Elimination Night

4

The M-Word



THE ANSWER TO LEN’S question was simple: Joey wanted to get Honeyload back together. Or more accurately, he wanted Blade Morgan to beg him to return as lead singer.

Without Project Icon, however, this wasn’t likely to happen. After all, Joey hadn’t spoken to Blade for three years. No phone calls. No emails. Not even a single text message. And the reason why Blade and Joey hadn’t spoken was because Joey had gone back on the pills and the cognac during their last tour. Hardly a big deal in itself, of course: Joey had been high during every tour in the band’s history. The big deal was this: On the night they played Houston, Joey walked on stage, dropped his pants, and proceeded to evacuate his bowels in front of Blade’s amp stack, as punishment for Blade’s refusal to turn down his reverb setting—which was allegedly interfering with Joey’s ability to hear himself sing.

Now, again: Not such a biggie. Joey had been known to do worse. Much worse—especially when he was going through a pills-and-cognac period. But the evacuation had led to another issue—namely, that when Joey stood up after this toxic protest, he slipped and fell headfirst into the orchestra pit, breaking a leg and his collarbone in the process, which of course meant that the rest of the tour, all twenty-six dates of it, had to be cancelled. At first, the band wasn’t particularly upset: This was precisely why they had bought a very expensive gig-cancellation insurance policy. But when they tried to make a claim, the underwriter—who’d watched “the Houston incident” unfold in graphic detail on YouTube—pointed out a clause in the policy that invalidated coverage in the event of “self-destruction.” He argued, not unreasonably, that this included “broken limbs caused by slippage after a voluntary act of onstage defecation.”

Joey was devastated. Unlike him, Blade and the other members of the band hadn’t invested in the marijuana-soft drink industry. They needed the five million dollars they were due for those remaining gigs. And they didn’t take it well, either. In fact, they cut Joey off completely, aside from a “F*ck You” card they sent to the hospital. Meanwhile, still tortured by guilt over what he’d done—and now on crutches—Joey headed to the only place he still felt welcome: the Betty Ford Center. But on the way there, he disappeared. It took a four-county manhunt and a worldwide vigil by fans before he was finally located, three days later, naked in a Kmart near La Quinta, California, singing “Psycho Sluts from Paradise” over the PA system. And when he finally cleaned himself up and tried to make good with the band, he discovered that in his absence, they’d been auditioning a new singer. As if that weren’t humiliating enough, the singer was Billy Ray Cyrus.

He hated Billy Ray Cyrus.

Joey spent four days up a tree in his backyard, howling.

Then he took out an injunction against Honeyload to stop them touring without him and hired the nastiest managers he could find, Stanley Wojak and Mitch McDonald. “I need a f*ckin’ day job, man,” he told them. “Go get me Project Icon.”

Like most of the other celebrities who’d applied for Nigel Crowther’s position, Joey had never watched the show. Not a single episode. Neither had he shown any interest in watching it. He didn’t even own a TV—it contradicted the teachings of his muse, the Tibetan high lama Yutog Gonpo. For Joey, Icon meant only one thing: leverage. He wanted to be able to say to Blade Morgan and his other ex-bandmates: You can’t fire me, I’m employable! I’m so hot, I’m worth a Triple Oprah! And what better leverage could you possibly get than a twice-weekly gig in front of twenty million TV viewers? That was four times as many people than had bought Deathray Juggernaut in 1972, giving Honeyload their very first triple-diamond LP.

I’d just finished explaining all this to Len when a figure appeared in the doorway to Rossitto’s office.

“Mitch!” said Len, getting up.

An uncomfortable half-handshake, half-hug followed.

“Bill, this is Mitch McDonald,” Len announced. “Joey’s manager. One of them, anyway, ha-ha.”

“Only one that matters,” declared Mitch. He didn’t seem to be joking.

