Why I Don't Write Children's Literature

  The salty dog inside me shed even more tears.

  DANCE WITH ME

  A tow-headed Keith Richards pushed an amplifier across Mason Street at Geary, in the direction of the Biscuits & Blues nightclub. He was moving sluggishly, but picked up the pace when a dinky Miata didn’t slow for him. True, the driver had the green light, but she might have downshifted into first gear for a spidery-legged legend in the crosswalk. Couldn’t she see the large silver belt gleaming in her headlights? Keith sneered at the car, while Mick Jagger mumbled, “Fuck.” Mick was carrying two guitar cases and he, too, had to sail across the road, his white bellbottom pants wagging in surrender. And was that Jagger’s second wife, Jerry Hall, coming up from behind? The woman was tall and wearing a pencil skirt. Her long hair, which looked dyed, swayed like a skirt itself. And the purse on her arm was imitation Chanel — two big gold Cs attached to the zipper.

  Bill Wyman, pushing a tall amplifier like a shopping cart, had no trouble crossing the street, nor did Ronnie Wood, who was lugging two microphone stands and a small case that I assumed contained the microphones. Ronnie wore a wig that lay lopsided on his head, or perhaps his head was lopsided from the effort of carrying his equipment. He trekked across Mason during a green light.

  But where was Charlie Watts, the drummer? Maybe he was circling the block, in search of parking — or maybe he was already upstairs, setting up his drums. The gig was at eight o’clock; when I pulled up my sleeve, my moonfaced watch glowed 7:20. I had time for a quick snack before climbing the two flights to the club, paying twenty dollars, and presenting my hand for a stamp.

  I snagged a chicken burger and fries from the Jack in the Box around the corner. On a tall stool, I sat at a window facing the American Conservatory Theatre, darkened that evening. A doo-wop foursome was singing “My Girl” in its doorway. In their late twenties, these young entertainers hadn’t been present on this dirty planet of ours when the radio first played that song, a slow-dance anthem that has no doubt fathered many a child. They next sang “Under the Boardwalk” and “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” then executed a little shuffle that had me assessing their talent as, in the vernacular of my time, groovy. Meanwhile, pedestrians passed by without much interest, other than the occasional quick head turn. By the time I’d devoured my burger and fries, the doo-wop singers had grown silent as toads. Business was not good, the hearts of men cold to street performers. In the darkened doorway, I could make out the coals of their lit cigarettes. One of the singers bent over to tally the coins and bills in the box they’d set out.

  At ten to eight, I climbed the stairs of Biscuit & Blues, paid up, and found a table where a card read “Two Drink Minimum.” Of course, I thought. A thirsty poet requires at least two drinks, especially for a tribute band that would bring back memories — both good and bad. At the bar, I ordered a Stella from a gaunt chap whose throat was ringed with tattoos the color of week-old hickeys — ­yellowish and blue. I gave him a dollar tip, which he didn’t bother to glance at. What did he expect?

  I returned to my seat and sized up the crowd: twenty or so of us, some of whom wore that tongue-lapping T-shirt that says “The Rolling Stones,” that says I’ll lick you, that says Mick Jagger’s lips, that says sloppy kisses. Most were couples — as in girlfriend and boyfriend, as in husband and wife — though there were a few single men bedecked in jeans, baggy sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. But there were no single women, and no groups of women out on a Thursday night together. Was this a comment about the music of the Stones?

  Keith was at the microphone. “Show time, show time,” he half-sang, in an American accent. “Volume,” he muttered, then stepped away to fiddle with a knob on his amplifier. He strummed a series of chords that reminded me of an early Stones song, then exercised his fingers with a vigorous lead-guitar riff. He looked at Ronnie Wood, who had an unlit cigarette in his kisser (the cigarette would remain unlit: house policy, state policy). Although his wig had been properly squared on his head, his mouth was now crooked. Still, he sounded British when he asked Bill Wyman, “Gotta pick?”

