okay? Don’t say anything if you don’t have to, not our names . . .” And I reflected that Angie had said my name in front of Mr. Heavy. Angie patted my hand as if to calm my nerves. As if.
We emerged into a large industrial basement, complete with cast-iron pillars. Nobody had gone to too much trouble to doll the place up. Stray crates, pallets, and dangling bare-bulb lighting constituted the decor, along with about twenty rows of folding chairs in a variety of different materials and vintages. At the head of the rows was a podium, and behind that a makeshift bandstand with musicians. We were about the last to arrive; only standing room was left available. Much of the congregation was smoking. We were too, of course, by default.
A dude in an extralong pencil-thin mustache handed us each a program as we entered, and we drifted to the far back corner of the room. Busy scanning the room for Bing and Marti, I didn’t look closely at the program but saw that the cover had a cartoon of a wolf in a zoot suit twirling a chain.
“It’s like church,” Angie said under her breath.
“Not like the churches Mom and Dad took me to, I’ll tell you that. Check that out.” I pointed with my chin at the far side of the room, where Bing, standing, gestured in earnest to a fellow with white hair, white dinner jacket, and a white Panama hat in his hands. I didn’t see Marti.
“He’s just a kid,” Angie whispered. “Kind of a silly boy smoking that pipe, wearing a straw boater. Who’s he trying to look like? Bing Crosby?”
“That’s my guess. You’re right, he is young, too young to be hanging around with Marti. She’s fifty plus if she’s a day.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Positive. The hooked nose and voice are a giveaway. Hey, that’s Vito. In the band!”
“Oh, my gosh! You’re right.”
A fat, older man in a loud checked suit, goatee, and a classic example of male-pattern baldness stepped up to the podium and tapped the mic. The musicians stubbed out their fags and gathered their instruments. The lights dimmed and a smoky spotlight beam snapped onto the podium. All eyes turned forward and the crowd lowered the volume to a murmur.
“Gang,” Checkers began, “Scuppy is running a little late. I—oh, here he is!”
Scuppy made his entrance from somewhere at the back of the room, and I wondered where the other entrance to the building was. In an alley? A freight elevator? The audience jumped to their feet, applauding.
Scuppy swaggered up to the podium, waving apologetically, and Checkers retreated. “Sorry I’m late, but my taxi was cut off by a pedicab rushing to the hospital with a pregnant lady.” The crowd laughed. “No, really!” Scuppy laughed. “Anyway, listen up, people. Maestro?”
The audience sat, and the band laid down a sleazy, urban Peter Gunn rhythm, the drummer working a cymbal with a steel brush.
“I want to welcome you all back to the Church of Jive and to welcome any newcomers who’ve come to get the skinny, to open their eyes, to awake to the syncopation lost years ago but regained by you, me, and a growing number of others. How many people here remember black-and-white televisions?”
Some hands went up.
Scuppy nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you at least saw the last era of freedom. I never did. We had a Magnavox console TV, and I was placed in front of that thing as a baby. And I remember . . .” Scuppy picked up the microphone and stepped in front of the podium, the spotlight following him. “. . . I remember, one of my very first memories, I was very small and used to crawl up to the screen and put my eye right up to the screen.” Pantomime began to accompany the narrative.
“I liked the little colored dots, the waves of red, blue, and green that undulated across the phosphorous inner coating, and wondered who was inside the TV. But it didn’t take long before I stopped noticing all the little dots, and I stopped wondering who was inside the TV. I just sat
We emerged into a large industrial basement, complete with cast-iron pillars. Nobody had gone to too much trouble to doll the place up. Stray crates, pallets, and dangling bare-bulb lighting constituted the decor, along with about twenty rows of folding chairs in a variety of different materials and vintages. At the head of the rows was a podium, and behind that a makeshift bandstand with musicians. We were about the last to arrive; only standing room was left available. Much of the congregation was smoking. We were too, of course, by default.
A dude in an extralong pencil-thin mustache handed us each a program as we entered, and we drifted to the far back corner of the room. Busy scanning the room for Bing and Marti, I didn’t look closely at the program but saw that the cover had a cartoon of a wolf in a zoot suit twirling a chain.
“It’s like church,” Angie said under her breath.
“Not like the churches Mom and Dad took me to, I’ll tell you that. Check that out.” I pointed with my chin at the far side of the room, where Bing, standing, gestured in earnest to a fellow with white hair, white dinner jacket, and a white Panama hat in his hands. I didn’t see Marti.
“He’s just a kid,” Angie whispered. “Kind of a silly boy smoking that pipe, wearing a straw boater. Who’s he trying to look like? Bing Crosby?”
“That’s my guess. You’re right, he is young, too young to be hanging around with Marti. She’s fifty plus if she’s a day.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Positive. The hooked nose and voice are a giveaway. Hey, that’s Vito. In the band!”
“Oh, my gosh! You’re right.”
A fat, older man in a loud checked suit, goatee, and a classic example of male-pattern baldness stepped up to the podium and tapped the mic. The musicians stubbed out their fags and gathered their instruments. The lights dimmed and a smoky spotlight beam snapped onto the podium. All eyes turned forward and the crowd lowered the volume to a murmur.
“Gang,” Checkers began, “Scuppy is running a little late. I—oh, here he is!”
Scuppy made his entrance from somewhere at the back of the room, and I wondered where the other entrance to the building was. In an alley? A freight elevator? The audience jumped to their feet, applauding.
Scuppy swaggered up to the podium, waving apologetically, and Checkers retreated. “Sorry I’m late, but my taxi was cut off by a pedicab rushing to the hospital with a pregnant lady.” The crowd laughed. “No, really!” Scuppy laughed. “Anyway, listen up, people. Maestro?”
The audience sat, and the band laid down a sleazy, urban Peter Gunn rhythm, the drummer working a cymbal with a steel brush.
“I want to welcome you all back to the Church of Jive and to welcome any newcomers who’ve come to get the skinny, to open their eyes, to awake to the syncopation lost years ago but regained by you, me, and a growing number of others. How many people here remember black-and-white televisions?”
Some hands went up.
Scuppy nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you at least saw the last era of freedom. I never did. We had a Magnavox console TV, and I was placed in front of that thing as a baby. And I remember . . .” Scuppy picked up the microphone and stepped in front of the podium, the spotlight following him. “. . . I remember, one of my very first memories, I was very small and used to crawl up to the screen and put my eye right up to the screen.” Pantomime began to accompany the narrative.
“I liked the little colored dots, the waves of red, blue, and green that undulated across the phosphorous inner coating, and wondered who was inside the TV. But it didn’t take long before I stopped noticing all the little dots, and I stopped wondering who was inside the TV. I just sat
Similar Books
