Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

By A. Freeman Pockross

Pigs on the Wind

Dark clouds loom large over Harmonyville. Two pigs fly across the darkening night.

Or do they?

Either way, something symbolic disappears into the darkness.

The wind howls. Rain pours sideways.

An almost middle-aged boy runs through the rain, covering his precious rock-star locks with a newspaper. You know, THE rockstar cut. Rod. Ronnie. Late ‘60s Keef.

The boy’s obviously not prepared for the weather.

Who’s this boy, you ask?

Curtis, the mysterious narrator answers.

Dog Days Are Over

Curtis, or Lonely Boy Curtis, as he likes to be called on stage and off, runs through the downpour, past a stray dog – a ragged mutt of indistinguishable breed.

The cold and wet ragamuffin of a dog whimpers to the boy for help.

The boy stops. Thinks about helping.

The dog looks hopeful.

But the boy thinks better of it.

“Sorry, pal, gotta get the golden locks out of this ruinous rain. I just had ‘em relaxed for beaucoup Bobby De Niro. And the Outsiders freaked last time I brought a dog home. And he was a dry one. Don’t worry, this rain’ll stop, it always does!”

The boy runs off.

The dog whimpers. 

The clouds disperse into a mysterious haze. A full, strawberry moon peers through.

The dog stops whimpering and starts howling like Simon Le Bon. He howls at the low and brooding moon — the most soulful blues song you’ve ever heard. His “Lonely Dog Blues.”

That’s Amore

The sound of the “Lonely Dog Blues” drifts down the alley, up the street, and slams into the glass door of Elizabetta’s Bistro and Chef’s Rocking Bar.

Like a cheap Hopper knockoff, the rain falls hard upon the garishly decorated, semi-busy Italian restaurant and the attached hole-in-the-wall, virtually empty bar.

The restaurant side is classic Italian: wicker Chianti bottles, maps of the boot, black and white photos of family members. The bar side is like the bedroom of a teenage boy in 1978. Felt blue-light rock band posters bear the velvet likenesses of Van Halen, Rush, Led Zeppelin… even Deep Purple.

The manager, Penny Pinter, is all-business. She runs circles around the half-full restaurant like she just chased a 5-Hour Energy with a Red Bull — delivering food, clearing plates, seating customers.

Penny has to move around her inebriated and extremely in-the-way bosses, Chef and Liz. Chef is 45 going on 65. Wine glass in hand. Formerly white chef’s coat. Liz is 45 going on 35 and looks like she’s dressed for the opera.

With her thick Italian accent, Liz is too busy yelling at Chef to really notice the dinner rush. Chef is too drunk to really notice anything, especially his wife. 

After the Gold Rush

After the dinner rush, Penny walks out back behind the restaurant to relax for a second. The rain has given way to the magnificent moon. But everything’s still wet.

Penny shakes out a milk crate and sits down. She takes a deep, exhausted, melancholy breath. Removes a shoe. Rubs her foot.

From somewhere else, or perhaps right next door, we hear the same blues-howling dog, sadly singing his “Lonely Dog Blues.”

Penny listens for a minute. Though it’s forlorn for sure, it’s still a catchy tune. She hums along quietly.

A crackle… a spark… and the tune takes on more of a ballad feel.

It Takes Two

Elsewhere in Harmonyville, Waldo, a fat, lazy, snobby cat sprawls out on the window sill of an open window. Is that disdain on his face? Or wispiness?

Waldo hears the distant blues-howling dog’s sad song, fused delicately with the dulcet tones of the ballad-humming girl.

Waldo tries to sleep, but the racket of the howling dog keeps him awake. He is not pleased with the disruption. He meows down to the plebes in the streets.

“What in the wide world of wonders could possibly be so miserably sad that you must whine about it to the whole neighborhood?! Deal with it, you namby-pamby, and let the rest of us sleep!” Waldo meows, though no one listens, accept perhaps The Universe.

Come Together

On the other side of Harmonyville, Lonely Boy Curtis sits on the roof of his apartment building, watching the mysterious haze drift back in front of the full moon.

Curtis searches inside his shirt and finally finds the prized golden tuning fork that’s always dangling around his neck. He hammers the fork against the palm of his hand, then puts it to his ear.

He mimics the tone. “Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

The boy’s tone grows more sure, becomes a beacon of sorts. It attracts other notes from disparate corners of Harmonyville: the far-off howling of the lonely dog, the meowing of Waldo the cat, and the sweet, melancholy humming of Penny. From four separate fields, the “Lonely Dog Blues” starts to form into something else entirely, an entity all its own.

Jam on It

The buzz between the far-off quartet grows, slowly. Barely audibly. Builds. Stretches. Expands. Increases in frequency. Trembles. Pushes maximum density. Bursts!

 A singular technicolored musical note poofs out of Curtis’s mouth, into the ether.

Poof.

Instantaneously, each far off voice adds a tangible note into the atmosphere. Poof! Poof! Poof!

The four notes sonically seek each other out, somewhere out on that horizon. 

Something about the wind keeps the notes aloft, afloat. Four separate, far-off tones come together.

The musical notes gravitate towards one another. A beam of light surges through the four separate notes, creates a swirling DNA strand of technicolored charts.  

POOF! Harmony mystically rides the ephemeral state.

The DNA swirls its way back from the heavens, onto the rooftop, and tattoos the boy’s mind!

Mysterious Ways

Curtis suddenly stops singing and jumps up, victoriously. The musical notes stop swirling. The boy screams to the heavens, “Thank you, Universe!”

The boy runs into the apartment building below, into the loft he shares with his acapella band, The Outsiders.

There isn’t much furniture, save for different beds in different corners. The place is a dump, but it is spacious and has great acoustics.

The Outsiders practice their dance steps as they sing their back-up harmonies. Three young hipsters: Emo the baritone, Bobbo the bass, and Ted the tenor, all stylishly unkempt.

The Outsiders sound great, and their steps are tight, but not great and tight enough to stop Curtis from rushing in and interrupting them.

“I got it! I got it! I told you it would come. The Universe has provided yet again!”

The Outsiders grind to a reluctant halt.

“Can’t you see we’re working here? Or are you so...,” Emo makes quotes with his fingers, “...’beyond’ band practice that you don’t even recognize what we’re doing?”

“Hey, man, I appreciate you guys staying sharp back there, I do. But a real acapella front-man is marred by too much practice. Real acapella, the transcendent kind, it’s more visceral than that. It depends on the ear to navigate the rarified air, which I alone, the Lone Wolf, must dare to boldly pioneer.”

“You shouldn’t interrupt practice, man,” says Bobbo.

“You shouldn’t interrupt a historic acapella moment,” says Curtis, upping the intensity of the tones.

“We’re trying to hit all our marks for the show tonight,” says Ted. “You might want to try it too.”  

“Show? What show?”

“What’s your problem, dude? If you’re officially washed-up, then just admit it. Do us all a favor and get out before we have to kick you out,” says Emo.

“You don't kick me out. I fire myself! I'm officially known as Mayor Acapella in this town. Don’t worry about me. I’ll hit every note and then some. I’ll hit notes you’ve never even heard of.”

“That’s what we’re afraid of. You can’t hit your notes without listening to ours. You can’t have harmony alone,” sasy Bobbo, calmly. “Now if you don’t mind, we have to practice.”

”What about my song? You guys don’t want to hear it? Really? It’s a bona fide hit, boys, I know it.”

“You ain’t written doo-wop in dog years,” says Emo, affixing his glare. “Face it, has-been, you’re too old to acapella. And you’re one false note away from no more chances.”

Lonely Boy makes a move to punch Emo, but Bobbo and Ted hold him back.

“Stop it, everyone. Stop it! We’re a band. We stick together, even when one of the members is obviously dragging down the rest,” shouts Bobbo.

Curtis collects himself.

“Next time you question my pitch, Emo, I will make you a castrato. I’m doing you boys a favor with this song. I can shop it around and have another back-up band like that.” The boy snaps his fingers, although not effectively enough to produce an actual snap. “You know what a back-up acapella band without a front-man is? Muzak. This song’s eternal. Delivered from The Universe upon rarefied air. I’m dealing with harmonies the Nylons never even dreamed of.”

”Come on, Outsiders, let’s give it a listen,” says Ted. “We owe Curtis that much.”

“Do we owe him as much as the eight months back-rent he owes me?” asks Emo.

Stares cross the room. Band stares. The kind that come from stifled dreams.

“Fine. Let’s hear it.”

“Prepare for amazement...”

Curtis dramatically strikes his tuning fork to get his note. He hums the note a few times, but for the life of him, he just can’t remember where to go from there. He tries mightily to recall his song, but it just won’t come.

“Hmm. How did that start again?”

It’s gone. Lost to the heavens. Another sacrifice for the muses.

Poof!

“You still got it, Boy Wonder. Good to hear,” says Emo.

“If you didn’t make me wait so long to unleash my rock! Rock, the eternal kind, waits for no man. You guys haven’t a clue of what you just made me forget! The Universe is angered!”

The boy kicks over an amplifier and walks.

Rumble and Sway

Inside Elizabetta’s Bistro and Chef’s Rocking Bar, the place has mostly cleared out. The bar is empty except for Chef, Liz, and Ritchie, the sleepy barman (unless he can find himself some real drugs, which he currently can’t).

Ritchie leans against the espresso maker drinking Jack Daniel’s with Chef, who sways precariously on a stool across the bar. Liz counts money a few seats over.

Penny comes in from out back, sits at the bar to finish up her nightly close-out with Liz.

Penny looks over the credit card receipts, subconsciously hums the “Lonely Dog Blues” ballad.

Chef notices.

“You sound like an angel.”

“You sound like a drunk who wants another harassment suit and a re-broken nose,” says Liz without looking up from the money.

Fortunately for his feelings, Chef rarely notices Liz. “You do. You got a real nice voice. I can see why you were all like, acapellapalooza n’ shit. You got a nice voice. Not like that asppppppppppppp...” Chef hisses at his wife, finding it very hard to say it without spraying it.

“You got a really slurry voice. How’d we do?” asks Penny.

Liz finishes up some computations. “Again, restaurant squeak by. Bar sink us into bankruptcy faster than his liver drown in bile.”

“That’s fast,” says Penny.

“Sets me up again, barkeep.” Chef finds liver talk inspiring.

“Right-a-roo, Chef-mandu.” Ritchie pours a shot for Chef and one for himself, while he’s at it.

Chef burps slovenly. “Ms. MonyPenny, you want a belt?”

“Oh, no thanks, Chef. Lots of work yet to do.”

“Toadsuck, Arkansas! You’re a bag woman! A cat lady. An old bag cat lady woman! Get outta here! GO! GO! GO!”

“Chef? Wanna use your words?”

Chef stops ranting for a second. He looks into the bottom of his glass and doesn’t like how empty it is. Ritchie pours another one, and one for himself too. It’s kinda part of the job to keep up with Chef.

But Chef takes both shots and stumbles over to Penny. Ritchie shrugs and pours himself another.

“Why are you here? You’ve been here all day. All month! All toadsucking year! Get a life. You’re killing my buzz.”

“This is my life. That’s why you pay me the big bucks. If I didn’t convince you to expand, you wouldn’t be in this bind.”

“This is our bind, dahling. Me and dipshit. He may be buffoon…” Liz checks herself at the same moment as Penny’s eyes rise in recognition. “I apologize… he is most definitely buffoon. But he’s right: You are pathetic.”

Liz realizes what she’s just said. “Marone! I just agreed with him. Look what you made me do! I must mean it. You have to get out. You can’t spend your life here. You could be firecracker. I could teach you. I was firecracker once.”

“Now she’s a nutcracker!” Chef thinks that’s hilarious.

Liz hucks an ice cube that grazes Chef’s ear. He doesn’t notice.

“Go out! Meet man. Find rich husband. Live dream. You’re pretty. You don’t need work hard.”

“I like working hard. Why would I want a man to do it for me?”

“Just go find a cute one for the night. That’s all,” says Liz, gesturing to Chef. “This one used to be ravishing, if you believe.“

Chef makes a sexy face to the ladies. It’s not sexy.

“I own all that liquor,” says sexy-face Chef.  He stares longingly at his glorious bar bathed in heavenly light.

Liz pays no heed, per usual. “You must live your life. You only lead mine now. And even sadder, his. Marone! What kind of slave drivers are we?”

“You’re the annoying and mean kind. I’m the awesome kind.”

“Go. Out! Now! Take buffoon with you. Maybe with riffraff gone we get customers? Go! Go! Go!” Liz pushes Chef off his seat and kicks him out of the restaurant and halfway onto the street.

Once he’s out the door, Liz comes back in to do the same to reluctant Penny.

A Hard Rain’s a Gonna Fall

Heavy rain falls on the unfair night. It might have been nice if Liz had kicked their coats out too, but whatever, The Pound — a dingy local acapella Honkytonk — is just across the street. 

The marquee beckons: “Lonely Boy Curtis & The Outsiders!”

“Rock!” Psyched Chef runs diagonally towards the door.

Penny takes a deep breath and follows Chef in.

Tonight’s the Night

As the marquee says, Lonely Boy Curtis & The Outsiders hold down the stage.

Way too loudly, Curtis and his bandmates sing the acapella version of Hank Williams Jr.’s “Lone Wolf” to a sparse, disinterested crowd. This may not actually be the hottest club in town anymore.

Penny loves it immediately, though. The music, the harmony. It’s not great, and the patrons are barely absorbing the notes, but the notes are there.

Somewhere deep inside, she intuits: God, I love live music. Like a well-placed blow on never-extinguished embers. How could I forget?!  

On stage, Curtis sings his guts out, proudly donning tiger-striped spandex pants and a half-shirt mesh football jersey with puffy shoulder pads. Unfortunately for those watching, he’s a slave to hairband fashion. Curtis’s moves are pretty dang good, though, so he kind of pulls it off. Certainly Mick-inspired, but with plenty to make them his own.

Alas, neither his moves, nor his get-up, nor his singing are in time or harmony with the rest of the band.

Still, Penny is hypnotized by Curtis’s emanations. Are those technicolored musical notes swirling from his shaking ass? They're definitely coming from somewhere.

“Yeah, I'm a lone wolf. Still hungry and I'm on the prowl, and most of us have been penned up but Lonely Boy Curtis is running wild,” sings Curtis.

He reaches the break and starts head-banging along to the mouth-made music, which doesn't exactly feel like head-banging fare to anyone else.

Curtis plays air-guitar with his microphone chord as he shouts out to the meager barfly audience.

“Any lone wolves out there?” The boy puts his microphone out for the crowd to do their part, which they don't. “I said, are there any lone wolves out there tonight?!”

Apparently there are none, except for Chef, who affirmatively rocks out with Lonely Boy Curtis. “Here you go! Right here!”

It’s all Curtis needs. “HOWHOOOOOOOOOOOO! HOWHOOOOOO! If you’re a lone wolf, I wanna hear you howl. Go ‘head. Who’s howling at the moon tonight? Who won’t be caged? Or held down? Or do dishes? If you refuse to do anything but rock, then come on, howl with me! HOW-Whoooooooooooooo!”

Curtis holds the mic out to the sparse crowd.

Only Chef responds: “Howhoo!” He lovingly punches Penny on the shoulder to join in. Reluctantly, yet effortlessly, she sings out a perfectly harmonized 5^th of Curtis’s note. Chef love-punches her again and again till she belts it out with Aretha-like intensity.

Curtis feels what Penny’s laying down. Ditches all thought. The notes swirl between them. Snap, crackle, and zap around the room, straight out the door.

Tones of Home

Outside The Pound, the rain pours like Miller Lite in Wisconsin.

The scared, lonely dog continues to look for food. He hears Curtis howling, perhaps senses Penny’s additions, and stops in his pathetic tracks. Looks inside longingly for kin.

Through the smoke-filled bar, the dog sees Lonely Boy Curtis on stage, rocking out like he’s closing Woodstock. The dog thinks he's found help and howls along.

It's a tad tough to find his voice, but soon the dog’s boom comes through. He quickly locks harmonies with Curtis’s gusto. Technicolored musical notes transfer electrically.

As the harmonies take off, the notes begin to swirl. The dog, genetically inspired, contributes the loftiest note of the mix; it floats above, upon, within… fills the club, jettisons off walls, and rockets back to the boy.

If conscious of such things, Curtis might know it’s the purest tone he’s ever known. But he’s busy.

Curtis lays it down like Kenny Loggins rocks a soundtrack.

Wave of Mutilation

Curtis brings the now into-it crowd back to the song. “Alright! Now gimme that beat!” Curtis jumps back in with a nod to Emo, who mouth makes a sick kick-drum groove.

“That dude is awesome! You should marry that guy!” Chef’s definitely in love.

“Fun, Chef. Boys in spandex are just fun. Not quite marriage material,” says Penny, suddenly embarrassed for herself, and perhaps everyone else in the bar too.

“You’re right, I should drink more. Don’t get married. Never ever, ever, ever ever ever ever...”

She must admit, though, the boy’s got something, but apparently not in his too tight pants.

Still, he’s got moves, particularly now that he’s found the groove. And soul makes everything grow.

God, it’s been a long time since Penny’s felt much soul stirring. 

There’s the slightest moment of recognition, that something is very right. But the second Curtis grasps such rightness is the moment the song goes off the rails.

The notes stop swirling. Pop, pop, pop. The groove is lost. The bridge collapsed.

Chef drops a bottle. Slowly, like time is total bullshit, it shatters. Boozy shrapnel flies.

Attention sucked. Lonely Boy lost.

Pop, pop, pop.

Outside, the dog stops howling like one of Gladys’s Pips and starts barking like a punk. Larry the bouncer shoos him away.

“Get outta here, you lousy mutt! We got a business to run here.”

The dog skulks on down Lonely Road, howling all the while.

Onstage, Curtis tries to regain his groove and keep up with The Outsiders, but he’s gone, everything just sounds like amplified, discordant noise. Perhaps Lonely Boy is just too rocked out after that earlier explosion. “Thank you, Cleveland! Good night!”

Curtis drops the mic in walk-off fashion. Heads straight to the bar.

The Outsiders reluctantly finish up their background doo-wopping, struggling to get back in harmony again.

“Thanks, folks, we’re really just taking a short break,” Emo says to the crowd, “Short!” to no one but Curtis.

Curtis doesn’t notice Emo because he’s too busy nudging up to the bar.

Hearts and Bones

Curtis nudges himself into a filled spot at the bar next to Penny and Chef. Tries to get the attention of the bartender, Tony.

Penny has no choice but to check Curtis out, as he’s just made her totally rethink her space. Chef senses a love connection and tries to lean Penny into the boy, but Penny has much better Judo skills and Chef falls backwards, barely sustaining balance, even with the aid of the actual bar part of the bar.

”Hey, uh, barkeep! Barkeep!” shouts Curtis.

After ignoring him for a period of dramatic effect, Tony comes over and looks at Curtis like he’s got a blow hole.