  The boyish Charlie Watts, peering out from behind his drum kit, was wearing a blond wig. To my surprise, he was Latino. Charlie was pressing a nervous foot on the traps of his cymbals, creating a sound not unlike the shear of metal being torn by machinery. He tapped a stick against the snare drum, then against its metal rim. He was ready, just as all Latinos are ready. Let’s get to work, his body seemed to say.

  “Mick,” Ronnie called, without the British accent. He was shorter than the real Ronnie and chubby as a teddy bear. A guitar was strapped to his chest, and armpit hair sprouted from his tank top like untrimmed bushes. While waiting for Keith to twist another knob on his amp, Ronnie sipped from a Spiderman squeeze bottle, then capped it.

  Mick turned and smiled vaguely at the crowd, then grinned at Jerry Hall. Even with her back to me, I could tell that she was proud of her man/boyfriend/husband/ex-husband/business partner. The tribute Mick actually resembled the real Jagger: broomstick thin, loopy mouth, sort of handsome. He wore a longish scarf similar to the one Mick wore at Altamont.

  The men in the audience turned their heads when we heard female laughter and the sound of high heels, tapping like door knockers against the wooden floor. Three women, in fake fur, entered with sparkle. For a psychedelic moment, they reminded me of penguins — but tall penguins, in platform shoes. One of them waved a jeweled hand at Ronnie. As the threesome clip-clopped toward a table, one broke formation and headed to the bar.

  My attention turned back to the band, which kicked into action with “Not Fade Away,” an early hit that I remembered listening to on a four-transistor radio, circa 1963. Mick moved his dainty hooves, caught and kept our attention, and wailed on the harmonica. I lifted my beer to my face — this was going to be good.

  When the song ended, Mick bowed, pocketed his harmonica, and pushed his long hair out of his face. He untangled himself from his scarf and heaved the banner-length attire at Jerry Hall, who caught it, reeled it in, and wrapped it around her own neck. “We’re here to rock you, good people!” Mick sang to us, in a British accent. As soon as he reached for a tambourine, I knew what the next number was going to be, proud of my familiarity with the music. On cue, the band began to play “Satisfaction,” that world-charting number from 1965, with its buzz bass, its signature repetition of guitar chords, its chorus which argues that, for successful rockers, satisfaction never arrives. Unable to help themselves, the audience joined in: “I can’t get no . . . hey, hey, hey.” Already loopy from drink, their spirits were now leaving their bodies — this was way fun.

  There was loud applause, a few whistles, and then one of the penguin girls asked for “Emotional Rescue.” She covered her mouth with a hand and laughed, while her girlfriends laughed without restraint, their faces opening like time-lapsed flowers.

  The Stones played “It’s All Over Now” followed by “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” two songs that you can’t help but try to lip-synch, even if you don’t know all the words. Like me, you’ve probably heard these songs a hundred times — one hundred being the magical number for lyrics to become memorable. But because most rock songs — these Stone classics included — are sung with no enunciation over loud guitars, the precise lyrics can remain an unfathomable mystery. You catch a word or a phrase, but just what are they really saying? My wife told me that, for years, a classmate of hers thought The Beatles’ “Hey, Jude,” was “Hey, Jew.”

  More applause and whistles, then a shout: “ ‘Mother’s Little Helper’!” “No, wait a minute,” the bloke continued, “How ’bout ‘Gimme Shelter’?”

  Ronnie Wood adjusted his wig, swapped his electric guitar for an acoustic one. He strummed once, then fiddled with the tuning. I anticipated “Wild Horses,” a number I consider too slow and too long and too similar to being dragged by old horses. Come on, horses, just put me out of my misery — round the corner and let me die from street scrapes. I got up to visit the john while Mick strained to s
ound country-western. Upon my return, I eyed the penguin women: they were having a good time. Two men in sweatshirts, seated near them, glanced sheepishly in their direction. These penguin babes were young, beautiful, and unattainable, and the two unfortunates knew it.

  I ordered a second and third beer at the bar, doubling up so as not to miss more of the ninety-minute act. I carried one drink in each hand, a gunslinger weaving between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied. Then I sat at my table and swigged.

