James Joo was more than excited. In fact, he could barely stay in his clothes, a Hawaiian shirt with phallic macaws and tight too-white jeans. They were too tight. James was oblivious to male pride due to his miniscule penis. Luckily for him, he did not care. He was a classical pianist, measured not by sexual prowess, but by the playing of quality notes in a pleasurable sequential order.
Things could not be better. Here he was, in the back of a complimentary limousine, stocked with the finest champagne and mediocre beers courtesy of Jimmy Buffett. Years ago, James was invited to perform “Come Monday” for a benefit celebrating the music of Jimmy Buffett called Buffet Of Buffett Classical Style. For those in the know, the obvious choice was to arrange the song as if Chopin composed it.
James swooned at the offer. Finally, a labor of love, which he never thought could come true. For some reason, Jimmy Buffett’s music has been frowned upon by the classical scene, as well as most of the world. All of these uneducated boors fail to realize that music is music. It is a relationship between artist and art, and has nothing to do with the relationship between artist and fan. Ignoramuses.
All of a sudden, James had an ill at ease feeling, which began to suffocate him like claustrophobia. Never, in his professional career had he been so certain and prepared before a performance. It was apparent. He was experiencing the last minutes of his life.
The timing of the car hitting a pothole in the road at that precise instant could not have been more fitting. In fact, the rapid gunfire of a gang shooting blocks ahead was also appropriate. Of course, when a man reaches an epiphany on this grand scale as a mere mortal, it can only mean the vengeful gods will have their revenge. You’re just begging to be struck down dead.
It was amazing. After surviving twenty-eight stray bullets, a near carjacking and a collision with a millennial texting while driving, they had arrived.
The Civic Opera House was breathtaking. James finally exhaled as he carefully opened the door of the long black car. Looking up, he was relieved to not see falling anvils. For some reason, this really tickled his fancy. Enough so to make him chuckle. He could not stop himself, so it became a guffaw, growing, evolving further into full-out hold your sides gut-busting half laugh half cry.
Slowly, he regained his composure. He wrote off the last minute of insanity as much needed relief caused by a brief bout of PTSD. He stopped abruptly and shook his fist skyward, cursing and screaming at God, “You God damn piece of spiteful shit, God!”
It turns out he had wet himself while laughing uncontrollably. It would be easy to believe by the first impression that he drank too much lemonade.