MEMOIR | HUMOR | EVERYBODY’S A STAR

It Was Karaoke Night at the American Legion

Small-town Saturday night

I’d lost my mind and agreed to accompany my BFF and her mother to Karaoke Night at the local Legion. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Any outing that involved alcohol and a party was always a dicey proposition when my friend was involved. She was a lot of fun, but never known for moderation or good judgment. In my defense, I adored her mother, Viv, still gorgeous in her eighth decade, rocking fashionably spiky silver hair. I wanted to hang with her.

The old American Legion building perched at the top of a long winding drive up a hill at the edge of town. Built of solid yellow brick, it smelled like every stale cigarette and bad decision in the history of the world.

If you know, you know.

We clomped unceremoniously on linoleum-covered steps down a wide stairway to the lower level, where the festivities were being held. My BFF, always on a serious manhunt, was juiced up and ready to rock. She sashayed through the doorway like a champ, her head swiveling as she immediately began recon. This was not her first rodeo.

The stairway opened into a smoky room full of middle-aged farmers, blue collar workers, and some younger, but very-well-used, guys and gals. The older women almost uniformly wore baggy jeans and over-sized sweatshirts, finished off with chunky, cheap tennis shoes.

I will never understand why so many people lose all individuality when they pass 50, and become almost indistinguishable from one another. In contrast, there was Viv, still fashionable and sexy at 89.

The gathering was held in the basement of the Legion, a dank, dark underground bunker with low ceilings and tile flooring. After a couple of hours, a fine blue haze hung over the room — the smoking ban did not extend to the bowels of the Legion, apparently.

The noise was deafening.

Along with copious amounts of cheap cocktails (one of the best things about the Legion) dinner was served. The fare, set up on a folding table with a thin red-checked plastic tablecloth, consisted of sloppy joes self-served out of a large communal roaster, accompanied by soggy buns, macaroni salad, and plain potato chips.

The sloppy joes weren’t half bad, but the buns stuck to the top of my mouth like glue.

A no-nonsense wispy woman of indeterminate age was briskly manning the refreshments table. Her pale brown gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a thin, braided ponytail that hung past her waistline.

She was assisted by another chick in a t-shirt, cargo pants, and the same clunky sneakers. She’d also pulled her dishwater blonde hair back, but into a series of about 15 ponytail holders, so tight it gave her a face lift. As the night wore on, and there was some dancing, I took note that she could certainly get down real low, how low can you go?

Back at the table, I think some guy inquired whether I was married. Despite the fact that I always wear my rings, off to my left, I heard the absence of my husband being explained.

When you walk into a place you’ve never been before it generates all sorts of attention, some favorable and some not. A lot of the women scowled at me, suspecting an interloper poaching on their turf, I guess (they should have been eyeballing my BFF instead) but some were friendly enough. A few guys hunkered over their beers and cigarettes at a wobbly table and stared to the point it was slightly alarming.

After the meal, anticipation hummed through the crowd and the singing commenced. It was a practiced choreography, almost a show, because the DJ and everyone else in the place knew the routine.

I quickly learned who were the regulars and the fan favorites.

Aqua Net Woman

The first woman had bleached, teased, shellacked hair and rolled, curling-iron bangs — a walking advertisement for Aqua Net hairspray. She got up on stage several times, and although she was slightly staggering, she did okay.

Patsy Cline

Incredibly, a stocky, matronly woman, with very short gray hair and glasses, wearing the ubiquitous sweatshirt and sneakers (I did not get the memo, apparently), sang several of Patsy Cline’s songs, in the sweetest, clearest, most beautiful voice you could imagine.

Peasant Girl

A young woman, with very long, thin, straggly hair, wearing an unflattering peasant blouse, lumbered to the mic and proceeded to sing so astonishingly well that you wonder why she isn’t on tour?

Maybe nobody ever told her she could. She closed her eyes and sang, and lived her dreams for a few minutes.

Spoon Guy

One very popular guy appeared to be somewhere in his 50s, with the tell-tale red flush of alcohol on his face. Each time his name was called to perform, everyone clapped enthusiastically. He sat on a chair in the middle of the dance floor and played the spoons.

The spoons, I tell you! I could almost hear the banjos starting up in the background.

A big roar went up every time he finished, and as he walked back to his seat, between the rows of long folding tables, he nodded and acknowledged the adoration of his fans with a little wave.

Another Woman in Love

A blond chick, probably late 50s or so, with a stiffly-peroxided bob, and an even stiffer face (but a cute little figure in tight jeans) did pretty well. However, as the liquor flowed and the night wore on, her performance declined. Her final song was a cringe-worthy rendition of “Just Another Woman in Love.” The high notes were not her finest hour. But nobody cared. They clapped all the same.

Farmer John

Then there was the old farmer sporting dirty work pants held up by suspenders, a faded plaid flannel shirt, and a hat with fleece-lined ear flaps (in May). He got up several times to sing Johnny Cash, much to the delight of the crowd. To my delight, as well — he killed it.

You just never know.

ZZ Top

A tall, thin man, who was smoking very daintily with the aid of a long cigarette holder, the likes of which I haven’t seen since 1950s movies, had a turn. I decided the holder was most likely to keep his astonishing beard from catching on fire. He had shoulder-length, pure white hair. It blended perfectly into a huge mustache with two perky little curls at each end, and his beard came halfway down his chest.

Mr. 1950’s grabbed the mic and wailed, “You don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin,” with all the confidence and swagger of Tom Jones.

He looked just like ZZ Top, but without the cool — kind of like he’d just hiked down from the mountain.

The Clueless BFF

Karaoke, where everyone is a star. Or thinks they are. Some people just like to sing, I guess, whether they realize they suck or not, and more power to ’em. Regardless, as generous as this crowd was with its applause, there was a definite set of unwritten rules. Everyone knew everyone else — a club of sorts — and their place in the pecking order.

True to form, my clueless BFF did not.

To my absolute horror, she talked her niece’s husband into singing “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” with her. Not only was it apparent to everyone but her this was not a Meat Loaf crowd, that song lasts for-freaking-ever, and the crowd began to get restless long before they were done.

There was also the slight problem that the niece’s husband knew neither the lyrics nor the division of singing parts. Much awkward confusion ensued.

I thought it would never end.

Polite applause. My BFF beamed and bustled triumphantly back to our table, curious eyes following her all the way. While I was dying a thousand deaths, wishing I could hide under a table, she had no clue she had just bombed.

I was simply happy to be having cocktails with Viv (she was on her third Salty Dog) and that Viv was having fun. And that’s what makes a small-town Indiana Saturday night great.

Rest in peace, Viv. I love you.

Thanks for reading. I appreciate you, always. Please leave Paradise By the Dashboard Light up to Meat Loaf.