  The band played “Get Off of My Cloud,” “19th Nervous Breakdown,” “Honky Tonk Women,” “Start Me Up,” and Chuck Berry’s “Carol.” When they asked for requests, the audience screamed their favorites. But Mick didn’t listen; and the band didn’t listen. Mick did his Mick thing, clapping his hands over his head and shouting “Come on, come on” while strutting on his chicken legs from one side of the small stage to the other. When he spoke to the audience between songs, his accent was mostly American but sometimes British, as if he had trouble remembering who he was supposed to be. Still, I was charmed by him, a youngish man who had probably listened to his father’s LPs as a teenager and one day, standing in front of a hallway mirror, decided, “Hey, I could be Mick.” He danced and sang with heart, hit after memorable hit, then gave it his all on the last number: “Let’s Spend the Night Together,” which had the entire crowd, including old geezer me, up on our tired feet. I say “tired” because the audience consisted mostly of workers with day jobs, out on a Thursday night. None, I suspect, could forget that the day shift was ten hours away.

  More applause, more whistles, then two guys shouted together, “What ’bout ‘Street Fighting Man’?” They high-fived each other at this suggestion, the coolest guys on the warehouse dock.

  According to my watch, the set was not quite ninety minutes. “Tidy,” I whispered in a British accent, I say, so tidy. The band bowed, Ronnie and Charlie holding onto their wigs. Everyone in the crowd clapped, while a few raised their beers in tribute, all of us agreeing to believe, at least momentarily, that the band on stage was The Rolling Stones, circa the mid-seventies.

  With the concert over, the band began to unplug their instruments. The wigs came off and Keith unbuckled the large silver belt that had threatened to shimmy off his skinny hips. The three penguin babes smiled red, red lips and waved at the band. What lucky stiffs, I moaned silently. The two men next to them remained seated and sad.

  I was exhausted, as if I had been on stage myself. This had been money well spent. I was still reveling in my evening out when my eyes narrowed on Yoko Ono — was this possible? She approached Bill Wyman, reaching out to him with open arms, the bangles on her wrists chiming. She gave him a smooch; he smooched back. I looked at my three beer bottles, like large chess pieces on the square table, their labels peeled off by my absent-minded fingernails. I hadn’t drunk enough to distort time. I rose, pushing my chair out of the way and then — hey, who was that man with the pouty baby face, crowing with Ronnie Wood? Had Sir Paul McCartney really been in the audience?

  And then Jimi was at the bar, his signature Afro reflected in the room-length mirror. After three mild-mannered beers, the rockers of my youth had returned. I wasn’t upset that Charlie Watts was now Latino because the original Charlie Watts, a jazz aficionado, would have acknowledged that Latinos know their way around percussion.

  But where was John Lennon? Where was Jim Morrison? And John Lee Hooker, would you please come back — and bring Bo Diddley with you?

  Eventually I left the club, but not before visiting the loo, where Brian Jones stood next to me at the urinal. I didn’t dare raise my face to ask, “Brian, why did you have to drown?” I washed my hands and left, lamenting that I’d learned only five chords on the guitar. I would’ve loved to have been a member of a tribute band. How the adoring young women would have screamed above my awful guitar work.

  * * *

  I read in the local newspaper that a Beatles tribute band would play a free concert at Orinda Theatre Square. Why not? I thought. My wife loved — and still loves — their music; the quartet’s catchy, jingle-like melodies were part of our youth. But how would we dress? My wife’s peasant dresses and mod-squad skirts no longer hung in the closet, while my bellbottoms and Nehru shirts were long gone. In the end, we opted for swank, but not real swank: jeans and a blazer, with loafers and argyle socks, for me, and an Empire dress with sandals for Carolyn. We figured that we had to play it up at least somewhat. My wife even debated whether to go braless.

  That evening we drove to Orinda, parked our car, and found the tribute band. They were set up fifty feet behind the Orinda Theatre, in a corridor of restaurants that was nearly empty on a Wednesday evening. There was no crowd of people around, only a single pigeon eyeing a threesome.

  Threesome?

  “Oh,” my wife cried quietly. I could read her mind: John must be the missing one, John, assassinated thirty-plus years ago, before the foursome could settle their bickering, regroup, and write more jingly tunes. If not for his murder, the whole world would have stopped fighting and listened.