“Tony,” says Tony. “Tony. Tony. Tony!”

“Like the band! I’ll remember it that way!”

“Ten years later. Still Tony.”

“Right, Tony. Sorry. My mind is lost in aca-rock, forgive me. How ‘bout a cold one, Tony?”

“Sorry, Doc says you’re cut off ‘til further notice.”

This is truly shocking news. “Really? Huh. I wonder why? Did Doc say why?”

“The fire extinguisher incident.”

Curtis can’t place it. “Huh? Fire extinguisher incident? Could you be more specific maybe?”

“Here’s a water, pal. Sorry.”

Chef has been listening with one ear open and one eye closed. He stops Tony. “I’d be happy to buy this man a drink, barkeep.”

Tony eyes Chef suspiciously.

“Thank you, brother. I shall pay you back with rock,” says Curtis, fist-bumping his benefactor.

The seemingly benign bump makes Chef fly back into the bar. Though hammered and teetering, Chef doesn’t fall. He is a drunken master. With sudden clarity, he remembers the evening’s quest. “This Penny.”

Penny is mortified.

Tony shifts his gaze. It takes him a second. “Penny Pinter?”

“Hi Tony. Long time.”

“Where… I mean, I heard about your Dad. I’m sorry… you still… Can I buy you a drink?”

Chef sees an opening: “Jacks all around!”

Tony seeks confirmation. Penny nods, though she’s pretty sure that’s a bad idea.

“My pleasure. Great to see you, Penny. Really.” Tony makes sure Penny appreciates that. She does.

In such close proximity, Curtis is filled with Penny’s scent. He can’t take his eyes off her. Well, her hair really. It’s huge, and red. And bouncy. And robust. Full of life, exuberance.   

Penny realizes Curtis is swept up in some kind of moment… just in time to become part of it… this boy might need some help. 

Another life lost. Or found, depending on which side of the wormhole you’re on.

Mutual hypnosis is quickly distracted by shots all around.

“She told me to get you drunk so she could peak inside your spandex.” Chef’s very proud of himself for having embarrassed Penny so thoroughly.

Curtis looks at Penny’s blushing face and thinks he has a fan. It’s all the confidence he needs.

“So, you liked the set, huh?”

“No. Not really… I mean… I don’t know. I don’t go out anymore. Sorry. Yes! I mean yes. Great set. You totally rocked. Sorry. I don’t talk to enough men in tights these days.”

“You rocked!” Chef makes sure Curtis, and the entire bar for that matter, knows as much. He gives Curtis another resounding fist pump, nearly drops, but grabs hold of the bar again.

“Indeed, rocked. But… perhaps loud and rock aren’t the same thing?” Penny’s only trying to help.

Curtis never needs help when it comes to his rockapella. “If it rocks, it rocks. If it’s loud, and there ain’t nothing else in the world, it fills you. It thrills you. It kills you. Slays you. Sways you. Plays you. And if it’s really good, it lays you. So low you have to lean into something just to keep standing.”

“Rock!” Chef gives praise to the Headbanger Gods with one hand, keeps his tenuous balance with the other. Then passes out another round of shots that seemingly came from nowhere.

“Sounds neat, but I’m much happier standing on my own. Call me old fashioned,” says Penny.

Chef does. “Old fashioned!”

Penny looks at chef like he’s speaking gibberish, which, of course, he is.

Penny’s aura, or maybe her hair, has nabbed the boy’s nose. He’s magnetically compelled to lean in further and sniff deeper. Like a bodily function that must escape, he lets out a little howl. “How-whoo.”

She thinks about slapping him, but for some reason, against all those codes she’s erected, she doesn’t. Would you slap a needy child?

Honestly, he smells good too. Trouble usually does.

Don’t drink anymore, Penny tells herself.

She wizens up, and slaps him. Hard.

POP!

From the stage, Emo tries to get Curtis’s attention. “Paging Mr. Curtis? Mr. Lonely Boy Curtis? The Outsiders would like to resume their show now.”

But Curtis is busy being stunned. That girl just smacked the crap off his face, in front of The Outsiders, in front of the whole club. And you know what? He liked it.

”Yeah. You’re all right. All right indeed. I like your style. You know, I’m a lone wolf, too.”

“Yeah, I heard your song. How-whoo.”

“So you wanna be lone wolves together later?”

“That math will never add up.”

“Sure it will. You do your lone-wolf thing, I’ll do mine, and together we’ll howl at the moon all night long. How-whooooooooo...”

“I work early.” 

Though it would seem like he’s just hanging onto the bar for dear life, actually, Chef’s been listening. “No you don’t. Mandatory furlough day! Old fashioned!”

“I have to do the schedule. We need to get labor WAY down if you’re going to be able to keep paying me.”

“You’re micromanaging the fun right out of life! Toadsuck, Arkansas! How often do you get to hang with one of the world’s foremost aca-rockers?”

“Exactly! Let it flow! Trust The Universe!”

Curtis closes his eyes and takes in a few deep breaths. In doing so, the air speaks to him. His nose knows. Penny instinctively backs up, but the only place to move is back into Chef, who smells like an alcoholic who ate an alcoholic’s liver with some spoiled fava beans and a corked Chianti.

She pushes the boy away gently, but his nose can’t help it. The nose wants want the nose wants. Eyes closed, nose leading, he’s drawn in. They share hot space, as steamy as it is rare.  

The air. This air. This fucking place.

Penny snaps out of whatever the fuck that was. She pushes Curtis away gently.

He falls back a step or two, eyes still closed, nabbing every last scent of her. “The Universe has decreed that this next song shall be for you.”

”For me?!” Chef couldn’t be more thrilled.

“Sorry, Boyardee. This one’s for the she-wolf.”

The Outsiders begin to doo-wop the backbeat for their acapella version of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.” Emo holds down the vocal snare and high-hat vigorously; John Bonham would be proud, once he’s finished rolling around in his grave.

Curtis digs the groove the most, catches it right away. He steals a kiss on Penny’s hand, whispers, “how-whoooo…,” then runs up to the stage.

Good Times Bad Times

Curtis grabs the mic and busts into his highest falsetto, laying it perfectly on top of the other acapella parts of “Black Dog.” The band really finds the groove for a minute, especially Lonely Boy, whose front-man antics are downright electric, in perfect time and harmony with the rest of the band.

Technicolored musical notes swirl happily between them.

As the harmonies grow stronger, the notes emanate from The Outsiders, connect with the audience in a DNA swirl. Lacing the crowd, one by one, entwining each soul.

The notes dance and weave around Penny. Hit her knees, softly, but surely. Her ACLs bop, her hips catch, her boobs bob, her heart bounces that bob back down to her feet. And the groove is on. For the first time since the day the music died, the groove takes hold.

For the first time in the past tense, she thinks of Dad happily.

The whole joint picks up on Penny’s rock. It’s magnetic. Curtis feels it too. Rock unloads! Technicolored musical notes dance off the walls. Pop! Snap! Poof! Puff!

When the band gets to the break-it-down section, Curtis addresses the crowd again. The Outsiders look worried.

“How many Lone Wolves out here tonight? How-hoo if you feel me.”

Curtis locks eyes with Penny.

Penny’s right there. Without thinking, a glorious “How-hoo!” escapes, a gale force of harmony.

Musical DNA flies from her mouth, creates a bridge unto Curtis. The golden glow of electrified harmony presides. “How-hoo!” he belts.

The whole house follows: “How-hoo!”

Curtis gets swept up. Rock must be recognized. “Ladies and Germans, put your hands together, for… give a big ‘ol lone wolf howl to... to... uh...” Curtis stumbles. The technicolored musical notes slowly fade.

What in Sam Hell’s her name?

Curtis’s groove is thrown, as is the rest of the bar’s. But he recovers. He’s a pro, after all. He points hard at Penny and moves on, “...to you!”

Lonely Boy dives back into the song with gusto. “Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove...”

Steady rock resumes. Curtis feels the music again. Though the rest of the audience hasn’t quite recovered, the groove possesses Curtis, who dances solely for Penny.

She’s not unconscious anymore, but Penny still feels the funk. And Lonely Boy’s moves are so darned inspired, she can’t help but groove along.

Wait, what’s that? Is that Penny’s smile poking out behind those bobbing curls?

Oh yeah, that’s it for sure. What a light! Out in full, her beam blasts the place with energy.

For a hot minute, The Pound’s dance floor sizzles sultrier than every other acapella joint in Harmonyville, even Pitch Please.  

Curtis feels the energy emanating from Penny’s popping hips and bouncing hair. The space between becomes a bridge of funk. The give and take pulls and whips and spins the music around the room in fluorescent incense, sparkly peppermint, and technicolored musical notes. The magic propels the music even further. There is nothing but.  

Curtis jumps atop a large speaker. He swings the mic above his head like a lasso. The lasso picks up speed. The energy creates a copter, which creates a funnel, which swirls the energy out of Curtis’s control until...

BAM! The microphone hits Emo in the head, knocking him far from the beat.

Curtis rocks too hard to even notice. Doesn’t perceive The Outsiders’ dirty looks.

Curtis jumps on top of the tallest speaker he can find. Grabs the mic stand and twirls it like a lightning bolt and he’s Zeus, the God of Thunderous Rock.

Until…

SLICE! Curtis cuts a cable above, which sparks into flames. Scary Great White flames.

The fire spreads all over the lighting catwalk. For literally a hot second, tragedy wins, but quickly loses the day to well-timed sprinklers. The band’s equipment short-circuits spectacularly, a sacrifice for rock, and the lives of the saved.

Like everyone, Penny is shocked. She quickly realizes she’s been dancing and is now super soaked.

She collects herself. Locates Chef standing in the sprinklers with his head back and mouth agape. Like a reverse cupid fountain, if cupid was bigger, fatter, and drunker.

Penny looks at Curtis, soaking wet, hanging his head in shame. Is there anything sadder than a wet rocker hairdo? 

“Let’s go, Chef.” She pushes Chef towards the door, where the rest of the meager crowd is fleeing. She pauses to look back at Lonely Boy, who just stands there, water pouring over his head like a pitcher sent to the showers early after giving up the big hit.

Penny feels bad, she does, but she’s seen plenty of trouble in her time. And Curtis’ mess would take way too much cleaning up. She offers a sturdy arm to Chef and helps him out the door.

Standing in the Shower… Thinking

Out back, behind The Pound, the rain falls hard on the hazy, frigid night. The lost dog howls at the strawberry moon. It’s a sad, throaty, brooding howl. 

He hears the door open and scampers off.

Curtis and The Outsiders walk outside, soaking wet, carrying dripping equipment.

“Well, that was officially the wettest show we’ve ever done,” says Curtis.

“And also, officially, your last,” says Emo.

“Sorry, Lonely Boy, I gotta second that emotion. Some things just don’t work together.” Ted seems legitimately sorry, albeit positively resolved.

“Like dogs and cats, Axl and Slash.” Bobbo also has his mind made up. “Electrical equipment and water.”

“Lonely Boy Curtis and The Outsiders.” Emo has spoken.

“Those cables were way too low. It’s a good thing I was able to expose the problem on a less-than-busy night. People could have been hurt.”

“It’s a good thing they had sprinklers. It’s a bad thing all our equipment is ruined. It’s a bad thing our only gig is up,” says Emo.

“It’s a bad thing we sounded like Guantanamo torture music,” adds Ted. 

“And it’s a bad thing being in a band with a no-talent, no-listening, free-loading, prima donna has-been who can’t stay in tune.” Emo’s baggage has been piling up.

“Did you just question my pitch?” Like a switch, Curtis is angry now. 

Emo backs down when he looks into Curtis’s crazed eyes.

The boy purposefully breathes his way back from the brink, slowly uncrosses his eyes, sucks in deeply, gets his nose into it, his ears. Hears the air. Breathes it in… out… in… out…. actively becomes The Universe.

Either in Curtis’s mind, or just down the alley, the lonely dog howls a mournful wail. A solitary, technicolored musical note poofs to life, perhaps.

Regardless of reality, it’s the sign Curtis seeks.

 “You know what, fellas? You’re right. This gig is up. It’s been a blast. We’ve reached some heights. But y’all just can’t keep up with my howling. There’s a thing called rarefied air. And your meek breath can’t create enough of that for this howl to float upon. My pitch is still the most perfect in Harmonyville. The air around it’s gone bad. Apologies, but the world needs my air rare. You guys are all fired.”

“We’d like you to move out, too. Of course, you can stay in your room until you can figure something else out,” says Emo.

“You wish. But no. No more soul-sucking. This situation, everything about it has been weighing me down. Boxing me in. Keeping me ceilinged with creature comforts like a bed and food and spandex. I don’t need any of that. The Universe has a pitch too; it’s what keeps mine aloft.  I just heard it. That pitch will again lead me home. And obviously that’s not with you fine fellas. I’m sorry.”

Curtis grabs his backpack full of journals and leaves the rest behind. He walks on down Lonely Road. Into the rain and the big bad night. 

Mama, I’m Coming Home

Elsewhere along the Lonely Road, Penny and Chef walk slowly home. Well, Penny walks, Chef hangs onto her, barely dragging his feet along the puddles.

“I want to thank you, Chef. I needed that.”

“Toadsuck, Arkansas!”

“I’ve been there before, you know… The Pound.”

“Arkansuck, Toadsaw!”

She doesn’t care if he’s really listening. In fact, she prefers that he’s not. But she still has to say it out loud. “My dad kinda raised me there.”

Chef looks at her like he might comprehend. “I saw Ozzy 18 times.”

“I know Chef. Anyways. Thanks. I never… it was just… right.”

Going Down the Road Feeling Bad

Lonely Boy Curtis walks down Lonely Road in a huff. It starts to rain dramatically, as if somewhere the great stage manager in the sky is pulling some strings. As the rain pounds down, he calms himself enough to realize how cold it’s gotten. How wet he is. 

Despondency creeps in. The Universe gets much bigger. Scarier. Less hopeful.

Curtis tries to think of someplace to go, someone to lean on. This time.

He’s got nothing. No one left. Maybe he should finally make his way out west. Maybe they’ll appreciate his plucky brand of aca-rock in Hollywood?

He won’t get there tonight, though. He keeps moving, through the increasingly rough weather, up and over another unruly hill, shivering all the while.

Right at Hope Street, Curtis perceives a pocket of warmth. He instinctively moves towards it.

As Curtis closes in, he hears whistling, the sweetest mockingbird who ever sang. 

Curtis sees Penny in a swath of glorious street light, a crutch for imbalanced Chef. She’s happily whistling “Lone Wolf,” the sweetest rain song Curtis has ever heard.

Curtis runs to them, bound magnetically. 

All parties are soaked to the bone.

Surprisingly, Chef remembers Curtis. “Hey, it’s the big bad wolf!”

“Wow, it’s you. It’s… it’s unbelievably good to see you.”

Penny is surprised by Curtis’s raw sincerity. His brashness dropped, he’s almost cute, in a pathetic, soggy spandexed sort of way.

But Chef, the fan, is far happier to see Curtis. “That sprinkler thing was totally boss!”

“You know, that’s exactly what I thought, man. Rock and fucking roll, right?”

“Rock and fucking roll.” The brothers in rock pound mighty fists.

“Some people have no vision.”

Penny, however, does. “The band’s not happy?”

“There is no more band. Lonely Boy Curtis & The Outsiders will rock no more. Or, no less, as the case has been. I have to face facts. They were just lesser artists. Hacks. No, it’s time to move on. Find a back-up band that can keep up with my aca-rock. Or wait, hold on, do you hear that?”

“What? I didn’t hear anything,” says Penny.

“Thunder?! Was that thunder?” Chef fears being struck by lightning more than he fears running out of booze.

“No, that was The Universe telling me to go solo. Whoa. Can you have solo rockacapella? Crap, I don’t even know. But The Universe has spoken. Lonely Boy Curtis has moved out and moved on.”

“What will Lonely Boy do for food? And shelter? Boy can’t live on solo rockacapella alone.” Penny has become ever the pragmatist over the years. She wasn’t always like this.

“I don’t know. But I’m not blind to the fact that The Universe has also seen fit to set the most enchanting howling she-wolf upon my lucky path this night.”

“Oh, pishaw!” Chef flamboyantly pishaw’s, causing him to fall on his drunken butt.

But Curtis doesn’t notice Chef’s antics, stays locked on Penny. “It is awfully fancy seeing you here. On this path. In this spot. On this of all nights. It makes me think... ”

“Don’t think.” Penny doesn’t like where this is going.

“I think I should go home with you tonight.”

“Ha!” Penny has the best laugh she’s had in years.

“Dude, even I know that’s not going to work,” says grounded Chef, somewhat coherently.

Penny catches her breath. “Oh, that was good. Thank you. I needed that.”

“I’m serious. The Universe has decreed it. I just heard it.”

Penny realizes the boy is serious. And perhaps a bit delusional. She sweetens up. “Really? Come on, Curtis. It would never happen. You’re cute, sure, but it would never happen. I have a head on my shoulders, I’m not sure if you saw it.”

That stings. Penny feels bad. She does. But, come on. “Plus, we’re lone wolves, right?”

The truth sucks, but not as much as begging. Or maybe they’re the same thing. “Right. Howhooo! I was just thinking, you know. The timing and all.”

“Right, The Universe,” says Penny, not second guessing her decision in the slightest, but perhaps realizing it’s not as funny as she thought.

Perhaps Curtis senses as much, because he foregoes pride for one more dark stab. “Maybe The Universe doesn’t want us being lone wolves no more?”

Whoa, that’s a fundamental philosophical 180. Kind of heavy for first-date stuff. Both of them realize it simultaneously.

Chef’s splashing disrupts the moment. He performs water-angels in a large puddle in the middle of the street. He couldn’t be happier.

“I should get him home before any cars come. Or maybe I shouldn’t.”

“You should. Sorry, that was forward. I get caught up in moments.”

“You’ll be fine? Right? You’ve got someplace else to go, right?”

“Oh yeah. I’m cool. I’m big and hard and battle-scarred.”

“Well, that does sound tempting. Maybe we can get a drink next week, okay? I had fun tonight. It was fun. Having fun.” Against all her bitter conditioning, she takes out a pen. “Here, let me write down my number.”

Penny writes down her name and number on Curtis’s palm. She finishes up, but the boy holds onto her hand, clings to it necessarily. Looks profoundly in her eyes, like he’s lost in the icy depths of the North Atlantic and she’s riding atop the flotsam of the sinking Titanic.

The rain stops completely. The clouds part. Stars shine brightly above them. A calm breeze hums, flattens out the urgent intensity, the sound of what is and what shall always be.

Which is to say, she thinks about it...

Until both Penny and Curtis are snapped out of another moment by Chef, grunting like a sea lion, apparently trying to get himself upside down in tripod position. Plumber-crack fully exposed, Chef topples over, like a wet, slovenly Weeble Wobble who fights to rise, but stays defeatedly down.

Penny gives one last sad-sack look at Curtis. Smiles a sad-sack smile. And tries to pick up Chef.

