From Fame to Shamrock

by Logan Gaines

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

“What about you?” asked Ohio, looking at the Humphrey. “How long have you been an Orson fan?”

“Since 1965, when me and Maurice became friends. And you?”

“Since 1942,” said Ohio.

I found that response intriguing, because Orson didn’t perform in public until 1945, when he was sixteen years old. He didn’t take music classes in school, either, or sing for the church choir. He admitted on many occasions that he had stage fright and sang only in front of his mother, because he knew she wouldn’t criticize him.

“Were you friends with Orson in school?” I asked.

“No, I grew up in Kansas. Plus, Orson dropped out before high school.”

“So how did you become a fan of Orson’s before he was known by the public?”

Ohio shot me a goofy look. His eyes darted about the kitchen. He even started to sweat. He looked like we were about to arrest him for murder.

“You’re right. I got my years wrong,” said Ohio. “Now come and let me show you what you came to see.”

Ohio hurried to the end of a long hallway, Humphrey and I following close behind. He threw open a door, which I assumed led to the master bedroom. Instead, it was a room full of Orson Hatcher collectibles: collector plates, stuffed animals, key chains, snow globes, even a jukebox. A poster of Hatcher framed on the wall cradling an acoustic guitar caught my eye. It looked like the guitar I bought at the pawnshop.

“You looking for anything in particular, fellas?” asked Ohio.

“I like that poster of Orson holding the guitar,” I said.

“That’s good one, I love that guitar, too,” Ohio said.

I couldn’t help but notice the shirt Hatcher was wearing in the poster, more specifically the cuff. I squinted at it for several seconds.

“You all right?” asked Ohio.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

I turned to Humphrey. I needed to hear his thoughts on what I was seeing.

“Take a look at that poster,” I said to him.

“I see it. What’s the big deal?” asked Humphrey.

“Look at the cuff.”

“The cufflinks are shaped like the state of Ohio?” Humphrey offered.

“Yeah. And look at his hand.” Orson had the same scar that Ohio has.

As Humphrey looked down at Ohio’s hand, Ohio tried to hide it. But it was too late.

I turned to Ohio. “When I look at you,” I said, “I swear I see an older version of Orson.”

Ohio looked down, avoiding eye contact. Finally, he looked up and shrugged.

I reached into the back pocket of my jeans and removed the letter I’d found in the body of the guitar.

Ohio’s eyes got big. “You found it!” he yelled.

Humphrey and I looked at each other in disbelief.

Ohio hurried into the living room, sat on a recliner, and put his hands over his face. Humphrey and I sat across from him on a white couch. Ohio started to cough, and when he finally stopped the room was silent.

“You OK?” I asked him.

He nodded yes. He seemed to be holding back his emotions. Finally, I got up and patted him gently on the shoulder, just to make sure he was all right.

He got defensive. “Stop!” he said. “I don’t need that!”

“You sure?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. Then he sighed and continued, “It’s me. I’m Orson Hatcher.” He suddenly seemed relieved, as if he’d confessed to some great crime.

I again studied his face. Behind the gray beard and deep wrinkles, I recognized his once-handsome and famous visage. And the voice, though gravelly, was now clearly his, too. I shook my head in disbelief. I was standing over the legend himself.

“Why did you do it?” asked Humphrey. “Why’d you fake your own death?”

Orson paused. “Fame was tough on me. I was overworked and always on the road.”

Orson went on to explain that, to stage his death, he asked a favor of a few stuntmen he had worked with in Hollywood. And his wife moved into a home in Oklahoma City, so she wouldn’t blow his cover, but would be nearby and they could still spend time together.

The only thing he regretted, he told me and Humphrey, was that he couldn’t perform another concert before a sold-out crowd. That is what he missed the most: the energy of a live audience.

I looked at Humphrey, then back at Orson and said, “Humphrey and I are musicians. We found your letter in a guitar in a pawnshop; it seemed like destiny. How about you perform a few songs with our band? I don’t think our lead singer would mind.”

“I’m not sure,” said Orson. “I haven’t left town in forty years. What if I get caught?”

“We won’t tell anyone,” I said. “You can just be Ohio. You had us fooled for a while.”

“The last time anyone saw you, you were sluggish and stout,” added Humphrey. “And that was a long time ago.”

Orson paused to think. “I guess the beard helps, too.” He rubbed his chin. “OK. If you guys can make it happen, I’ll do it.”

“It would be an honor,” I said, extending my hand. “Thank you for everything.”

Orson shook my hand and I realized there was something in it. Once letting go of his firm grip, I found a crimson-red guitar pick with the initials OH on it. He told me it was the pick he used during his nationally televised, 1960 comeback special.

“Thanks again,” I gushed, astonished by everything that had happened.

“My pleasure. I’m looking forward to playing with you guys.”

* * *

Immediately after getting home, I ran to the phone to make a call. There was a club that we gigged at regularly that was always looking to fill slots: the Overton in Wellington, Texas.

