Bathroom Monologue: The Danni

Many moons ago, I promised a young(ish) girl a story about a six-fingered guitarist and his guitar, The Danni. Inspiration to actually write it took an age and a day. It doesn’t have the humor or the wit she probably wanted, but I gave it my best. Enjoy.

In the lull between songs, Randy wandered over to his vocalist. He spoke in a loud hush.

“This next is my last, kid. Time to find myself one of those keepers and mosey out.”

“You sure? It’s been an honor.” Vic gestured to the crowd. “I didn’t know middle-aged women had so much juice.”

“They got more than life, but I can’t play all night anymore.” He gave Vic a six-fingered pat on the ass. “You kids did fine, and you got a good throat. Just get the band to take us into Fire Itch.”

Of course he picked Fire Itch. Two bass solos guaranteed to get as many feminine eyes on him as possible. Randy left his vocalist, waving his cowboy hat to a shriek of crowd joy. He held it over the heart of his suit jacket, that pinstripe job that he’d worn ever since Secondary Colors came out.

“So this next song’s going to play our guest bassist off …”

Three thousand hitch pitched voices went, “Awww.”

“Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s about this thing you can’t scratch alone…”

Three thousand hitch pitched voices lost their God-damned minds.

Randy was laughing as he picked up The Danni, the bass guitar he’d travelled with since Secondary Colors got stale. The faceplate was painted to look like a woman’s bare bottom, her spine running up beneath the strings. The way he cradled it was downright obscene.

Vic rested his throat through the intro, since even with industrial speakers nobody could hear them play over how ovations and ovulations of the crowd. Daisies and roses bounced off Randy’s polished city slicker shoes. He just waved like he was embarrassed, and when the wave didn’t cause him to miss so much as a fret, they went even crazier. Bouquets were touching down less than sixty seconds into the song.

The lyrics were basic and the double entendre kind of chaffed, but so many people singing along gave Vic a rush. So he belted out how he itched when they met, and how he itched when she walked out, and how he itched… and stared off blankly as that first bass solo kicked in.

A pair of panties slingshotted onstage and bounced off Randy’s chest. He caught them on his second pinky and kept playing. Fingers at least fifty-five years old flew faster than Vic’s could right now.

The drummer led them into the second verse. Vic followed with his lips, eyes trying to follow Randy’s gaze. The old goat ignored sleeting wadded dollar bills and errant bouquets, staring through the glitz and making personal eye contact with everyone his glaucoma permitted.

Vic faded back as Randy rose into the second solo, trying to figure out who there was this mythical “keeper” Randy had mentioned. He seemed mostly keen on the middle-agers, old enough to have thought he was the shit when they were in high school. Seemed a shame to Vic since there was a crop of new high-schoolers staring at him right now.

Randy slammed down thrice for the last chords, reverberating through the building. He held out the six-fingered hand like Jesus on the cross, the other cradling The Danni’s bum. More flowers, more panties, and a hotel key card pinged off his chest.

“That the keeper, boss?”

“No. That’s normal.”

Randy shook his head and let the card lie on the stage. People chanted thank-you, thank-you-ran-dee, bless-the-dan-nee, and far less comprehensible but nonetheless positive sentiment. A couple more hotel key cars whizzed along. Then a long plastic tube clattered across one of his shoes. Vic grimaced.

“Is that a catheter?”

"More than that, kid.” Randy reached down and picked up the device between his thumb and second pinky. He waved it to the audience until he spied the owner. He tipped his hat. “It’s a keeper. Mostly about talking at this age, and that’s going to be a hell of a conversation.”