vince Offer, to a Larian version. Not that it was a major change. The only difference between the two was the Larian’s yellow scales and four eyes. However, if a Larian appeared on Earth, it would have Humans putting down their intoxicants and adjusting their television sets. But that wasn’t Glornash’s concern. Her sole purpose was to have operators standing by to take orders, and she took her job very seriously.

  Glornash’s optical stalks scanned the floor of the Call Center. Warnings went off in her hind cranial lobes. Something wasn’t right. What was it? There. She saw the empty station. Scans didn’t show its occupant up and around chatting or at the refreshment station. She tapped into the central computer system; no one was currently in the bodily waste receptacles, either. This would never do. There should never be an empty station, not this early in the shift.

  She flowed quickly across the floor. “Where is Operator MX-35?”

  Blank stares and non-committal shrugs--or the anatomical equivalent--answered it. “Well, get someone from the On-Call Pool! Quick! One of you from Gleeb! You’re a speedy race. One of you, go!”

  Papers flew out some being’s manipulator digits as a blur blew past, zipping out of the room.

  A tone reverberated through the hub. “Shift commencing in five minutes. Shift commencing in five minutes.”

  Glornash slapped her flippers. “Places, everyone. Places! This is a good day!”

  All the operators scurried, skittered, and slithered back to their stations, conversations ceased, and computer screens lit up all around Glornash--two screens per station. One screen was a Caller ID program in multiple languages. The other was the company catalog. Glornash felt the familiar swell of anxiety and dread rising in her as confusion reigned on new catalog day. The slight changes in products and codes would mean for a choppy start to the day.

  Time counted down until a great bell clanged throughout the building. Glornash took one final, deep inhalation as the communications system clamored into life in a rolling wave across the center.

  Glornash was in her element. The chaos of the multitude of voices washed over her like a symphony. She slapped her flippers like an excited cub. She began her rounds, watching for problems and listeni
ng to various calls--for quality control purposes only, of course.

  “Certainly, we can help,” a purple, winged being said into her cranial set. “I understand. We do offer a variety pack of orifice tubes - a complete gross of different sizes, shapes, and configurations. It’s one-fifty a unit, plus shipping and handling. Yes, it does sound like a lot, but we guarantee our tubes will suit every abduction need. It even comes with a universal coupler to fit any probe. It’s an investment in your mission success. Yes, indeed. And for calling now, we can double your order if you just pay separate processing and handling. Still not sure? Wait, there’s more...”

  Glornash flushed with pleasure. Orifice tubes were one of their biggest sellers, a staple among the space going races. Their company was the leading provider bar none.

  “With your current order, you qualify for the upgrade to priority delivery. That means it’ll arrive in two to three standard business cycles, as opposed to five to seven. Very good. I’m putting your order through now. How would you like to pay? First born? All...”

  Glornash cleared her larynx loudly, causing the operator’s head to jerk up. Glornash barely avoided being impaled by her long horn and nervously flapping wings. She pointed to the wall at a bright, digital sign.

  “I’m sorry, we no longer accept first born as forms of payment. No, I’m sorry we can’t accept any form of offspring as payment. That’ll be fine. Let me have the account information. Great. The expiration date? No, not your expiration date, the account’s. But congratulations on your longevity.”

  Glornash moved on to another station, certain the operator had her sale. That was an easy one. There were harder items to move. But Glornash was a True Believer when it came to the company and its ability to move product through the cosmos. If they sold it, someone would come to buy.