Our Americano


An apple-pie Americano--attaboy!--got the ax for being asleep at the switch and
back-talking his backasswords ball-busting boss. Though our Americano was a bit of a
          blowhard, he wasn’t a bad egg. His being bagged by his boss made him feel like
          he had belly-flopped in his birthday suit. Basically, he was over a barrel, with the
          bejesus knocked out of him, and no matter how hard he beat his brains out, he
          remained betwixt and between. What if he was a bozo bullshit artist who
          couldn’t see the big picture? Maybe, he thought, he should bootlick, belly up to
          his big shot of a boss. He sat in the
can thinking about being canned. He decided he was no comma-counter, no company
          man. He chugalugged a beer and chowed down Chinese. His chips being so
          down led him to the cat-house where he carried a torch for a cat’s-meow call
          girl named Nicole who could do one crazy cement mixer.  Though he wasn’t her
          cup of tea, the cutie pie didn’t give him the cold shoulder. Instead, she cased out his
dick and poured him a double, which made him feel less like a dead duck. After his
          night out, he was dead broke, a desperado divvying up his double-decker
          sandwich. He had one last chance--his hot-diggity demo he took to a doozy of a
          deejay in a dinky a.m. station. The deejay said, “You’re no dreamboat, but you
          sound damn fine.” Our Americano knew these were his dog days, but he was an
eager beaver on the eighty-eight. He hoped elbow grease and an Elvis haircut could
          get him to Easy Street, but meanwhile he moved into a
flea-trap flophouse full of fancy pants and floozies. He took forty winks and dreamed
          of being the filthy rich, fashion-plate, fair-haired boy who finagled a fast buck
          with his forty-five. His fans were finger poppers who flipped their lids
          whenever they heard his name. He liked living in a fishbowl where he could
          futz around in a five-and-dime and--
gee whiz!--googols of gussied-up glamour girls would go ga-ga. He’d take a gander at
          their great gams, then make goo-goo eyes--each one would have Nicole’s
          face, giving him the go-ahead. He was on a gravy train, his groovy gold-star
          gimmick a gas. Then the gall! His god-awful alarm clock and the realization his
          dream was a gag gift. He was back to being a greenhorn again, a goose egg, a
          goof-off, a goon. He was back to the grind, a
hayseed, a half-assed horse’s ass, a hack. A hammy ham-and-egger in hand-me-downs
          who’d had it, who’d have to pass the hat in hopes that highfalutin hoity-toity
          higher-ups who lived high on the hog would have a heart and give him a hand
          out. He needed a headshrinker for his hang ups, a headhunter who was also a
          hot sketch. If only he could get a job as a hubba-hubba heartthrob. His hell-
          hole apartment was giving him the heebie-jeebies. Just when he was thinking
          that maybe he should
ixnay the ivory thumper dream and iron out things with his icky former boss, the
          deejay called to say that our Americano was in like Flynn, the he was the new “it
          boy.” He hit the
jackpot.  Jailbait Janes and Joe Colleges alike were jazzed up over the jingle-jangle of
          his forty-five. He owed it all to the deejay, the jim-dandy who saw the jism in his
          jitterbug. No longer Joe Blow, no longer John Doe, our Americano jumped off
          the deep end and put his John Hancock on a contract agreeing to jazzy jam
          sessions and keeping up with the Joneses. He traded in his jalopy for a Jaguar
          with a jazzy radio and jiffy power steering--the whole
kit and caboodle. He was suddenly kingpin. Kids from Kentucky to Kazoo were keen
          for his new
LP, the one where he lollygagged like a loverboy on the cover, a long drink of water
          turned into a lone-wolf ladies’ man by his agent. Loudmouth lounge lizards,
          lovebirds, letches, and lowlifes on the lam all learned the lingo of our livewire loco Americano.
Madison Avenue masterminded a memo to make sure he was the make-out artist on
          Main Street, the man-about-town on every main drag, the Real McCoy, Mister
          Right. Even his meshuggeneh mumsy was mad about his moxie. Martooni in
          hand, our Americano wanted to mooch, to make it with his main squeeze before
          he was slipped a Mickey Finn, before the mudslinging that went along with the
          monkey business of stardom began. He went back to the
notch-house he went to as a nobody from noplaceville, took a number, waiting along
          with the other nudniks, and asked for Nicole. Nope, they said, no dice. No-
          good Nicole was nixed for taking a nosedive, for using needle candy. The nervy
          madam said, “What about Nina? Nancy? Noel?” “No!” said our heartbroken
          Americano. “Don’t knock it,” said the madam, “don’t be so nitpicky,” using her
          noggin, thinking about her nest egg. But only Nicole was our Americano’s
oomph girl, his one and only, the only one he could open up to, the only one on his
          one-track mind. He searched for her in oodles of offbeat streets. It was like
          someone had given him a one-two punch when he heard she’d O.D’ed. He
          drank one too many on-the-house drinks. Fans gave him the once-over, but he
          was out to lunch. His friend the deejay gave him a
pep talk then, as a picker-upper, took him to a peep show where pinup girls  in
          plunging necklines polished off Dom Perignon.  He was a party pooper besieged
          by posh party girls who tried to get palsy-walsy, but our Americano pleaded the