Crushed Curtis helps them up, and on their way. He watches as they turn left on Hope Street and quickly disappear into the starry night.

As they fade, the clouds immediately return, ominously swirling above Curtis’ head. The rain picks up with a steady 4/4 beat.

Curtis isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He stares to the heavens. Let’s the rain lick his face. Readies for a sign…

 All he gets is a terrifying crack of thunder, enough of a sign to make him walk, quickly, albeit directionless.

A fierce wind howls like Ozzy. The rain turns to sleet. Then snow. The weather gets worse and worse while he plods along, pondering the nobility of Eskimos.

The Road to Nowhere

A mile or two down Lonely Road, and Curtis still doesn’t have a plan. He knows for sure he can’t go home. Home. Ha! What home? The only home he’s ever known is the stage. And sharing a stage with those guys just ain’t homey no more. Not now. No way. He’d rather freeze.

But really? Would he? Cause at this point, who else can he turn to? Curtis flexes his mind, finds nothing but regret. 

Curtis battles the weather, and the weather is winning. Icicles hang off every part of his body. He shivers uncontrollably.

But he keeps plodding along.

Why was he so into spandex again? Why did he even start wearing it in the first place? Oh yeah, Ratt, “Round and Round.” Well that makes sense. So maybe the better question is: Why didn’t he ever stop?

Where did this pain in his core come from? Is that his abdomen bursting? Is his body scientifically freezing?

Snow envelops Curtis. He nearly falls. Might just crack. Hears every labored heartbeat. Loudly. Like a gong reverberating inside his very being.

Stopping could mean never starting again.

Through the sleet, like a shimmering oasis, Curtis sees something in the distance…

Is that…

It’s too hard to tell. But it’s enough to keep Curtis moving.

He fights his way through the elements as the oasis becomes clearer. Can’t be… do they still have phonebooths in Harmonyville?

Apparently they do, because with his last bit of strength, Curtis reaches the booth, pushes his way inside, and collapses, finally free of the bombarding elements. Even with the shelter, he’s as cold as Coors when the mountain on the can turns blue.

At least he’s inside. A phonebook hangs down. Curtis frantically looks for people to call, but can’t seem to think of anyone.

Disbelievers, all of them. 

Curtis slams the phonebook shut. Shivers uncontrollably. Looks at Penny’s phone number on his hand. Thinks about calling. He looks into his pockets for a coin. Finds nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Sad fate accepted, Curtis removes his golden pitch fork from his neck. He hammers it on his hand and brings it to his ear, then hums along ruefully. “How-whoooooo...” A lonely blue musical note floats up and out of the booth, gusts away on the chill.

But he’s too cold to even sing the blues. Just shivers mightily, his only move, other than crying himself to sleep.

Before he can though, the sad lost dog puts his nose up to the phonebooth. He’s wetter and somehow more pathetic looking, but Curtis can tell from his soul-singer eyes that he’s the very same dog who sought his help earlier.

Was that tonight?

The dog looks so cold and wet, it makes Curtis even colder. He scratches at the door, obviously wanting to be let in.

“Sorry, pal, space is kind of at a premium.”

The dog whimpers a sad little cry, in the same key as the note Curtis was just humming. Curtis hums the note too. The dog adjusts tonally, cries up a third step. A soft puffy musical note poofs. It floats, effortlessly, from his mouth into Curtis’s ear. 

Curtis hears him. The dog looks so pathetic that he can’t help but take pity.

“Fine. I could use the company. And I don’t ever say that.” Curtis opens the door, and perhaps, for once, his heart.

The dog jumps into the boy’s arms, snuggles his frozen wetness against Curtis. 

“Hey! Off! Off! Dude, you’re freezing!”

The dog clings to Curtis, refusing to leave his arms. Curtis, too physically exhausted to peel the dog off, relents. After a moment, the weight doesn’t feel like a burden. Two cold bodies find warmth in one. They’re in this nightmare together.

“Okay. Easy, boy. Easy. You’re okay now. We’ll keep each other warm tonight, okay, boy? It’s not like we have anyone else to.”

The boy and the dog huddle with each other, shivering their timbers off.

“So what’s your excuse,” says Curtis. The dog looks like he just might speak. Instead, he howls to the moon.

“Oh, I see: you’re a lone wolf too.”

The dog settles back down into Curtis’s arms.

“Let me guess, you’re also rethinking that idea?”

The dog shivers. The boy shivers. There’s a whole lot of shivering going on.

As the dog’s chattering jives with the boy’s, the beat becomes palatable. And though he’s cold, Curtis can’t help but hum along.

Curtis noodles on a decent melody as the dog chatters in time. They jibe well, all things considered. The phonebooth and companionship create a thin vale against the cold, dark night.

Dream On

It’s the next day, tomorrow if you will, and the sun really does come out, as reflected sweetly upon Penny’s quaint, tidy apartment, adorned in morning glory.

Penny sleeps like an angel. Waldo the cat sprawls on her softly heaving heart. They purr happily.

It’s all very peaceful. A soft buzz warms the place, in tune with the sunshine. An undercurrent of comforting bass swells almost inaudibly, depending upon who’s listening. Tiny Technicolored musical notes hover.

Penny slowly wakes up. Smiles upon seeing Waldo sleeping so sound.

She looks over at the clock and groans.

Coaxes Waldo softly. “Waldo... Waldo... kitty...”

Waldo doesn’t stir.

“Come on, pretty kitty, Mommy has to get up now. Time to go to work. Gotta bring home the bacon.”

Slowly Waldo opens his eyes and sees beautiful Penny staring at him lovingly.

“Meow.” Or did he say “bacon”?

“Meow.”

“Meow, meow.”

“Meow, meow.”

They continue like this, seemingly communicating in a sing-song fashion. Penny harmoniously echoes each of Waldo’s sonorous tones until they are singing some sort of happy-morning song.

Penny has a beautiful voice. Waldo too, for a cat. A different hue warms the room with each different tone until Technicolored musical notes bounce off the walls.

The notes find their way off the walls, under the door, and out of the apartment building. They shoot out onto the street, and spray bomb the phonebooth on the corner.

Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand

Sgt. Peppers-dressed musical notes dance among Curtis and the dog as they lie in a bountiful field of daisies and daffodils and jelly beans and squeaky toys.

Curtis and the dog howl the “Lonely Dog Blues” to each other in perfect harmony, but with more of a reggae groove.

Out of the swirling notes, Penny appears like a Phoenix, but one emitting less-threatening, fluorescent flames. She holds her arms open to the boy and the dog. Looks as though she wants to embrace them in her bosom. Sings the boy’s name like a siren.  

“Curtis. Curtis. Lonely Boy. Curtis…”

The dreamscape dissolves away as Curtis slowly comes to.

Curtis watches sadly as the musical notes fade away. Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Curtis?! Curtis! Can you hear me? Lonely Boy?”

Curtis slowly adds up that he’s being spoken to, he’s been asleep in a phonebooth, and he’s got a mangy dog in his arms. The dog just beats Curtis to those same conclusions.

Penny’s voice snaps them both out of their alarm. “Curtis!”

The boy gazes at the vision of Penny, a golden hue ensconces her like a dead Jedi. The lovely harmonies of the “Lonely Dog Blues” reggae groove rest lithely on the light.

“You... you’re here. You’re beautiful... The song. Sing it again…”

Curtis watches the last of the musical notes poof away into the misty morning.

“You... It’s you. You…” Curtis vaguely remembers her number on his palm. But did he write down her name? “Don’t tell me...”

Curtis looks at his hand and sees the writing is completely smeared and illegible. What’s this angel’s name. Think! He snaps his fingers. Concentrates to the point of breaking like a gasket. 

Could something already be broken, permanently?

“No. Don’t tell me...” Poof! The Universe provides. “Penny!”

“Bingo.”

“I haven’t remembered someone’s name since the nineties.”

“Curtis! What are you doing in a phonebooth?”

“We were singing! Your song! A hit! Rarefied air. You. Dog. Rarefied air!”

“Have you been out here all night? Is this your dog? He needs food!”

Curtis starts to get a sense of Penny’s reality. “Food. Yeah, that would be good.“

“You have to feed him. He looks terrible!”

So does Curtis. Both boy and dog are shivering like meth heads. Penny takes her pink and orange plaid winter jacket off and covers them both.

“Did you sleep here? You said you had someplace.”

“No call. Cold. So cold. And... and… then he came to keep me warm. And I was here to keep him warm. And now you’re here... ”

The dog gets up out of the boy’s arms and nestles up to Penny. Though he’s a dirty mess, Penny can’t help but pet the poor creature. The boy finds the strength to sit up.

“Are you here to keep us warm?”

“I’m on my way to work. I have to go to work.”

“Oh. I thought The Universe was providing.” Curtis lays back down. The dog lays down on him.

“You’re just going to stay here?”

“It’ll provide soon enough.”

“What about him?”

Curtis clings to the dog. They both whimper. Neither can stop shivering. “I think we’re in this together now.”

“You can’t stay out here. He can’t stay out here. Just go home and apologize. They’ll take you back.”

“No home. Bad air! BAD AIR!”

“Family? Friends? There must be somebody, somewhere.”

“No. Never! No. No no no! The Universe spit me out! I fall where I must.”

“You can’t fall here!” Penny looks at the boy on the ground, chattering, crying. She doesn’t know what to do. Well, she does, but she wishes she didn’t.

But he’s not heavy enough to bring her down. No one is. Not again.

“Fine. I already regret this, but... come with me. You can get cleaned up at my place. Then we’ll figure out what to do next. We’ll find you someplace to go tonight.”

The boy and dog pop up.

“Really?! Did you hear that, pal?! We’re going to… Penny’s!”

“No! I have a cat. We’ll take him to the shelter. Which is where you might end up too. I know a good place for him though, I walk rescue dogs there sometimes. They’ll find him a good home.”

“No way. He’s home now.”

“I have a cat. A jealous, vengeful cat. With claws.”

“I don’t mind cats. Do you, pal?”

“I have to go to work. I really have to go to work. Let’s take the dog to the shelter. It’s a really good one, I promise.”

Curtis and the dog hold each other in fetal position, whelping. “You know what happens in those places. No. No way. We won’t be put to sleep without a fight. We’re in this together. My little partner. The MaCa to my Lennon. The Keef to my Mick. This wolf will roll alone no more. I know that now. I need him. And he needs me. I won’t leave him. I can’t.”

This passionate speech flushes the boy into a fade out. Penny feels his head and detects quite a fever. She checks his pulse. Then checks her watch.

“Crap. Fine. Waldo can tough it out for an afternoon. I’ll just lock him in the bedroom. Okay. Okay. Both of you come. Come to my place. For now! Today! Just till we figure out what to do with both of you.”

The boy and dog pop up again, tails wagging.

“But first, you’re taking him to get groomed. No way is this mess of a creature setting foot in my home. Take him to Pet Necessities, get him groomed. Get him a cage. The dog stays in the cage. Deal?”

Curtis and the dog can agree to that. Penny looks Curtis in the eye until she’s pretty sure she trusts him. “I’m trusting you Curtis. Don’t take that lightly. Meet you over there once I tell Chef this is all his fault.” 

The Bare Necessities

Curtis – who now covers his soaked spandex with Penny’s pink and orange plaid jacket – and his wet, emaciated dog walk through the cavernous aisles of Pet Necessities. Every possible item ever made for an animal can be purchased here.

The boy and the dog look very out of place. Dressed up dogs and their well-coiffed owners stare at these two vagrants suspiciously.

The Universe’s waves wobble woefully, Curtis feels the ill effects of last night. The aisles move in and out like pulsating gills. He nervously picks up the pace, the dog follows tight on his hip.

A little plush pig toy squeaks loudly at them. A warning?

More plush toys join in – squirrels, hedgehogs, thingamabobs, all squeaking mightily in admonishment.

Tennis balls cast suspicious, accusatory eyes!

Rope toys tie themselves into nooses!

Kongs! Monkeys! Warnings! Danger!

Curtis leads the dog into a sprint, rabidly searching for an exit, but they’re in an endless doggy-toy aisle. Thousands of doggy-toys surround them, taunting, squeaking, honking. The rope toys tie him up. Balls, Frisbees, and chew toys charge, trying to bury him alive.

Curtis claws his way to a light at the end of the aisle, but the toys swallow him up. The light disappears.

Fade to black.

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

Time. Definitely time.

White light. Bright, painful white light. Wet. Coarse. Wet. Coarse.

Curtis comes to as the dog licks his face huskily.

Slowly, Curtis notices he’s lying on a Great Dane-sized doggy bed.

“What is this, a Casper? Damn cozy. Was I asleep for long, boy?”

The dog cocks his head, looks like he’s about to answer, but instead barks rabidly at a giant cardboard cutout of Ivan Montlebaum, The Dog Dude, a dog training guru with his own line of pet care products, books, and even a television show. Cardboard Ivan poses bravely, hands on hips, advertising his new book, Happy Pack, Happy Days.

The dog barks and barks at Ivan’s giant cardboard cutout.

Ivan shakes off his cardboard shackles and becomes quite alive, stares aggressively at the barking dog.

Whoa.

Live-action Ivan steps confidently towards the dog, authoritatively crossing his arms. He gives the dog a stern look. The dog immediately shuts right the heck up.

Curtis is stunned. “Uh... weren’t you just cardboard?”

Ivan gives the same stern look to Curtis, who is rightfully freaked.

“Do you know which way to the grooming station?”

“Shssh!” Ivan quiets Curtis with one sharp shssh. Ivan points two fingers at his serious eyes, a silent look of “I’ve got my eyes on you, boy.”

Ivan points to the stack of Happy Pack, Happy Days books, insisting that Curtis takes one. Curtis complies out of sheer terror.

Ivan nods to the well-lit “Self-Grooming” sign at the end of the aisle. Curtis and the dog tepidly walk away from Ivan in that direction.

You Never Even Called Me By My Name

At the grooming area, Curtis lifts the dog onto a kiosk. The dog doesn’t argue.

Curtis uses the shower-gun to hose and shampoo both himself and the dog, Rambo style.

The dog is meek and scared and seems to want to chew off his own tail.

Curtis towel dries them both.

Curtis blow dries himself and the dog vigorously. The warmth is glorious. Both boy and dog begin to calm down a bit.

“Relax, little buddy. We’re just gonna get cleaned up. Then we’re heading to Penny’s. I got a good feeling about this. Don’t you... Rex?” Curtis stops to see if the dog responds.

He doesn’t; he just goes on chewing his tail. He finally gets a good grip and starts chasing himself around and around.

With great difficulty, Curtis attempts to brush out the dog.

“Don’t fret, mon pet. That guru guy scared me too. But, he does seem to know things. He’s gone now, so you can just relax. Okay… Fido?”

Again, Curtis waits for a second to see if the dog will respond in any way. The dog does not.

“Some gurus are just scary. Right... Ralph?”

Nothing.

“But you don’t have to worry about that stuff now. Now that we’ve got each other. Right... Lassie?”

Nothing.

“And Penny. Don’t forget about her. Our angel. Right... Bill? Bodie? Moby? Hoops? Drillbit?”

The dog doesn’t respond at all, just keeps gnawing at his tale.

Curtis stops grooming and looks at the dog, who while immaculately clean, shakes uncontrollably.

The dog is so scared that he lets out a big steamy pooh. Gross.

His first reaction is to roll around in it.

“Oh, fudge!” The dog, Fudge, looks up for a moment of recognition.

Curtis is pleased. “Fudge?”

Fudge nods.

“Fudge it is.”

Fudge shakes himself off vigorously.

The boy and his dog, Curtis and Fudge, both covered in poop, share a moment. They exist in this shitty Universe together.

Hot Fudge

Back at Penny’s, Waldo the cat sprawls out happily in a soft yellow beam of sunshine. A feint bass note swells. It might be a B. Maybe A-sharp.

Waldo stretches and yawns, content as a kitty could be.

If only he knew.

Flexing his new leash to the max, a newly clean and fluffy Fudge sniffs his way down Penny’s apartment complex hallway, pulling a now clean and fluffy Curtis behind him. Penny follows after both of them as best she can, clumsily carrying a dog cage. She looks very concerned.

Fudge rampages forward with possessed excitement. He’s got the scent now... mmmm kitty.

The theme from Jaws plays ominously, perhaps audibly, if one could hear above the barking.

Back in Penny’s apartment, Waldo licks himself happily, basking up the sun. Till he hears the sound of keys jingling in the door and springs to his feet. As is his custom, Waldo eagerly bounds for the front door to greet his love.

In the hallway, Penny awkwardly puts the key in the door while trying to balance the cage.

Curtis can’t really help her, as he’s got his hands full with Fudge, who’s totally crazed now. He runs circles around the boy and Penny, tying them up.

“Wow. He’s fired up! Me too, Pal. This is gonna be great!”

Penny unlocks the door without quite opening it. She stops to correct Curtis. “Great for today. For the afternoon. Till we can find you both something…”

Fudge isn’t having any more waiting. He barrels through the door, uncorking the leash so fast it trips up both Penny and Curtis, who drops his end.

Freedom! Fudge zeroes in on Waldo! Quickly equates the cat with dinner and lunges!

Waldo runs for his life.

The chase is on. Fudge wants blood. He chases the cat all around the apartment, destroying everything in their wake. It’s an explosion of cat hair and furniture and barking and wailing.

“No!” Penny is horrified.

“No! No! No! Fudge! No! Down, boy! No! Stop! Here! Come! Stop! NO! NO!” Curtis gives chase, but Fudge is hungry and blessed with world class speed. 

Waldo frantically looks for cover, but there’s none to be found. Fudge follows Waldo under and through every possible nook and cranny.

Penny and Curtis trip over the carnage as they try to catch Fudge.

Fudge trails Waldo into Penny’s little bedroom. The dog corners the cat, is about to pounce, when, from the depths of his being, Waldo starts horrifically wailing.

“Wahhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhh!”

Confused by the sound, Fudge takes pause. He tilts his head, listens. Then tentatively woofs in response: “Woof.”

“Wahhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhh!”

“Woof.”

“Wahhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhh!”

“Woof.” Fudge’s woofs slowly turn into a tepid howl. Fudge modulates slightly, till he settles on a tone in unique harmony to Waldo’s frightened wail.

“HOW-Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

“Wahhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhhhh-wahhhhhhhhh!”

They kind of sound like The Carpenters for a second. Technicolored musical notes shimmer momentarily until...

BAM! Curtis finally rounds the corner and leaps towards Fudge. Waldo jumps for cover under the bed.

Fudge squirms free but Curtis lunges again, knocking Fudge to the ground way too hard, surprising both man and beast.

Fudge recovers and pops up and away, out of the bedroom. He laps the apartment like an Olympic speed skater, barking better than Johnny Rotten belted “Anarchy In the U.K.”

“Where’s kitty? Is kitty okay?” cries Penny.

Curtis points her under the bed. Runs after Fudge.

