The next morning, the Las Vegas Convention Center and Visitors Authority bustled with excitement and nostalgia. It was Saturday, traditionally the most popular day of the convention. The room was positively abuzz with activity and excitement. As Ellie made her way down an aisle toward the Full Court Press booth, she watched and listened, amused as attendees chatted and mingled.
“Nobody did it better than R. Crumb,” said an aging gentleman wearing blue camouflage gear, and she wondered what that blue color would camouflage. Something in the Blue Ridge Mountains maybe.
“My sister is pretty sure that Muskman had an eating disorder,” noted a rangy teenager. “I mean, I heard the comic page adds ten pounds.”
Another skinny young man asked rather plaintively, “Can I get a discount if I buy more than one inflatable woman?”
And she caught the tail end of a monologue by an apparent conspiracy buff: “…no redeeming value whatsoever, appealing to the lowest common denominator. It was the communists who first brought comic books to the United States…”
Russell, as Muskman, stood on a little platform, like the girls at the auto show, microphone in hand, entertaining a gathering crowd of onlookers.
“She said he was arrogant, self-absorbed, a chameleon who became whatever anyone wanted him to be. Muskman knew better.”
“What’d he do?” asked a young woman wearing skinny jeans and a magenta midriff top.
Why didn’t she just put her boobs in Russell’s lap?
“The half-man, half-rodent first had to get rid of the dipwad she was seeing,” Russell said. “They were attending a concert, and he sprayed the guy as one of the backup singers walked by him. The man left his date and jumped onstage doing the Macarena. That was it for him. She couldn’t trust him anymore.”
“Yeah. Plus, he was doing the Macarena,” a long-haired, wiry guy who looked pretty drunk, or maybe stoned, added.
Russell continued with the story. It wasn’t the words so much as it was the way he delivered them, Ellie realized. He was truly a gifted showman.
“…and when she went on her weekly visit to Shady Days Nursing Home to spend time with her grandmother, he was playing the piano there, singing, “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.” Her grandmother was sitting on the piano bench with him. It was the first time she’d seen her smile in years.
“And she fell for him,” said boob woman.
“Did Muskman ever fall in love?” the stoned guy wanted to know.
Russell smiled. “Muskman loved them all.
Why did Ellie want to smack him when he said that?
“Way to go, furball!” someone shouted.
“Spray us, Muskman!” yelled boob woman.
Russell suddenly became philosophical. “Muskman didn’t make people fall in love, you know. He just made them believe in love. People get jaded; they take love for granted. It’s so easy to get sidetracked and not see what’s right in front of you.”
The crowd took on an uncomfortable vibe, Ellie noted, as if people were collectively holding their breath, and Russell shifted gears again, regaining his cocky demeanor.
“‘Muskman’ Volume One, Number One was the start of it all, a masterpiece created by the multitalented Spencer Keys, who traveled all the way from Paris—that’s in France, folks—to this convention. Only one copy exists of the original “Muskman,” and this precious publication will be auctioned off here tomorrow at 4 p.m. in the auditorium. It’s a rare opportunity, you Muskophiles, to hold history in your hands. Don’t miss it!”
With that he stepped down. As he began walking away, a costumed pig fell in step with him.
“What about issue three? Muskman loved Penelope, didn’t he?”
“Spencer was a little ambiguous about that. Kind of a glass half full or half empty kind of thing. But there was no question that Penelope meant a great deal to him.”
Ellie beat Russell back to the booth, since he stopped to schmooze with every boob in the place, no doubt. Roger and Bonnie were sitting, and Ellie standing, adjusting merchandise, when the furry guy arrived. A middle-aged, overweight fan, Delvin, was gushing to Roger.
“…and I used to do a pretty good imitation of him that just cracked my girlfriend up. Who knows what passion lurks…lurks…” Delvin spotted Muskman and freaked. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, it’s you!”
He hugged his furry idol.
“Don’t squish the musk glands,” Russell squeaked.
Delvin jumped back. Roger got up and propelled Russell along by his elbow. “You’re back. Good. C’mon. You have to meet Fred at Rip Off Press.”
For some people, there was a thin line between reality and fantasy, that was for sure. Sometimes the only way to avoid an unfortunate scene of a fan or groupie getting too familiar with the Muskman character was to bail.
They headed off as Delvin paid Bonnie for his purchases and watched his hero walk off.
“He really changed the world.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. Was she the only one who knew that Russell wasn’t really Muskman? That it was a costume?
