A Short Story by

K. Sue Collins, author of Cool

Clay Synder looked mighty smart in his crisp new blue jeans and striped oxford shirt. Welcome back to the age of jive. His shiny loafers had been recently waxed. He spent forty-five minutes on his hair. He borrowed some of his mother’s concealer to cover a rather nasty looking zit very prominent on his forehead. He was ready to make his mark. He had been practicing for two months for this moment. He was not going to be one of those American Idol wannabes strutting around stage like a John Travolta impersonator. No, Clay had more talent than that. He didn’t even have to have anyone tell him that. He already knew was going to be a star and tonight was going to be his debut. Everyone at the Karaoke Bar was in for a treat. Clay Synder was about to perform.

The first manner of business after his arrival was to choose which song to perform. Most of the songs on the list were songs that were really, really old like from the eighties. And what happened to these singers, Clay reasoned. Nothing, they were only around to collect some money for performing one or two songs then they couldn’t sell anymore albums. They were reduced to doing WB reality tv shows or worse, dinner theatre. Well, that wasn’t going to be Clay’s fault. He was going to be like Elvis only he wouldn’t croak on the toilet like the King did. Clay wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

"Yo, Kid, you almost done?" The forty-something year old redneck with the, yuck, flannel shirt breathed over his shoulder.

Clay took one look at the man and knew he would be sorry once he would have to follow Clay onstage. He would be nothing. In fact, Clay was betting that no one would ever want to perform on this stage ever again due to the magnificent greatness of Clay. They would probably rename the stage Clay Syn. That was his new stage name, he just came up with it, this night. Clarence Synder wasn’t an acceptable performing name. His objective remained the same, once his fame was wide reaching and universally known, he would propose to Britney Spears. She would accept immediately, because who could turn down a superstar like Clay. Yes, that had been his dream for the past year and tonight was his first step to make his dream a reality. He might luck out and a talent scout might be in the audience. Now only one hurdle stood in his way.

"Kid!" The redneck shouted behind him.

Oh yeah the stupid song list. He was daydreaming again. "Just a minute," he snapped back at the man, his back to the man.

He heard the man walk away. Clay was on the verge of something. What did he want to make his mark with? Michael Bolton? Ewww, no way. Same thing goes for Yanni. What was wrong with these people? Who performed shit like this? He turned his attention to the stage. A gay pair was on stage singing "I’ve got you Babe." Clay didn’t have a partner. He didn’t need a partner. It was all him. Although the thought did cross his mind that it might be a good idea to start off in a band like Justin Timberlake did. And he wound up scoring with Britney. It was too late for that tonight. It was entirely possible that he could still put together a band of less talented guys and so it would make him sound better. It was a thought.

Clay turned through the book one more time. When he saw it, it was like an omen. Bon Jovi’s "Living on a Prayer." That would be perfect for Clay. Jon Bon Jovi was lead singer of the band before he branched off into such great movies like Young Guns II. He owns his own football team. Jon Bon Jovi is the height of cool even if he lives in New Jersey.

"I’ve decided on my song!" Clay announced to the group of patrons. As if any of them cared. Most of them were on their sixth drink of the night. Clay didn’t drink. He wanted to, but he wasn’t old enough. So he gave the bartender thirty-two dollars so he wouldn’t be bothered by the drink minimum policy.

Clay stood by patiently and waited for his turn for Sonny and Sonny to finish their duet. He preened himself in side mirror before taking foot on stage. The stage was silent for two minutes while Clay adjusted his surroundings so that they fit. He put a stool in the middle stage and took out his bottle of Publix water and set it on the floor. The Karaoke attendant was getting anxious he wanted to push the button and get it over with already, but Clay slipped him seventeen dollars to wait until he was ready. On stage, Clay undid the top three buttons of his oxford shirt he ironed this afternoon. He bent down and swilled from his bottled water.

"Hello, I’m Clay Syn." He pauses to give the audience time to digest his name. They would be hearing it many times in the future on MTV. "And tonight I will be performing ‘Living on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi." He paused and waited for the applause. There was none. He cleared his throat. "Hit it," he announced.

The music started. The audience stopped drinking enough to listen to Clay. They were interested in knowing what all the fuss was about. He pretended like Elton John was taking the stage. They soon closed their ears and went back to their drinking once the singing started.

Clay was oblivious to the audience. It must be the damned microphone. They must not be able to hear me. He adjusted his singing accordingly. The louder the better, right? The audience could no longer tune out the caterwauling on stage. The boo-ing started. At first, Clay remained absorbed in his own performance to notice that the response was not positive. Once the overwhelming sound drowned out his own voice. He heard the boo-ing. He still sang. He thought it was a good boo-ing like when a group of people are egging someone on. It wasn’t until someone blurted out, "Get off the stage, Shatner!" that Clay knew that his performance was not well-received. He stopped singing and looked out at the sea of drunken nine to fivers. They had a lot to drink, but not enough to impair their sense of what ear-splitting noise was.

Clay stormed off stage with the empty orchestra still playing his song. He pushed his way through the crowd, whose boo-ing was transformed into laughter. He kicked out the exit door. He pressed his face against the brick wall and started to wail. Five minutes of a good cry and Clay realized that these people had no taste. They wouldn’t know what good music was. Clay was a great singer. Simon Cowell himself would praise Clay’s singing. So what turned the crowd against him? He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He then saw what the problem was. His clothes. Who would take him seriously as a rocker when he was dressed like a Jehovah Witness? No, his style was what was wrong with this night.

Clay changed his style to meet what he deemed as the ultimate rocker. The more he tore his clothing and the blacker they were the better. He toured various Karoake establishments. The reaction was the same until he found a Karoake Bar at airport where he was not boo-ed off stage. There were two people in the crowd that night. One was wearing two hearing aids, both batteries were dead. The other was a singer even more tone deaf than Clay was. It was all the encouragement Clay needed to pursue his dream.