          fifth. Even though his next pop song was panned, his agent, a phonus bolonus,
          assured him he was popular in passion pits everywhere, the prez of the post-Elvis
          look, page-one news. Our Americano now dreamed of his pencil-pushing days,
          dreams in which his pink slip never came and he was
quick on the uptake, giving every job the quick-over, stopping for a quick one at the
          bar on his way home to a
run-of-the-mill rundown ranch house where Nicole would be roasting a roast. He
missed the rat race, the rinky-dink rubber checks, rubbing elbows with the
          rowdy and raunchy. His mother pulled rank and told him he had rocks in his
          head, that he just needed a little R and R, and a red-hot mamma to help him to
          stop rehashing Nicole. He needed razzle-dazzle razzmatazz, the red carpet.
“Stop being such a sad sack,” she said. “Your setbacks are small potatoes, smidgen-
          sized snafus. Savor your salad days, your saddle shoes, your sass and savvy say-
so, your Shangri La where you shake a wicked calf. You go stag to shindigs and
          shimmy with sexpots. You’ve earned your sheepskin in slap-happy sashaying
          and super-duper stargazing. And don’t forget your stand-out smash hit that
          gives the girls the screaming meemies! I know I’m no spring chicken, but I’m
          not from Squaresville either. I know the scoop, and I know the score. Don’t be
          a screwup! Don’t be a sap! I’m not going to sugarcoat it, son, you’re a
          swellelegant somebody, the only chance I have left for a sugar daddy!” And with
          that, she skedaddled from the soap opera of our Americano’s life. He
took five to take it all in, his tearjerker of a life in 3-D. His mother’s two cents’ worth
          of a tailor-made third degree was just the ticket that made him realize he was
          being a tightwad with his talent. He went to Tin Pan Alley where he wrote tip-
          top, topnotch torch songs for Nicole, his departed tart.
Umpteen undergrads--uppity, cool and uncool alike-- threw undies and other
          unmentionables as our Americano sang, a real
Valentino, a V.I.P. who made vamps of
wallflowers with his wails and wiggle. He gave his weepies their walking papers,
          and soon he was the water-cooler talk of wisenheimers and windbags. Women
          wolf-whistled at him. He made whopee with one wiry wham-bam-thank-
          you-ma’am who became his wonderful wife. He had the wherewithal, wads of
          what it takes, the
x-factor. In fact, his x marked the spot. Our Americano was an example to
yakety-yak yes-men everywhere. He inspired a
zillion Zen hipsters, zoot-suiters, and zazoos with his zing, zazzle, and zowie.

from Two and Two (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005).