Chapter Text
On March 3, 1986, the United States Military established an elite vocal training program for the top 1% of its singers. Its purpose was to give its most high-maintenance service members a structured activity to keep them out of trouble, and to ensure that the handful of men who graduated were the best vocalists in the world.
They succeeded.
Beyond their wildest expectations.
Every spring, each branch of the military sends its messiest drama kings to compete in a themed singing competition.
Today, the Pentagon calls it: Advanced Vocal Tactics and Musical Strategy.
The performers call it…
TOP MIC
1986
“Ladies and gentlemen, what a night! Decades from now, you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren you witnessed this historic moment firsthand. On behalf of the Pentagon, I’m proud to present the winners of the first-ever Annual Top Mic Competition… TEAM NAVY!”
The young singers’ whoops and cheers drown out the thunderous applause from the audience.
Maverick’s the hero of the hour, his teammates passing him around on their shoulders like a living trophy. The pulse of victory thrums though his body, but there’s something missing…
His eyes roam the crowded stage, searching…
“You!”
He turns to see his rival, his nemesis, his lead singer.
His wingman.
The roar of the crowd fades to the background; Maverick finds his entire universe contained in the sparkle of this dazzling blond’s eyes.
“You are still dangerous!” Iceman’s face breaks into a smile more radiant than the spotlight bathing them in its glow. “But you can be my backup singer anytime.”
“Bullshit, you can be mine.”
And as Maverick falls into Ice’s arms, he knows they’ve won something far more valuable than a trophy tonight…
2021
Rhythm Nation Karaoke Parlor
Bakersfield, California
15 days until the 2021 Top Mic Competition
Maverick jolts awake to the chorus of Kenny Loggins’s I’m Free blaring in his ears.
He tumbles off his mattress with a groan, every joint creaking, and gropes for his phone to shut off the alarm.
Coaxing himself to full consciousness, Maverick blinks blearily around the abandoned karaoke lounge he calls home. His triumph on the Top Mic stage is decades behind him, but he still remembers that night like it was yesterday.
And Iceman…
Maverick’s phone chimes and a calendar reminder pops up: 140 dB!
No time to dwell in the past. He speeds through his morning routine, drapes a protective sheet over the World War II-era Rockola jukebox he’s restoring, and heads for the door.
Then he’s on the road, driving toward the specially-designed hangar where the RockStar Amplifier is waiting for him.
RockStar is the culmination of thirty years of technological development. Previous military-grade amps could reach a maximum of 130 decibels, but RockStar’s building the capacity to go much higher. Today’s goal is to reach Level 10 on the volume dial, an eardrum-shredding 140 dB.
But not everyone in the military believes in RockStar’s value.
“Maverick, bad news.” Bernie “Headroom” Coleman, Maverick’s Chief Sound Engineer, intercepts him on the way to the hangar. “Admiral Cain’s on his way over right now to halt our operations. He wants to know why we need an amplifier that loud?”
Maverick blinks uncomprehendingly. “Why wouldn’t anyone need an amp that loud?”
“It’s bullshit. He just wants our budget for his own pet projects. He’s determined to shut down the test today!”
“Whoa, whoa. Cain doesn’t own that amp! The taxpaying citizens of our country do! It’s my duty to them to prove it works!”
“Mav, I don’t like that look,” Headroom says nervously.
“Well, I only have, like, five looks, total,” Maverick huffs. “Six, tops.”
He quickly cycles through his repertoire: There’s The Chipmunk Smirk. The Joker Smile. The Pout (Tears Optional). The Serious Business Face. Surprised!Face, a classic that he can deploy in a plethora of situations!
And, last but certainly not least, the one where he raises his eyebrows while blinking.
Outside, an ominous-looking car with tinted windows turns into the parking lot.
“That’s Cain.” Maverick changes into Serious Business Face. “You gotta distract him for me. Four-and-a-half minutes; that’s all I need to get it done.”
“Maverick, no! Cranking the volume that high in such a short timeframe will overload the RockStar’s systems!”
“If I don’t take the risk, who will? Here, this is for Mission Control.” Maverick holds out a box of tissues. “They’ll need it when they’re overcome with emotion for my heroic sacrifice.”
