Sunday Morning at the Oasis

The Hounds Behind Central's Favorite Solar Joint...

“‘Drove a pickup like a lunati-i-ic, AWOOOO-HOOOO’ Sing it Roddy!”

Doc had been in karaoke mode for most of the drive down, the tape vacillating wildly from tough-as-nails heavy metal to old-time rock-n-roll to synth-slathered pop like “Young Turks.” The scruffy old gray, wrapped in his street-racing shirt, dusted-to-hell jeans and faded suede cowboy boots, was making like the song and running his ‘59 Coupe DeVille flat-out across the desert.

The Missus, Belle, was doing her best not to bust up laughing at her husband’s sandpaper howl of a singing voice. All she could do was keep her shades on and cozy up to him, head on his chest like they were 17 all over again. And whenever she did, he’d always take a hand off the wheel and pull her close. When the song ended, he’d always say the same thing. “Christ Belle, if only we had a kid who could sing like that at the bar.”

And every time he did, she’d come up from the Canadian tux love-in and reply with “check the schedule Old Man. If you want more of that, New Wave night is Tuesday.”

“Hey, don’t bust out the O.M. on me,” he snickered, easing up on the gas, “For starters we ain’t on a reservation.”

“If we was, it’d be ‘Grand-Fa-Ther,’” she teased.

It took him a while to recover from that one. “For closers, we only got a month apart, and you don’t hear me calling you my Li’l Ol’ Lady from Pasadena.”

“True.” Belle said, nuzzling his chest. “And I like it that way.”

It was the playful indignance that sent him every time. “And that’s how you keep a duo like this going for 40-something, eh?”

Doc got a kiss for that one just as they pulled up to the Oasis. The one-story bar-and-diner was looking as clean as ever, the handful of tenants’ rides peppered around the building. When he locked the metallic blue Caddy and sauntered through the front door, all the usual faces were there.

“Morning Murray, glad you’re up and at ‘em!” he smiled.

The towering black-furred chef doffed his cowboy hat to the elder hound. “Gotta keep ‘em fed somehow.”

“How are the gals?” Belle asked.

“Doing alright.” Murray replied. “Just finished breakfast for them. Nothing rough overnight, no one nicked anything on their way out. Eric’s coming by for a quick checkup on Lily. Still a little paranoid about catching something, but hell, better safe than syphilis.”

Belle nodded. “What counts is that they’re taking care of themselves. How are all the ingredient and drink synths do—”

Before she could finish, a monstrous slap bass sounded off from the back of the building; someone was in the arcades. Doc strolled back causally, big gray hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, and found the gamer in question. “Eh Tony?” he started, mock Italian accent and all, “You better have put a quarter in there this time.”

Without missing a beat, the white technician pulled out a bag of old American silver. “I’ll be done by 9. Call it play testing. The Fourth Empire’s ass is mine.” The worker was laser-focused in the seat of a large white cabinet, the eye-popping colors of the screen lighting up the half-lit wing of the building.

“Everything alright?” Belle called out, Southern twang rearing its head.

“All good Babe!” Doc hollered back. “Just running Galaxy Force II over again, make sure the whole unit still plays solid. Can’t afford to lose a set piece like that.” The two shared a wink before the boss-hound sauntered back up to the front of the bar.

He turned his attention to the stage, the old oak floor where all the night’s magic happened. “I know we’re Loving the Alien Tuesday, but what’s on tonight?” the old gray asked. Belle leaned in and whispered two words that sent him roaring in delight: “Metröpolis reunion.”

“WELL SONOFABITCH, THOSE DAMN DEVILS GOT THE TIME OFF! When they gettin’ here? How much gear they need?”

Belle flipped her long gray locks from her face just in time to get bear hugged. “High noon to dump off gear,” she said, the words squeezed out of her. “They still got all their kit. Sound check just before the set at 6.”

When he finally let her go, and the pair took a deep breath, he snapped back like nothing had happened with a dry “shit, lost my head there.” Both the cook and wife could only bust up laughing.

“Keep that heart healthy Sir,” Murray guffawed. “Ain’t seen you that giddy since we got that genuine case of vodka two months back.”

The old gray gave his cook a firm salute before throwing on his own apron and helping his wife into hers. “Alright Babe, let’s get this show on the road and them there lights on. Ain’t a drop of day to waste.”

Such were the mornings at Doc’s Oasis.