2 of 6

by Lynn Ann

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Wildwood is a sea-side town in New Jersey, once considered a "hot spot" for vacationers. I understand that there's even a song about it - sort of a "beach-boy-do-wop" surfy kinda thing. I had never heard of this place until July of 1996. Things would have been simpler had it remained so, but alas, simple' is never in the cards for me. My saga began with a phone call.
"I have booked you the GREATEST gig!" It was my brother, Danny.
"Tell me," I said.
"There's this place in Jersey. Wildwood. Every summer, they throw this outdoor festival and thousands of people go! I just got off the phone with the head coordinator and YOU'RE gonna play there!"
"Any pay involved?"
"Not really, but think about it! Some radio stations cover this festival, supposedly some cable television stations, too - so the exposure will be tremendous!"

For a singer/songwriter in a rock band, this was exhilarating news - especially since having just given several New York radio interviews to promote my latest CD. Things were swingin', as they say.
Until recently, I had managed my own career. One of my duties (aside from writing and performing) was booking gigs. Danny was a novice in the music industry when I accepted his offer to manage us. Ideally, this arrangement would lighten my load, enabling me to focus on my art.

Wildwood was the first big booking that Danny handled, and it sounded like a doozy.
"Wooo-hoooo!" I crowed, " How far is this place?"
"Roughly a five-hour drive. We'll have to rent a van. It'll be like a mini-tour!"
"What about hotel reservations?"
"No need. There are hundreds of motels in the area. We can take our pick when we get there."
"Excellent! Good job, Dan!"
"All in a days work."
Hanging up, I executed a little dance. What a manager!
I'll take this opportunity to introduce my band, beginning with Craig, the bass player - a mellow, humorous guy. (We were romantically involved.) Then there was Rick - our hyper, somewhat neurotic drummer. Last but not least was a guitarist named Tom, a/k/a "Glommy".
Glommy was a bizarre character. He was oblivious to his "nickname", earned due to the fact that he badgered me into hiring him in the first place (thus, "glomming" his way into the band). His guitar-playing was questionable - occasionally inspired - more often shoddy. Unhappily married to a miserable woman who resented his musical' activities, famous for patronizing topless bars with alarming frequency, he effortlessly achieved status as a lascivious imbecile.
You may rightfully ask why I even dealt with someone as repugnant as Glommy. I have no plausible explanation, except that it was no small act of charity. Also, I have an annoying
tendency of wanting to think the best of people. Regardless, he was destined to join us on this journey.
The morning of departure was a scorcher. Craig and I were slightly hung-over, having celebrated the night before in anticipation of the event. Regardless, our spirits were high as we hit the road. The drive exceeded five hours.
We pulled into Wildwood at around 3:00 p.m., the festival scheduled to begin in less than four hours.
"This town is dead," I said - apprehensively observing the barren, sun-bleached streets.

Danny was upbeat, "Relax, Lena - everyone must be at the beach! It'll be mobbed when you cats start rockin' !"
We entered a pub to use the restroom. Gathered at the bar, we agreed that finding a motel was imperative.
Once everyone had freshened up', my attention was drawn to Glommy's knapsack, propped forlornly on a barstool - its owner nowhere in sight.
We checked the restroom and searched the unfamiliar streets surrounding the pub for nearly an hour. True to form, Glommy had succeeded in surpassing even my bleakest expectations of him. In the time required to take a leak, he had simply vanished in the midst of this strange town - less than a couple of hours prior to "show-time".
"It's like losing your kid in Disneyland!" Danny exclaimed, "Where do you look for him? On the flume'?"

"ENOUGH!" I finally announced, exasperated. "Let's just find shelter! If that jerk never shows up, so be it!"
My hangover suddenly kicked in with startling force. I was panicking - in dire need of a nap and a shower - a remarkably unattractive state for me. Catching a glimpse of myself in the van's side window, I shuddered involuntarily.
The search for a motel became a quest. There were hundreds of motels in town - all full. We were repeatedly turned away. The pavement seemed to waver in the glaring sun.
Our last hope was a decrepit Victorian mansion. A man who looked to be 100 was sitting on the porch beneath a sign which proclaimed: "THE MAYFLOWER".
"Please, Lord," I muttered as we pulled up.
As I climbed the front steps, a woman emerged from inside. She looked slightly younger than the other guy.
"Hello." My smile felt like a grimace and I hoped I wasn't scaring her. "Would you have any rooms available?"
"What do you need?" She spoke slowly, voice crackling, her eyes darting past my shoulder to the van. Craig, Danny and Rick offered her their own winning smiles. They looked like lunatics.
"Three rooms. Just for the night." It was a plea.
"Well...come along, then."
I following her up the stairs. "This house is lovely," I offered. "We're musicians."