In the control room, the members of RockStar’s support crew wail, gnash their teeth, and rend their garments.
“Maverick, don’t do it! You’re too precious to the Navy!”
But he’s already striding away, toward RockStar. Toward his destiny.
“Whatever you do, don’t go past Level 10 on the dial!” Headroom shouts after him, desperately.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Maverick murmurs, stroking his hand lovingly over RockStar’s control panel. “One last duet.”
Rushing through his safety checks, he jams in his earplugs, grabs his microphone, and cues up the karaoke track to Nobody’s Fool.
“Help me, Kenny. I need you like I’ve never needed you before. We’re going all the way today.” He taps the faded Polaroid taped to the console; two much younger men with toothy smiles beam back at him. “This is for you, too, Goose. Wish me luck.”
He takes a deep breath and hits Play.
Maverick sets the volume dial to Level 7, allowing RockStar to warm up while the drums lead into the first verse. That’s already 130 decibels, as loud as the average self-respecting rock concert, thumping through the building around him.
Right before he hits the first chorus, Maverick bumps the volume to Level 8, 135 dB.
Like a shock to the heart
I’ve got news for you
I may not look so smart
But I’m nobody’s fool!
While singing the second verse, Maverick gradually raises the volume, so by the time he gets to the second chorus, he’s at Level 9. 140 dB. That’s as loud as he’s authorized to go today. The force of a jet engine at takeoff.
The communications screen from Mission Control flickers to life. The image of Admiral Chester “Dulcimer” Cain appears, red-faced with fury, mouth contorting. Maverick can’t hear what he’s yelling, but it’s obviously an order to stand down.
Maverick smiles and shrugs helplessly, pretending he doesn’t understand.
You can turn up the heat
But I’m playing it cool
I know it’s hard to believe
I ain’t nobody’s fool!
Maverick’s military-grade ear protection is reaching its limits. He can feel the sonic vibrations in his teeth.
“Come on, baby, we’re almost there.”
During the bridge, Maverick edges the volume up to Level 10. 145 dB. The walls, the floor, begin to shudder.
He did it! He’s broken a world record in sound amplification. RockStar is saved. If he stops now, the project will live to see another day.
But…
Would his heroes, Nigel Tufnel and David St. Hubbins, stop at 10?
With a silent prayer, he nudges the dial to 10.2.
The cells in his body threaten to rattle apart at a molecular level. Outside, the windshield of Cain’s car shatters.
But RockStar holds together.
Emboldened, Maverick launches into the final chorus and twists the dial past 10.5.
RockStar’s interface flares with flashing red lights, and smoke wafts up from the console.
“Oh, fu—”
Maverick blinks. He’s lying naked in a pile of debris under the open sky.
“Am I dead?”
If so, how anticlimactic. He would have expected his life to flash before his eyes or something.
He sits up cautiously, the stench of smoldering electronics searing his sinuses, and looks up to see Headroom running toward him.
“Congratulations. You’re the loudest man alive,” the sound engineer shouts.
Maverick cups a hand to his ear. “What?”
His head is still ringing when he’s hauled in front of Cain’s desk for the ass-reaming of the century.
“RockStar’s in smithereens,” Cain says conversationally. “Five years and $12 billion in government money, down the drain. Kaput. Not counting the millions in property damaged when the amp blew. What the hell was that racket you were blasting?”
“Excuse me, Admiral. It’s the theme song to Caddyshack 2, the greatest sequel in cinematic history.”
“As expected, I regret asking. I bet you feel like a big hero now, don’t you?” Cain picks up the file folder on his desk. “Maverick Mitchell. You enlisted in the Navy in 1980. The year Carter was reelected. The year it all fell apart.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That peanut-loving tree-hugger ruined everything with his global peace talks. I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Then, in ’84, Ferraro came to power. The election of the United States’ first woman president triggered a worldwide return to matriarchy. Almost overnight, armed aggression became a thing of the past. We were forced to interact with other nations through diplomacy.” He practically spits out the word. “Made the military obsolete. Our once-proud defense industry had to resort to manufacturing musical equipment just to stay profitable.”