  The tribute Beatles were all in their sixties, white-haired and carelessly dressed. Ringo was short and chubby; Paul was short and sort of chubby; George was tall and chubby enough to rest his guitar on the globe of his belly. Still, for the moment, they were the Beatles — or most of the Beatles.

  When my wife waved, George smiled. He was young enough to still have his original teeth. His hair, though, was thin, revealing a lobster-pink scalp. He was not wearing Sgt. Pepper attire but a bulky windbreaker with an emblem of a fishing club. His socks were white!

  The band, hired by the city of Orinda to liven up the plaza, had already been playing but not, apparently, to any screaming fans. The outlook for that possibility brightened upon our arrival and increased further when, a few minutes later, two women appeared. Sadly, the women had neglected to dress in hippie getups; they were attired in polyester pantsuits and carried large shopping bags. One pointed to the bench next to ours. With a newspaper, she whisked the bench of leaves and dust before settling, hen-like, on the bench.

  The band began to play “Michelle,” a song considered French-y in our day. The bass player who sang did not actually resemble the real Paul McCartney; he looked more like our insurance agent. Ringo tapped a simple beat and George played rhythm guitar. As Paul thumbed the bass, the three-chord melody touched me, touched us — even touched the pigeon, who began goose-stepping in a circle. Carolyn scooted closer to me. This is going to be nice, I purred, an evening to remember. We were among an audience of four, not counting the pigeon, at a Beatles tribute concert. When would such a thing happen again?

  The song ended with a Beatlesque bow. Carolyn and I clapped and beamed. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that the two women — rude sourpusses — had talked during the song. True, they’d occasionally stopped their gabbing to look up at the band, but neither showed any joy. Their faces were like clouds struggling over a hill, dark and ominous. I surmised that they had probably lost the love of good men — yes, I told myself, that must be it.

  Carolyn and I cuddled, both of us delirious with happiness. We were a couple and this was the music of our generation, when love was mostly free, just like this concert!

  When the band played “Twist and Shout,” we figured out that the guitarist was not George, but John. This song was John Lennon’s signature piece, with raw vocals and teenage angst. My head bobbed and our knees jerked to the beat. I turned to my wife and smiled, spying her breasts: the nasty girls were pitching left and right.

  During this raucous anthem, the manager of the Orinda Theatre appeared. After the song ended with a gutsy twang, she approached the band with husky steps; her body language meant business. She complained, not quietly, that the music was too loud; it was upsetting her patrons in the theatre. She instructed the band to please lower the volume.

  The band members looked at each other with the sadness of henpecked men. John stepped over the cables to the
amplifiers and played with the knobs. After the manager left, the band started giggling among themselves. I was afraid that they might unplug their guitars, disassemble the drum kit, and go home. But they were troupers. Their next number was “Help,” which John sang, ironically, in a near whisper.

  Carolyn and I laughed. We sang what lyrics we could remember, louder than the band. When the song ended, we applauded quietly, as we didn’t want that theater manager to return. Then I thought: if she did return, maybe she could bring a bag of popcorn for the pigeon.

  The band played “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” a cue for me to hold Carolyn’s hand, and “Drive My Car,” in succession. I raised my hands and wrapped them around an imaginary steering wheel, twisting it wildly. I could be silly. After all, there was no one around — or hardly anyone.

  Carolyn called out, “How ’bout ‘Norwegian Wood’?”

  Paul and John blinked at each other, then Paul said, “We only do early Beatles.” He hesitated before explaining, with a chuckle, “We’re not that good.”

  “Nah,” we — their fan base — crowed in harmony.

  “You’re good,” I corrected.

  “You’re real good,” Carolyn agreed.

  Ringo did a drum roll, and Paul thumbed his bass. They appreciated our eagerness.

  “What’s your name?” Paul asked Carolyn.

  Carolyn told him, and Paul dedicated the next song, “I Saw Her Standing There,” to her, saying, “This one goes out to — ” He took a swig of bottled water, then capped the bottle; he had already forgotten her name.