PART III
Now
FOURTEEN
It was 2007, but for whatever reason, I could not get “California,” Fatboy Slim’s club hit from the nineties, out of my head as I drove down Alameda toward Disney Studios. And there were basically only two lines in the entire song, so it was starting to get annoying.
I started a line of vocal warm-ups, partly to get rid of that song, partly to get ready for my performance, and partly to mask the sound of the muffler on the ’87 Toyota Corolla that Russell had sold me for eight hundred bucks six years ago after he had started getting gossip reporter paychecks and could afford to upgrade to a Lexus. It was actually pretty reliable for the price, but it consistently broke down every four months like clockwork, and my muffler was demanding some attention.
So I was grateful that Derrick Taylor’s wife loved him and wanted to send him a Soul BunnyGram for his thirty-fifth birthday. Plus she had even been thoughtful enough to call ahead to his assistant to make sure that I got a drive-on pass, which meant I didn’t have any problems getting through security and onto the lot. Though I did get a lot of funny looks, being dressed in a large brown bunny rabbit suit and all.
Further good signs that today’s Soul BunnyGram would go well: Derrick Taylor had been at his job for over a year—I always advised my clients against sending a singing telegram to anyone who wasn’t well established at his or her job. There was nothing on this earth less fun than singing to someone who was cringing the whole time and requesting that I keep my voice down, so as not to tip off their boss.
I walked down the hall and blotted the sweat off my face with a handkerchief. My bunny suit covered everything but my face, so it was basically like walking around in a big old furry body sweater, which was fine during the winter, but it was May now, so I had to wipe my face down before I entered the cubicled work area outside of Derrick Taylor’s office.
When I arrived on the scene, there were already several people gathered outside his office. Mostly other executives and assistants, who could probably use a break from their usual boring routines.
I always shook my head when I saw a singing telegram being delivered solely to one person on television. It was my experience that even if you started off singing to one person, anybody within hearing range had come to stare by the time the song was over. And if people knew you were coming, a crowd usually gathered, just like today.
Feeding off their energy, I put my paw to my lips to signal for quiet. Then I hunched down and crept on tiptoe to the door. The place was silent as a tomb, and I could almost hear their wide eyes following me.
In fact, quite a few of them jumped when I threw the door open and shouted in my best Tina Turner voice, “Mr. Derrick Taylor, I hear it’s your birthday!”
Inside the office, a shaven bald man in glasses looked up from his paperwork.
“What is this?” He was already smiling, paperwork totally forgotten.
I took my iPod portable speaker system out of my satchel and switched it on. The start-up melody and background vocals for “River Deep, Mountain High” flowed into the room, wrapping itself around the crowd.
“Your wife asked me to deliver this remote control to your brand-new LCD bathroom TV,” I said.
His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas when I handed him the remote control.
And then I used my best Nina Simone to tell him, “And she says there’s a lot more waiting for you when you get home, baby, if you know what she means.”
Mr. Taylor’s smile got even bigger. “Oh snap, I’m going home right now!”
Everybody laughed, except for me, because I had to hit my cue a millisecond later. I tossed my head, just like Tina would’ve (if she was wearing a bunny suit), and started singing.