Cain wipes away tears of emotion. “Millions of military personnel were left with no purpose. No objective. The Pentagon felt they needed an alternative program to keep all you aimless young men gainfully employed and out of trouble. Thus, the Top Mic training institution and competition was born. You were part of the Navy Team that, against all odds, won the very first Top Mic trophy in 1986.”
“The explosion didn’t give me amnesia,” Maverick complains. “You could have skipped the exposition dump.”
“This country failed you. You were strong, capable men in the flower of youth,” Cain growls. “You should have grown up to run this world. That was your birthright. Instead you’ve wasted the prime of your life on frivolities. Rock music and concert paraphernalia.”
“Admiral, you know men’s brains are too emotional and irrational for politics. That’s just scientific fact. Music is a safe and socially acceptable way for us to channel our turbulent passions.”
“Listen to yourself!” Cain sputters, purpling with rage. “You’re brainwashed! Indoctrinated!”
“Case in point. You are way too tense,” Maverick chides him. “You need a healthy outlet for your feelings. When’s the last time you went out for beer and karaoke?”
“You’re a lost cause, Mitchell. If it were up to me, you’d spend the rest of your empty, pathetic life playing the calliope at children’s birthday parties. Unfortunately for the rest of us, your…” Cain grimaces with distaste, “Fairy Godfather… has other plans for you.”
Maverick’s Chipmunk Smirk creeps onto his face.
“You have fifteen minutes to pack your gear. I want you on the road to Coronado within the hour.”
Maverick swaps out his Smirk for a Surprised Pout. “Coronado?”
“Despite your best efforts to murder your eardrums, you heard right. You’ve been called back to Top Mic.”
“But—” Maverick’s stuck on Surprised!Face; can’t shake it.
“Now get out of my sight!” Cain thunders.
Maverick turns and flees.
Pacific Fleet Naval Music Program
“Karaoketown U.S.A.”
Coronado, California
Of all the places in the world Maverick’s ever traveled, nothing beats roaring down the Pacific Coast Highway with the wind in his hair!
What’s slightly less thrilling is feeling the backdraft from passing container trucks ruffle his hair while he’s pulled over on the side of the road, getting scolded by a California Highway Patrol Officer.
“I wasn’t even speeding!” Maverick argues. “I was keeping up with the flow of traffic!”
“Your speed wasn’t the issue, sir,” the Officer says sternly. “You’re in violation of California State Vehicle Code 27803, operating a motorcycle without a helmet.”
“But it messes up my hair!” Maverick protests.
Despite this unassailable logic, she writes him a ticket.
Thanks to his encounter with San Diego’s finest, Maverick’s late to his meeting at the local Navy Headquarters. He struts through the door humming The Bitch is Back, and blows a kiss at the larger-than-life glamour shot of Iceman gazing coolly down at him. He notices Ice is wearing a wedding ring in the portrait, which means it’s out of date.
Unless Ice remarried when Maverick was distracted.
Banishing the unwelcome thought, he hurries to the John Coltrane Conference Room to confront his fate.
“It’s good to see you again, Captain Mitchell.”
Maverick nods at the familiar face, Admiral Solomon “Waldorf” Bates. He’d helped the Navy capture the 1992 Top Mic trophy; the theme that year was Side By Side By Sondheim.
“Glad to be back. You know, one of my many nicknames is Co-Mayor of Karaoketown?”
The disgruntled-looking guy next to Waldorf scoffs, glaring at Maverick like he’s roadkill on the side of I-5. “That was a long time ago, Captain. If you expect to waltz in here and be treated like a conquering hero, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
“This is Admiral Beau ‘Statler’ Simpson, the Musical Director of this facility,” Waldorf explains. “You two have something in common. Statler also won Top Mic, back in ’98.”
“Yeah, I remember.” That year’s theme was O Canada!, and Statler wowed the audience with his Céline Dion tribute. “But actually, in ’86, I was singing backup.”