Penny slams the bedroom door and attends to her wailing cat. 

Yet again on the other side off a slammed door, Curtis sizes up the trouble.

Fudge continues to run circles around the apartment. Finally, in a feat of athletic prowess not displayed since high school, Curtis dives across the floor and catches Fudge by his ankle. The boy holds on for dear life as the dog tries to wrestle him off. Like a Judo champion, Curtis slides into a dominant position with his chest on top of freaked-out Fudge. Pinned.

They both pant laboriously.

“I got ya. Easy, boy. You’re mine now. Easy now. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got nothing to worry about now, boy. I got you now, boy.” Curtis looks Fudge in the eye. The dog stops barking momentarily and looks at Curtis. Recognition perhaps.

Fudge barks Sex Pistols in Curtis’s face.

To Be Loved

After a monumental effort, Curtis finally gets the dog in the cage.

Exhausted, he lays down outside the cage. Wild-eyed Fudge paces frantically inside, howling far harder than Siouxsie and the Banshees.

The boy breathes deeply.

In.

Out.

In.

Let it out, Curtis, let it out.

Nope. It’s in.

Fudge runs tight circles to the right. To the right. To the right. Over and over again, ad infinitum.

Never left. Not a once. Laps around laps around laps around…

Curtis just stares at the dog, trying to piece it all together. That cat looked really freakin’ scared. Like he saw a Poltergeist clown. And Penny. Man, she really loves that cat.

To be loved. Oh, what a feeling.

Curtis goes over to the door and knocks tepidly.

“Fudge is locked up now, you can open the door. The cat’s safe. I swear.”

After a tense moment, Penny comes out. She’s steaming pissed. “Waldo. His name is Waldo.”

Penny goes back to the cat. Lays prostrate to try and meet Waldo’s fearful eyes under the bed. “Rest now my sweet kitty, you’re safe now. Mommy loves you.”

Curtis imagines getting talked to like that.  

“He won’t come out from under the bed. Won’t even let me touch him. I gave him an eighth of catnip. Hopefully he’ll eat it.”

“Catnip helps. I know. He’ll be fine… someday.”

“Just stay out of here. Like forever. Take a nap on the couch. But remember: this is not your couch. This is not make yourself at home, mi casa es su casa bullshit. This is figure it out. Now. Where are you going to go? I’m going get some work done in here with Waldo, and then I’m going in for the lunch rush. When I get back, where are we going to take you? Where am I taking him? Figure it out.”

 “He’ll calm down. Waldo will calm down. We all just need to calm down!” Curtis should calm down.

“Get it together, Curtis! This isn’t a shelter. This is my life, okay? I have work to do. So please, just keep him in the cage. There’s the couch. Get some sleep. Get yourself together. Then we’ll figure out what to do with you two this afternoon. Just think of options.”

“They’ll get used to each other. They’re animals, they assimilate well.”

“They won’t get used to each other. I promise you that. Get some sleep.” She closes the door in his face.

Stung, Curtis turns his attention to the right-turning, punk-screaming dog.

Groove Is in the Heart

Fudge paces around the cage, basically using Curtis as a track, as the boy’s lying inside as well, sleeping soundly in fetal position.  

After who knows how long, Curtis wakes to Penny’s bedroom door opening.

Penny pops out slowly and quietly.

She whispers to Curtis, “Waldo stopped wailing, finally. I’m going to the restaurant to catch the lunch rush… why are you in the cage?”

“He wouldn’t calm down until I laid next to him.”

Though her initial reaction leans toward melting, she stays steeled. “Have you thought about where I’m going to take you when I get back?”

“Yeah… I’ve been trying, I… have. I… let a lot of wells run dry,” says Curtis as he deftly extricates himself from the cage without letting the dog out. 

“Family?”

“None. Never had one. Thought I never would ‘til he came along.” Fudge stops pacing and shares a look with his new bff. Then he’s off pacing again. 

“Friends?”

“Bridges burned in the name of rock. But that’s over. I understand what’s at stake now. I had an epiphany out there, in that booth, with him. You finding us like that. My lone wolf ways got me into that booth. Something else got me out. It was him.” Curtis remembers the dream… Penny Phoenix. “And you. Your song.”

“Don’t go changing your tune now, Lonely Boy Curtis. Keep it together.”

“Change is in the rarified air, Penny. Credo-breaking change. I feel it. And I feel you. I feel what you add to my air. And I like it.”

“That might just be acid reflux or something.”

Curtis pulls out his tuning fork from around his neck, where his tuning fork always lays in wait. He closes his eyes, hits the fork to his palm, and listens.

He hums the tone.

“Feel that? Listen to The Universe... accept what she is offering... Shhhh...  Listen... Ung... Yeah... That’s the Universal vibe. Ung… Yeah… Oh life! Oh, Universe! It’s all gassed up to this place, this time, this connection, this one incendiary moment!”

Curtis closes his eyes. Feels the vibration, hums his note again. Then another. Then another, each note a juicy drop from the well of inspiration. The notes dance their way into the nascent form of the “Lonely Dog Blues.”

Fudge stops pacing, looks at Curtis, tilts his head, like he wants to say something.

Curtis suddenly opens his eyes wide, like he just heard his name shouted by God.  

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“That’s a bloody hook if I’ve ever heard one! This is damn fine air right here! Rarified air! Right here in your apartment! We created that!”

Penny looks at Curtis like he’s nuts. Which, of course, he must be to attempt to create something from nothing.

Curtis sounds out the hook again, humming tepidly. It takes him a minute, but Curtis finds the groove. It takes on a bit of a disco vibe. Technicolored musical notes poof steadily around his head, like little birds after a Looney Tunes head smack.

“Bom chicka bom bom. Bom chicka bom bom. Ungh sha na na na. That’s good. Listen to it... yeah... yeah... that’s got sauce... right? Ungh. Bom chicka bom bom. Bom chicka bom bom. And the bass line: Ungh sha na na na. Ungh sha na na na! That’s the Universal groove. We’re tapped in! You hear that?”

“No.”

Curtis is unfazed, what’s a little negativity when you’ve got The Universe on your side? “You will. I’m going to write it for you. For you, my muse. I promise you that. I know a hit when I hear one. Bom chicka bom chicka chicka bom bom. Ungh. That’s the truth. That’s a guaranteed smash!”

Penny can only stare in disbelief.

Curtis puts his ear to The Universe again. He’s losing it. The notes fade out. “You don’t hear that?”

“I hear the babbling of a tired, breaking boy, who desperately needs a fresh start.”

Curtis loses the song completely. Poof.

Fudge screams death metal, sprints circles crazily around his little cage.

“Just get some sleep, okay? Don’t let him out of that cage. Stay out of my room. I’ll make some calls. We’ll figure it out.”

She grabs her jacket to leave. He’s the picture of hopeless. She forces herself out the door.

Dog Days Are Over

Back at the mostly empty Bistro & Bar, Penny enters in a huff.

Chef sits at the bar, which Ritchie slowly tends. Liz does paperwork a few stools down.

“Sorry! I missed the lunch rush. I know. Sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” Penny’s quite sorry.

“Fortunately it never came,” says Liz, who doesn’t appear to feel fortunate.

“I thought I gave you the day off.” Chef’s quite drunk again. Or perhaps still.

“See what happens when you think.” Liz is still quite mean.

Chef imperviously points to his empty shot glass. Ritchie fills it up, and one for himself, as he does. Liz would usually have a hateful eye on such action, but now she’s only got eyes on Penny.

“Come here, let me look at you.” Liz eyes Penny up and down.

“Huh?”

Liz examines closely. “Aha! I see it. Thunderbolt!”

“Huh?”

“I told her you met someone. I see everything. Everything!” Alas, Chef doesn’t see the sugar packet Liz flings at his head.

“It’s not like that at all,” says Penny.

“Puhlease. Even I could see it. And I haven’t seen anything since Dr. Mittleman prescribed the Xanax.” Chef chases a Xanax with a shot.

“So, he’s a singer? Huh? Yes? He sings? A rock star? Like Mick Jagger. I love Mick Jagger. His lips. Like this. See…” Liz purses her lips, just so. She squeezes Penny’s cheeks, forcing a Mick face. “No, softer. Soften the lips. Like this.”

Penny doesn’t get it.

“Come sit.” Liz pulls Penny’s face to a booth. “Talk.”

“I may have done something foolish.”

“I was a fool once. Now I sleep in a room upstairs from one. Every. Single. Night.” Liz isn’t going anywhere without details. “Talk.”

“I don’t know… it was like a gush. The harmony. The vibe. The energy. And then I found him on the street. Cuddled up to this mess of a dog. I don’t know which one’s more pathetic. They had nowhere to go. Like a sap, of course I took them in. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave them. I think he may have cracked. He’s hearing things. He wants to write me a song.”

That flips Liz’s switch. “Never let an artist into your home! Never! Love them from afar, for a night or two, if you must. Or a week in France. Then slam the door. Do it now. Go home and kick him out! Now! An artist’s only morality is in service to himself.”

“I also serve my liver.” Chef raises his glass. He and Ritchie toast Chef’s liver.

“To the mightiest liver in all the land!”

They drink heartily.

Penny and Liz hear nothing.

“He really does seem inspired. A part of the song just came to him. Like it was sent. And it was pretty good! I mean, I’d like to hear that song. But my cat. Oh, my poor, poor kitty.”

“Your cat doesn’t like the song?” asks Chef.

“My cat doesn’t like the dog. It tried to eat him.”

“Go home now, throw them both in shelter!”

“He’s so fragile. A shelter would break him. And he will NOT leave his dog. Not in this condition. It’s almost admirable, his conviction. But in a scary, off-the-hinges way. He needs some help.”

“So get help. Now!”

“But I can help him. Me. I can. I should. I found him. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t like it. I talk to this boy, myself. Size him up. Tonight. Our house. Dinner.” It’s decided. “Ritchie, you’re closing.”

Ritchie gives her the thumbs up as he and Chef down another drink.

  

Mother

Perfect harmony presides in Curtis’s mind’s eye.

Bathed in a glorious, white light, Penny and Curtis walk hand in hand, humming more dulcet tones than the pre-tension Beach Boys.

Still humming, Penny calmly sits down, spreads her legs, lifts her skirt, and easily delivers two immaculate children: Waldo the cat and Fudge the dog.

The animal children beam with perfection as they instinctively join Penny and Curtis on their lovely walk. Angelic harmony permeates as Technicolored musical notes dance around and around, like Freon-huffing butterflies.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Curtis hears something outside his mind. He slowly wakes up to waking up, still humming and nodding along to the angelic “Lonely Dog Blues” in his head, only this time backed with a church choir.

As he comes to, the musical notes begin to fade.

With his eyes still closed, the boy instinctively grabs a pen and notebook out of his breast pocket. He opens his eyes and dashes a treble clef upon the pad. He watches each Technicolored note fade into a new one, writes down as many notes as he can until...

The sound of angels turns abruptly to yelps of punk, the last of the notes poof away, and Curtis comes to the quick realization that he is inside the dog crate again, and Fudge is circling nervously around him again, howling like Henry Rollins. 

“Good morning, pal.” Fudge apparently doesn’t see the good in it, though. Or perhaps he’s dismayed by the fact that it’s the afternoon and he’s a stickler for semantics.

“Okay, boy. I hear you loud and clear. Let’s get out of here.”

Curtis goes to let the dog out, but thinks better of it. Instead, he nimbly frees himself from the crate while pushing Fudge back. Fudge howls even more savagely.

“Just stay there for a sec, boy. We gotta get your leash on before we take you out of that cell. Don’t want you eating any kitties now. Cause we’ll be right back on Lonely Street. And that’s not where we want to be, right, boy? Don’t worry, good boy. We’ll go to the park here in one sec-arooni. They got a spot just for dogs there, I seen it. You can run and howl till you’re zonked and silent. Then I’ll finish the #1 solid gold hit.”

The dog looks pleased about that. Curtis unlocks the cage and tries to put a collar around Fudge’s neck, but the dog slips his grip! Fudge runs straight to the closed bedroom door, furiously tries to claw his way inside.

In the bedroom, underneath Penny’s bed, Waldo’s glowing green eyes pop wide with fear.

Walk On the Wildside

Fudge walks Curtis to the park, pulling harder than a Clydesdale, howling all the way.

“You really don’t like this leash, do you, boy?”

Once they’re at the park, Curtis finally has enough. “There’s no one around… go have some fun, pal.”

Fudge sits down and shuts up like a gentleman, readying himself for leash removal.

Curtis looks him in the eye. “You’ll be good, right?”

Did Fudge just wink?

Curtis removes the leash. Fudge thinks about making a break for it, but before he can, Curtis produces a little yellow squeaky ball from Pet Necessities. “Ball!” He squeezes the ball for added effect. 

The ball beckons to Fudge like the light of a thousand suns.

Curtis gives it a few more squeezes, priming the dog for what Curtis obviously thinks is going to be an outstanding game of fetch. He hucks the ball as far as he can. Fudge is on it like a cheetah on an impala.

Fudge grabs the ball and instinctively heads back towards Curtis for another throw. But then he bites down. Oh the scrumptiousness. Oh the sensation! Oh the glorious sound! 

SQUEAK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK!

Fudge full stops his run towards Curtis. He plops down on the grass, chomping, squeaking, chomping, squeaking, chomping, squeaking… squeaking, squeaking… howling happily all the while. A Technicolored musical note escapes with each happy squeak.

Curtis quickly grows bored by Fudge’s obsessiveness. “Come on, boy. Hand it over.” Curtis tries as he might to grab the ball, but every time he approaches, Fudge springs to his feet and cuts like Barry Sanders, shimmying and chomping and squeaking just beyond Curtis’s reach.

The boy is ill-fit for such shenanigans. His chest fills with prickly pins, his head goes nuclear. Finally, after who knows how long, exhausted Curtis stops chasing. Like bullet-riddled Sgt. Elias in Platoon, he collapses to his knees.

Fudge promptly lays down just out of the boy’s reach, chomping and squeaking happily.

Is that Green Day’s “American Idiot”?

“Please, Fudge. Please. I want to go home. I just want to go home.”

Curtis lunges once more for the dog, but Fudge is way ahead, runs more circles around the boy, thoroughly enjoying this game.

Until a couple of old hippies approach with their two dogs. Neither of the dogs are on a leash, yet they walk right next to their masters. The couple stops to talk to Curtis; their dogs sit patiently.

Fudge stops doing laps and gets a good grip on his ball, keeps his distance, changes his punk bark to death metal.

“Having trouble?”

“Uh, yeah. This squeaky ball. I think he’s been hypnotized.” Curtis notices how well behaved their dogs are. “How do you get them to do that?”

“The Dog Dude, Ivan Montlebaum. 100 percent. Floyd and I would go to war with that guy. For surely. And we’re pacifists, man.”

“Ivan Montlebaum?”

“The Dog Dude? You don’t know the Dog Dude? Don’t you have cable? He’s like a guru to Janice and me. We saw him speak in Nepal.”

“I think I’ve seen him somewhere. But no, I don’t do TV. I do art. And I don’t do gurus. I don’t follow. I elicit following with my unique and plucky brand of acca-rock.”

“Your dog’s apparently not into that brand.”                  

“Things have taken a bit of a turn the last couple of days.”

“Anyway, Ivan’s amazing. He has this whole philosophy based on the initial observation that wolf packs always howl in harmony, which they achieve by tuning to each other. As a pack they are stronger than they could ever be alone, as you can hear in their tones. Dogs understand it instinctively. If you can be in tune with those instincts, and tune your own self to them, then he can be in tune with yours.”

“Harmony? No shit?”

“None. Totally works too. Right, boys?” The hippy dogs totally see it that way.

“How do I teach him harmony? I can’t even teach my band that. My old band. I fired them.”

“It’s in him already. You just need to draw it out. Start with food. Dogs are very motivated by food.” Floyd slyly reaches into his treat pocket. He pulls out a delicious looking Beggin’ Strip. Floyd inches ever closer to Fudge. Fudge eyes the hairy man wearily.

“It’s BACON! BACON! You want some BACON! Oh boy, bacon, bacon, bacon, oh boy! It’s BACON!”

Fudge doesn’t fall for it. He takes off running, performing wide circles around the group, chomping on his squeaky ball, howling away.

Floyd hands the boy the treat. “Well, good luck with that one.”

Floyd and Janice walk on. Their dogs obediently follow. The pack hums George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” as they walk away.

Curtis is beaten. He lays back down in the grass, looks up at the dark clouds swirling, seemingly in time with Fudge’s loud laps.

Curtis smells the Beggin Strip. Smells like bacon. He realizes he’s starving. It tastes like bacon too. Not bad.

Symphony of Destruction

Finally back at Penny’s ransacked apartment, exhausted from the “game” of keep-away, Curtis and Fudge lay side by side, bunched up in the crowded cage, both totally rapt by Ivan “The Dog Dude” Montlebaum on the boob tube.

Ivan sits in the middle of a huge pack of menacing looking dogs, all sleeping peacefully. Ivan speaks like a guru, slow and wishy-washy. He has an undetectable accent, possibly Spanish? Possibly Catalan? Perhaps Dutch Romanian?

“A pack is a symphony of tones with each member playing a part. And I, Ivan Montlebaum, am the conductor.”

Curtis and Fudge dig what The Dog Dude’s laying down. They’re hypnotized, so boy and dog barely notice when Penny comes home. They don’t see how exhausted she is. Though Fudge detects the fear in her heart.

Penny’s whooped, and not exactly pumped to see the two vagrants in her living room. She is, however, concerned. “So, are we feeling better? Please say yes.”

Boy and dog jump from their hypnosis. Curtis bangs his head on the cage and falls back down to his cramped fetal position as Fudge finds the smallest of gaps to run rightward laps. 

“Resting up?”

Fudge howls Dead Kennedys. Which sets frazzled Curtis off. “Shush! Shush! Stop it! Just shut the hell up already!” So frazzled. On the fringe to the point of frayed. “He won’t stop, he’ll never stop. How was your day?”

“I’m tired. My feet hurt. And you and Cerberus here are still in my house.”

Fudge won’t stop howling at Penny. Frustrated Curtis may soon expire. “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! Don’t you yell at her. That’s Penny! She saved us both. So you start being nice!”

Nothing. Curtis gives up. With much difficulty, he lets himself out of the cage, keeping Fudge inside, against all odds.

Curtis grabs the squeaky ball from outside the cage and gives it to the dog.

He stops howling and immediately starts chomping. Fudge is spellbound again. It’s like a ventilator. A loud, high pitched, squeaky ventilator screaming what sounds oddly like Bad Religion’s “21st Century Digital Boy”.

“That’s so much worse.”

“Sorry. He’ll calm down once you sit. He doesn’t like things moving.”

“Speaking of moving, my boss, Liz, insists we go over there for dinner. She’s going to help you two figure out where to stay tonight.”

The boy doesn’t like the sound of that.

