Mr. Peterman in new shoes

Written for and inspired by Chris Parnell of SNL

Mr. Peterman was an ordinary man. He worked in a big building on the nineteenth floor in a cubicle maze near the bathroom hall across from the water cooler. He lived in a white stucco building with red shingles and large succulents adorning the walkway. He drove a hybrid. He was doing his part. He ate beans & rice with sometimes baked chicken or fish.
Mr. Peterman had no children. He had no friends except for his extensive music collection. Mr. Peterman was a man with soul.
One day while driving home from work Mr. Peterman’s CD player started skipping his favorite Miles Davis CD, Sketches in Spain. Annoyed, he quickly took it out and placed it on the dashboard face-up while in traffic. Stuck on the highway without his usual selection of musical distractions he opted for the low-cultured, random, chaotic, commercially inflicted common radio. As he pressed the radio button, accelerated the car a bit then pressed on the brakes, he promised himself that if he got out of this alive he’d invest in satellite radio.
Oh, the dread of listening to such filth of the hip hop youth with its’ silenced profanity. Mr. Peterman knew what they were saying. He may be square but he was young once too. Then there were the water-downed pop songs and all their silly repetitive lifeless meaningless declarations of love. What do these girls barely clothed know about matters of the heart they’re hardly old enough to know the minds of dirty old men. Then there’s the country and their quacked out ways. The techno club sounds revving up his nerves to no end.
Mr. Peterman had had enough. He turned the radio off with a huff.
As he accelerated a bit more then pressed on the brakes, he could hear sounds that he never considered. He opened his window with the push of a button and was exonerated with the sounds of the highway, his fellow travelers and the city that accompanied it. He rolled his window back up and accelerated a bit more then pressed his foot on the brake while he turned the radio back on.
The song was good. It had a nice upbeat tempo to it. The melody was catchy and cheerful without any pretentiousness. It was like he’d found his ordinary sound.
****************************************************************************
Out of traffic and into his neighborhood, Mr. Peterman drove out of his way to the record store. He felt as though there might be another world out there that he hadn’t quite given a chance. Even though the radio was off he was smitten with his new found love song. He wanted to keep the tune in his head. No distractions, just singing the tune over and over. He’d wished he had satellite that way he would’ve known who the artist was because the DJ didn’t say so. Despite the odds, he was determined he would have his new song. He was in love.
Mr. Peterman parked his car in the Sunny Vale shopping mall and took the elevator to the Barnes & Noble Booksellers level. Through the double doors and past the rows of bookshelves with heroic muscular men holding up beautiful damsels in distress he stopped a bookseller for directions to the music section.
“It’s downstairs”
“Thank you”
He passed a table of cookbooks and the one that caught his eye had a woman on it with the title Extraordinary Recipes for the Ordinary Guy . He thought to himself, “She seems pretty smart. I think I’ll get that book too”. He held it in his hand uncomfortably as though he was going to buy it but hadn’t just yet.
Down the escalator he went and passed the metal detectors to the front counter where no one stood. He looked around for a sales person when someone caught his eye and started to make their way towards him. Mr. Peterman excited but nervous waited for the salesperson to arrive.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Yes. I’m looking for an album; CD actually but I’m afraid I don’t know the artist or the name of the song”.
“Oooh, that can be a problem. Do you know any other song titles by this group? It is a group or is it a solo artist?”
“It’s a group; a band, I think”
“OK. Good, is it female or male mostly?”
“Uh, male. I can sing it for you if that’ll help.”
“I don’t know if that’ll help but you can certainly try.”
“Bada bada dad a, Dad a dad a dad a dad a da, Dad a dada dad a dad a my atmosphere…(he took a long pause). The salesperson looked curiously in the air as if he could somehow see the band in the atmosphere. Mr. Peterson continued on beat, “Where soul meets ba-dee….Where soul meets ba-dee….That’s all I know.”
The salesperson smiled widely, “Man, that’s Death Cab for Cutie. They’re awesome. You’re in for a real treat. I can get that for you.”
Mr. Peterman could not contain his happiness for the rest of the way home even though he didn’t dare play it in his car stereo.