Mitch was short, pumped, entirely hairless—a human pool ball. Closing in on fifty, I guessed, and dressed as though for a funeral at an Apple Store: black jeans, black polo shirt, black sneakers. His face, meanwhile, was set into a frown that suggested the long-term expectation of disappointment.

“So who is this guy Ed Rossitto?” he growled, looking around the room skeptically.

“Oh, he’s huge,” said Len. “I mean, well… not literally huge. But a very big deal at Rabbit. A top decision maker. If Joey and Ed vibe”—in my entire time at Project Icon, I had never heard Len use this word before—“my guess is, this will be a go.”

Mitch took a seat opposite us, crossed his legs, and said, “Save the bullshit for the teenagers, Len.”

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t about Joey and Ed vibing,” sighed Mitch. “This is a sanity check. You want to make sure he’s not crazy. You wanna look the guy in the eye, and not see cuckoos. Right?”

Len’s face reddened slightly. Chuckling nervously, he said, “C’mon, Mitch.”

Mitch just shrugged.

“There are concerns, yes,” Len confirmed, delicately. “But it’s not—”

“Truth is,” Mitch interrupted, “we don’t blame you. Joey’s been in a bad place. But he’s roaring back. Roaring.”

“Look, Mitch,” said Len, leaning forward with a leathery squeak. “Given Joey’s, y’know… history, and everything, there’s something you should probably know. Just so it doesn’t put anyone off balance. It’s about Ed Rossitto. He’s, uh…”

I wondered what the hell Len was about to say. Mitch was also clearly wondering: every sinew in his body seemed to have contracted. “What’s the problem, Len?” he snapped. “Spit it out, man.”

“Ed’s… a wee guy—that’s all. A bit on the short side. Just so you’re prepared.”

“… what the…?”

“I know… I know. Not an issue. I just want you to have as much information as possible.”

There was a long, baffled pause. I noticed Mitch begin to stare at Rossitto’s suit of armor.

“How small, exactly?” he asked.

“F*cking tiny,” blurted Len.

“Jesus, are we talking… midget?”

“No! Ssshh!” Len looked around. “He’s not a midget. He’s just, y’know—‘wee,’ as they say.”

A troubling thought suddenly made itself visible on Mitch’s brow. With a grunt of irritation, he stood up and began to pace. “Len,” he said, “my client is extremely sensitive at the moment. He’s stressed out, to be honest with you. Couldn’t sleep last night. I got calls from him every hour, all through the night. He woke the baby up twice. Today means the world to him. The world, Len. And if you’d bothered to read the guy’s autobiography—or do any kind of research whatsoever—you’d be aware of what happens to Joey when he gets all wound up like this.”

Mitch stared at Len, as though awaiting an answer.

Len just stared back at him. I could tell by his expression that he was struggling to take this seriously.

“Flashbacks,” Mitch resumed, angrily. “He gets flashbacks.”

“Oh,” said Len.

“He had a bad trip at a circus, Len. Summer of ’63. And d’you know why the trip was so bad?”

Len’s eyes were blank. I began to wonder how on earth I’d missed this in the file.

“Do you know why?” Mitch repeated, louder this time.

“No,” said Len.

“BECAUSE HE GOT LOCKED IN A DRESSING ROOM FULL OF F*ckING MIDGETS.”

Len and I looked urgently toward the reception area. Astonishingly, none of Rossitto’s assistants seemed to have heard Mitch’s potentially catastrophic deployment of the M-word. Or maybe they had, and were just ignoring it. Regardless, Mitch lowered his voice to a forced whisper, and continued: “And now you’re telling me—with two minutes’ notice—that the guy we’re about to meet is gonna walk through that door singing the Oompa-f*cking-Loompa song?”

Sweating now, Mitch reached for his briefcase, pulled out his phone and attempted to dial, before aborting the task to search for his reading glasses. “Gotta call Joey,” he muttered, to no one in particular. “This is gonna be a shit show if we’re not careful.”