“How’s my kitty?” Penny goes into her bedroom to check on Waldo, trying hard to ignore the boy’s pitiful expression.

Curtis waits behind, perhaps realizing the future waits for no one. Or perhaps he’s just beaten.

After a spell, Penny comes back out to the living room. “Still under the bed. He won’t budge. At least he’s not wailing. You didn’t go in there, right?”

“No! There’s underwear in there.”

She looks at him like he’s got another hole in his head, with fluorescent Slinkys springing forth in gushes.

He just might. “Maybe if you and I sit down, then Fudge will sit back down. And then Waldo will feel our collective calm. Like a symphony, we can feed off each other’s soothing tones. I’ve been watching this Ivan Montlebaum guy. Amazing. He’s totally talking my talk. It’s the way of The Universe. Harmony, as I’ve always suspected. Come on. Sit down, I’ll rub your feet to help create soothing tones. I took a class in Shiatsu once, you know.” Curtis hits the pillow next to him, indicating she should sit.

Penny thinks about it for a second. Damn he’s got a cute smile. Damn, damn, damn. “Perhaps charity ought to have its benefits. This means nothing except that I really need a foot rub. We’ll relax for a minute, then head over to Liz and Chef’s to figure out where you’re going. Got it?”

Sure he does.

She plops down and puts her aching feet up.

“We’ll find something. We’ll be fine. Right, boy?” If fine is expressed by Megadeth’s “Symphony of Destruction,” then yes, Fudge agrees.

Curtis rubs Penny’s feet for a while. Fudge slowly stops howling, but the laps and squeaking continue, albeit at a more relaxed pace.

Penny starts to relax. “I gotta get new feet.”

Eventually, Fudge runs out of steam. He plops down, still chomping on the squeaky ball, barely. Soon the ventilator effect slows and slows, until the dog can hear the soothing calm of The Dog Dude’s voice. Serenity ensues, as Ivan preaches on. “Each one of us has a tone of our own. If we but listen to each creature’s tone, we may harmonize in the key of life.”

Fudge drops the ball and falls immediately asleep.

Curtis rubs on, just wowed by Ivan’s insight. Penny closes her eyes. Her breathing finds time with Fudge’s. A quiet hum ensconces the room.

Curtis may or may not see faint traces of Technicolored musical notes appear. He definitely feels them though. “I bet Ivan digs acappella.”

Penny is barely awake. “I remember… it was like… being part of something... other.”

“You sing?”

“A lifetime ago…”

“You need to express yourself. We all do. Even dogs.”

“I write. They made us in rehab. But I still do. Poems. Sad ones mostly.”

“I love sad! Can I read one?”

Penny nods to the notebook on the coffee table. “Have at ‘em, no one else has.”

Curtis grabs the notebook and plunges in. He’s instantly rapt, which makes him forget his foot rubbing duties.

Penny kicks his hands into action. Curtis rubs, and reads.

Penny fades out. Curtis is left hanging on her every snore.

Ivan’s voice comes from above… well, from the TV mounted above. “Just as every dog has his own unique tone, every dog has a song. That one song which makes him perk up and be happy, content. Makes him dance. Sets his Universe fine, fine, fine. Find his song. And help him sing it.”

Curtis can do that. He’s always had perfect pitch, well, with a little help from his trusty tuning fork. And harmony is definitely in the air.

He flips the page and finds a poem titled “The Voice”

The voice of reason sings off-key
Heavenly bodies grounded.
Whatever it takes,
Even when it don’t.
We won’t succumb to hate,
Lovers must be raised.
Trouble’s coming,
No one’s saved,
Without the voice from above.
And below,
And around.
Awaken to your sound
Sing along, no matter the key,
With everything, All at once.
Awaken to your sound,
Trust that lovely hunch,
That first belief you knew,
Long ago, yet never gone,
Hear that joyous sound abound,
And know: we’ll always sing along.  

Damn, that’s good. Curtis meditates on that a while.

Pet Sounds

Penny drives her Mazda SUV. Curtis sits shotgun. Fudge does laps around the way back.

“You know, some of those poems are spot on.”

“Thanks.” Penny doesn’t like to talk about her poems.

“No. Really. I needed that. ‘The Voice’… damn, that was… it was helpful.”

“I get it, Curtis. People fall. And other people help them get up. Liz and Chef did that for me. That’s when I wrote that. So I get it. Okay? You’ll rise too. We’ll figure it out.”

Penny parks in front of Chef and Liz’s comfortable, cookie-cutter home, complete with yard and fence.

Curtis holds Fudge on a tight leash. The dog thrashes about and howls longingly.

“I forgot his ball. Lemme see that key real quick.”

Penny gives Curtis the key. He unlocks the door, puts the key in his breast pocket, retrieves the yellow squeaky ball and gives it to Fudge, who stops howling and starts chomping mightily. Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!

“I don’t think that’s better. Can’t we just leave him in the car?”

“Not if you want to keep your seats.”

“Fine, we’ll put him out back.”

Chef opens the front door. Fudge barks at him through the squeaky ball.   

“Wow, ain’t he a button.” Chef is unfazed.

Curtis is not. “Stop it. Stop it! NO! QUIET BOY! STOP IT!!”

Fudge goes on barking. Penny looks very worried. Chef doesn’t. He just opens the door and lets everyone in.

Fudge pulls Curtis all the way to the kitchen where Liz sips her wine. Chef and Liz’s nine-year-old daughter, Tina, pours Mt. Dew into a martini glass.

Fudge goes right up to them and barks in their faces. Liz looks at the dog with distaste, casually pours more wine. Tina screams and runs out of the room.

Chef likes the dog’s efficacy. “You’re starting to grow on me. I like him. What’s his name?”

“Fudge. He’s a wonderful creature, emanating with love and promise. He just needs to adjust.”

“Sorry. He insisted.” Penny feels bad. Again. Is there a pattern developing? Or has she always just felt bad? 

The dog will not shut up. They all look to Curtis to do something.

“He’ll calm down. He’s getting used to things.”

But Fudge doesn’t calm down. Nope, he’s just winding himself up.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Curtis yells in Fudge’s face. Yanks on his leash. Nothing. There is only ball.

“You think he’ll get used to being ripped away from mother’s bosom and forced to do your bidding in concrete jungle?” asks Liz, rhetorically.

Curtis processes to an A-ha! Moment. “You’re totally right! He was such a lover when we were out in the wild, clinging to each other for survival. What if I’m just knocking his natural instincts plum from him? Putting a collar on him, a leash, telling him to shut up all the time. He obviously loves to bark. What if he’s like the Frank Sinatra of barking and I’m suppressing his genius? I’m like Brian Wilson’s dad!”

“It doesn’t appear that you’re suppressing anything,” says Liz.

“I’m killing his essence! But I didn’t create this wicked world. He’s supposed to be outside running free, chasing bunnies far away from soul-crushing cages and institutions. But you know what? So am I!”

“I remember bunnies,” says wispy Chef. Liz throws a pastry puff at his head. It bounces off his noggin and lands on his dirty chef’s coat. Chef picks it off and happily eats it, having not noticed the snack choice earlier.

“I apologize. My husband is crass and ignorant and no longer smells good to me.”

Chef registers not a word now that he’s discovered the puffs.

Fudge continues to bark furiously.

“Shall we put him out back maybe?” asks Penny, perhaps five minutes late.

“Yeah, air might be good.”

Chef leads Curtis who leads the barking dog out the screen door to the backyard. Liz and Penny stay in the kitchen. Staunch disapproval the look of the night.

“He brought the dog.” Liz, a woman hard to impress, seems genuinely impressed.

“I’m so sorry. Apparently, I’m dangerously close to fostering a monster. Two monsters! Remember the last time I fostered?”

“My husband actually had to work that week. It nearly broke us.”

“I’m so sorry about that. And this! What am I going to do? He thinks they’re family! I think he thinks I’m family. Is that what he thinks? Oh god. What do I do? I have to have him committed.”

“Good, we didn’t even need to have conversation. Yes! Commit him! Send him to shelter! Now!”

“He won’t last a minute. I’ve been there, it’ll break him. For good. He’ll never come back. He’s barely hanging onto reality as is. What do I do? I can’t just turn the other cheek. I found him.”

Penny is stumped.

Liz is not. “Commit him!”

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

Out back, in Chef and Liz’s big, beautiful, perfect green yard, Fudge happily sniffs every inch of the lushness. No longer barking punk, Fudge can’t help but howl with joy. It sounds like Frank Sinatra’s “The Summer Wind,” replete with squeaky ball crescendos. Or is that “Come Fly With Me”?

“Wow. Look how happy he is!”

Fudge is so happy he does a soft shoe dance around the yard as he sings. He’s obviously borrowed some from the great Snoopy, but Fudge’s moves are all his own. Are the flowers singing along? The grass forming skirts around the hips of dancing June bugs? Is that the hula? Fluorescent musical notes poof out of each chomp of the yellow squeaky ball, swirling the entire yard in song.

“Maybe he just needs a yard?” The heaviness of Curtis’s realization doesn’t seem to affect the dog’s romp.

“We got a dog back when we still liked each other. Dog led to a yard. Yard led to a kid. Tina, the one your dog wisely tried to eat. She’s a nightmare. Like her mother. I haven’t slept since she was born. Nine years now. Hmm. I guess haven’t been sober since either.”

“Can I tell you something, Chef?”

“Not if you want me to remember it.”

“I never once thought of having kids, not until today.”

“Whoa. That’s heavy. Maybe you are losing it?”

“Really? You think?” Legitimate fear overtakes him.

“Keep it in perspective, kid. You don’t want this. Responsibility kills. You’re a rocker! That’s awesome! Keep rocking in the free world. If you don’t have to be a traditional guy — you know, like someone who knowingly sacrifices all his hopes and dreams, flushes ‘em down the drain, and lays himself prostrate to keeping a roof up and a fridge full... you know, like a real man — then don’t be that guy. Be the rocker!”

Curtis sure doesn’t feel like rocking at the moment. He just wants to watch Fudge be happy. 

Alas, the dinner bell rings.

Love and Marriage

Chef, Liz, Penny, Curtis, and Tina eat dinner at the large dining room table.

Since Fudge was being such a good boy, he’s now off leash. Which allows him plenty of space for laps around the table, jumping up to sniff the succulent burgers at every turn. Is that the tangy zip of Miracle Whip he smells?! Between sniffs and laps, he stops incessantly to scratch himself, all while howling “Love and Marriage,” albeit with a lot more vigor.

Tina and Chef don’t even notice because there is food on the table, and Tina and Chef like to eat. Liz and Penny notice. Curtis may or may not. Perhaps he just senses the dog. Either way, he’s aware of an overwhelming weight.

Curtis thoughtlessly tries to keep Fudge quiet by feeding him handfuls of burger and waffle fries. 

Silence ensues, until Chef gets thirsty. “Could you please pass the wine?

Liz ignores him. Tina reaches over Liz, grabs the wine, and deftly uses one hand to fill her dad’s glass.

Liz glares at her husband/burden, but decides to turn her venom onto Curtis instead. “So, Curtis. What will you do with another mouth to feed? You seem bad with responsibility.”

Dejected Curtis knows she’s right. “Rockapella can’t be responsible. Not the good kind.”

“And without a band, rockapella won’t pay many bills either, no?” Liz pushes.

“I’m writing a hit song. For Penny. I got the hook so far. It’s money. I’m gonna buy us a yard.”

“Cool! How’s it go?” Chef is stoked, and still, miraculously, hungry.

“Uh...” Curtis can’t seem to remember the song. It’s very elusive. A slippery little bastard.

Tina’s not having it, she’s seen enough episodes of The Voice to know Curtis isn’t going to get any chairs turned for that shitty effort. “You should look for a real job, if you want that yard. The market for rock stars is super saturated.”

“You want to keep dog, you sacrifice for dog. He is priority! Family First.” Liz is a real ball buster.

“I wouldn’t have survived last night. I owe him. And Penny. I know that! I’m going to get a yard. I said it. I put it out in The Universe. I will. But I have to follow my rock to do that. Rockapella will lead us to the promised yard.”

“Rockapella won’t feed and shelter you tonight. Or your dog. And neither will Penny.”

The boy looks at Penny sadly. Penny stares at her comfortable shoes. The boy feels the error of his thinking. Perhaps figures it out. “Rockapella doesn’t wait. It’s why I’m a lone wolf and always have been. When rock calls, Lonely Boy Curtis answers.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t Easy-Listening calling?” Tina’s getting all of her mom’s sass, and all of her dad’s compulsive behavior. It’s a terrifying blend.

Poor, confused, Curtis. So unsure of himself. All he can do is reflexively keep feeding Fudge, bite after savory bite.

Fudge laps it up. Finally seems happy.

Tina pats Curtis on the back, a genuinely consoling effort. “It’s okay, kid. Let it out. Lots of people have to give up their dreams and become normal. Unfortunately, society makes us believe we’re all special. It hurts to learn you’re not. Come on, we’ve all been there.”

“No, Tina. I’m afraid it’s just not that simple. When it’s in you this deep, you can’t do anything but. And so, rockapella I must. Rock may feed him someday, but today, he needs a yard and food. You’re right. I love him. I do. I’ve never loved so much in my life. I swear on it. But because I love him, I owe him better. He needs a home. And he needs it now. And The Universe needs my rock. And never the two shall meet. I’m sorry, boy.” 

Harsh truths, all around.

Fudge looks up from the bacon, stares into the boy’s pained eyes, and feels impending doom.

Suddenly, Fudge slides his butt along the floor, like he’s got to go to the bathroom immediately. Half sliding, half sprinting, he 360s around the table, crying the “Shit-Yer-Pants Blues” something awful.

He may burst.

“Maybe you ought to take him out,” says Penny, concerned.

Curtis snaps out of it. “Yeah. Come on, pal!”

Fudge is frantic. Curtis speeds it up, opens the door...

Fudge barely makes it to the grass then poops his brains out. And he’s a smart dog.

Curtis follows closely. “Oh, pal, you’re so miserable. You hate this awful life I’ve dragged you into.”

Curtis bends down for a closer look.

“Ew. That’s not too solid, boy... that’s not too brown... is that...” Curtis looks even closer… sees blood.

Horror-movie panic. “HOLY POOP! HOLY POOP! Come on, boy. We’re going for a ride. You’re okay! You’re okay! Remain calm! Remain calm!”

Curtis tries to get the dog to follow him to the gate. No luck.

Fudge looks bad, starts to wobble.

“Come on, boy, you’re okay. You’re okay, good boy. Good boy, good boy good boy good boy...” Curtis swoops the dog up and runs out the back gate to the Mazda. Fudge is far too weak to protest.

Cradling the dog like a football with one hand, Curtis uses the other to retrieve Penny’s conveniently-given key from his breast pocket. He unlocks the Mazda, jumps in front, sets Fudge down in shotgun. Guns it and peels out like the Bandit.

The Promise

Crazed Curtis drives as fast as he can. Fudge curls up in a sickly ball in the back seat, sliding back and forth on the faux-leather seats.

“Stick with me, boy. You're gonna be fine!” Curtis drives on, looking more at Fudge than the street.

“You're gonna be okay. Say it! Say, ‘I’m gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay!’ Don’t worry, boy, we’re moments from a nice doctor. I saw it up here somewhere, I’m sure. Just stick with me, boy. I won’t let you go. Whatever it takes. I’ll get it for you. You need a yard, you got it pal. I’ll get it. I’ll pay. I’ll get a job. I’ll be your responsible dad. Just hang on! Please! Oh God, oh Universe. Please, let him be okay. I’ll be a good dad. I’ll take care of him. Forever and ever and ever. I’ll get him whatever he needs. I’ll get him a yard. I’ll go to work. I’ll be a real man. Just let him be okay. Please. Hear me, Universe, I vow to you and all that makes this air rare: I accept responsibility! No matter the cost. I will stop all this bull-doodle rock-n-roll look-at-me-I’m-special rockapella childishness!”

Curtis looks at Fudge behind him, square into those droopy, soul-crushed eyes. “I promise you, Fudge — man to dog — I will take care of you. Always.”

A glimmer of hope. A promise it is.

Curtis barely turns around in time to see the stoplight turn red. He slams on the brakes. Fudge flies off the seat onto the floor mat below. Fudge looks up at the boy with a serious lack of faith.

Finally, Curtis sees the hospital he remembered, although he may have imagined the part about it being for pets.

He screeches the Mazda to a halt in the hospital’s roundabout, barely missing an ambulance.

Fudge is plastered to the floor mat, green around the gills. If dogs had gills. Curtis grabs him and runs inside, leaving the car running, the doors wide open, and effectively blocking all emergency traffic.

Curtis bolts into the ER lobby, holding Fudge tightly in his arms. He cuts the line of would-be patients who are waiting to talk to the nurse.

“For God’s sake. He’s pooping blood! He’s dying on me! He’s freaking dying on me!”

“We all got problems, Mack.”

Curtis looks behind and sees a man in line with a nasty cut on his finger. He holds his severed hand above his heart so as to keep it from bleeding, which isn’t working at all.

Curtis looks closely at the man’s cut. Hypnotized. The blood throbs out in time with his own heartbeat, which has suddenly become frighteningly audible. He can hear the difficult jazz time it keeps, seemingly impossible to count. Fast and slow and double time again, syncing with the pulsing blood.

Curtis wobbles. His eyes spin into pinwheels.

He passes out cold.

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Fade to nothing.

Picture it. The void.

Can you?

It’s not black. It’s nothing.

And everything.

Or maybe it’s a dreamscape of perfect harmony. Where a perfect song dances happily on the air, as Technicolored musical notes float by like Lemon Drops.

Somewhere off on that horizon, Curtis catches a ride on one of the floating notes. He’s not scared. Fear and doubt fart out the back end of the note like exhaust clouds. It propels his note further into the happiness, further into the song: the “Lonely Dog Blues,” but more of a candy-pop version.

Curtis looks over and sees Fudge and Waldo floating aloft on their own Technicolored notes. He looks down and sees that Penny is belting the tune, the source of their Technicolored ride.

Hark! The herald angel sings!

A spark.

Flutter. Flutter.

Somewhere in the ether, Curtis slowly makes out the sound of two voices, bouncing off one another in warm, bright harmony. Is he awake?

Curtis blinks again. He’s either dreaming or he sees shimmering, swirling, musical notes coming from the bedroom, floating around the room.

Meow. Meow. Meow.

Curtis slowly takes notice of his surroundings.

Penny’s couch.

So many heavy blankets. So cold.

Fudge’s cage.

Empty.

Fudge!

Curtis freaks. He must find Fudge. He promised!

He jumps out from under ample covers and follows the meowing/singing into the bedroom.

Penny is on all fours, trying to coax Waldo out from underneath the bed with some tuna snacks and a song.

All Curtis can really see is Penny’s well-rounded butt and Waldo’s glowing yellow eyes. Penny keeps singing to her cat. She’s a siren; the boy forgets everything, spellbound by the beauty of Penny’s voice.

