Scene: A smoky sunless nameless, or rather legion, bar,
urban style right in the middle of high Harvard civilization, belting out some
misty time Hank Williams tune, maybe "Cold, Cold Heart" from father's home down in
sad-sack Kentucky long gone daddy left years before and gladly times. Order
another deadened drink, high- end beer these days, gone are rotgut whiskey (or
high blend when in the chips) accompanied by that self-same beer, slightly
benny-addled. Then, like some misbegotten scene out of Rick’s Café, in walks a
vision. A million times in walks a vision, in a million walk in bars, some
frail, naturally, but in white linen this time. Signifying? Signifying
adventure, dream one-night stands, lost walks in loaded woods, endless stretch
beaches searching for meaningful shells, moonless nights, serious caresses, and
maybe, just maybe some cosmic connection to wear away the days, the long days
ahead. Yes, that seems about right, right against the inflation -beggared times
right, and mean street break-down right. And then this Peter Paul Markin tale, really Laura's tale okay:
Walking down the narrow
stairs leading to the admission window booth at Johnny Fleet’s in good old
Harvard Square on this cold Columbus Day 1978 night, jesus 1978 is almost gone
already, I was suddenly depressed by this thought-how many times lately had I
walked down these very stairs looking, looking for what, looking, as Tom Waits
says in his song, for the heart of Saturday night, looking recently every night
from Monday to Sunday and not just Saturday. Looking, not hard looking, not
right now hard looking anyway after my last nitwit affair, but looking for a
man who at least has a job, doesn’t have another girlfriend or ten, and who
wants to settle down a little, settle down with me a little. Yes, if you really
need to know, want to know, I’ve got those late twenties getting just a touch
worried old maid blues.
My parents, my
straight-arrow, god-fearing, Methodist god-fearing and that is a fierce
fearing, hard-working, lost in some 1950s dreamland parents, my mother really,
my father just keeps his own counsel between shots of whiskey and trying to
read the latest seed catalogues that keep him and his business alive through
the haze, keeps badgering me about finding a nice young man. Yes, easy for you
to say you don’t know the nitwits who are out there and they ain’t Rickey
Nelson dream jukebox guys, Mother. And then she starts on the coming home,
coming home to cranky Mechanicsville (that’s in upstate New York, near Albany,
if you don’t believe me) and finding some farmer-grown boy from high school and
X, Y, and Z, farmer boys all, still asks about me. No thanks, jesus, that is
why I fled to Boston right after college in 1972 (and fled to a far-away, and
a no living at home college too but
don’t tell her that) and not just because I wanted to get my social worker
master’s degree like I told them. And so here I am, a few years later, walking
down these skinny stairs again, sigh, yet again.
Johnny’s (nobody calls it
Johnny Fleet’s except for one-time people or tourists) isn’t a bad place to
hang your hat, as my father always likes to say, when he finds that one or two
places in the universe outside of the farm where he feels comfortable enough to
stay more than ten minutes before getting the “I’ve got to go water the
greenhouse plants” or something itch (read: drink itch). Not a bad place for a
woman, a twenty–eight year old woman with college degrees and some aims in life
beyond some one-night stand every now and again. Or not a bad place for a pair
of women, if my friend and roommate, Priscilla, decides she is man-hungry
enough to make the trip to Harvard Square from the wilds of Watertown, and can
stand the heavy smoke, mainly cigarette smoke as far as I know, but after a few
drinks who knows, that fills the air before the night is half over.
Tonight Priscilla is with me
because she has a “crush” on Albie St John, the lead singer for the featured
local rock group, The Haystraws. And the
last time she was here he was giving her that look like he was game for
something although he is known around the Square as strictly a “for fun” guy.
And that is okay with Priscilla because she has some guy back home some guy
from upstate New York where she is from near Utica, some fresh from the farm
guy who she has known since about third grade, who will marry her if and when
she says the word.
Here is the funny thing
though alone, or like tonight with Priscilla, this funky old bar is the only
place around where a woman can find a guy who is the least bit presentable to
the folks back home, wherever back home is. I’ve met a couple of decent guys in
here, although like I said before, things didn’t work out for some reason
because they were one-night stand guys or already loaded down with girlfriends
and I am in no mood to take a ticket, stuff like that. So you can see what
desperate straits I am in still trying to meet that right guy, or something
close, without a lot of overhead. My standards may be a little high for the
times but I’m chipping away at them by the day.
Moreover, this place, this
Johnny’s is the only place around that has the kind of music I like, a little
country although not Grand Ole Opry country stuff like my parents go for, you
know George Jones or Aunt Bee, or someone. And is a little bit folkie, kind of
left-handed folkie, more like local favorite Eric Andersen folk rock, and a
little old time let it rip 1950s rock and roll, like The Haystraws cover. You
know, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, those guys, that I never knew anything
about when I was a kid since I never got past Rickey Nelson and Bobby Darin,
darn him, out in the farm field sticks.
