The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso by Edward

The stage lights shone down hot, a prismatic hell that cast no shadows and left foreheads beaded with sweat. The studio audience, settled out of the direct illumination, chatted and watched for the pending signal to start the show.

"Your attention, pee--pull." The floor manager addressed the gathered fans and held up his clipboard. "Watch the monitor and me. Ready, five, four, three, two, one..."

The "applause" display lit up, red and demanding, and everyone clapped and whistled as the big band at stage left launched the theme music.

From the entry way behind and above the crowd, a spotlighted figure bounded down the aisle and up onto the stage. The young man was dressed casually, grey slacks and yellow shirt with ultra-wide lapels. He wore an earpiece and mike, and smiled wide, teeth white and prominent.

"Good evening, North Bergen!"

The crowd answered back, an unintelligible eruption that sounded kind of like "good evening", or "good grief", or "good God, man, who are you?" It was hard to tell.

"Thank you,...Welcome to the very first airing of Senior American Idol! I’m Clint Diddlestaff, your series host."

The crowd clapped and whistled. Clint was the highly public paramour of Cher, whose taste in recent years had progressed from twenty-five year-olds to thirty-five year-olds.

"For our television audience, this week we are in North Bergen, and we’ve narrowed the list of hopefuls down to the three contestants you’ll see and hear tonight, then we’ll play outtakes from the earlier auditions. But first, we’ll take a commercial break and when we come back, you’ll meet our judges."

Five minutes of commercial banter later the floor manager raised his clipboard and the "On Air" sign lit.

"Hello, I’m Clint Diddlestaff, we’re back, and you’re watching Senior American Idol! The judges will determine who will continue to our next round of competition for the new Senior American Idol! Let’s meet our first judge."

From stage right, a familiar stocky character wearing a dark blue cabbie’s uniform strolled out onto the round stage, waved and blew kisses to the hooting crowd.

"Folks, lets hear it for Ralph Kramden, star of The Honeymooners II, Palm Beach, the number one reality show last season!"

The crowd stomped and yelled. Ralph took the first seat at the table.

"Our next judge, host of his own fashion show and President of Yo-Yo Records, put your hands together for RuPaul!"

The people stood, screaming mindlessly, just like the monitor said, as RuPaul, dressed smartly in basic black, danced and wiggled over to his chair, hugged Ralph, kissed into the air, and then sat down.

"Finally, ladies and gents, I present to you our third judge, noted author and activist, womens’ rights champion and president of the Free Your Captive Foundation, it’s Gloria Steinem!"

Dressed to the nines in a red A-line with matching shoes, she hobbled into center stage, nearly tripping herself with her cane, raised her right hand in a clenched fist, then took her seat, nodding to the other judges.

"Folks, let’s hear it for our judges!" The applause was scattered, light. "And now, for our first contestant." Clint squinted quizzically, reading the teleprompter. "She hails from Atlanta, she’s a full-time grandmother and part-time corrections officer, meet Doris Pearl!"

Doris looked like Frieda Kahlo with red hair, all mystique and eyebrow. She glided glistening onto the floor and up to the mike.

There was excitement in Clint’s voice and raw hunger in his eyes. "What are you going to sing for me, Doris?"

"The Homeless Child Blues, Clint." She cued the band and the opening refrain of the saddest song ever written flowed out and settled on the crowd. The listeners seized the music and tears rolled from their eyes as Doris’ sweet soulful voice wept and the guitars sobbed in perfect harmony.

As the final notes faded, the crowd, gasping and bawling, stood to a person and applauded with heartfelt ardor.

Doris faced the panel. The first judge to comment was Ralph Kramden.

"To..da..moon, Doris!" In Ralph-speak, that was a positive vote.

RuPaul was next, still blubbering and blotting tears from his eyes, mascara running.

"It was so soulful, and you sang it so beautifully. I loved it, girl! I say yes!"

Doris bowed graciously, mouthing "Thank you, Jesus."

Gloria tsk, tsk’d and glanced askance at Doris.

"Doris, Doris, the song was masterfully performed, but you need to work on your look. Your bare midriff was too distracting. Overall, though, I’d say....you’re going to Omaha!"

Doris shrieked, jumped up and down, then rushed to the lobby, where family members awaited. She burst into the lobby, face glowing.

"I’m going to Omaha!"

Her sister and oldest daughter bounced up and down, hand in hand, for several minutes, out of control jack-in-the-boxes.

Clint materialized from stage right.

"Our next contestant, from Las Vegas, Nevada, is a widowed professional knife thrower who gardens and raises chinchillas. Put your hands together for Emmy Lee!

The applause sign blinked, hummed, then exploded in a shower of sparks. The spectators cheered, this was unexpected, but added to the experience. Later, they would watch their dvd copies of the moment over and over.