Len’s face, which can bloom in many colors during moments of extreme pressure, had turned almost purple. “Mitch, Mitch, please,” he said, standing up. “Ed’s a great guy. I shouldn’t have even mentioned this. Look, there’s a piano in here. Why not suggest to Joey that he sit down and play a few bars of something, eh? That’ll calm him down, right? And Ed will love that. He’s all about bringing musical credibility back to the panel. And you don’t get any more credible than Jo—”

Suddenly, a commotion outside.

Len and Mitch froze, then threw themselves simultaneously in the direction of the noise. I followed, to see what appeared to be a Native American chief striding out of Rossitto’s elevator. Two absurdly hot girls flanked him, one of them wheeling a… a tank of water? “My Kangen water!” announced the chief. “Can’t go anywhere without my Kangen water! It’s got the yin and the yang, and the bim and the bam, and it soothes my aching soul, baby. Yeah!”

Joey Lovecraft.

The King of Sing.

My fingertips prickled with adrenaline, like I’d just had a near miss on the freeway. He was tall—seriously tall, like six five—and he wore a long bearskin coat over pants that might very well have been melted onto his legs with a blowtorch, they were so tight. No shirt, as you’d expect. Just a bone-deep tan, a lot of gold, and a stripe of crimson on either cheek. Not to forget the tusk of what appeared to be some kind of recently deceased ocean creature that hung from a rope around his neck. Oh my God, and the hair: a magnificent, walnut-hued mane, into which the plumes from several exotic birds had been intricately woven.

“Wassup, honey?” he said to me, with a smile wide enough to swallow the room.

“Hi, how are you?” I squeaked.

“Don’t you mean—‘How high are ya?’” he shot right back, with another sensational grin.

“I’m Bill,” I managed.

“A lady named Bill, huh?” Joey bellowed. “Let me guess, Bill: When you order breakfast, you like to get the muffin and the sausage? Right?” With this, he proceeded to make a series of high-pitched yelping noises—accompanied by rapid wiggling of his enormous tongue—causing Mitch to flinch visibly. Len coughed so hard, I felt sure he must have done himself some permanent damage.

“Say, Bill,” Joey went on. “Meet my lay-deez. Mu and Sue.”

“Moo?” I said, confused.

One of the girls stepped forward.

“Em-you,” she clarified. “A pleasure.” She offered the kind of bony, pathetic handshake that only the most pornographic-looking of females can ever hope to get away with.

“And I’m Sue,” added Sue, doing the same.

“Joey,” interrupted Mitch, with urgency. “We’ve gotta talk. There’s something you need to—”

“Where’s my man Ed?” asked Joey, arms outstretched.

On cue, Ed emerged from a doorway to our left. Only no one noticed this development, because his face was at table level. I now began to understand why Len had decided to raise the height issue with Mitch. Ed “Big Guy” Rossitto was—without any doubt—one of the smallest human beings I’d ever set eyes on. He might not have been small enough to make a career out of it, but it was surely only a matter of a few inches. That, however, was only the beginning… indeed, it was almost as though Ed had decided to upstage his unusually limited stature with every other aspect of his appearance. His miniature knee-high cowboy boots (with spurs), for example. Or his child-sized Guns N’ Roses T-shirt—on top of which was a tiny, silver-studded biker jacket, complete with S&M chains. Ed was also quite obviously wearing eyeliner and foundation, and when he walked toward us, this entire strange ensemble jangled, as though he were an approaching sleigh. It at least served to announce his presence.

When Joey saw him, he staggered backward in mock disbelief. “Who’s the little fella, huh?” he cried, looking at Mitch. “Look! Someone shrunk Jon Bon Jovi!”

Joey’s overwhelming human charisma—enough to warm a seventy-thousand seat football stadium on a rainy night in Philadelphia—had clearly long since stopped his worrying about the sensitivity of such comments. He was Joey Lovecraft! He could say whatever the hell he wanted! Everyone would still laugh and say how much they loved him! But Ed wasn’t everyone. He was one of the most powerful men in television. He earned fifteen million dollars a year. And he looked seriously pissed.