"S'at so?"
"Yeah. We're playing the festival tonight."
"Festival?"
Her name was Amelia. Her rooms were clean, quaint and cheap.
I felt such gratitude that I wanted to give her a big kiss, but instead I ran downstairs and told the guys, "Park the van. The eagle has friggin' landed."
We settled into our rooms to unwind before the shindig.
"Think we'll ever see ole' Glomster again?" Craig wondered.
I shook my head, "With any luck - NO."
I was too wound-up to do much unwinding. I did manage to get laid and take a shower, however. In what seemed like no time, we were back in the van. We were barely on the road when Glommy materialized at a red light, crimson-faced and sweating profusely.
"Wh-where were you guys, man?" He stuttered, eyes rolling independently of one another. I found myself genuinely disappointed to see him.
"Get in the van, Tom," I said evenly, striving for composure.
"N-N-NO! How c-c-could you FREAKIN' LEAVE me like that?!"
"Just. Get. In. The. VAN."
Fuming, he complied. (He would later cheerfully confess that he'd been "on the boardwalk - scopin' chicks!" I am not a violent person, but it took every shred of my self-control to keep from El-Kabonging' him over the head with my Ovation.)

We arrived at the site, greeted by a rickety wooden stage that resembled a giant milk crate and little else. No people - no festival - NADA.
Our manager enthused, "When you guys start playing, it'll be MADNESS!"
"Isn't it already?!?!" I snapped. "What the hell is this, Danny?"
"Just relax"
"Yeah, relax my ass."
As we began setting up and testing the sound system, Danny brought the head coordinator' over to me for introductions. He was a sleazy little bald man with a maniacal grin. Salivating slightly. I don't recall his name.
"HOW you-all DOIN'?" He rambled. "Hey - thanks for comin' all the way in from New York City! Ya's got plenty of gear, huh? HOT, ain't it? Hot as hell!"
"I thought this was a festival'," was my icy reply.
"Oh, it isit is" He wouldn't make eye contact with me.
"So where are the people? The radio stations?"
He cleared his throat. "I own the soda fountain cross the street! So, you-all help yourself to as much Snapple' as ya can drink!"
Before I could respond to this irresistible offer, he scooted away, never to be seen again. I turned to Danny. Now it was his turn to avoid my gaze.
Glommy was asking Rick: "Did he say free Snapple? Where?"
And then it was show-time.

The "crowd of thousands" never appeared - much less any media coverage. During the "high" point of our concert, there were perhaps thirty meandering pedestrians who miraculously paused simultaneously to listen to us. At that moment, however, we were interrupted by a theatre troupe who stomped by in an amateur production of "Tina & Tony's Wedding". Tony, (the groom) requested rather rudely that we stop playing until they passed, by which time our audience' dispersed.
"I GIVE THAT MARRIAGE A WEEK!" I shouted after the wedding party. I turned to my band. "Alright, let's pack it up."
My first inclination was to give Danny holy hell for booking this mess, but he looked so crestfallen, I just couldn't. Besides, he was my baby brother.
We loaded the van, too weary to register disappointment.
Back on the road, as everyone else mumbled various comments, I could not contain a battle cry: "WINE! I WANT SOME WINE AND I WANT IT RIGHT NOW!"
There were no arguments. We found a liquor store and purchased several bottles of vino. Cruising around, we passed the bottle and bellowed Bruce Springsteen songs out the windows - our special tribute to New Jersey. The town remained desolate, with the exception of our mobile serenade. Wildwood was truly the end of the world. I couldn't imagine that this had ever been a happening place, much less inspiring enough to write a song about.
Well after sunset, we had some difficulty locating The Mayflower. When we finally pulled up, Amelia was standing on the front porch - an ancient vision gazing anxiously into the night.

I approached, lurching slightly, "Hey...aaah...uuhhh...AMELIA!" (It took me a moment to remember her name - almost said: Hey, Lady! a la Jerry Lewis. That would've been real cute.)
"I waited," she was agitated. "I lock up at 11:30, ya know."
"Oh. Well, what time is it?"
"Eleven forty-one."
"Right. Sorry. But, aaahhh.we're kinda wide awake. Can we hang out in your backyard for awhile?"
She was frowning, thinking about it.
"Just for a little while?" I rewarded her with my most engaging grimace.
"Well, alright. But not too late, now. I got elderly people stayin' here, ya know."
"Okaygreat"
"You can't be noisy, ya know."
"We won't. I promise. Thanks alot."
At that moment, it occurred to me that it was about 100 degrees outside, muggy and oppressive, and I urgently wanted to take another shower.
I turned to the guys. "Listen, I'll meet you out back in a minute. I'm just gonna take a quick shower."
Amelia piped in immediately, "The showers are shut off for the night."
"Shut off?"
It was impossible to know what she was thinking as she stared at me challengingly, but I doubt it was flattering.

