Whacking Poetic and the Notes to My Future Wife

Chapter 3

"You aren't the Marge Simpson I was expecting to find here," said a raspy tenor Joe Cocker voice with a light Carolina accent. The voice belonged to Maxwell "Mack" Spencer. His stocky build was covered by a simple t-shirt, short pirate pants, and pirate boots, as the rest of his pirate outfit was now draped over his arm. "Sam, did you get an upgrade?" The smell of cigarette smoke accompanied the grate in his voice. Jeremy was beside him as he approached.

It was twenty minutes after the mere mention of Alex had stalled his conversation with Marge and so Sam was happy for the interruption. They had spent the last twenty minutes making awkward small talk and watching the party crescendo and then disperse, as the action started shifting to the back yard where the stage was. The pizza was now gone and so other than the keg in the kitchen, the dining areas were pretty quiet.

Sam looked at Marge and smiled. "What are you talking about? Alex? What is he talking about?"

Marge smiled at him with lifted eyebrows. "I'm not touching that one."

"You know, I don't think he touches Miss Alexandra either," said Mack with a chuckle. While only thirty, Mack had the leather face of someone 15 years older, the result of having never quite outgrown an over-indulgent chain-smoking college town lifestyle. He pulled at one side of his long straight brown hair that had a 1975 part down the middle to uncover a full square face and wide nose. "Damn, you really look like Marge Simpson."

Sam agreed with a nod. "She's also a percussionist, and a singer – songwriter."

Jeremy saw his cue. "Outstanding. We are in dire need for someone that can sing. Want to join our band?" The guys all laughed, including Mack, who seemed to enjoy it the most.

Marge didn't laugh. "I'd actually love that if you need a backup singer," she said, her face lighting up. "I was a vocal major in undergrad for a year or so before I switched. You don't even have to pay me."

Mack immediately stopped laughing. "Sorry young lady," he said, "but we don't need no female background vocalist, although you are more than welcome to come watch us play anytime you want."

The animated expression on Marge's face didn't react to his rejection. "Did you say the band's name is Whacking Poetic? Great name."

Mack snickered and nodded. "Our motto is if I listen to a song and it makes my whole body aroused, I know it's Whacking Poetic."

Marge's eyes lit up and she clapped lightly. "Emily Dickinson! I love it," she said, causing Sam's heart to leap. Few people caught that reference. Sam and Jeremy were constantly trying to force goofy poetry references into their lyrics and their marketing materials.

"Emily Dickinson?" said Mack with a sour face. He turned and looked at Sam awkwardly. "What the hell is she talking about?"

Before Sam could respond, Marge laughed again. "Oh, what is it?" She looked up at the ceiling. "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know it's poetry. It's Emily Dickinson."

"Oh, give me a fucking break," said Mack as he smacked himself in the forehead. He glared at Sam. "You shitheads didn't tell me that. Can't we just be a band for once without the girly shit?" He looked at Jeremy and Xavier. "Let's get the hell out of here." He stepped into the dining room to grab a handful of chips before heading towards the front door.

Sam looked at Marge, who was giggling at Mack. He didn't think even Jeremy could quote poetry like that. "Wow, I'm impressed. So maybe we can intrigue you after all. Bastardizing classic poetry is sort of our thing."

Marge shrugged with a smile. "Maybe. I told you I was a poetry nut."

Sam watched her closely as she dropped her plate and cup into a trash bag. There was a small curl of red hair sticking down below her wig, exposing a glimpse of what she might actually look like without the wig. "Did you get your red hair from your mom?" he said as he helped her with the bag.