“Meow. Meeeeeoooow. Meeeoooowwww. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Pretty kitty. Poor, helpless, pretty kitty. Meow? Meeeeeeeeeooooooooooowwwwwwwww. You want some treats, pretty kitty? Meow? Meow? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Mommy loves you. Meow. Meow. Mommy’s sorry. Mommy’s so, so sorry. Meeeeeeeoooooooowwwwww...”

Waldo starts to think about singing along when he senses another presence behind her. His eyes get huge!

Still meowing, Penny turns around to find Curtis standing there, gawking like a teenage boy, staring at her butt.

“Sorry. I was… You sing beautifully.”

“What do you think this is, buster?”

“I was… just … thought… a moment. Sorry.”

“The doctor said you’d still be slightly delusional for a while. You need to go lay down.”

“What a voice. I mean, really good. You have talent.”

“You have Doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor?! For Fudge? Where’s Fudge? What happened to Fudge! I took him to see the vet. Where’s my boy? I made him a promise!”

“He’s going to be fine. He’s with Chef and Liz until we can find him a good permanent home.”

“Oh no. He’s my dog. He needs me. We’re permanent. It’s a promise.”

“Right now, you both need stability. And rest. Lucky for you, the doctor you took him to was no vet.”

Penny realizes she’s letting the boy get riled up. She takes a deep breath. Leads Curtis back to the couch and coaxes him to sit.

“You had an episode. Your heart skipped a couple of beats or something. You’re sick, but you can get better. You just need to rest. You’re lucky you made it to the hospital.”

“I am lucky! I know that now. Because of him! And you! I’m needed! Like a root note in the chord of life.” Curtis gets up and grabs Penny’s girly plaid jacket. “Can I borrow this again?”

“Relax. Curtis, please. You need to relax, okay? Your stress levels are dangerously high. You’re cracking. The doctor said you have to rest. For one solid week, to start with. I already hate the way this sounds coming out of my mouth, but you can stay here and rest. For one week. One. And it’s not because I like you, it’s because I don’t want your death on my conscience. Okay? So just take it easy. Rest up. And we’ll figure out how to get you standing on your own two feet.”

“I no longer stand on my own. I stand with my pack.”

“Would you just forget about the dog? That dog needs a stable home. With food. And expensive medicine for upset tummies. Just let Chef and Liz take care of him. He’ll be happy there.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“You. Yes, you. You must see it. It’s clear as day. You’re part of the pack, Penny.”

Penny has to stop and figure out how best to navigate this rocky road. “No. I’m just helping you out, like any good, stupid person would.”

“It’s universally correct! Look at the facts: the dog who saves me from dying just happens to be a glaring symbol of the family unit. And then you come along and save us both. Which leads us here, together, at his moment of crisis! He needs a pack, a family. He needs us.”

Penny inhales. Considers possibilities. Exhales.

“You should go lay down. You’ve had a really long day. You should sleep now. Come on, be a good boy.”

“No! He needs a dad. Now! An honest, hard-working, bread-winning, yard-owning man. What kind of man would I be if I just gave our dog away? Not the kind you’d want. If I give up on him, you'll give up on me. And I see now that’s not an option. The Universe has decreed it so. I’m not going to be that kind of a man. I’m going to be the kind that never gives up. That sacrifices for his pack. That provides for his pack. I’m going to be the man my dog needs!”

Curtis runs off to find Fudge.

This is too big. She can’t take on his problems. She barely beat her own. And they could always come back.

Nope. No way. She’s got a foothold now.  2

But is he too far gone to get one?  

Out of Touch

A very-determined Curtis runs down Lonely Road with obvious purpose, despite his body’s misgivings.

He runs and runs, all the way to Don Juan’s Noon-Till-Dawn Pawn Shop.

Curtis stops. Catches his very distant breath. A painful thought crosses. He feels for the gold tuning fork always dangling from his neck.

Curtis looks to The Universe a second, searches for a sign. Gets nothing, decides to go inside the pawn shop.

Inside, Don’s right where he always is, ready to haggle.

“How can I help you, son?”

Curtis hands Don the tuning fork. “What can I get for this? It’s gold.”

Don looks at the fork for a moment. He bites it. “Gold-ish.” He hammers it against his palm and listens to the tone. “It’s out of tune.”

“What? No way. I’ve been relying on that thing forever.”

“It sounds flat to me.” Don takes out an electronic tuner. He hammers the tuning fork, lets it ring out next to the tuner. “Yep, flat. I’ll give you 15 bucks.”

Confused Curtis reluctantly takes the money.

He stumbles back down Lonely road, reaching for the empty space around his neck like an amputee scratches a lost limb.

He picks up the pace, though his light head warns against such exertion.

Sweats cold.

Sweats warm.

Sweats hot.

Still, Curtis runs.

At the corner of Bleak and Sad, like a beacon, Curtis spies a “Help Wanted” sign hanging in a restaurant window. He screeches to a halt. Looks up to see Captain Ahab’s huge pirate-flag sign.

Is that The Universe ringing again? Curtis smiles and goes into the restaurant to start his life anew.

Ten minutes later, Captain Ahab, in his pirate chef’s hat, has a good, hearty laugh while looking over Curtis’s very empty job application.

Curtis runs out of there with what little dignity and gas he’s got left. He can barely keep his legs moving. Stops at the crossroads of Sad and Weary. Looks up for answers, then looks right and spies a “Janitor Wanted” sign at Harmonyville High School. Hope (and montage) renewed, Curtis investigates.

Jimbo, the head janitor, sits at his janitor’s desk in his janitor’s office, looking at Curtis’s barely filled-out application, having himself a heckuva laugh.

Curtis shuffles off, heads back down Weary Road. Worry mounts. Fear buckles his knees. Yet he keeps walking… stumbling along till he miraculously sees another “Help Wanted” sign hanging in the window of Bob and Doug’s Discount Ditch Diggers.

Inside, both Bob and Doug pass Curtis’s sad excuse for an application back and forth, crying uproariously. 

Curtis is crushed, the way only a rough montage can crush. He stumbles down that Lonely Road, ever so slowly, his body failing.

He comes upon a bridge. Looks down into the water. Bad thoughts trickle.

Mostly about why not.

Fudge’s face looks up to him, out of the water below. Then Penny’s. A rippling, bubbling tone emanates skyward.

Curtis’s heart slows down a bit. He backs away from the railing. Sits down, leans against the gate. Looks skyward, Universeward, into the vaporous void. Lines blur into lines. Cars streak by. Crystal trails flash on the parallax.

But his heart is calm.

Fudge.

Penny.

Out of the vapor, Technicolored musical notes drift into the void. The feint hook of the “Lonely Dog Blues” swirls, settles lightly upon the boy’s consciousness. It kinda sounds like Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” before it got played out.

Curtis’s eyes close. His ears open. The tune becomes clear as a retina screen. Curtis perks up and grabs his notebook in his breast pocket. He plucks the fully formed cloud notes out of the air, one by one, and pops them in the journal.

“You’re mine!” Curtis mines the vapor for notes. Collects them like a grizzly bear stabbing spawning salmon.

As the notes swirl, Curtis busily writes down lyrics and chord progressions. Maps out his song. Diligently. Productively. Seriously.

If Normal Rockwell were to paint a man at work, in spandex and rocker hair, sitting against the railing of a bridge, he would paint this scene.

Focused Curtis sounds out a chord progression until he gets stuck, can’t find the parts. “No. That’s off... that should be... Doooo... D! Yep!”

He goes back to his notebook and charts the D note.

Curtis sounds out another chord progression, gets stuck again. 

Stumped. Curtis instinctively reaches for his phantom tuning fork.

“Fudge!” The expletive. Not the dog.

The Technicolored notes start to disappear one by one.

“Please! Just gimme the rest of the background parts! Please, Universe! No!”

Curtis sees the last of the notes get swept up in the breeze. They jettison north.

Curtis gives chase.

The remaining notes poof away until there’s only one left. But it swoops up into the ether, west along the bridge. Gets caught in the cutting breeze.

Like a cheetah, Curtis chases the final note… musters up his final bastion of strength... it’s just out of reach…

But Curtis is too slow.

The note disappears into heavy air. Discord.

Poof.

The air around Curtis screeches.

His own air constricts.

Blood thins.

Balance erodes.

Curtis spins to the edge of the bridge. Stares down over the edge. The end.

With the rest of his strength, Curtis leaps back from the rail, but in doing so, overcompensates, flings himself into the other handrail, clips the back of his head, and knocks himself the fudge out.

All You Need Is Love

At least Penny spent the night worrying about something other than the restaurant for once. But let’s face it, the restaurant has always been a diversion from really thinking about the sad stuff anyways.

Poems and paucity for running around all day trying to please unpleasable people… yeah, she’d make that trade again.

But not him. Maybe something’s really wrong with him, being so committed. At some point, isn’t it just self-preservation to give up?

It’s admirable in a way, perhaps, but there’s only so much charity, no matter how big your heart. Penny tries to tell herself that, as the morning comes around. At some point, it becomes horribly bad, personally, to be charitable.

That point has long passed. At least she’s aware.

Perhaps Penny is just overthinking. Perhaps her worries only give Curtis’s far-flung worries a stage. Perhaps a stage is the last thing he needs. 

Hopefully, he found a nice place to crash. She’s seen the other side of that street. Was strong enough to pull herself back. Curtis doesn’t have a shot at that. Not a shot. He’s a lover, not a fighter. And a self-lover at that.

And more worrisome, a sinker. That abysmal ocean out there swallows good as quickly and dispassionately as bad.

Bad luck, maybe.

Dead weight is the heaviest. She should have gone out and searched.

She knows herself all too well. Nothing is sinking. Not on her watch.

She starts to rise. Hears an unsure meow — Waldo thinking about coming out from under the bed, where he appears to have remained all night. Though he does look a little less frightened.

Penny purrs to him lightly. Waldo’s eyes show a spark of happy, somewhere beneath his heightened alertness.

Penny grabs some salmon skin treats. Waldo’s a sucker for salmon. All seafood, really, but especially salmon.

Penny lays down in front of Waldo. She sings to him the sweetest chorus of good morning meows ever created by someone not named Andrew Lloyd Webber.

After some passionate coaxing, Waldo faintly meows along, just a little. A translucent, barely-technicolor note flickers.

She puts a piece of skin in front of his nose. Waldo sniffs curiously. He takes the bait. The salmon and singing is too intoxicating to ignore.

Penny coaxes Waldo all the way from under the bed with more treats and song. She nabs him just as soon as she can, squeezes him so tight he lets out a whimper. But it’s a happy whimper; he’s not going anywhere.

He releases all that tension. It doesn’t take long for Waldo to collapse in Penny’s arms, give in to her grip.

And then the purring. And the meowing. And the sing-song harmony. Love, all you really need. Technicolored rainbow harmony love and music. Sweet music.

Hearts and purrs.

Till Penny senses a ripple in the vibe, from far away. Far gone.

Too far?

Kitty stops sing-songing, looks around suspiciously. Scurries back under the bed.

Penny gets up. Looks outside at the threatening morn. 

Only the Lonely Die Young

Golden, heavenly light. Gabriel’s horn blows sweet soul music, as Curtis peacefully sleeps in Penny’s posh bed.

How are girl beds so much more comfortable than boy beds? Is that something they only teach in girl school?

Curtis snuggles Fudge, sleeping soundly at his feet.

Under the bed, Waldo’s frightened, green eyes glow brighter than T.J. Eckleburg’s. His defenses ready, he sidles out from the depths, sticks his head out, takes a long, methodical look around for Fudge.

Upon making sure the dog is indeed sound asleep, Waldo moves forward furtively. Bravely sneaks past Fudge to where Curtis is sleeping.

Waldo climbs right on top of the Curtis’s chest, up to his face, looks into his closed eyes, and pees all over his face to wake him right up.

“Hey!” Curtis tries to get up, but Waldo sets his feet, and WHACK! He punches the boy square on his nose, smacking him back down.

“Ow!”

“Shut up. You joke. You flash in the pan. You glory-days pining, never-will-never-was, waste of space.”

“Hey!”

“What? You think you are some sort of ingenue? You think you are special?”

“Maybe?”

Waldo whacks Curtis on the nose again. “You know what your problem is, boy?”

Curtis has to think hard about this. Lately, there seems to be more than just one problem, but he narrows it down to the here and now. “I’m talking to a cat?”

“You think all that gravitational pull around your dense head is The Universe talking. Wrong! All you hear is your own wind.”

“Huh?”

Waldo smacks Curtis on his nose again. Five quick ones. Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap!

“Hey!”

“Listen. Listen hard. You don’t rock. Rock isn’t who screams loudest. You’re off. Discord is in the air. Bad vibes are bouncey bouncey bouncey all around. Lives are at stake!”

Waldo turns into scary, Sun God Waldo. His hair rises up into fiery lightning bolts. “Realign the balance of your Universe. Calibrate, boy. Your polarity, your gravity, your density affects those within your orbit. Pay heed, boy! Don’t fuck with The Universe!”

“Dude, can I borrow that line? That’s a tough-as-nails album title right there.”

“Your reliance on The Universe will be your undoing from it. You seek too much, so you will not find. Yes, The Universe will have its say, but so too must you. And so too must she. And me. And him.”

Instantaneously Evil Fudge wakes up, like an apparition from Lord of the Rings — fangs like tornadoes, mouth foaming like a bubbling river. He lets out a savage howl, and lunges for Waldo. Evil Fudge chomps down on kitty’s neck.

Chomp.

Bones crushed.

The cat falls limp.

The dog runs off into the blackness. Waldo hangs limply between Evil Fudge’s jagged jaws.

Morning Has Broken

Curtis wakes up, startled. Where the fudge is Fudge? Where the fudge is Waldo? Where the fudge is he?

Fudge is nowhere. Waldo is nowhere. Curtis is nowhere.

It’s morning.

Rain crashes. Thunder heckles. Rock Gods moan.

Curtis feels the wet, gravelly pavement below his face. Realizes he’s lying in the dirt. That his notebook is exposed to the elements.

He looks at the gibberish inside, getting soaked. The notes are nearly illegible.

Was it ever really there?

If a song exists only in a dream, is it still a song?

Curtis tries to get up, but he’s spent. Exhausted.

He slowly takes stock of his whereabouts. He’s on the street… a bridge. Fudge is… at Chef’s. Waldo is at Penny’s.

Penny. Probably still at home, getting ready for the day.

Does the song even matter? It was just a dream.

He still has time to be the man they deserve.

Is this Fortissimo Bridge? It is!

“So, that’s… holy crap!”

Elizabetta’s Bistro & Chef’s Bar is but a quick jog away. How convenient! How perfect! Chef gets Curtis. Chef’s a kindred spirit. He’ll help the boy be a man. Chef will show him the way. The Universe has given him Chef.

What a trickster that Universe can be sometimes.

With all his remaining strength, Curtis nabs his bootstraps and rises up. Puts one foot after the other. All the way across Fortissimo Bridge.

Ignoring the traffic light, he stumbles onto Hope Street, wades his way across like a blind Frogger.

Somehow, Curtis makes it across Hope. But just when he’s taking his last strides towards redemption, he trips over the curb, which propels him forward, splays him flat against the giant front window of Chef’s Bar.

Splayed Curtis looks longingly inside.

Come to My Window

Chef sits at the bar drinking a Miller Genuine Draft, reading Ivan Montlebaum’s book, “Happy Pack, Happy Days.”

Ritchie leans on the other side of the bar, drinking an elaborate cocktail he’s concocted. Richie often creates elaborate cocktails while the bar is slow, just to stay sharp in case there’s a rush. And properly buzzed.

Liz tries to balance a checkbook at the other end of the bar. Judging by the swearing coming from underneath her breath, she appears to be failing.

No one notices Curtis smeared across the bar’s front window.

“Ivan says a good man and a good dog are trained the same way.” Chef’s digging what Ivan’s laying down.

Liz is not. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! I don’t want to hear about dog. We’re giving him away as soon as someone takes him. Fostering. FOSTERING!” Liz throws a pen at her husband, which hits him square in the forehead.

Chef doesn’t seem to notice. “It says here you shouldn’t raise your voice, as neither man nor beast responds positively.”

Outside, body part by body part, Curtis eventually peels himself off the glass, like one of those gummy plastic octopus suction toys.

He tentatively stumbles towards the door. Puts all his weight on the handle for balance and accidentally swings the door wildly open. He stands there catching his breath, looking crazy insane, like a man wearing spandex who just slept outside in the cold all night.

“Where’s my dog?” says Curtis, delivered more like an action hero than a mad man, really.

“Lonely Boy!” says Chef.

“He’s at our house, unfortunately. Probably tearing up our yard,” says Liz.

“Perhaps our daughter!” Chef crosses his fingers.

“He’s my dog. I want him back. You can’t have him.”

“Lonely Boy, believe me, I understand your pain. But you can’t keep that dog. He needs food. He needs a comfortable home. He needs to get healthy. You need those things too, brother.” It must be early in the day, because Chef seems oddly pragmatic, and somewhat sober.

“Okay. Can I have a job?”

Liz has a good, long chuckle at that idea.

“Oh, wow. Thanks, I haven’t laughed that hard since before we married.” It’s nice to see Liz really smile.

“I’m serious. I’m changing my tune. I’m growing up. Trading my rock for my dog. I have a family to support. That’s my priority. That’s what I’m setting my mind too. So, what do you say?”

“No.” Seems like Liz’s good mood has ended.

“Well it’s my bar and I say ‘yes.’”

“Your bar loses more money than my restaurant can afford.”

“I’m committed to providing for my dog. I’ll work my tail off for you guys.”

“You know how to sling bull, kid. That’s obvious. And, you don’t look down on me for being a pathetic drunk. Those are the hard parts of the job.”

“Hard part is pouring drinks.”

“You know what, darling? I think we’re fixing to get awfully busy around here, what with local celebrity Lonely Boy Curtis tending bar!”

Curtis can’t believe it. “Really? You mean it?”

“Really? You want divorce?”

Fortunately for Curtis, Chef has been ignoring his wife for many years now. “Sure, why not? You’re an honest guy. You’re entertaining. And you got heart. You got nothing for brains, but it doesn’t take that much to be a bartender around here. Right, Ritchie?”

“Righta-roo, boss.”

“Go ahead. Go on back there with Ritchie.”

Curtis gets up and goes behind the bar.

“You know what Jack Daniels looks like?”

“Yeah.”

Chef gives him the Jack Daniels nod. Curtis goes looking. He soon finds the Old No. 7 bottle. Chef’s eyes glimmer with excitement.

Curtis pours a shot. Chef coughs in objection, indicating that Curtis should pour two shots instead. “Part of the job requires you drinking with me. I don’t drink alone. Only boring alcoholics drink alone.”

Curtis pours another shot. This time Ritchie coughs in objection.

“Sorry.” Curtis pours a shot for Ritchie as well.

Liz looks on with hostility.

“You look like a pro to me,” says Chef, thirstily.