Anxiously, I explained to the manager of the club that there was a new singer we wanted to try out. He said OK, but he was curious how our lead singer Chet felt about that. I explained that Chet had bigger things to attend to that night: a hot date with one of our most dedicated groupies.

I called Orson after the gig was scheduled. I thought he would disapprove of performing so soon, tomorrow night, but he seemed thrilled. I guess forty years was long enough to wait.

After hanging up the phone, I sat in my blue recliner and nodded off. When I opened my eyes an hour or two later, I wondered if this was all a dream. I reached into my back pocket and removed the letter and realized it was real. Comforted by this, I went back to sleep.

I woke to the scent of the breakfast Humphrey was cooking. There’s nothing like bacon and eggs in the morning.

“You always wake up at just the right time,” said Humphrey, standing over the stove.

“I’m not up until there’s black coffee in me,” I said as I walk over to the coffee maker.

After grabbing the pot and pouring a cup, I lit a cigarette. Humphrey sat at the dining-room table with his bacon and scrambled eggs, and we started to discuss a possible set list. What should we open with? What songs would Orson be most comfortable with? Should we perform some of his hits? What if he can’t get through the first song?

We also realized there was a chance he may not even show up. If this were to happen, we decided we’d just play an instrumental set. Just rock out and jam. No big deal.

The night arrived. Humphrey and I slipped into our best black suits and greased our hair back. I, of course, wanted a photo of us on stage with Orson to commemorate the moment. I hoped that he would sign the pic and it would hang from the wall of my living room for the rest of my life.

Humphrey packed up our gear into the back of my jeep and we drove to the club. It was an hour away, and when we arrived a man was standing near a pink Dodge La Femme in a white-and-black polka-dot shirt, light pink slacks, green patrol cap, and black aviator sunglasses. It was Orson. As we got out of the jeep, he looked us up and down and took the wheat straw that he was chewing out of his mouth.

“Gentlemen, why you all dressed up like that?” asked Orson.

“Because we’re playing with you tonight,” I said, pulling the set list out of the interior pocket of my coat and presenting it to Orson. Biting his lip and nodding his head, he perused the set list: a mix of his songs and other rock classics from his era.

As we walked into the club, things moved in slow motion. Everyone was looking at us, but no one said a word. We nodded in recognition and progressed slowly toward the stage.

As we neared the stage, the manger greeted us. Orson gave him a quick hello, deepening his voice. He was so shy. No one would ever suspect that this guy was a world-famous entertainer.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” said the manager. “You got two hours.” He looked Orson up and down. “You think you can handle it, old-timer?”

“It’s been a while,” said Orson, “but I think I’ll be all right.”

“Sure thing. I love this guy!” said the manager, hitting Orson on the shoulder and chuckling. “Now get out there and kick some ass!”

Before quickly departing, the manager waved us on to the stage. Orson ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his shades. I turned to Humphrey as we parted the curtains.

“Can you believe this?” I asked Humphrey.

“No,” he said. “I guess this is what being a rock star feels like.”

The crowd shifted in anticipation, and my heart pounded against my rib cage. I wanted to give the crowd a show they wouldn’t forget. I didn’t want to let them or Orson down. The lights seemed brighter than usual. I looked over at Orson, who nodded that he was ready. Then I strummed the opening chords of “A Storm Named Thelma,” Orson’s breakout hit about his first love.

“Well, there’s a girl I know...” sang Orson.

His voice was as smooth and powerful as forty years ago. He also still moved fluidly, swiveling his hips around the mic stand and prowling back and forth across the stage. As the first song wound down, he looked over at me with a big smile. He then clapped his hands as we went into the next song, Little Richard’s “Good Golly, Miss Molly.”

The show went on for two more hours, and it could’ve gone on longer. No one on or off stage seemed tired.

As we came off the stage to a rousing ovation, the manager was there to greet us. He gave Orson a big hug.

“Thank you so much!” he said. “I will never forget that magical voice! What a performance!”

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” said Orson with a sly grin.

“You all are welcome to play here anytime,” he said, before walking away.

“Thank you,” said Orson, shaking my hand. “I needed that. I can finally leave the past behind.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It was an honor.”

As we made our way down from the stage and through the crowd, people were congratulating us on the show and thanking us for a good time. They offered us drinks, drugs, and much more. Orson didn’t want any of that; he’d had it all before.

Finally, we pushed through the crowd and made our way outside. A full moon floated overhead. We stopped and stood around Orson’s La Femme.

“That was fun, gentlemen,” he said, unlocking the driver-side door. “Maybe we’ll do it again. However, for now, I bid you two farewell.” He climbed into his car.

As Orson slowly pulled away, Humphrey and I stared at his taillights, wondering if we’d ever see him again. Whether we would or wouldn’t, we had a story we could tell for the rest of our lives. Of course, we both knew that no one would believe it.