WHITE-WALKER: Fame or fabric?

By Karen White-Walker
The Journal-Register

May 11, 2008 11:29 pm

— Do you ever wonder why most people never find their real niche in life? Sure wish I could tell you, but I really don’t know. Is it because nobody knew enough to guide him or her, because they could barely direct themselves? Are they just too lackadaisical to pursue anything with any real gusto? Or did somebody in his or her life issue an ultimatum — “Decide, a singing career or me!” I suspect that’s what happened when Bob married my cousin Sandy. He was singing in gigs with a popular local band and girls swarmed around him like boys gathered around me at school dances, yeah, right. When Bob crooned the paramedics had to be called in for those light-headed teenyboppers. I guess it takes an ultra secure wife not to feel terribly threatened. Well, that sure takes care of anyone from OUR side of the family.
In 1957 when Rock and Roll was in its infancy and Bob was a mere 17 years old, he hopped a bus to New York City and knocked on every record producer’s office. They all slammed the door in his face, but one was a smidgen too slow and when Bob got a glimpse of the face on the other side, he immediately broke out into a catchy Rock ‘n Roll song he had written — Cheatin’ Cheater. The lyrics went something like, “Woman, you cheat on me and I’ll beat you black and blue.” Today’s women would be stringing him up by his — let’s make that vocal cords, to say the other is far too crude and unladylike. The record producer was actually civil and urged Bob to get a representative — pronto! Too bad the agent turned out to be a real rat, pilfering most of the royalties from Bob’s record that had been released to the radio stations. Now the girls were really bombarding Bob and his relationship with Sandy was quickly deteriorating, so to appease his wife, he ditched his career and did what any would-be great promising entertainer would do — he went into the upholstery business.
“You might say the fabric of my life has shrunk to the size of a couch and chair,” he laughed, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Everybody could sense that it was killing him inside. So at family gatherings Bob belted out his songs and his ego fed on our pleading for more. But I guess we weren’t enough audience, because he ballooned in weight to well over 300 pounds, while his wife Sandy remained svelte. And why wouldn’t she. Her dream was realized by having her husband home. But if Bob were a driven music man, nothing or nobody would have stopped him from pursuing his goal. That’s one thing about talent; you must feed on it to satisfy that never-ending hunger. So I guess to fill the void, Bob stuffed himself on greasy pork rinds, not the fake kind that come in plastic bags, but the fresh ones that stick in your teeth and drip fat like thick saliva from your slobbering mouth. Bob was in pork paradise, gorging also on Italian sausage with green peppers and onions, chicken wings and fried pig’s feet. Finally D-day — the party was over, and he was shot down with 95 percent of his arteries clogged and he was rushed to the hospital.
“It will be one hell of an operation trying to undo the damage you’ve done,” the blunt surgeon told Bob.
“Doc,” panted Bob, “I’m petrified as hell. Will I make it?”
“They say, ‘never murder a man who is committing suicide,’ but sure you’ll make it if I’m as good as I think I am,” the pompous physician promised him. “Listen, to help relax our patients, we play music in the operating room. What’s your pleasure, pal?”
“The Fifties favorites, if you don’t mind, Doc. Hey, it won’t ... it won’t distract you while you’re operating, will it?” stuttered Bob.
(To be continued)
Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident.

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