Like an ass, I persevered, "Why do you shut your showers off?"
A pause and a sigh, "Well, I could let you into the downstairs apartment"
"Okay, if you're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"Come along, then."
Although it was already dark, my eyes had to adjust to a new level of gloom once inside The Mayflower. I followed Amelia down a narrow hallway which led to a very small door. Honestly, this door was high enough for maybe a midget. Amelia was tiny and she had to stoop to enter, so at 5'9" I was practically doing a Quasimodo, knuckles dragging.
Once inside, she clicked on an antique lamp which barely lit a diminutive sitting room. Drunk or not, I really could not believe this set-up.
"Where am I?" I quipped, "The land of Oz?"
My wit did not endear me to Amelia who, ignoring me, pointed to another little door.
"The shower's in there. There are towels. Bring them out with you after you use them. I'll be waiting out here for you."
I humbly thanked her and entered the bathroom, which (predictably) was curiously miniaturized. The toilet was low to the ground and about the size of a small saucepan. The shower, well, I had to kneel down and duck beneath a weak spray. However, the water was beginning to revive me somewhat and just as I started to think: Hell, this ain't so bad Amelia stuck her head in the door and called sharply, her voice bouncing off the tile walls: "IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT IN HERE?"

Utterly startled, I whipped my head back and smashed it full force into the metal shower head. The pain was such that I saw flashes of light and had to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
"YOU OKAY? YOU ALMOST DONE?"
Swooning on my knees, I rubbed my rapidly swelling forehead and weakly replied, "YesII'll be okayI meanI'll be right out"
I staggered from the shower in agony and looked dumbly at two threadbare dish-towels hanging from a rack on the wall. I utilized them to the best of my ability and, still damp, put my sweaty clothes back on. Amelia was standing vigilantly outside the door when I emerged. Dutifully, I handed her the little, soaked towels.
"Do you feel better?" She asked accusingly.
"Much. Thank you."
"Now you and your friends don't stay up too late. I got old people stayin' here."
"Right."
I virtually shot down the hallway and out the front door, half expecting to be trapped in this tiny, strange, horrible world forever. When I encountered the rest of my posse in the backyard, I nearly wept with relief. Instead, armed with my acoustic guitar and a bottle of wine, I proceeded to sing - almost desperately - at the top of my voice. Rick utilized a picnic table as a drum kit, propelling splinters everywhere. Danny, who was not really a drinker, wandered off to buy more wine.
Amelia lurked at the window, "willing" us to cease, but only when the last bottle was empty did we wobble off to our quaint, cheap rooms.

The next morning I trudged downstairs, head throbbing horrendously. It was another scorcher. The lobby of The Mayflower looked like a geriatric ward. There were about 15 very old men and women lined up in front of a huge coffee urn. They all turned to gawk at me as I got to the back of the line for my caffeine fix. As I methodically stirred Coffee Mate into my cup, I thought: Well, I finally made it. The big time.
Clutching my styrofoam cup, I meandered outside. Glommy was on the porch, ogling a couple of pubescent girls. "This is good coffee," he said dreamily.
Rick was busy snowing Amelia.
"This place is GREAT!" he blathered, "I plan to come back every summer!"
I shot him a look of disbelief.
And yet, in the light of day, Amelia seemed oddly fond of we rockers. She told us to drive safely and wistfully said, "Come back and visit us any time, now."
"I'm sorry if we got a little loud last night, Amelia." I felt compelled to say.
"Oh, it's alright." She said, with a little smile. "It's just that I got elderly people stayin' here."
I smiled in return. "Yes, you certainly do. And a fine bunch they are."
We thanked her one last time and checked out of The Mayflower.
Traveling back to New York, Glommy volunteered to drive. Yet another careless judgment call - we let him. Three hours into the journey, we realized he made a wrong turn following a rest stop and that we were heading back to Wildwood.

"The fun just never lets up," I whooped, collapsing into a delirious, giggling heap on the floor of the van.
"Okay, she's officially had it." Craig observed.
We eventually got home and actually had a gig in New York City that same evening, of which I have no memory whatsoever.
Though not exactly a professional stepping stone, this fiasco was enlightening. Subsequently, I resumed managing my own career and Glommy was unceremoniously dismissed.
Occasionally, I find myself wondering how Amelia and The Mayflower gang are doing. I doubt that I shall ever return to Wildwood. But you never know.

Learn more about this author, Lynn Ann.

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