D asked if I had any thoughts about his new name. Well…
…Sounds like an ebony Casanova with a shiny velvet suit sliding up to a well-endowed bosomy woman to make her swoon…
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he low-growls with a hint of smile as he takes her gloved hand and brings it to his whiskered lips, his eyes twinkling with the prospect of the hunt. ‘Close the deal, always close…’ he thinks to himself while still holding her gaze. His one mantra, his desperate fear behind his carefully crafted veneer.
Dr. Groovefinger, we used to call him and recounted his adventures about making all the local tavern women swoon; he was a relic of a bygone era, stuck in the 80’s when the going was good, trapped between boomers and the Xs, and hopelessly fallen in the crack gutter of time.
But you gotta give it to him for his epic quixotic effort to find that Dulciana of his, that elusive Beatrice… Dr. Groovefnger…
I wonder what happened to him. Last I remember was Joe talking about him, seen him there in the corner of 14th and R streets, with a bottle wrapped in a bag, still wearing his Crown Royal velvet jacket, stumbling along…casting an insignificant shadow along the trash-strewn sidewalk past the abandoned parking lot overgrown with weeds and bramble.
No one has seen him since… but we still think of him now and then, especially when I rummage through the old lady Epstein’s yard sales. She’s been offing her 60’s junk for years now on the pretense that she needs money for her operation, same tune for two years now, but no operation… But I can’t help it, I keep going through her junk, hoping to find something… Hoping to be reminded of Groovefinger, imitation gold musty album cover containing a scratchy old LP. I finally fork out the 25 cents and buy it….
You can barely make it out through the heavy and deep gouges and scratches and the pasted dust over the years packed in the grooves.
“Well, hel-scratch there…schhhhhtshhh-to introduce my s-cr-elf… (beat) they call me Dr. Groovefinger…” The jazz begins.
-Iliad Alexander Terra