Write me a Letter

sick people.”
    When we arrived at the gates, the equipment van was already pulled up on this side of them waiting for us. I parked behind it. We all got out.
    ”See ya,” Annie said, and bustled away to pay off the boys. Evonne and I strolled up to the front of the white Volkswagen van, on the side of which was painted in wavy blue script, ”Ron’s Rhythm Kings,” with a few musical notes added here and there as decoration.
    There were two gents in the van, a chubby one with round granny glasses and a goatee, who’d doubled on sax and clarinet, and a large, fully bearded one, drums and the occasional backup vocal. The group’s amps and speakers, mikes and instruments and coils of wire and whatnot were neatly arranged behind them in the body of the van.
    ”Hi!” I said brightly to the one nearest me, the chubby one, ”One of you wouldn’t be Ron, by any lucky chance?”
    ”I don’t know how much luck is involved,” said the chubby one, ”but you are looking at Ron the Rhythm King himself.”
    ”Star of three continents,” the bearded one said. ” Iceland , Greenland, and Tasmania .”
    ”That unspeakably hairy thing there,” said Ron, ”is Rufus, and Buddy Rich he ain’t.”
    ”Don,” I said, with a warm smile. ”Don Upton. And this here living dream is the future Mrs. Upton.”
    ”Oh, Donny,” said Evonne, fluttering her lashes. ”You don’t have to go round telling everyone.”
    ”Sorry to keep you good boys waiting,” I said, ”but, well, me and honeybun here were kinda looking for an orchestra to play at our wedding next month sometime... gee, I forget the exact date.” Evonne rolled her eyes heavenward. ”Just funnin’, honey,” I added hastily, and we all had a good chuckle.
    ”Rufe,” said Ron. ”Take five. Go talk to the buttercups for a while, would you? This gentleman and I will shortly be discussing money, and I know how the subject distresses you.”
    ”OK if I look for mushrooms instead?” said Rufe. He clambered down his side, stretched, moved off slowly about twenty feet, collapsed under a tree, and apparently fell asleep immediately. Ron opened up the glove compartment, took out an exercise book, then he climbed down to join us. ”What is that?” I inquired. ”Your fake book?”
    He grinned. Evonne wanted to know what a fake book was. I said I’d tell her later, I didn’t want to embarrass the mighty rhythm king himself in front of a lady.
    ”It’s my gig book,” he said. ”In which, as the name implies, are neatly listed all our gigs.”
    I gave Evonne a deeply meaningful glance that she pretended not to see.
    ”Gee!” she exclaimed. ”Can I have a peek? I wonder if I know any people you’ve played for. Do you do a lot of weddings round here?”
    ”A fair share,’ he said with becoming modesty,” Ron said. ”Help yourself. Fill your eyes with our recent triumphs on the bar mitzvah circuit. All the incriminating details, like how much, are penned in my own private unbreakable code so the two members of the group who can actually read cannot figure out how much I am not paying them. Oh, dear, I’ve lost me testimonials, hang on.” He got back up into the cab again.
    I nuzzled up to Evonne.
    ”Names,” I whispered between nuzzles. ”Rough addresses. Starting a few months ago. Get all you can.”
    ”Oh, Donny, you’re so masterful,” she whispered back. Ron got down again and handed over three or four envelopes, bowing from the waist as he did so.
    ”Me testimonials, monsieur, and if I do say so myself, rave reviews every one.” I gave them to Evonne.
    ”You have a look, buns,” I said. ”Business is a-calling me, and the maestro here.” We strolled off over the sward. I asked him what he charged for an event like a wedding reception. He said it depended on the size of the group. I said, did it not take the same amount of playing whether he was playing for a group of two dozen, or a hundred? He said, not the size of my group, the size of his group. He also said the price naturally depended on the number of hours they played. I asked him if a deposit was required. He allowed that he would not take it adverse in the slightest. I asked him if he charged more for playing some types of music rather than others.
    ”You better believe it, my man,” he said. ”Polkas cost double.”
    ”And naturally,” I said, ”as consummate artists in your field, your orchestra members would expect to be treated as such and be fully wined and