"What are you going to do for us tonight, Emmy?"

Emmy was a tall, busty woman. Both hands flashed gold and diamonds. Her blouse said "Get Down On It", and purple hotpants and sheepskin boots completed her stage persona.

"I’m gonna do "Don’t Fear the Reaper!"

"Wha...? The crowd of people all looked at one another with open mouth. Clint cut into the confused silence.

"OK then, here’s Emmy Lee with that Blue Oyster Cult classic, Don’t Fear The Reaper!"

The studio band tried to play "Don’t Fear the Reaper", and did a passably good job. The only thing lacking was the elevator. The band was stinking and unprepared, but Emmy Lee had the voice to pull it off. The first verse played smooth, and by the time she hit "don’t fear the Reaper,... come on baby,..", The crowd was in rapture, not necessarily at the incredible sounds coming from Emmy Lee, but from her strut around the stage, the coolest stroll any bopper had ever attempted. The music faded into insignificance as all eyes marveled at her liquid movements. She did a backbone slip and slide and a downtown sashay that killed. Her expressive eyes sought out and rearranged their psyches, leaving only hunger for more.

The judges had their verdicts before the music faded.

Ralph Kramden was turned on, big time. He threw his hat into the air and ripped off his coat.

"How...sssweet..it..iiisss!"

RuPaul jumped up and clapped his hands.

"Honey, I want you to teach me those moves! Your stage presence is fantastic! From me, a big yes!"

Gloria Steinem held up a sheet of paper on which she had written in big letters, YES. NEXT STOP OMAHA!

Emmy knew she was good, but hadn’t counted on anything. She took a seat in the lobby, heart pounding. No friends or family were there to congratulate her.

Clint was back on the stage now, energetic and excited.

"That will be hard to top, right, audience?"

The crowd screamed affirmation.

"Great, thank you. Next up, a North Bergen family man, entrepreneur, and sax player, meet B.L. Smith!"

B.L. was a large man. He wore a red daishiki that brushed the floor and a red turban that made him appear even taller. His dark face ended in a little black goatee. A silver tenor sax hung from his neckstrap. The audience clapped courteously, the red applause beacon was gone, so they had to wait for the floor manager to hoist his hand written sign.

"What are we going to hear from you tonight, B.L.?

"Song and instrumental, Clint. I’m gonna bring on da’ funk, with Yum Yum Gimme Some, by Johnny King and the Fatback Band."

He pointed one finger to the musicians, counted silently, One, Two, Three, Four. The bass thumped, forcing its way into your bones. The drummer and guitars crept into the beat and B.L. sang the first verse. The chorus came and B.L.’s sax became the melody, so cool and strong that every note said put your feet here and dance,..dance. Everyone in the studio rushed the stage to dance and revel in pure sound. B.L. was in the driver’s seat, the emperor of the beat, sax man le plus.

What happened next cemented B.L.’s reputation as showman. The spotlights dimmed and spiral blue flames sprang from the walls surrounding the stage, pulsing time with the music. The flames were cold, no heat emanated from the roiling pillars. The people danced, happy, forming a ring around B.L. He lifted the sax above his head as the chorus wound down, then in a flash of light and a puff of black smoke, he disappeared.

The flames continued to burn cool fire, then snuffed out when the music stopped, leaving the smell of burnt wood in the air. The crowd, mesmerized, stumbled back to their seats.

The entryway door opened and B.L. stalked in, down the aisle and back up onto the stage. Applause followed him all the way.

The judges were talking among themselves. Clint hovered at stage left, waiting.

Ralph Kramden, a staring, hypnotized look in his eyes, merely shook his head yes and muttered one word, "Omaha."

RuPaul’s wig had slipped backward during the frenzied dance, and perched on the back of his head, revealing a high bald forehead. "I don’t think so," was all he could manage to utter.

Gloria Steinem looked into the camera, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath.

"I say no."

There was an audible gasp from the audience, and B.L.’s eyebrows shot up.

"I believe you could do this as a Vegas magic act or something, but we’re looking for the new American Senior Idol. You need to strip it down, simplify, then come back. I don’t think you’re ready for Omaha."

B.L. was mortified. How dare they? These people obviously had no idea who they were talking to. He could stop their hearts with nothing more than an evil stare, and they probably would deserve it. He wouldn’t cut ‘em any slack in Hell, either. They would have to wash his car and mow his lawn every day, just because he said so. But...he had Amanda to watch out for, he had to raise her right.

"Thanks for giving me the chance. I’ll be seeing you later." This was about as gracious as Satan could ever get. He raised his hand to the now-silent audience, blew an arpeggio on his sax, then winked out, leaving only a rapidly dissipating puff of smoke and the fading echo of his last notes.