Delvin left, in the same direction Russell and Roger took. That one’s a hair’s breath away from becoming a stalker. Ellie sank down in the chair next to Bonnie and picked up an issue of “Muskman.” After turning a few pages, she abruptly set the comic down.
“Do you think life was better back then, or do we just idealize the past?”
“Probably a little of both,” Bonnie said, laying down the graphic novel she was reading. “We’re idealistic when we’re young, then we lose it and die.”
“Yeah. Thanks for cheering me up.”
Bonnie studied her for a moment. “Your old flame isn’t as good as you remembered, eh?”
“Au contraire. He’s better. Unbelievable, in fact.”
“No kidding?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Bonnie unstrapped a sandal and wiggled her toes. “Maybe that’s what’s so appealing about Muskman. Simplicity. What you see is what you get.”
Ellie thought she was talking about the comic, yet that apparently was true of Russell as well, not that simplicity was always necessarily a good thing. And perhaps if she knew him better he would be very complicated. She doubted it, though. He sure seemed like a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person.
She was about to mention that to Bonnie when Tiffy and Spencer approached, laughing up a storm. They seemed to be getting awfully chummy, Ellie noticed, wondering if Russell had noticed as well. That was an interesting development.
“Spencer’s going to draw me,” Tiffy gushed. “Hashtag, he says I’m a classic.”
“That you are,” Bonnie chuckled. “What about Chantella, Spencer?”
“I’m an equal-opportunity artist,” he smiled. He took a seat and began looking through his satchel, pulling out a sketchpad.
“Where do you want me?” Tiffy asked brightly.
Spencer and Bonnie exchanged a look.
This really should be the Politically Incorrect, Sexual Innuendo Convention, said Ellie’s little head voice and she smiled.
“Right over here,” Spencer directed. He sat Tiffy down in a director’s chair, opened his sketchpad and picked up a graphic pencil. Then he pulled up a chair, sat down and began sketching, thinking, life is good.
Tiffy was thinking Spencer was surprisingly sexy and handsome for an old guy. Well, he wasn’t that old if he could still have that decent a body. And he was so creative. Truthfully, he was old enough to be her father. Wait, he was actually old enough to be her grandfather. Hashtag, she didn’t give a hoot. She liked him. She was always drawn to creative types for some reason, like Russell. And Spencer.
Ellie was thinking she was surrounded by people with talent…well, she wasn’t quite sure what Tiffy’s talent was, though she was still young, and she was starting to suspect the younger woman was a consummate actress. But what was Ellie’s talent? She had always subscribed to the 100-point theory. Everyone was born with 100 points. If you got 95 points in beauty or 80 points in smarts, then you were probably missing points in other areas. She hadn’t gotten an excess of beauty points, definitely didn’t get very many artistic points, and for sure she got virtually no cooking points. So where did her talent lie? Oh, she knew she was nice and hardworking and reliable and honest, and that certainly counted for something. But talented? Hmm, where the hell were those illusive points?
As she philosophized about her pointage or lack thereof, the convention went on, with various scenes playing out in different areas. Muskman arm wrestled a woman at the Rip Off Press booth, and she won. At the Whacko Records booth, a nun took a photo of Tiffy with a way punk guy. Chantella looked at sexy t-shirts and Wesley browsed the DVDs at the Fantagraphics booth. While Sludge was busy with a customer at his booth, Spencer quickly added a mustache and beard to a sexy female cut-out. At a snack bar, Muskman took the hand of a woman and put it into the hand of a man standing nearby. Just then the woman’s beefy husband walked up and grabbed Muskman by the scruff of the neck.
Later, at the Full Court Press both, Bonnie and Ellie were still holding the fort, talking about the logistics of the move to France.
“This has been a fun convention,” Bonnie said. “I’m glad we brought Muskman. Russell has exceeded expectations, almost scarily so.”
“Yeah,” Ellie sighed. “He brought Muskman to life, all right. He kind of grows on you. Like a mold,” she added under her breath.
A cell phone rang, and Bonnie and Ellie both checked their purses. It was Ellie’s.
And it was Brian. She also noticed she had missed a call from Toni.
“Hi, what’s up?” She listened intently. “Oh, no, I thought you had Joe Diffie just about lined up.” She listened for a few more moments, commiserating with him. At one point, she looked up at the ceiling, looked back at her hands, shook her head and said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be able to help, for tonight anyway.”
Bonnie looked at her questioningly.
