THE BAR was in Springfield’s deserted downtown, a block away from the Basketball Hall of Fame, which was, legitimately, a building shaped like a giant basketball. Sadly, the karaoke wasn’t in the ball, but at a chain restaurant called Wingdinigans. It had the faux kitschy front of a place called Wingdinigans. Booths circled the perimeter and there was a bar dead center. They had set up the stage and karaoke machine there, and people were crowded against the bar, teetering over the people seated at small round tables. When I made for a tiny table, a man in a striped green and purple shirt ran over to me.

“Excuse me, but it’s twenty-one and over only for our drinking establishment. If you’d like, I can get a waitress to seat you at a booth.”

“I get my drinks for free anyway,” Johnny said.

The man glowered. I stared at my brother, wishing that he’d shut up before he wasted all our efforts.

We were exhausted from the whole trip and didn’t have time to have a Wingdinigans manager stop us at the finish line. Butters was too busy mumbling to himself and running through his routine to notice any of it.

“The competition,” Betty finally said. “We’re here for the karaoke.”

“Ohh,” he said, drawing the word out. “In that case the registration is over there. Lower turnout then we expected. But if I see you drinking anything from the bar that isn’t soda or water, you’re out of here immediately. All of you. I should be carding ya,” he continued, “but you got lucky tonight. Be good, okay?”

 

THERE WAS a stage with a solitary microphone on a stand up front, a small TV pointing at the mic, and a folding table. Three people sat at the table drinking enormous cocktails from Hurricane glasses, with fruit and umbrellas tumbling out of the perimeter. They had the look of “wacky” local celebrities, you know the sort: they host the morning zoo radio show, complete with fart sound effects, or the meteorologists that have a special hat for every holiday or pseudo-holiday. It seemed a little preposterous that we had used all our powers to get Butters here so the goofiest people in the room could decide his fate.

There was a parade of middling drunken singers belting their way through rock and R & B classics. Occasionally someone could actually sing really well, and it was impressive. The judges made semi-funny comments that we felt obliged to laugh at and gave out mostly fives and sixes. The performances ranged from one person nervously singing into the mic to people wildly flailing around like they were fronting some Eighties hair metal band. One guy, in the middle of an air guitar windmill, ate it on the mic cord and nearly took out the TV on the way down.

“Fire in the hole,” the wacky DJ screamed, and he plummeted.

I was happy to be there, but as the night went on I got sleepier and sleepier. I think I was jetlagged. And something about hanging out with Betty, Butters, Johnny, and Alice felt off to me. I was so excited to see them but I couldn’t keep up. They had jokes that I didn’t know, and Johnny and Alice had started a band, maybe, and I think they were calling it The Third Policeman. “I bet you’re totally influenced by Taylor Swift,” I joked, and Alice waved me off at one point.

At least Butters looked as nervous as I felt. The Spectors filed their nails and rolled their eyes at the competition. They were really, really confident in a way that Butters couldn’t even approach. I was jealous of them.

Finally the announcer called him up. Butters looked dorky in his pleated khakis and white button-down shirt. Especially surrounded by the Spectors, who had on floor-length sequined dresses in midnight blue with embroidered lace running from the hip to the bust.

“So, to be clear,” I asked Betty. “That’s all from his mind?”

“What do you mean?”

“The dresses, the hair, their attitudes. If that’s all a mental projection, everything they do, say, and wear comes from him.”

“Yeah, I guess. Why?”

“It’s just funny. He’s able to dress them so well.”

“Hey,” she said. “I helped him pick that out.”

“A little Norman Bates,” Alice said.

I started to laugh but the announcer started talking and Betty threw her hand over my mouth.

“Our next contestant is Matthew Butters. He’ll be performing ‘He’s a Rebel’ by the Crystals.”

We all applauded and Johnny shouted, “Butters!”

Butters took the mic and corrected the announcer. “Actually, sir, it’s Butters and the Spectors. Thanks so much.” The music cued up, and Butters hit the first line with perfect pitch. He changed it to “She’s a Rebel.” The Spectors frowned for a second and then played along. Beyond being tortured by Christie, which really didn’t count, I’d never actually heard Butters really belt it out before. He had a good voice. A really good voice. He looked so nervous, though. Like he wanted to fall into himself and disappear. Maybe that’s why he chose the Spectors. They were all bravado; they covered up for his shyness.“Ever hear the version by The Zippers?” Johnny whispered to Alice during the first chorus as the Spectors belted She’s a rebel and she’ll never be any good.

“No,” Alice whispered back. “Who are they?”

“You’ve never heard of the Zippers? They were an awesome LA punk band. I got it on vinyl. Come over. I’ll play it for you.”