Just as the three boys are about to do their shots, Penny walks in.

“Uh oh, the missus,” says Chef.

The missus does not like what she sees. “Curtis? What are you doing here?! I was worried sick! Wait… why are you behind that bar?”

“I think Chef just hired me.”

“I did. We need a back-up bartender, right? For all that new bar business you’re promoting.”

Liz is about to throw a glass at Chef’s head, but Penny nods to Liz that she’ll take care of it.

Penny becomes very calm, but very assertive. “Sorry, Chef. If we were hiring someone, which we can’t, it wouldn’t be another crony for you to hang out with. It would be someone who can actually pour more than one drink without having to stop and get one for himself. No offense, Ritchie.”

“None taken.” Ritchie does his shot.

“Some taken over here.” Curtis may cry.

“Sorry, Curtis, this isn’t a good fit.”

“Huh?”

“It’s just not working out.”

“Um…”

“You just got fired,” Liz has no trouble being curt.

Curtis’s knees buckle. His body wobbles. He could break.

“Yeah, it looks like that’s what happened there. Sorry, kid, keep rocking in the free world.” No one ever said Chef had the thickest spine in the world.

“Come here. Come.” Penny snaps her fingers at Curtis, rattles him into motion.

She opens the front door for him. “Come on. Here, boy!”

Curtis skulks back from behind the bar. He puts down the undrunk shot glass and walks out from behind the bar. Comes dutifully to Penny.

She grabs Curtis by the scruff of his neck and leads him outside.

Tough Lover

Penny throws Curtis forcibly out of the restaurant. “The nerve of you. Showing up here. Like this! This is my job. My life!”

As a defense mechanism, Curtis lays down in fetal position, covering his ears. Eyes tight. Scared of every bit of her. Well, not of her. Of no her.

He cries like a baby. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I just want to be good now. Good for everyone. Just good… but… I’m no good!”

Penny looks at the blubbering mess at her feet. “I want to help you, Curtis. I do. But this is my life, and I’ve worked too damn hard for it.” 

“You hate me. I’m a stupid, no-good lone wolf. What a joke. A stupid joke that no-one even laughs at cause it’s so stupid. Like the stupid song. Stupid!”

“Pull it together, Curtis. I don’t hate you. Go to my home. I have opened it to you, like a fucking idiot. That mistake still stands. But this is my business. Our lunch rush is coming soon, and I need to go back to work. Actual work. MY WORK!”

Penny takes a breath on how best to handle the situation. She never yells at work. Never.

She calms herself. Breathes...

Remembers the cherry blossoms in Washington on that choir trip...

In…

Out…

“I’m not mad, okay? I just want you to get better. Okay? Calm down. You have to rest. I believe in you, Lonely Boy Curtis. I believe in your song. I want to hear it. And I want to help… where I can. At home. Go to my home, take my key. Get some rest… then we’ll figure it all out.”

“With my dog?”

“Eventually… yes. With your dog. We’ll figure all that out, when you’re better. We’ll find a place for both of you. Okay? He’s good now. He’s warm, he’s eating solid food… made for dogs. He’s good.”

Curtis blubbers like Puddles McGillacutty. “You’re right. You’re right. I can’t let Fudge see me like this. He needs me to be strong. You’re right!”

Penny offers Curtis her key.

He could spend the rest of his life being looked at by her.

He finds the strength to rise, takes Penny’s key. She props Curtis’s chin up for him, tries to catch his eye but he’s too ashamed.

He takes a deep breath and sulks off.

Penny goes back inside the restaurant, slamming the door behind her.

You’ve Got to Put One Foot in Front of the Other

Curtis plods along down Lonely Road. Beaten.

What choice does he have? The dog deserves better. Better than a loser. A wanna-be pretender, making his lonely way, whatever direction the harsh wind blows.

A gust of wind blows in a westerly direction, towards the hills outside Harmonyville.

Perhaps west.  

What place did a dog have out west though? The road is no place for a dog. And Curtis has to blow. Go. West, young man! Harmonyville has spit him out. It’s done. Go west. Busk again. Find that lone wolf voice again.

If they could understand solo rockacapella anywhere, it would be out west.

Harmonyville has had it. The Universe no longer swirls right here. He sees that now. Sees he’s been wrong all along. The Universe hadn’t been providing at all; it was laughing at him. Using him for coal. For laughs. Drama. Tragedy.

He’d been wrong about it all. Wrong about Penny. He could have been a good bartender. He would have. He could have been part of her team.

Team Penny. Team CurPen. Team PenCurt. Team CurtyPenny. Team Penis… no that’s no good.

Regardless, he would have fucked it up. The Universe is right. Nobody needs a fuck up fucking things up. Everyone has to grow up sometime. Or die trying to stay a fuck-up.

Forever fucked.

What about his gift? His rock?

Harmonyville doesn’t need it. Could easily keep spinning without it. Might even be better off.

Why should the west be any different? 

Everyone would be just fine without him…

Suddenly, the westerly wind picks up and blows a hot breath of stale on Curtis’s face. His nostrils fill with the smell of Fudge.

… except Fudge.

Curtis looked him in the eye. It was a life he promised.

A pack.

They would float upon each other. Notes in a chord. Why couldn’t one strengthen the other, and vice versa?

Fudge would freaking love it out west, if they could just get there.

Curtis looks longingly west. Or at least what he thinks is west (actually southwest, but it’s a symbol more than a direction really).

He looks at Penny’s apartment key in his hand. Looks westish… and he’s off! 

Like a mighty wind — well, closer to a feint breeze — Curtis runs with singular purpose.

Knocking on Heaven’s Door

With the last of his waning breath, Curtis jogs up to Chef and Liz’s house.

Curtis goes up to the stoop, looks inside the front window, sees no one. Rings the doorbell. No one. Runs around to the side window. No one. Runs back, rings the doorbell over and over, frantically.

No one’s home. Curtis gives up. Takes a deep breath. The cacophony of bells gives way to the yappy happiness of barking outback.

“Fudge!”

Fudge obviously realizes his master has arrived. He hoots a howling Hallelujah Chorus. A lot of heavenly yipping. High pitched stuff.

Curtis runs to the back fence. “Fudge! Fudge!”

They long-lost connect through the cracks in the wooden fence. About all Curtis can see is Fudge’s little nose… snort, snort, snorting, up and down, left and right, searching for a whiff of his guy. Curtis lets Fudge’s nose smell his own. He huffs heavily in the snout’s direction, so they can both smell family. “Hi good boy! It’s me, pal! I’m coming to get you, pal! We’re heading west!”

As far as Fudge is concerned, that’s the best news he’s ever heard. And he fully admits he doesn’t even know which way west is.

One immediate concern, though. Chef has got himself a good, solid fence. But love finds a way.

“I’m here, boy. I’m here. We’ll get you right out of there, pal. And then it’s just the two of us. For good. We’re just going to grab my notebooks from Penny’s and go west, young dog.”

Though Fudge trusts the boy, he’s still got questions.

“Arf! Arf arf?”

“No, Fudge. Without her. We need better air than we can get here. And she doesn’t. She’s good here. But we’re not, pal. We’ll be good out west. Me and you. I love you, buddy. I love you so much. I’m going to take you to Hollywood, pal! Just the two of us. On the road. Road pals. Buskers in arms… and paws. They’ll appreciate our unique brand of bluesy-rockappella there. Or maybe it’s more rocking-bluescapella. I don’t know. But I do know these Harmonyville stiffs don’t get it. They’re far too traditional. But we’re not traditional guys, right pal?”

“Arf! Arf! Arf arf arf arfff!”

“I won’t let you go. Never again. I promise”

“Arf arf arf arf arf arf.”

“I know you’ve heard that before. And I’m sorry. I panicked. I thought I had to, boy. But I don’t any more. I won’t.”

“Arf arf arf arf!”

“I am going to get you out of there. That’s why I’m here.”

“Arf arf arf.”

“Nobody’s home? Thanks for the update.”

“Arf arf. Arf?”

“Well, I don’t know how. Can you dig underneath the fence?”

“Arf arf arf arf arf arf arf rahroo rahroo arf arf arf arf.”

“You already tried. Hmm. Can you climb a tree?”

“Arf arf arf arf arf, arf arf arfing arf?!”

“No, you don’t look like Waldo.”

“Arf arf.”

“That’s not nice. If I get you outta here, you gotta promise to be nice to that cat. Actually, just promise you’ll leave him alone altogether. We’re just going in for a sec, so you have to be good. In fact, I should just leave you tied up outside.”

“Arf arf.”

“You’re right, I said I’d never leave you again. And I meant it.”

“Arf Arf roo.”

“Good. Now, how the heck are we gonna get you out of there?”

Fudge sighs mournfully. “Arf arf.”

“It is. It’s a big fence.”

Fudge gives up, howls out some baby-done-left-me “Lonely Dog Blues.”

“That’s a good groove, boy. Just keep on that for a minute.”

Fudge moans on, like “Blind Dog” Willy Fulton.

Curtis listens away. Hears it loud and clear. Closes his eyes. Feels the blues. Feels the air. Feels the air upon the air. 

He opens his eyes, a sprig of yellow flashes in a bush. Curtis winks at The Universe; he’s all over it. He puts his arm deep within the prickly beast. The yellow flash is almost in reach; he gets a fingertip on it. It’s circular. Orbish in nature. He gently wrangles it in, fingertip by fingertip, till he can grip it. SQUEAK! It’s Fudge’s squeaky ball!

Upon hearing the familiar squeak, Curtis suddenly sees Fudge’s head spring just to the height of the fence line, even as he continues to howl the blues.

Lightbulb!

Curtis squeaks the ball again, in time with the “Lonely Dog Blues.” And again, the dog’s head pops up, but this time a little bit higher.

“Good jump, pal! Good jump!” Curtis feels the groove and delivers a rocking good squeaky-ball solo. Squeak by squeak, Curtis hits all the right notes to keep Fudge aloft, until the dog clears the fence.

Curtis stops squishing the ball and easily catches falling Fudge in his arms.

Curtis hugs Fudge and gives him the ball. He hugs and hugs and hugs, even though the dog has lost interest in Curtis and only has eyes for the squeaky ball.

“Oh my goodness! What a good boy! What a good good good good good good good good boy! I love you I love you I love you I love you...”

Going Out West

Curtis and Fudge walk happily down the hall towards Penny’s apartment.

“We’re just going to grab my backpack, then we’re out.”

“Arf arf arf arf arf arf arf arf arfarf arf.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll write her a thankyou note. Let her know we’ll be fine. She worries.”

“Arf arf.”

“We will be fine, pal. We just need a little luck with hitching rides. The Universe will provide. It always does.”

“Arf The Universe.”

“What was that, boy? I didn’t catch that.”

“Arf.”

They walk up to the apartment. Curtis puts the key in the door and pauses.

“Just remember, leave the cat alone. I’m going to go in and scout it out first and put Waldo away, so you have to stay in the hallway by yourself for a minute. Okay?”

“Arf.”

Curtis opens the apartment door, tells Fudge to stay, and squeezes his way in without the dog slipping through.

The place is pretty much how he left it, except Penny’s bedroom door is open.

Waldo suns himself on the fire escape.

“Hi Waldo.”

“Meow!”

Terrified Waldo sprints inside, back to his hiding place under the bed.

“Good spot, man. I’m just going to grab my things. We’ll be out of your way in a minute.”

A cacophony of barking erupts outside.

“Oh crap.” Curtis runs out to check on Fudge.

The moment he opens the door, Fudge sprints into the apartment and B-lines it towards the bedroom! Howling, barking, and sniffing for Waldo, he wants blood. Gets the scent. Heads straight for the bed.

Waldo screams holy end-is-nigh terror.

Penny, whose elevator exit set Fudge off, runs down the hallway to her apartment, where stunned Curtis stalls in panicked disbelief.

“What the fuck is going on?!”

Curtis snaps into action. Bolts back inside.

Fudge tries his absolute darndest to kill the cat, but can’t get under the bed. The cat moans a death-is-coming wail, just out of reach of Fudge’s fangs. 

Fortunately, Fudge gets distracted when Curtis and Penny charge into the bedroom. The dog turns his hungry rage onto Penny. Bares his fangs, barks GWAR.

Curtis launches on the dog. Covers him forcibly like Jimmy “Superfly” Snooka jumping off the top rope for a pin.

“What’s he doing here?!” Penny’s really fucking pissed.

“He was supposed to wait outside! We’re leaving! HE NEEDS ME!”

She feels a breeze. Looks over to the open balcony door. Oh shit.

The boy looks too. Holy shits himself.

Waldo wails! Fudge barks savagely! Penny screams. A slow-mo cacophony.

Wailing Waldo sprints out from under the bed, past Curtis pinning Fudge, over the couch, out the open balcony door, onto the balcony and swoosh… One floor down, onto a tree branch, down the trunk like a fire pole, to the street, and gone!

Curtis jumps up off the dog and runs to the balcony. The dog, still a bit stunned, rises to his feet like a newborn horse. But once he’s up, he’s a thoroughbred! Whoosh! Out the door, over the balcony, fuck the tree and the trunk and the branch, just straight to the ground, two floors down to the grass, and zoom: on Waldo’s trail in hot pursuit.

Stunned Curtis and Penny watch silently as Fudge bolts away, wild on the scent of dinner.

Curtis looks at Penny, feels her anguish and doesn’t even think before jumping off the balcony after her cat and his dog, into the tree. Fortunately, the evergreen acts like a very prickly slide all the way down to the ground. Thud.

Somehow, nothing’s terribly broken. He fleetly springs to his feet and follows the fleeing beasts.

Incredulous, Penny watches them all disappear down Hope Ave. She grabs her phone and keys and runs after Waldo.

Going Down the Road and Feeling Bad

Waldo shoots left on Bad Street. Up Blues Ave.

Fudge is a couple clicks back, but all over the cat’s scent.

Keep running Waldo. Just keep running.

Curtis follows far behind, his lungs catching fire. Shards of glass case his bloodstream. No prayer of keeping up. He sees Fudge get smaller and smaller, further and further away.

Curtis’s pace goes from a sprint to a jog to a weary walk. Finally, he gives up. Defeated at long last.

Curtis puts his hands on his knees, sucking prickly wind, searching for breath.

He just needs a second.

But that second is all it takes to realize how he’s fucked everything up so unfucking-fixably.

A boy’s only got so much air in his lungs.

It’s a hard truth, and one which might have felled him for good in the past, before Fudge. But Curtis doesn’t fall. He keeps on his feet, step after heart-bursting step, looking, longing... like a Jew in the desert waiting for a vacancy at the Holy Land Hotel. He stumbles frantically about town. Nope Ave. Why Bother Street. Are You For Real Lane. Calling out desperately for his dog. For Waldo. For Penny.

He broke it all.

Out of Time

Crazed Curtis searches frantically. He’s cold. Desperate. He’s worried about the piercing, stabbing pain in his heart. The night comes meanly. Temperature drops rapidly. Every step more crushing than the last. The Revenant comes to his mind.

Curtis trips over a hidden trash can. Collapses in a heap of snow-covered garbage.

But he knows: must keep going. It’s all that he knows.

He crawls out of the heap, scurries along the ground, as if he’s lost his legs in the battle, dragging what’s left behind him.

“Can’t go on. Nothing left... to give... nothing... sorry... so… sorry… Waldo! Fudge! You deserve more... Penny. Sweet, sweet Penny. I want to be strong for you. I want to. But it’s so cold. I’m so cold. I can’t find good air... can’t find… enough air. Leave me... here. In this mangy ditch. Alone. A lone wolf. As I was meant to be. In the end...”

His heart pounds inside his head. His body caves. Collapses on the ground. He passes out cold… again… yes, but this fall’s by far the most dramatic.

Driving My Life Away

Penny drives up and down the streets of Harmonyville. Cursing all the while.

“This is what I get for helping someone? This is penance! Where’s the karma in that?”

She’s not usually one to talk to The Heavens. But Curtis has that effect on people.

“I don’t deserve this. Waldo definitely doesn’t deserve this.”

She’s mad for sure…

But the hours pass, the darkness falls, the weather deadens, and the sadness swallows the anger. All the sadness she’s been staving off so ferociously comes back in desperate floods. 

Stormy Weather

Back on Mean Street, the heavens open up. Hard rain pelts Curtis, fills the trash bags he’s using as a bed. They pool till he can’t breathe, seemingly drowning. But he just kinks his neck up a bit, gets his lips above water line, and stays passed out.

Sleet pelts the boy. He remains passed out.

Snow covers the boy. He remains passed out.

A lightning bolt hits the boy. He remains passed out.

Paint It Black

Fade to black. And white. And dusk.

And dreams all over.

Mean Street has softened a spell.

Curtis lies in the garbage, not moving at all. Frozen in ice.

Somehow, a flicker of sunshine works its magic. There’s life in there! His eye blinks.

But what’s that? A rumbling up the hill?

A Yeti?

A Wampa?

An avalanche?!

A cloud of snow barrels down upon frozen Curtis.

He’s too frozen and weak to break free from his icy captivity, though. Just has to sit there and watch the tsunami of snow roar down.

To finally, and justly, do him in.

He’s ready.

He thinks of Fudge’s warmth. His sweet stinky breath.

And Penny. She’d be sad. He hoped.

But happy, in the end.

The avalanche screeches to a halt just in front of Curtis’s frozen face.

Out of the snow cloud poofs a pack of about 50 of the meanest looking dogs ever. Cerberus runs with this rowdy pack, but he’s (they’re?) the nicest of the bunch.

The pack surrounds the boy. Sniffs him up and down, viciously, suspiciously, wisely.

Like the red sea, the pack parts and makes way for… Ivan Montlebaum, the Dog Dude!

All hail mighty Ivan. The dogs bow down to his glory.

Ivan’s mere presence gives Curtis hope.

Of course! It all makes sense!

“Ivan Montlebaum! Holy dog poop! I’m your biggest fan. Well, I wouldn’t say fan so much as your kindred spirit. We should work together. You and I speak a very similar language, my friend.”

Ivan shushes the boy into silence. Then speaks, as if to a camera.

“First, we exercise. We have a serious out of control creature here. He’s not thinking straight, so we have to run him straight. And long. And uphill. A healthy mind can only come after a healthy body.”

Confused Curtis is going to need some help catching up here. “Say, have you seen a little mangy dog? Or a scared, possibly bleeding cat?”

Ivan shushes the boy again, forcibly this time, like a ninja shooting a poisonous dart through a bamboo straw.

Curtis snaps-to, quickly. Rapt attention upon holy Ivan.

Ivan nods to the dogs. As a unit, they pounce on Curtis.

Curtis screams!

But they aren’t trying to tear him to yummy pieces. Hallelujah, praise be, the dogs are merely licking the snow and ice away — voraciously, extricating the boy, with a little help from some ever-loving sunlight.

Within moments, Curtis is freed from his icy shackles.

Ivan shushes the pack. They immediately sit, eagerly awaiting their next order. 

