Reunion
It’s been 20 years since all surviving members of Bob for Short have gotten together on the same stage. No one could have imagined (bandmates included) that after two decades of inactivity—especially considering their motto, “Party ’til there’s no morning,” a saying still considered clever by Shorties—they’d not only be alive and with it enough to play their instruments, much less make it through their relevant discography, but able to fill a 500-person capacity venue.
But fill it they have, thanks to the wonders of viral nostalgia. What started as lead guitarist Manny “Da Maniac” Delmonico’s second wife’s (a big Bob for Short fan herself, who has never told her husband she originally got into the band because she thought drummer-at-the-time Rick “Lights Out” Leyton was cute) idea to throw a reunion show—maybe a tour, even!—to help pay for the couple’s townhome’s bathroom’s renovation, morphed into manic group texting, drinks, crowd-funding campaigns, an omni-channel marketing blitz, and now, finally, a full-blown Bob for Short 20th Anniversary “Where It All Began” Reunion at the Elks Lodge.
The opening band, Team Cuties, already ripped through their 15-minute set of muffled yells and alternating power chords. “Roadies,” who are just Manny and Lisa’s neighbors, and the Bob for Short guys are now up on stage setting up their beer-stained, vintage amps.
As the has-beens mess around on-stage, hoping their aged, half-broken gear can handle just one more hour of abuse, audience members wearing too-tight band t-shirts that 20 years ago seemed like they’d be loose as burlap sacks forever have low-decibel conversations beneath a pan flute cover of “Sweet Child O’ Mine” playing through the PA system. Everyone does their best to avoid eye contact—some because they’re still as self-conscious in middle age as they were in their late teens, others because they’ve noticed business associates in the audience and just want to entirely avoid that situation.
All of them, even those who have grown into traditional success, are still members of this aging crew who, in quiet moments, sometimes remember days spent getting stoned behind the gas station in town, which was replaced five years ago by a credit union where many now send their direct deposits. Being here, together again, despite the fact their once-communal glue has long since come undone, they’re reminded of what freedom used to mean to them, how they’ve continually agreed to new terms and conditions with each life update. What used to be so essential to their lives most considered it part of their identities now does nothing more than remind them of their gradual decline. A few people decide they want to sit, and so set up a spattering of folding chair near the back of the room, where they audibly complain about not being able to see the stage.
In a sort of unconscious response to the room’s growing angst—there for totally different reasons than it was 20 years ago—Manny cranks up his Les Paul to full blast, stomps the overdrive pedal, and lets out a screeching, distorted riff that causes a substantial subsect of the crowd to cover its ears.
A bouncer by the emergency exit, which has been left propped open to get some circulation, yells, “Pigeon!”
Those in the immediate area look up, gawking, as the confused bird from outside flies through the rafters. “That’s not a pigeon, it’s a dove, you can tell by the…” Whoever’s trying to educate the nearby public about the delicacies of doves is cut short when she sees the Columbidae drop its excess cargo right over Bob for Short, which covers the fretboard through which Manny drunkenly believes he’s summoning electric rock demons with gastral goo. A substantial amount also finds his bald head, slides down his nose and into his goatee.
At this point, everyone besides the promoter realizes they’ve made a huge mistake. Without attempting to clean himself or his instrument, Manny addresses the audience, “Let’s party ’til there’s no mourning.”