“Backup?” Statler explodes. “You barely made the team, you self-aggrandizing wad of—”
Waldorf lays a restraining hand on his shoulder. “We’re not here to compare the size of each other’s microphones. Captain Mitchell, we’re facing an unprecedented threat, and we find ourselves in need of your singular talents.”
“To be blunt, Captain,” Statler says tautly, “we have a time-sensitive mission that requires flawless execution. Admiral Kazansky suggested you were… uniquely qualified… to support our efforts.”
Maverick laughs throatily. “I always knew the Navy would come crawling back to me one day. It’s Top Mic Competition Season, and you’re desperate to get your hands on that trophy again.”
Statler clenches his jaw so hard, Maverick can hear his tooth enamel crack. “We’ve reached a crisis point. Team Navy hasn’t won since 2014. Last year we lost to the Coast Guard.” He pounds the desk with a meaty fist. “The Coast Guard!”
“So, you went to the greatest man ever to win Top Mic… and he told you to come to me.”
“I believe his exact words were, ‘Why don’t you ask Mitchell? He probably has nothing else going on.’”
“The point is, you came highly recommended,” Waldorf cuts in. “The theme this year is Back to the Eighties: A Righteous Musical Journey.”
“Iceman didn’t steer you wrong. That’s my area of expertise.”
“The competition venue will be Accelerando Arena, at the South Lake Tahoe Convention Center.”
“Tahoe!” Maverick exclaims. “Whose idea was that?”
Waldorf looks pained. “All the branches of service were unhappy about that decision, but singers at this elite level are expected to cope with the conditions.”
“You should enjoy the trip down Memory Lane, Captain. In honor of the competition’s 35th anniversary, the Pentagon’s arranged a special exhibit showcasing past Top Mic milestones. Photos, costumes, musical instruments… even a vintage Grumman F-14 synthesizer like the one you used in ’86.” Statler smirks. “Guess we’re not the only ones digging up ancient artifacts for the occasion.”
Maverick attempts to glare and pout at the same time, but it’s too complicated. “Fine. Tell me what we’re up against?”
“As per tradition, we’ve gathered intelligence on our opponents’ strategies,” Waldorf says. “Statler?”
Statler cues up a PowerPoint presentation. “Here’s how the competition stacks up. The Air Force is going with a heavy metal theme.” He clicks to the next slide with a little dissolving fade animation. “Army— Salute to Eighties Divas.” Click. “Coast Guard— British New Wave Invasion.”
“Did you really need to make a whole slideshow for this?” Maverick complains.
Statler’s jaw muscle twitches convulsively. Waldorf catches Maverick’s eye and gives a tiny shake of his head in warning.
“If I may finish?” Statler snarls, and clicks onto the last slide. “Finally, the Marines are doing a tribute to Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
Waldorf studies Maverick’s face. “What’s your read on the situation, Captain?”
Maverick nods soberly. “Based on this intel, Team Army has the advantage with the Divas angle. Whitney, Tina, Cyndi, Madonna, Cher, Gloria… Those are serious assets in their arsenal. Even if they don’t have the best performers, the audience will be eating out of their hands. They’ll be tough to beat. Tough, but not impossible. It’ll be a fight all the way to the final curtain.”
“You could come up with a strategy for this?”
“Well, you’re in luck. I’ve kept my instrument in tip-top shape, and I’m more than ready to step up to the mic. I’m not sure who I trust to sing backup for me, and I’ll need an accompanist or two, but I guarantee you I can bring that trophy home to the Navy where it belongs.”
Statler snorts.
The two Admirals exchange a weighted glance.
“Don’t misunderstand us, Captain. We’re asking you to coach this year’s team,” Waldorf explains. “It’ll be your students who perform in the competition.”
“Coach?” Maverick sputters. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. If you had a Porsche in your garage, would you use it as a tow truck?”
“Listen to this moron,” Statler sneers. “You really think we’d pull a has-been like you out of the deep freeze and put you on stage as the headliner? Gag me with a spoon.”
“Look, coaching isn’t really my vibe. I tried it once before and it didn’t work out.”
