“The blood splatter’s not right.”
Clare lost it. “We’ve been going at this for hours—I’m done.”
She threw down the knife and stormed off the set.
The photographer shrugged and began putting away his equipment.
Arnie grabbed Clare’s arm and stopped her before she could barge out the door.
“What are you doing?”
She glared at him hatefully, her black mascara exaggerating her eyes.
“I’m exhausted, Arnie and this is going nowhere—like this band.”
She pointed to Wolf and Tessa sitting on the floor in their leathers, exhausted, their legs splayed before them.
“Look, you can give up if you want, but if you do, you’re out of the group.”
“Like I care.” She shook her spiked purple hair and rubbed her stiff neck.
“I know you’re exhausted,” Arnie reasoned, “but we’re all in this together—it’s not easy for any of us.”
“Two years, Arnie—two frigging years we’ve been doing this and for what? Nothing.”
He couldn’t argue the point. They did everything—made the rounds of record producers, pushed their demos, were on every social media site and according to their agent their popularity was declining. He felt defeated.
“Why don’t we call it a night and go out for a drink?”
“I already called it a night, “ she pouted.
“C’mon Clare. Things’ll look different tomorrow.”
“Not unless pigs can fly,” she hissed. Seeing the defeat in his eyes, she relented—she always did.
“Okay, one drink—and then it’s home to bed for me.”
Arnie brightened. He waved goodnight to the others and guided her out to the street. In twenty minutes they were sitting in a booth at The Top of the Town Bar eating greasy pizza and sharing a mug of draft beer.
Al Wilson was finishing his set. Al was an old time Rocker and had been in several bands and had several hits which he now recycled in the bar scene. It paid his bills, but not much more.
When his set was over, Al appeared at their table. “Man, this was a tough gig tonight—weird audience.”
Arnie took a quick look around and sized up the patrons. Nobody in the bar was over thirty.
“They just don’t know your music, Al—hell, half these people weren’t even born when you played with Cold Metal.”
Al had a glassy look in his eyes. Obviously, he had been on something tonight, probably doing lines between sets.
“A guy was in earlier—a music producer—same guy that promoted The Band back in the day. Said he remembered me from Cold Metal. Wants me in the studio again.”
Arnie’s eyes lit up. “Hey Al, that’s great—Congratulations, guy!”
Al looked downcast.
“Hey, why so glum, chum? You should be on top of the world right now.”
Al shook his head. “You two are my biggest boosters, but to tell the truth, I’m done. My hands shake all the time and there’s no way I can play those riffs the way I used to. I’m going to pass on this one.”
No, Al,” Arnie protested, but Al raised a hand to silence him. “Look, it’s like Kenny Rodgers says—You gotta know when to fold up.”
Arnie shrugged. He had no idea who Kenny Whateverhisname was—Maybe, Al was right and he was too out of touch with today’s music scene.
Al put his arm round both their shoulders. “I really love you guys and all the support you’ve given me. That’s why I’m going to give you something—a little present from Big Al to the two of you.”
Clare started to cry. “You don’t have to do that, Al. You know we love you.”
“That’s why I want to do it.”
He reached into his pocket and took out some folded music sheets. He handed them to Clare. “There you go, kids—it’s all yours.”
“What is it?” Clare asked.
Arnie kicked her ankle under the table. She glared at him with smoking eyes, but said nothing.
“It’s a song I bought the rights to when I was on top. It was too far out at the time for me, but I hung onto it all these years, figuring I might record it someday—but I never did. It’s yours, guys. Go record it and sell a million.”
Clare spread open the music sheets and read the title. Someone Hit a Possum.
She started to laugh. “C’mon Al, you putting us on?”
He was dead serious. “Hell no—I’m telling you this has got ‘hit’ written all over it—and your band—Roadkill? Hell, this’ll be a sensation. You’ll be bigger than the Beatles ever were.”
Clare looked dubious and even Arnie got very quiet.
Al got up and smiled good-naturedly. “It’s your call, guys—take it into the studio and if it doesn’t jump—trash it. I won’t care. I just think it’ll make your career.”
They thanked Al and watched him sway unsteadily as he lumbered away.
They both shook their heads and Clare lifted the mug in mock salute to Al’s now vacant chair.
Ten months later Roadkill hit the top of the charts with Someone Hit a Possum.
It became one of those catchy tunes like Macarena and people were dancing to it and singing the song in Times Square on New Years Eve. It was weird—one of those unpredictable hits like, Who Let the Dogs Out.
Al joined a new group and they immediately hit the Top Ten on Billboard too. His retro style was coming back into fashion—who knew?
Clare’s purple spiked hair and mascara lined eyes were now gone—she looked softer, sleeker—a rock diva.
There were no more bloodletting photo shoots and Tessa and Wolf got married and quit the group.
They bought The Top of the Town Bar and turned it into a Rock shrine.
Success didn’t change Clare and Arnie though—they still fought like cats and dogs and even wrote a song about it. That hit the top of the charts too.
When things go right they follow a simple law of mass in motion—they keep on going in the same direction. By the way, Clare and Arnie’s new group is called Momentum.