Alice’s eyes darted toward me for a second before she whispered, “Awesome.” The chorus ended and they returned their focus to the stage. Betty beamed as Butters sang, but even better, the audience was enthralled with his performance. People who had been talking loudly and spilling drinks stopped to watch. The judges put down their pens and just nodded their heads to the song. It was spectacular. The real spectacle was provided by the Spectors. When he finished we hooted and hollered and the crowd joined in. Everyone stood and applauded loudly except for one man, who had a large black bouffant and was wearing a strange looking robe or cape thing. He just sat, drinking tea, and watched Butters awkwardly take in the applause and then stand there, shaking, while he waited for the judges’ votes.

He was given tens by two of the judges and a 9.5 from the last one. Everyone booed the 9.5 loudly. Butters was clearly in the lead, and there was only one performer left. He would make it to the next round.

“Can you believe that nonsense?” the lead Spector, the one who always insisted on standing in the middle, said. “It’s probably because he changed it.”

“What are you talking about,” the shorter Spector said. “It was the same, Doris.”“The same? She’s a rebel. She. It’s he’s a rebel Beverly. She. He ain’t no Gene Pitney.”

“And you ain’t no Darlene Love,” said the last Spector, the tall, skinny one.“Maybeline, I swear one of these days I’m gonna step out and leave your sorry sacks behind.”

“What the heck is stepping out?” I asked Alice.

“It’s when one of the singers in a group steps out from the chorus and does a solo. It mean she’s thinking of leaving and striking off on her own. Like Diana Ross stepped out from the Supremes,” Alice said. She noticed my confused look and added, “or Beyonce and Destiny’s Child.”

“I don’t get it. How could she do that? Like, on a molecular level?” I whispered to Alice.

Alice just shrugged. Butters was too busy getting accolades from strangers while the Spectors grumbled. The manager kept an eye on him and every time he got a drink he refused it under the glare of his stupid eyes.

The Spectors were still bickering with each other. At least I knew their names now. “Talk talk talk,” said Maybeline. “You ever stop out I’m gonna eat my stockings.”“Nice one, Werner Herzog,” Alice joked and all the Spectors stopped to stare at her before evaporating in a puff of smoke as Butters returned to the group and handed out free Cokes. Johnny raised his finger like a man of class, offering to spike the glass.

Then the announcer called on Admiral Skylark, and the man with the bouffant stood up, combed his hair, pulled out a pocket mirror and looked at himself, then slowly strutted to the stage. Under the lights I could see what he was wearing. It was a floor- length cape made out of bright white feathers and matching white pants and shirt. His face had a deep fake-tan orange and he appeared to be wearing dark eye makeup.

Was this Butters’ arch-nemesis? Was this his enemy?

“And now, for our last performer, Admiral Skylark, who will be performing ‘When Doves Cry’ by Prince,” said the announcer.

Admiral Skylark stood in front of the microphone, his arms at his side, his head down. The song began with a solo from some instrument I couldn’t identify, maybe it was a keytar with its strange Eighties electronic blooping. A drum kicked in, and as soon as it did, Skylark raised his hands and doves started pouring out of his hands and his chest. They shot outward to the audience, who ducked in unison, but before they reached anyone they disappeared in a rainbow explosion of spectral light.

Just as the audience got their bearings again he started singing. They went nuts. It made the applause for Butters seem like golf claps. As he sang he made birds disappear and explode into choreographed color displays that accompanied the song. When the final solo started, he raised his arms and transformed into a large red phoenix that grew brighter and brighter with flame as the solo got more intense.

Then, suddenly, he disappeared into an enormous fire, which flashed a brilliant orange that blinded the audience. A black light blurred in front of my eyes until it gave away to Skylark appearing like a phoenix, his cape now a radiant orange-red, his pants and shirt black, singing the last note of the song lingering on the speaker.

Pandemonium broke out. He got straight tens across the board to roaring applause. Butters quietly grabbed his second place trophy and fifty dollar gift certificate to Wingdingans and tried to sneak out. But Admiral Skylark brushed away adoring fans to get to him at the door.

“Nice job there,” he said. “A little sharp on the bridge but your singers were great.”

“Why, thank you,” the Spectors replied, brushing off his praise like it was nothing before Butters had them disappear.

“Not so bad yourself,” Butters said.

“Good thing you could make it. I heard a lot of the competition got stuck,” he said, chuckling to himself like it was an adorable joke.

“Funny thing about that,” Johnny said, but Alice pulled him back.

“Well, I’ll see you at regionals,” Butters mumbled, trying to leave.

“Oh yes,” said Skylark. “I look forward to it.” He gave us one last leer and we were out the door. I looked ahead at Betty, who was comforting Butters, who looked as overwhelmed as I felt. How was he going to top Skylark’s performance?