“Believe me, we’re excruciatingly aware of that fact. We have your old performance evaluations right here.” Statler opens a file folder and reads aloud. “‘While a talented vocalist in his own right, Lieutenant Mitchell regrettably shows low aptitude for cultivating others. His preferred method of instruction is to show off, while expecting his students to stand around ooh-ing and aah-ing over him. Until he can put others’ needs ahead of his own, we recommend he not continue with the Top Mic program.’”
“Isn’t there a statute of limitations on those?” Maverick huffs. “Anyway, what that report’s saying is, I have star quality. It can’t be taught. I’m wasted in the classroom.”
“It’s imperative that the Navy nurture a new generation of singers,” Statler retorts. “You remember how long it’s been since the last time we brought that trophy home. You know what price we paid to get it.”
“‘We’?” Maverick leans forward aggressively. “Iceman paid the price. He gave up everything for that victory.”
The guilt haunts him to this day. Ice, I should have been there to back you up…
“Let me level with you, Maverick.” Waldorf’s expression is grave. “This is a make-or-break year for Top Mic. Admiral Cain is pushing hard to allow next year’s singers to use autotune in competition.”
“Autotune?” Maverick’s jaw drops. “The Pentagon would never approve!”
“We thought so, too, but Cain has friends in high places. The situation is dire. Admiral Kazansky seems to think you’re the right person who can change hearts and minds.”
“Let’s talk logistics. We’re giving you our eight finest singers, plus an accompanist on keyboard.” Statler hands Maverick a fat dossier. “Use them wisely.”
Maverick barely glances at the document before tossing it aside. “That’s not enough. I’ll also need a saxophonist, the best you can find.”
Statler lunges across his desk and grabs Maverick by the collar. “You’re in no position to make demands here, Mitchell!”
Waldorf drags him back. “Easy there, skipper. It’s for the good of the team. We can arrange that, Maverick. You’ll have your saxophonist by the time class starts tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Maverick sniffs, straightening his jacket with a pointed glare at Statler.
“You were not my first choice for this assignment,” Statler glowers. “I wouldn’t have asked you if you were the last carbon-based lifeform on earth. You are here at the request of Admiral Kazansky… a man I respect deeply. A man I have admired since I watched the first Top Mic competition on TV as a young boy. A man I’ve considered a role model and an inspiration my entire career. A man whose portrait hangs over my bed, so his face can be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night.”
Waldorf clears his throat loudly, snapping Statler out of his reverie.
“The SONGPACFLT’s putting his reputation on the line for you, and you’d do well to remember that! You’re free to decline this job, since you obviously feel it’s beneath you. But let me be clear— This will be your last active post. You sing for Top Mic, or you don’t sing for the Navy ever again.”
The Upper Register Bar & Karaoke Lounge
Coronado, California
After the shock of learning his new assignment, Maverick needs some beer and stagetime to clear his head. He knows he’ll find both at The Upper Register, a favorite hangout for Navy singers since his own days as a Top Mic student. He’s not surprised to find the place is still in business. Operating a karaoke joint this close to the Naval Base is practically a license to print money.
The bar’s apparently under new management. The formerly grungy clubhouse is redecorated to favor bright, sleek, futuristic designs, but one thing hasn’t changed; the place is crawling with young hotshots sizing each other up around the karaoke stage. There’s more posturing going on than you’d see in an entire season of Drag Race.
At the center mic, a smarmy-looking blond belts out Bowie’s Dance Magic. He has impressive pipes, but his stage presence is abysmal.
Maverick plunks himself down at the bar and pulls out his phone. There’s a missed text waiting for him.
Making enemies already?
And it’s not even the first day of class yet.
As always you exceed my expectations
“Jeez, Ice, do you have spies everywhere?” Maverick mutters, and furiously taps out a response.
Team COACH???
What a fixing insult
*Ducking
**FUCKING
“Will you look what the tide dredged up! Peter Mitchell!”
Maverick raises his eyebrows and blinks in astonishment at the pretty brunette behind the bar. “Penny? Penny Benjamin?”
“Wow, got it on the first try. Better than the last time we ran into each other!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I own the bar,” Penny says proudly. “Took over last year and made a few improvements. Seemed like a good place to set down roots.”
