Tijuana Hercules Sings "Get Out Gus" And Other Fast Food Delights

The van was full of gear and John's family.
Specifically: A guitar, two drums, one sister, an amp, a niece, one grandmother, and two bags of percussion.
It was tight.

We arrived at Hendershot's Coffee Bar in Athens.
A converted old gas station now serving quality coffee, fresh beer, and ancient malt liquor.

Word in the wind was that Beverly Babb was coming to see us.
I didn't recognize the name.
"She was one of the Urge Overkill stalkers."
Whoa!
I hadn't thought of the Urge Overkill stalkers in years.

In the mid-90's Beverly and Karol Cooper devoted their lives to tarring and feathering Chicago's martini-affected megalomaniacs Urge Overkill, bombarding dives like Rainbo in enormous Noh Theater smoking jackets and hippie-cancer wigs.
"Just because our new album sucks doesn't mean you shouldn't spend $15 on it."
Their muckraking zine The Stalker was a comically cruel vivisection of the big, dumb rock band.
The band retaliated with buckets of water at Delilah's and actual wife-beating techniques (shoving, backhanding) at Lounge Ax.
Eventually the band imploded and The Stalkers split town.

Now Beverly makes steel sculptures in Carlton, Georgia.
Population 233.
She was excited to be out of the house.
So excited she hired a driver.
At the bar her steel partner Helen sipped a Colt 45 tall boy.
A gaunt figure in a big sweater, she spoke politely in a thick rural mush.
She asked to join us for a song.
"What kind of song do you want to sing?" John asked.
"Some Ike & Tina Turner" came the reply.

Tijuana Hercules took the stage.
John jumped and howled while I kicked out quarter notes in a racket of pots, lids, and ratchets.
A call and response was established.
"Hey! Hey! Hey!"
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!"
Helen leapt on stage and took the microphone.
The only microphone.
She warmed up with some heys and whoas of her own, then went into a blues about her father.
Gus.
He's still alive.
He lives in Carlton.
With Helen.
He's 107 years old.
He doesn't sound very pleasant to be around.
He used to beat his wife.
Helen's song focused on this and Gus's other crimes.
And how she wished he would just die.

"Get out! Get out, Gus!"

For 30 minutes she boogied and yowled.
Like a Nina Simone weeble wobble.
Eventually somehow the song ended.
Helen went to get another Colt 45.
The small crowd of 11 made noise for 77.
We jumped into another number.
And Helen jumped back in with us.
I found a real fun offbeat on my blender bowl.
Helen aimed a nod at me and shimmied.
She tore into another stack of lyrics about ???.
Beverly howled and danced.
And everyone drank.
And that was our set.

Afterward, Beverly and I bonded about bike messengering in Chicago.
Certain street names jostled the nostalgic part of her brain.
"Ohhh, Kimball!"
She remembered the address for The Reader.
(11 E Illinois)
"That job gave me a work ethic!"
I liked Beverly.
Her lush twang reminded me of an old flame.
"She is a wild child," John's mom noted.
Yeah, those were/are good times.

I joined Helen at the bar.
An assortment of shots were assembled.
Helen said she always wanted to sing but didn't think she was any good.
"Get that shit out of your head," I slurred with pie-eyed charisma.
Beverly's driver arrived.
Bottom's up!

We were all starving.
But man, everything was closed.
So.
Wendy's.
While John's family ordered, I eyed the $1 Value Menu.
The drive thru girl clung to her southern congeniality during our sloppy order.
I decided on a plain Cheesy Cheddar Burger.
"You want that plain?  Well, um...a Cheesy Cheddar Burger is a cheeseburger with regular cheese and liquid cheese."
The van exploded with laughter.
"Oh no no no!" I revoked.
Her headset rang with our cackling.
Georgia peachiness had turned into icy silence by the time we met at the pay window.
I should have told her that she saved my life telling me what that burger was about.
Instead the analog echo of mocking laughter would haunt her remaining hours.