Ivan nods for Curtis to get up. Curtis is a bit slow to the game, but he’s learning to pay Ivan heed. He lumbers to his feet. Looks down at Ivan’s and realizes the guru is wearing roller-blades.

Ivan makes stern eye contact with the boy. Then with the pack.

He whistles loudly, takes off roller-blading like the Flash.

The pack follows in line, forcibly nudging Curtis to file in. He’s got no choice but to run.

A biblical struggle indeed, Curtis works mightily to keep up.

The pack follows roller-blading Ivan, pushing the struggling boy along. Curtis’s tongue hangs out the side of his mouth.

He stumbles. Looks like he may fall again. Hopefully he’ll freaking stay down this time. But really, would Rocky? Or Chumbawamba?

Maybe just for a second. Curtis tries to lay down, but right when he’s almost on his knees, suddenly, like an angel on his shoulder, Fudge is there to lift the boy up! Trumpets sound!

“Fudge!”

Atta boy!

Fudge barks encouragement to his boy. “Arf! Arf arf arf! Arf arf arf!”

Curtis fights his way back up, using Fudge as a cane. “Fudge! My good boy! My best good pal! You made it! Oh good boy! I love you I love you I love you...”

“Arf arf arf roo.”

“Did you eat Waldo? You can tell me. It won’t change things between us.”

Fudge shakes his head no. He looks ashamed. “Arf arf arf.”

“Good boy. I’m proud of you.”

Displaying some Venice Beach quality roller-blading skills, Ivan brakes his way to the back of the pack, crazy-eighting all the way to Curtis and Fudge. The pack keeps the brisk pace up front.

With hypnotic homing-beam eyes, Ivan silences the boy and his dog.

Ivan whistles; the pack hops into two columns, which wind back around behind Curtis and Fudge, pushing them into the lead at double-time pace.

Curtis gasps for air. Ivan gets right behind him, blades faster and faster, pushing them up, down, and through the dirty boulevards of South Harmonyville.

Finally, Ivan, who has made his way to the front of the pack again, holds up his hand. The pack obediently stops on a nickel.

Curtis collapses, beaten and exhausted. Fudge licks his face till the boy looks up to behold a giant, luminous sign: “Ivan Montlebaum, The Dog Dude, Canine Sensitivity Center”.

Your Song

Ivan’s center is a huge doggie fun zone. Pools to swim in, grass to roll on, doggie jungle gyms to ransack, and plenty of toys, ropes, and balls to play with, even some of the squeaky variety.

Ivan quietly leads his rapt pack to a huge feeding trough. He doles out food lovingly, choosing which dogs get to eat first. All the dogs wait patiently for their turn.

Now that Curtis has caught some stray breaths, he’s not so patient. “Ivan! Please! I need your pack’s collective snout to find a cat. Waldo. He’s all alone out there, man! He could be dead!”

Ivan shushes Curtis sternly, but the boy disobeys.

“Seriously, Ivan! I mean now!”

Ivan talks to an unseen camera as he continues to dole out food to each doting dog. “When a creature is out of control, he must not only be exercised, he must also be disciplined.”

Ivan bares his teeth at Curtis, who sits right the heck down.

“By making him wait patiently, your little guy gets discipline. Becomes calm.”

Curtis settles down.  

Ivan looks pleased. He gives Curtis a big scoop of dog food, which the boy eats vigorously.

“This is my Premium Dog Dude Dog Food, by the way. Extra primo good! Order it online, now.”

Ivan smiles big.

Did a Technicolored “www.DogDude.com” chyron just blink?

Ivan turns his attention to the boy. “Now, you have been exercised. You have been disciplined. You have been fed. So, you are calm, yes? In order to hear the tone of the All, we must always be calm.”

“Yes, Ivan…” Curtis raises an eyebrow to see how that takes. “…er, Great One, I am. I understand. But I have to find this cat.”

“I know the cat you speak of.”

“You do? How?”

“I have been listening to the tone of The Universe.”

“That’s what I do!”

“And that’s how you arrived here. Maybe you ought to listen more closely?”

Ivan takes a deep breath. He feels the glow of the sun upon his face. “You are wise to trust your instincts, Lonely Boy. The Universe drops hints, it’s true. But it’s micro and macro. You’re thinking of the stars, but what shines in you? In everyone around you?”

“Teach me, Great One.”

“Do you remember our saying here at the Canine Sensitivity Center?”

“Cash only?”

“Every dog has his song.”

“That’s much catchier. I remember! Find his song, and sing with him!”

“You are correct, Lonely Boy. Listen to him. Hear his song, tune in, sing along, and harmony will prevail. But there is more. It’s not just every dog.”

Curtis may just be catching Ivan’s drift. “Every kitty?”

“Every creature. Has his, or more specifically, her, own song. Sometimes it takes another creature to awaken it. A sensitive, tuned-in Other.”

Ivan closes his eyes and falls serenely into Lotus position for meditation.

Curtis and Fudge instinctively put themselves into Lotus position as well. They all become one with The Universe.

Rainbow vapor trails swirl into the mist.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Back on Mean Street, the clouds make their way slowly out of town. The enormous moon shines brightly over Harmonyville. The chill in the air warms up.

Still in the heap of garbage, very much alone, Curtis wakes up slowly. Was it all a dream?

He hugs himself for warmth. He should have worn his heavier spandex. Definitely frozen. But there’s a spark inside. Curtis’s eyes focus, looking decidedly tiger-like.

He rises triumphantly. “My pack needs me!”

Whoa, he might have gotten up a little quickly there. Curtis feels his heart beating like a 911 Turbo. Louder, faster with every beat. 

Curtis clamors over to a tree and leans against it. Catches what daggers of breath he can. 

He takes a knee. Just for a minute. Just to rest. Reaches around his neck, instinctively searches for his tuning fork. Realizes it’s no longer there. Hesitates. Allows the futility to win the moment…

… but not the day! The dream is still in him.

Tune in. Still the heart. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Feel the vibrations…

Curtis recalls the Lotus position, finds his center.

The sound of his heartbeat fades, the air slows down around him, thickens, gives way to the busy buzzzzzzing of a fly. The ah-ah-ahs of the swallows above. The leaves shh-shh-shh-ing. Wind blends it all into a gooey, palpable hum.

The song floats back to him. From somewhere deep within and without, a solemn, soulful note lurches from his belly, yanked by the needy Universe.

Curtis belts out the definitive, woeful, yearning “Lonely Dog Blues,” hurled from the timeless expanses of his soul. And Fudge’s. And Penny’s. And Waldo’s. And the All’s. As pure a tone as he’s ever sung.

The song takes hold in his lungs, swirls about his guts, bleeds into his heart, pounces upon the warming air, and siphons into the ether, expelled by every truth he’s never really known — until now.

At the big chorus, the boy howls the melody at the top of his lungs, like a wolf who knows he’s not alone.

But when the boy tries to find the song’s natural ending, he stumbles, can’t seem to figure it out. The siphon loses momentum. He derails. Trails off…

At the outskirts of Harmonyville, off on the wind, Curtis subliminally hears a faint tone, the perfect next note. He never would have thought to decrescendo with a G, that’s bloody brilliant!

Where did it come from? Is that… “Fudge!”

Far off, atop Redemption Hill, the boy sees a lone Technicolored musical note filling with luminescence as the tone gains strength.

Like a man possessed, Curtis hurls himself towards the tone.

“It’s a G!” The boy yowls a hearty G in solidarity with the distant sound. Technicolored magnetism combines the fortified, far-flung notes. 

Atop a giant garbage pile atop Redemption Hill, Fudge points his snout to the moon, solemnly yelping a praise-Jesus G note.

Fudge momentarily stops when he intuits the incoming G of the far-off boy. Fudge howls out a jubilant reply. Dances around in circles like nobody’s watching.

Curtis follows Fudge’s far-off howl, which begins to flow naturally into some funky ah-ahs, which starts to pick the “Lonely Boy Blues” up a bit.

Curtis listens more closely. He zeroes in. That’s a stone groove, Fudge. A stone groove.

Curtis kicks back into the melody, the “Lonely Boy Blues” takes on more of an R&B, disco feel.

Curtis follows the stone groove like he’s being snake charmed. Technicolored musical notes flow abundantly from the source. A steady stream. A river home.

Fudge billy goats his way down the garbage heap, sprints towards the boy, singing all the while.

Curtis runs towards his dog like the airport scene at the end of a rom com. The two harmonize more gloriously with each strengthening breath.

The boy rounds the corner of Yes and Hope, finally sees his howling dog barreling down on him! They jump into each other’s arms.

Has a light so bright ever shone from the heavens above?

The “Lonely Dog Blues” morphs into a more elated “Hallelujah Chorus” than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir every loosed. Or is that “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong”?

“It’s you, boy. It’s really you.”

Fudge licks Curtis’s face jubilantly. The boy licks Fudge’s face right back. It’s hairy.

Cats in the Cradle

After much elation, Curtis gets back on task. “No time for emotionality, boy, we’ve got a kitty to save. What do you say we get the band back together?”

Fudge loves that idea. He springs out of the boy’s hands and leads the way like a bloodhound on the scent, following his nose as Curtis trails closely behind — up and down the streets of Harmonyville, searching every nook and cranny.

“Waldo! Waldo!” Curtis and Fudge howl.

They come to a giant puddle which covers the entirety of Calamity Street. Fudge loses the scent. He stops cold.

“What’s wrong, boy?”

Fudge points to his nose.

“You lost the scent! No. Oh no. Now what do we do? What do we do? Oh, cruel world. Cruel Universe.”

“Arf arf!”

“You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. Don’t blame The Universe. Bend it.”

Curtis closes his eyes and opens his senses. Fudge does the same. Back to Lotus position.

Curtis hums a low D… hummmmmmmmmmm… until a lone Technicolored musical note poofs into the sonic jetstream.

Fudge, eyes closed, points his snout to the air, and comes in on top of that D with his signature G…. hummmmmmmmmmmm….

Another note mists into existence.

But instead of poofing into the ether, the notes find each other, surf the ether together, and take action. A steady hum sends the glowing notes around the corner, over the fence, and into the streets. In and out of Harmonyville, reverberating, streaming, picking up strength. 

If you’re lost in the forest, a little stream is enough to lead you home.

Still humming their notes, Curtis and Fudge follow their ears along the sonic passageway. 

A feint, far-off note wrinkles in time.

The boy and the dog both hear it immediately. They’re that in tune.

“It’s a C!”

Still keen on the far-off C, Curtis and Fudge keep up with their parts and head towards the distant sound.

As the note becomes louder, it fills the boy and the dog, sweeps them from their feet, like Pepi Le Pew following the scent of Penelope Pussycat’s perfume. The sound propels them aloft, reels them in. The stream becomes a river, in which we are all fish.

Stuck on Distress Street, Waldo the Cat lies pinned beneath a sheet of scrap metal. He’s haggard, shivering with cold and fear, moaning a woe-is-me C.

Faint Technicolored musical notes connect Waldo’s moan to the oncoming river of the All. The tone of Waldo’s moan reels the river in. Waldo sees the boy. Curtis sees Waldo. Hope beams bright in both their eyes.

Until...

Fudge sees Waldo and snaps out of his humming. His instincts recall hunger.

Waldo sees the dog and flips out. The moan becomes an Axl Rose shriek. The river stops. Curtis falls out of its dissipating torrents and hits the ground hard.

Waldo tries to free himself from the scrap metal, but can’t. His shriek ratchets up an octave.

The tone hits Fudge. Fudge screams in return. Matches Waldo screech for screech.

Just when it seems like the war cries will surely lead to death, Curtis croons out a soothing, sonorous tone on top of the screeching, another low D note. He holds it steady.

The D tone mellows out Fudge’s screech, he flattens into his go-to G. Notes begin to swirl. Harmony takes hold again, even with Waldo squealing on top.

Curtis conducts Fudge to raise his pitch. Fudge goes up the scale to an F note. Maintaining comforting eye contact with both creatures, Curtis urges Waldo down a few notches, so he’s no longer screeching, but meowing soulfully in C, in perfect harmony with the boy and his dog. Gustavo Dudamel has only dreamt of such conducting prowess.

As the harmony strengthens, Curtis carefully lifts the sheet metal gently, extricating Waldo free from harm.

He literally saves the cat.

Waldo thinks about running, but he’s having too much fun harmonizing. Technicolored musical notes swirl about them. The boy continues to conduct them, right into the “Lonely Boy Blues,” fleshed out, sounding like a veritable Top 40 hit. Well, almost.

“That’s it, boys! That’s it. Now let’s take it from the top and get it right!”

Across the Universe

It’s very dark now. Penny has been driving and crying for hours, up and down the desperate streets of Harmonyville. She needs to stop. She needs to think.

She needs a drink. 

Penny parks. Goes inside Elizabetta’s Bistro, which isn’t very crowded. Walks through to Chef’s Bar, which is even less crowded. She sees Ritchie, who doesn’t have to ask if she needs a drink.

When she sees Chef, Penny loses it. She hugs the big galoot. He may be an uncouth brute, but he is good for a hug when you need one.

And she definitely does.

He walks her out back.

Penny sits on a milk crate behind the restaurant. She cries and cries.

“Why don’t you go home? You can’t do anymore tonight. I’m sure Waldo is savvy enough to hole up for the night. Don’t worry, we’ll find him tomorrow. First thing.”

“I tried to shield him from all the evils. But it’s no use. They find you. Sure enough, they always find you!”

“You’re wrong. You did a brave and kind thing opening your heart and home. I admire you for it.”

Penny’s obviously not so sure. She cries away on Chef’s shoulder.

Blubber on, girl. Blubber on.

Woe wells up inside her. She’s inconsolable.

Until miraculously, like an angel finding its wings, a far-off, yearning tone wisps in on a warm breeze.

Penny shudders. Looks up.

Where is that gossamer sound coming from? Is that? Inside?

Penny looks at Chef to see if he hears it too. He does, even through his usual fog.

Penny leaps up, runs inside to find the source.  

Inside, on the stage, Waldo, Fudge, and Lonely Boy Curtis doo-wop the background tracks of the “Lonely Dog Blues.” Tight as can be. Perfect harmonies, Motown style. They even have elaborate, uniform dance steps worked out! The Pips would be proud.

Penny is so happy to see her cat, she doesn’t really take into account the fact that he’s meowing in perfect time and harmony with Fudge and Lonely Boy.

Penny hugs and hugs and hugs Waldo. Waldo eats it up, even while maintaining his steady tenor groove.

“Oh kitty, kitty, kitty, my pretty, pretty kitty. Mommy is so, so sorry. Oh my sweet kitty, kitty...”

After a while, Waldo wriggles free so he can get back in step with his fellow Pips.

“Waldo? What are you doing?”

Waldo doo-wops away, but he nods over at Lonely Boy.

“Curtis. Thank you. Where did you find him? How did you… how… how come he’s doo-wopping?”

Lonely Boy doesn’t stop his bass line, but indicates with his eyes that Fudge is the one who deserves thanks.

“Fudge?”

Fudge howls away his baritone doo-wops, smiling his teeth off. There really is a little Sinatra in him, after all. She hugs Fudge mightily, which only makes him croon better.

“Okay, you guys can stop singing now. You don’t need to impress me anymore. You’re welcome on the couch. Okay? For as long as it takes to get you back on your feet. Okay? Both of you.”

This is most welcome news! But it won’t get them to stop harmonizing. 

“Please stop singing. Please. We have customers.”

Chef, Liz, and Ritchie look around for said customers. It’s true! The place has started to fill up, as places in Harmonyville are wont to do when the music swells just so.

Curtis, Waldo, and Fudge’s groove strengthens with the added boost of breaths. They doo-wop and dance even more electrically.

With his eyes and nods, Curtis tries to get Penny to join in where the melody is supposed to be.

“Stop. Seriously. It’s weirding me out.”

They can’t stop. Won’t stop. The harmony is too strong. They just pause here and there for Penny’s obvious opening.

“‘The Voice,’ Penny. Your poem. On the one…” Curtis has thought this through.

“No. Seriously, no. We have customers. And you guys all need serious baths.”

Curtis, Fudge, and Waldo close in, like they are sharing a microphone directly in front of Penny’s face. Technicolored musical notes bounce off each of their doo-wops. Swirl together. Force their way into Penny’s mouth!

The Technicolored musical notes fill Penny’s mouth, expand her cheeks, her neck, her entire body! Fill and fill and fill... until... “FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAAAA!”

Innately, the song leaves Penny’s mouth and launches straight up the universal charts! Technicolored musical notes fly out of Penny’s mouth along with the blazing soprano melody line of “The Lonely Dog Blues,” with lyrics from Penny’s poem “The Voice” that Curtis conveniently enjoyed way back on the couch while rubbing Penny’s feet.

Pent up musical frustration erupts from Penny.

Lovers must be raised.
Trouble’s coming,
No one’s saved,
Without the voice from above.
And below,
And around.
Awaken to your sound
Sing along, no matter the key,
With everything, All at once.
Awaken to your sound,
Trust that lovely hunch,
That first belief you knew,
Long ago, Yet never gone,
Hear that joyous sound abound,
And know: The All will sing along! 

Penny’s a natural, in complete and perfect harmony with Lonely Boy, Waldo, and Fudge. She is the kick ass front-woman the song needed. And the words are spot on. It sounds like the most Grammy-worthy “Lonely Dog Blues” you’ve ever heard!

Like a Technicolored nuclear explosion, musical notes swirl all around the singers, all around Chef and Liz and Ritchie.

Ritchie turns off the bar lights and turns on the blue lights. The rock-god posters shimmer.

The notes swirl around the place, find their way outside, lasso in the unsuspecting foot traffic of Harmonyville.

Elizabetta’s Bistro & Chef’s Bar turns into a giant party as people pour in.

The Outsiders, Curtis’s old band, are compelled to just pop in, ready to dance. They high-five with Curtis and his new band. Any residual animosity poofs into the ether. 

They join the fun. So does Tony the bartender from The Pound. So does Janice and Floyd and their two hippy dogs. So does Chef and Liz’s daughter, Tina. So does Ivan and his whole rowdy pack! It’s that kind of party.

And it’s all fueled by Penny and her pack’s transcendent harmonies, which they continue to rock, even as they help serve all the thirsty patrons. Hey, the customer always comes first.

Penny and the boys take a break serving to key in on the all-important break-it-down part. Penny leads her back-up singers into beautiful four-part harmony.

The whole place glows in the warm Technicolored light of harmony. All around the restaurant, people raise their lit cell phones, lighters, and torches. Swept up in the technicolored goodness of it all.

The Technicolored notes can’t be held by the roof; no the ceiling can’t hold them. They launch into the anything-can-happen air around Harmonyville.

Happy people float upon the swirling musical notes, towards the restaurant/bar, which now proudly displays a marquee that reads “Tonight and Every Night: Penny P. and The Pack”

Harmony prevails. 

All around Harmonyville.

All around The Universe.