“Why, because you heard I’d be back?” Maverick flashes his Joker Smile.
“Still think the entire universe revolves around you, huh? You’re worse than my fifteen-year-old daughter.”
“Wait, you have a teenage daughter? Is she mine?”
Penny sighs. “Time for a remedial lesson in math and biology, Romeo. That one time we were together, thirty years ago, you were so quick on the trigger, your ‘little missiles’ didn’t make it anywhere near my ‘target-rich environment,’ as you so charmingly described it.”
Maverick pouts.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” Maverick cries in frustration. “I keep telling people, I don’t have that many!”
“That sad-eyed little boy routine. It wasn’t attractive when you were 25, and it’s way less attractive now that you’re— what, 60? 65?”
“Keep your voice down!” Maverick hisses.
“Are you planning to order anything? If not, you’re taking up valuable real estate.”
“Yeah, I’ll have a Budweiser.”
“This is a quality establishment, not a frat house.” Penny slaps a menu in front of him. “We have a dozen local microbrews on tap, plus craft cocktails. Dare to expand your horizons.”
Maverick frowns at the beverage selection. Every beer on the list is described as either “hazy” or “juicy,” except for the ones that are “hazy and juicy.”
He skips down to the mixed drinks and gags. Eighteen bucks for a single cocktail! Fucking Coastal California!
To get his money’s worth, he picks the cocktail that lists the most ingredients. “Fine, I’ll try a Melisma.”
He glances over at the karaoke stage. A young guy with a crew cut is singing What a Feeling! His notes are true, but his vibrato is all over the place.
“Where can I request a song?”
“You’re planning to sing tonight?” Penny says skeptically.
“It’s a karaoke bar. Of course I’m singing.”
Penny frisbees a coaster at him. “Scan that QR code to download the app. You can browse our full song catalogue in the cloud.”
Maverick stares blankly.
“Or you can use the touchscreen over there.” Penny rolls her eyes, waving him toward a high-tech-looking panel by the front window.
Maverick ambles over and squints at the LED interface.
“You need any help, Gramps?”
He looks up to see Wannabe-Jareth and his Flashdance-loving friend.
“No, thanks.” After a couple of false starts, Maverick locates the artist index and scrolls through. “I can handle myself.”
The two younger guys blatantly stare over his shoulder while he navigates the song menu.
“Excellent choice. I know the crowd will love it.” The blond and his compatriot exchange an amused smirk.
“Someone’s gotta teach you kids about grown-up music.”
Maverick struts over to the stage and grabs the mic. He shuts his eyes to sink into the perfect mental zone, as his ears fill with the opening notes to Meet Me Halfway Across the Sky. He’s inflating his lungs to belt out the first verse, when—
Abruptly, the music cuts off. Penny blasts an airhorn, and a rousing cheer erupts from the crowd.
“What the hell?” Maverick demands.
Penny gestures to the carved wooden sign hanging over the stage.
ABSOLUTELY NO
KENNY LOGGINS MUSIC
IN THIS BAR
“No Kenny?” Maverick is aghast. “Blasphemy! Show some respect; that man is a national treasure!”
“Sorry, it’s bar policy.” Penny smiles wickedly. “As a penalty, you have to buy a round of drinks and apps for everyone.”
Maverick stares around the room in horror. “Like, everyone, everyone?”
“Rules are rules!” Penny says sweetly, then turns her attention to the five-body-deep mosh pit rushing the bar.
“I’ll have four more Double Octaves on Grandpa here,” Maverick’s new blond nemesis smirks. “Thanks, old man!”
Maverick sulks into his cocktail. (It’s not bad, actually!) His return to Coronado is not going as planned.
He’d first set foot in The Upper Register a lifetime ago, back when it was all dim lights and dark wooden paneling, marinated in nicotine, booze, and testosterone. The Naval Base was buzzing with the thrill of Top Mic, and every young singer in the bar was determined to prove himself on the big stage. Maverick had the world at his feet, his loyal accompanist Goose at his side—
Penny smacks a bill onto the bar in front of him, the paper spooling down until it brushes the floor. Maverick squints at the total, then blinks and raises his eyebrows. “This can’t possibly be right.” He offers her his most pitiful-looking pout in hopes of mercy.