“Yes, give me a few minutes and I’ll call you back.”
She ended the call.
“Trouble?”
“Brian’s casino. He’s had some trouble booking the entertainment for the grand opening. Seems like all the country stars in his price range are booked or have last-minute emergencies. Originally they had Diamond Rio slated, but I think when they had to bail, some of that money was diverted. Now he has less money and fewer options. Do you mind if I…”
“Go ahead. It’s pretty dead around here.”
Ellie stood and looked down at Bonnie fondly. “You guys are the all-time best bosses.”
It was true, and not because they were lax. They expected a full day’s work for a full day’s pay, and the work had better be good. They also welcomed input from their employees and were family friendly and cognizant and supportive of personal obligations. Bonnie smiled and Ellie headed off, once again a woman on a mission. Was she about to cross-pollinate the two men of her dreams? That thought stopped her cold. Brian might be the man of her dreams, beautiful, classy, gorgeous Brian, but Russell? Russell? Now where was that annoying inner voice when she needed it?
That evening, as Ellie drove down the famed Las Vegas Strip, the sun slipped below the horizon and the neon lights came alive in all their glory. The sight never failed to put a smile on her face and energize her. It was so alive and so over-the-top. She knew even when she lived here and was so young that all that glittered wasn’t gold, but it was exciting, it got the blood pumping. There was no place on earth like it, although there were plenty of imitators. It was the ultimate fantasy world. Could she be happy living here again? Or did it just seem so wonderful because it was an occasional thing? Or was it a moot point? To dream the impossible dream…Oh Lord, she was in bigger trouble than she thought if her subconscious was belting out show tunes.
Ellie was gratified to see that the Back in the Saddle Casino parking lot was jammed. The new venue had been open for a couple of hours and a crowd was still filtering in. She ended up valet parking at the Flamingo and walking back several blocks. Inside Brian’s casino, she followed a group of Southern tourists who were “y’alling” each other to death and made her way through the crowd to the sounds of coins cascading into slot-machine buckets and dealers calling out, “Coming out!” and “Insurance?” Players were also yelling out enthusiastically if they hit a jackpot, blackjack hand or roll of the dice. She could almost hear the casino breathing. It was alive. She felt pride, she realized, as if Brian were her son or protégé. That has all kinds of creepy connotations.
As she got closer to the stage, she heard a familiar voice singing. And there he was. Russell sat on-stage on what looked like a backless barstool. Dressed in cowboy regalia that he looked like he was born in—weathered jeans, a red checked Western shirt with mother of pearl buttons and a white Stetson hat—he was playing an acoustic guitar. She didn’t even know he could play the guitar. And he was delighting patrons, who seemed as engaged as any crowd she’d ever seen, while there was still a lot of peripheral noise going on. Once again, she had to admit he had a really good voice and engaging stage presence. She stopped for a moment to listen to him sing.
Oh come along, boys, and listen to my tale,
I'll tell you all my troubles on the ol' Chisholm trail.
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea youpy yea
Come a-ti yi youpy youpy yea.
On a ten dollar horse and a forty dollar saddle,
I was ridin', and a punchin' Texas cattle.
We left ol' Texas October twenty-third
Drivin' up the trail with the U-2 herd.
And then, to her utter astonishment, he began yodeling. And of course he was good at it. Was there ever any doubt? That’s one talent he hadn’t shared on their road trip, praise the Lord. Several people in the crowd clapped and cheered, and Ellie was rather stunned to realize she felt something odd—even more pride for him than she did for Brian. What was up with that? It’s not like she had discovered him. What alternate universe is this? She was still standing there, trying to keep her chin from dropping, when Brian approached her excitedly.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. You saved my life. He might not be well known, and he’s more cowboy than country, but this is supposed to be a saloon, after all, so he’s perfect. This guy is great. He got a standing ovation after the first two sets.”
“But the audience was drunk, right?”
“He’s not Pavarotti, but he’s got it. In fact, he oozes it from every pore. I am in your debt now and forever. We’ll definitely bring him back.”
Brian went on singing Russell’s praises, and then they discussed the crowd and Brian’s own unmitigated success. She had never seen the man happier, which made him even better looking than usual, if that was even possible. No doubt Brian was in his element. So was Russell, apparently, chameleon that he was. There was never a better opportunity to compare them, but she resisted the temptation. She thought her head actually would explode if she forced it to come to some kind of conclusion about the unavailable Brian and the unruly Russell.