“Joey,” coughed Mitch. “This is—”

“Grumpy!” shouted Joey, doubling up and shrieking. “No, wait… I’ve got it. Nick Nack!”

“I’m Ed Rossitto,” said Ed, sharply.

Joey fell silent.

An excruciating pause.

“Ed…?” croaked Joey.

“Rossitto. From Rabbit. Shall we?” He motioned towards the Dickensian murk of his office.

Joey’s expression was now one of horror. His eyes seemed to have turned black with panic. Mitch grabbed his arm, like a father leading his son across a busy street. “Is that a piano in your office, Ed?” he asked, desperately.

“Yeah,” said Rossitto.

A few more awful moments passed. Then Rossitto seemed to make a decision. “Hey, Joey—wanna play?” he said, grudgingly. “It’s a Bösendorfer. Epic bass, man. C’mon.”

We all followed Rossitto into the batcave. I tried not to catch anyone’s eye—it would only have made things worse. Mu and Sue remained outside with the assistants, their hot pants clashing with the antique furniture. Rossitto shut the door behind us, then walked over to the chesterfield to take a seat. The rest of us took his lead.

Not Joey, however.

No, Joey was very much still standing. “Gimme a second,” he said, distractedly.

“C’mon, Joey,” soothed Mitch.

It was too late: Joey groaned and fell to his knees in front of the piano. And then—still groaning—he began to crawl under it, until his entire six-foot-something frame was beneath the glossy black canopy of the enormous Austrian-made instrument.

“Interesting,” murmured Ed.

Silence.

“Whatcha doin’ down there, Joey?” asked Mitch, in a tone of upbeat curiosity, which suggested there might be an entirely practical reason for this behavior.

Joey said nothing. Instead, he began to hug one of the piano legs. Len and Mitch were now gesturing frantically at each other, each trying to get the other to intervene, to stop the madness. I noticed that Rossitto’s eyes hadn’t left Joey for a moment, however. He seemed transfixed; fully entertained by the spectacle.

“When I was a kid, my momma had a piano just like this,” Joey announced suddenly, his voice low and thick. “She was trained at the Royal Academy over there in Copenhagen, y’know. Quite a woman. She practiced six hours a day, every day—even when she was workin’ full time as a school teacher. We had this tiny, tiny apartment, and this huge, this epic piano. When the movers brought that thing into our place, they must have had to take apart the laws of f*ckin’ physics to get it through the front door. Anyhow. Far back as I can remember, I would sit under it—like this—and close my eyes. She never showed me much love, my momma. Danish blood. Different generation. Saw affection as a sign of weakness. But I felt it, man, oh yeah. Under that piano, I felt it so strong, I’d curl up and sleep for hours, knowing that my momma was right there, making these beautiful tunes for me. And when I woke up, she’d still be playing. I’d be diggin’ Mozart, man. Shosta-f*ckin’-kovich. Shit by dudes with white f*ckin’ wigs. Like their souls were being poured right into mine.”

No one said a word. I studied Rossitto: He was still entirely focused on Joey, only something wasn’t quite right with his face. It was… his eyeliner. It had smeared.

There was movement now from under the piano: Joey was coming out from his hiding place. He stood up, wiped his eyes, and made his way to the keyboard stool. And then—I could hardly believe it—he began to play. Yes, right there in front of me: Joey Lovecraft, performing live. Hesitant at first. But then his foot came off the soft pedal. The notes became louder, more confident. The rhythm quickened. He started to sing. That incredible noise! It filled the room, making everything vibrate. I felt a sudden, almost violent elation build within my chest.

Now I was crying, too.

“Psycho Sluts from Paradise,” I heard Rossitto say, as Joey reached the chorus. “Greatest song… ever.”