“Crowd was thirsty tonight. Tell you what.” Penny’s voice turns mischievous. “If you can show me proof you’re eligible for the Senior Discount, I’ll knock 50% off the bill.”
“I’m sure I don’t qualify as a senior,” Maverick blusters.
“Fifty-five and older?” Penny challenges.
Maverick flinches as she scores a direct hit, but his pride won’t allow him to concede! “That won’t apply to me for another twenty… five years,” he lies, hoping to salvage a few shreds of dignity before the gathered crowd.
“Fine, then you’re on the hook for the full tab. Come on, Mav, show Benjamin the benjamins!”
Maverick sighs and rifles through his wallet for a game of credit card roulette. He’s gone a bit overboard lately, buying replacement parts for the Rockola, but at least one of these should have enough available balance to cover the tab. He plucks out his Pochissimo Rewards card and hands it over with a silent prayer.
While Penny runs the card, Maverick checks his phone to see if Ice responded yet.
Nothing.
He drifts back into memories of happier times at The Upper Register— Ice pinning him against the karaoke machine, brandishing a smile more dangerous than a frayed microphone cord trailing through a puddle of beer.
“Do you need any help figuring out who’s the best singer?”
That night was the beginning of their storied rivalry, the legendary matchup that turned into so much more…
His fantasy dissolves as a shadow falls over the screen.
“Your card was declined,” Penny says flatly.
“That’s all you have to say? ‘Your card was declined’?”
“What do you want, a song and dance routine?”
“I don’t know; seems like a missed opportunity for a clever quip observing that my cocksure, impetuous personality has led me to incur a debt I can’t physically honor?”
Penny’s face turns stormy. “Get. Out.”
“Off! The! Stage! Off! The! Stage!” The bar patrons chant.
Smug Bowie Wannabe, his friend, and a third, equally sturdy compatriot hoist Maverick off his bar stool and hustle him out the side door. Under different circumstances he’d put up more of a fight, but these boys are large and he’d rather not throw out his back again. The RockStar explosion wasn’t exactly gentle on his aging bones.
“Thanks for the drinks, Grandpa,” Blondie chuckles. “You can come back to serenade us anytime!”
Maverick hits the sand with a thud, and the younger men stroll back into The Upper Register, laughing.
Inside, someone’s commandeered the piano. The distinctive opening riff of Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again fills the air, and the well-lubricated crowd erupts in a singalong.
“‘I don’t know where I’m going
But I sure know where I’ve been
Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday…’”
“No—” Maverick claps his hands over his ears in desperation, but it’s too late. A flashback montage tackles him, dragging him out of the present and all the way back to…
That fateful day in 1986… he and his trusty accompanist Goose are rehearsing for the first-ever Top Mic competition, when… suddenly, Maverick starts singing flat… Goose’s easy smile turns to alarm as he realizes Maverick can’t get back on pitch… the dissonance creates a soundwave so intense, the finicky F-14 synth explodes… Maverick escapes with a few bruises and scrapes, but Goose… Goose…
Inside the bar, the piano’s still going strong.
“‘Though I keep searching for an answer
I never seem to find what I’m looking for…
’Cause I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams…’”
Another wave of memories pummels Maverick.
Carole Bradshaw’s tearful face as she comes to collect Goose’s belongings… “He loved singing with you, Maverick…” Watching the sparkle dim in the eyes of Goose’s young son, Bradley, when his mother explains why his daddy won’t be playing piano with him ever again…
Maverick thrashes in mental agony.
“‘Here I go again on my own
Going down the only road I’ve ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone…’”
“Hey.” A toe nudges Maverick’s side.
His eyes flutter open. He’s lying in a fetal position, coated with sand.
“You OK there, Old Timer?” says the parking valet. “Need me to call an ambulance?”
“No.” With all the grace he can muster, Maverick lurches to his feet and totters away.
He’ll never truly banish the ghosts of the past, but he can keep them at bay… by redeeming himself and leading Team Navy to victory.
Goose, I won’t fail you this time.