She looked up on stage again. Russell saw her at that point and smiled and then launched into another song.
There's a yellow rose in Texas, that I am going to see,
No other soldier knows her, no soldier only me
She cried so when I left her it like to broke my heart,
And if I ever find her, we nevermore will part.
She's the sweetest rose of color this soldier ever knew,
Her eyes are bright as diamonds, they sparkle like the dew;
You may talk about your Dearest May, and sing of Rosa Lee,
But the Yellow Rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee.
The guy must have a repertoire of a thousand songs. Hell, he probably has a repertoire of a thousand cowboy songs.
Was he singing to her? She felt her face flushing and tore her eyes from the stage, looking around the thriving casino instead. Everything was humming along as it should, and the tables were full, with tons of spectators watching as well. People talked and laughed, drank and ate. It was truly a triumphant opening. She smiled at Brian. “I knew you’d pull it off. There was no doubt in my mind. Told you so.”
“And you helped, more than I can say.”
She was about to respond happily when a beautiful brunette in a stunning aqua wraparound dress and killer strappy off-white heels approached them. She looked to be about 30, her long, sleek hair so satiny and shiny she could have stepped out of a hair commercial.
“Daddy wants to comp dinner to the Chinese couple on table six,” she said.
It had to be Cindy. Of course she’s gorgeous. What, you thought she’d be ugly? Or better yet, incredibly plain and dull?
“Sure. Tell Paula I said it’s okay and to take care of it, will you?”
“Of course. Thanks, hon.” She started to go.
“Cindy, this is Ellie Lambert.”
She came back immediately, without so much as a hitch in her step, smiling warmly. “Oh, yes, we spoke on the phone. It’s nice to meet you.” She spread out her arms. “What do you think of it? He’s brilliant, isn’t he?”
“Yes, it’s absolutely wonderful,” Ellie agreed. “It all seemed to come together so quickly, but I suppose that’s an illusion.”
“Brian makes it look easy, doesn’t he, but he worked really hard.” Cindy looked up at the stage. “And Cowboy Russ really put us over the top.”
“Cowboy Russ?”
She looked back at Russell, who was still singing “Yellow Rose of Texas.” It was strange seeing him through other people’s eyes. He was…talented. And respected. And attractive, very attractive if you’ll be honest with yourself. But why would you want to do that? What was wrong with her? This was Russell, that annoying shameless flirt and buttinski. Maybe she was attracted to him because she couldn’t be attracted to Brian in front of Cindy. Yeah, and if you believe that, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to sell you.
“Enjoy your stay,” Cindy said as if she actually meant it. Ellie gave the proper polite response and watched her walk away. Make that float. She watched her effortlessly float away. Class. She wreaked of class. The woman didn’t seem jealous at all. And she didn’t seem like a bitch either. She seemed friendly. And incredibly elegant. That wasn’t remotely how Ellie had pictured her. She had seen her more as a wallflower type, shy and quiet but formidable in her own way. With good feet, since her father was a podiatrist. Ellie looked at Brian, almost quizzically. Why would he want her when he had this gorgeous, poised, friendly woman who came with a casino management position?
“I have to circulate,” he said, dodging the questions he could see in her eyes, “but we need to talk. You’re due to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“I’ll probably get out of here around two or three. I’ll come to your room.”
It wasn’t a question. While she should have been affronted by his audacity, she was feeling something altogether different. Excitement? Daring? Hope? Fear?
“Meanwhile,” he was saying, diverting her attention from her fantasy world to earth, “you want something to drink? Dinner?”
“Just a root beer, if you have it. Thanks.” She had never drunk so much root beer in her life. At least it was caffeine free and didn’t give her a hangover. Hopefully Brian won’t give you a hangover either.
“Take the table on the left by the stage with a “reserved” sign on it. I’ll send it over. And then I’ll see you later.”
This was it. This was the night. Sex at last. Hallelujah, hallelujah. “No, it’s not that.”
“You don’t want root beer?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I do. I was thinking about something else. Thanks.” She headed toward the table he had indicated, hoping he didn’t think she was as crazy as she knew she sounded. Yes it would be the night when she finally enjoyed some much missed sex. That wasn’t the momentous thing, though, or the only momentous thing. Not to her. Tonight she would learn if there was truly a connection with Brian, a permanent connection, and how they felt about each other. He wasn’t getting out of her room without telling her what he wanted. And then maybe she’d know what she wanted. Love. Well, duh.