The Right Hand of Kenny Mulwick

Fame and Misfortune

Photo by Jacob Bentzinger on Unsplash

The right hand of Kenny Mulwick holds a pen.

Yes, that Kenny Mulwick. 

If you recognize the name you probably hate him, or at least think he's a weirdo, a pervert, a creep 

If you don't recognize the name but you were told what he was infamous for, you would probably hate him.

Or at least think he's a weirdo, a pervert, a creep.

There's a wrist brace on his right hand that makes it difficult to write, but he feels that it’s important to hand write the thank you note. 

Next to his own hand, he looks at the signature of Laney Bridgeland.

You know her name for sure. I'll bet her song Rusty Passion popped into your head. The one where her voice cracks on purpose when she sings “passion” in that last chorus.

Jenn Werley owns the salon next to the Undaro Music Theater.

A few weeks after Kenny Mulwick became public pervert Number 1, she gave her security camera footage to Laney Bridgeland’s management company.

Kenny watched the video this morning. He smoked so many cigarettes to keep from puking that the nicotine almost made him puke.

He had quit for three and a half years until the Laney Bridgeland incident.

Kenny takes his hand away from his bald head and rereads Laney’s signature.

The autograph Kenny Mulwick ruined his life for.

Bradley Vivio was playing the Undaro. 

Kenny Mulwick wouldn’t pay for a Bradley Vivio ticket with Monopoly money and a handful of breath mints, and he was playing with his own band down the street at Break Room Billiards anyway.

The call buzzed in Kenny’s pocket just as soundcheck ended, startled him. 

Kenny took Jake Laznik’s call as he stepped off the stage, a fresh pack of 10 gauge strings in his hand.

Jake worked the stage crew at Undaro. Said he saw LB cello on the monitor board tape, there was extra catering and flowers in the green room. 

“Same record label, brother. There’s two beef goons for ESI security at the stage door too. They don’t call those guys unless it’s somebody. The LD is wearing a Laney Bridgeland tour shirt. I’m pretty sure she’s guesting with Vivio.”

Kenny didn’t make a secret of loving Laney Bridgeland, even though the music he wrote and the music she wrote differed like salt water and cement.

Kenny removes the wrist brace, looks at the surgical scar. 

The sonofabitch hurts, but Kenny didn’t really blame anyone. Lawyers bugged him daily, but no way was he suing.

When The Cauldron ended their first set at The Break Room, Kenny had wandered outside purposely and looked down the street. 

There were at least five guys carrying cameras wandering between Tienda Mexicana and the parking structure.

 No fucking way were that many paparazzi stalking Bradley Vivio. No way.

Kenny, free of the wrist brace, wrote I cannot thank and stopped. He knew he shouldn’t open with a negative.

He wanted to go thank Jenn in person, but…he just didn’t like being out in public. Not yet.

Certainly not in that neighborhood.

Kenny read the words above Laney Bridgeland’s signature. 

Thought about reopening a social media account.

The whole world hated him. He was the Steve Bartman of music, and he wasn’t in music anymore, because The Cauldron had no excuse but to fire him, change their name, move on.

The very second he had seen one of the paparazzi scurry into the walkway north of the Undaro, he had sprinted back inside to get his black leather guitar strap and the silver paint pen he wrote their setlists with.

The band, none of them Laney fans, laughed as their band mate rushed out the door of The Break. 

The last real word Kenny remembered hearing was “Fanboy.”

He didn’t spare the wind to yell “Fuck you,” back at whoever said it.

He ran down to the Undaro, 

Would he get a signature?

Would he get a picture?

Kenny would get a picture, multiple pictures, but none he would be able to look at without feeling like his chest turned to lava.

Grabbing a new piece of paper, he started a fresh note to Jenn Werley, then stopped. It seemed like the night was replaying itself in black and white in his head, with lightning flashes of absolute and unrelenting terror. 

Reaching with his right hand, he patted the signature as though it was alive, like a support animal.

The night played.

He was running, past the phone store,past the salon, into the walkway. Honestly, he knew he wouldn’t have much time, if any.

But as he he cut into that walkway, here came the entourage.

Goons, stylists…who knew? But there was Laney, in the middle, some teen girls and some papps with their backs to Kenny. 

A girl held out a record and Laney reached to sign it.

Kenny just began to slow his run, to approach, cool, Hey Laney, would you mind? 

He wouldn’t know until he saw Jenn Werley’s security video, but he stepped off the curb and onto a hose from a disposable hookah.

As he slipped and fell, he reached out with his right hand, and the nearest thing, a thing he didn’t ever plan on touching, was Laney Bridgeland’s shimmering, spaghetti strap blouse. 

The strap popped, though Kenny never knew it because just about the same time, one of Laney Bridgeland’s bodyguards was breaking his wrist in two places. 

Laney’s right breast was exposed to the paparazzi. 

Kenny’s face was rubbed against the pavement like he was a paper towel mopping up a spill.

But two of the paparazzi managed shots of his face.

He was identified on social media immediately, before he was even handcuffed to a bed at Hartwood Receiving Hospital.

The paparazzi followed.

Perv Passion was the headline on TMZ.

Lusty not Rusty trended on X.

Kenny doesn’t exactly know where to start thanking Jenn Werley, and he rubs his left hand through his hair, except his hair isn’t there anymore because he shaved it for more anonymity.

On the stool next to him was a stack of 18 different letters of apology Kenny wrote to Laney Bridgewater and did not send on the advice of his lawyer.

There might be a time for that, but it’s not now.

His lawyer, a second cousin he couldn’t afford anyway, issued a very bland statement saying that it was a freak accident, which it was.

But no one wants to hear that. No one on social media wants to forgive. That would be boring.

Millions more people will look at the photos and video of Laney Bridgeland’s right breast than they will the video of a guy slipping  on a hookah hose,on grasping for…anything. 

Three three hundred lb bodyguards and Kenny Mulwick somehow missed grabbing one of them.

Hundreds of square feet of cement and he stepped on a ten inch long hose.

A doctor prescribed Xanax, and he takes a few too many and wonders what he’ll change his name to.

Some of them are funny, but he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile much. 

Until his lawyer forwarded Laney’s letter.

Kenneth-

After watching the video of our unfortunate incident, I want you to know that I understand that it was an accident and don’t harbor any resentment or anger. 

I’m going to ask my fans and the public in general to leave you alone and find forgiveness in their heart for you, and I wish you all the best going forward.

Best Always,

Laney Bridgeland

Kenny reread the letter a few times.

Laney Bridgeland didn’t think he was a pervert. 

He smiled, weakly, then tried again to pen his own letter to Jenn Werley.

A few words in his phone buzzed. He had changed the number three times and only a few people had it, but still he looked with trepidation.

It was a screenshot.

Laney Bridgeland Perv’s Guitar Strap sold on eBay for 7200 dollars.

His attorney Carson said he was going to claim it was illegally obtained and try to get the money.

Kenny Mulwick put down his pen, walked into his closet and pulled out two guitar straps.

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