Upstate New York, like I said, not far out of Albany but it might as
well have been a million miles away with me picking my sting beans, tomatoes,
and whatever else pa grew to keep us from hunger’s door.
Not for me this trendy disco
stuff, not my style at all, no way, although I love to dance and even took belly dancing lessons although I am not
voluptuous, more just left of skinny if I say it but really voluptuous
Priscilla calls me just skinny. Also my
kind of guy would never, never wear an open shirt and some chainy medallion
around his neck. Jesus, no way. Plus, a big plus, Johnny’s has a jukebox for intermissions filled with all
kinds of odd-ball songs, real country, stuff, late 1950s rock and roll (the
Rickey Nelson/Bobby Vee/Bobby Darin stuff)
that nobody but me probably ever heard of unless, of course, you were
from Mechanicsville, or a place like that.
After going through mandatory
license check and admission fee stuff, saying “hi” to the waitresses that I
know now by name, and Priscilla does too, and the regular bartenders as we pass
by we find our seats, kind of “reserved” seats for us where we can sit and not
be hassled by guys, or be hassled if something interesting comes along. I have
been in kind of a dry spell, outside the occasional minute affair if one could
really call some of the “affairs” even that, for about six months now. Ever
since I started to work, work doing social work, my profession, if you need to
know. That’s what I am trained to do anyway although when I first came to
town a few years ago I was, as one beau
back then said, “serving them off the arm” in a spaghetti joint over the other
side of Cambridge. Strictly a family fare menu and plenty of college guys
including a few who I wound up dating, low on funds doing the cheap Saturday
night date circuit. All in all a “no tips” situation anyway you cut it,
although plenty of guff, a lot of come-ons, and extra helpings of “get me this
and get me that.”
Before that, out in Rochester
in college, and later after a short stop at hometown Mechanicsville it was
nothing but wanna-be cowboy losers, an occasional low-rent dope dealer, some
wanna-be musicians, farmer brown farmers, and married guys looking for a little
something on a cold night. Ya, I know, I asked for it but a girl gets cold and
lonely too. Not just guys, not these days anyway. But I am still pitching,
although very low-key. That is my public style (some say, say right to my face,
prim but that’s only to fend off the losers).
“Laura, what are you having,
tonight honey?’ asked my “regular” waitress, Lannie, and then asked Priscilla
the same. “Two Rusty Nails,” we replied. Tonight, from a quick glance around
the room even though it is a Columbus Day holiday night, looks like it is going
to be a hard-drinking night from the feel of it. That means on my budget and my
capacity about three drinks, max. About the same for Priscilla unless she is
real man-hungry. But that is just between us, okay. Lannie, as is her habit, knowing that we are
good tippers (the bonds of waitress sisterhood as Priscilla has also “served
them off the arm”) brought the drinks right away. And so we settled in get
ready to listen to The Haystraws coming up in a while for their first set. Or
rather I did the settling in. Priscilla was looking, looking hard at Albie, and
he was looking right back. I guess I will be driving home alone tonight.
As I settled in I noticed that
some guy was playing the jukebox like crazy. Like crazy for real. He kept
playing about three old timey LaVern Baker songs, "Jim Dandy"
of course, and "See See Rider" but also about six times in a
row her "Tomorrow Night". I was kind of glad when the band,
like I said, these really good rockers, The Haystraws, began their first set.
And so the evening was off, good, bad, or indifferent.
About half way through the
set I noticed this jukebox guy kept kind of looking at me, kind of “checking”
me out without being rude about it. You know those little half-looks and then
look away kind of like kid hide-and-seek and back again. Now I have around long
enough to know that I am not bad to look at even if I am a little skinny and I
take time to get ready when I go out, especially lately, and although times
have been tough lately I am easy to get to know but this guy kind of put me on
my guard a little. He was about thirty, neatly bearded which I like and okay
for looks, I have been with worst. But what I couldn’t figure out, and it
bothered me a little even when I tried to avoid his peeks (as he “avoided”
mine) is why he was in this place.
Johnny’s, despite its locale
in the heart of Harvard Square, is kind of an oasis for country girls like me,
or half-country girls like Priscilla (from upstate New York too, Utica, in case
you forgot) and guys the same way although once in a while a Harvard guy from
the sticks comes around (or a guy who says he goes to Harvard. I have met some
who made the claim who I don’t think could spell the name of the college, I
swear). This guy looked like Harvard Square was his home turf and if he found
himself five feet from a well-lighted street, a library, or a bookstore he
would freak out big time. He might have been an old folkie, maybe early Dylan
or Dave Von Ronk that nasal hard to understand kind of stuff, he had that feel,
or maybe a bluesy kind of guy, Muddy Waters maybe, but he was strictly a city
boy and was just cruising this joint.
But here is where this
jukebox joe story gets interesting. At intermission Priscilla had to run to the
ladies’ room and on the way this guy, Allan Jackman, as I found out later when
he introduced himself to me, stopped her and said that her brunette friend
looked very nice in her white linen pants and blouse. He then said to her that
he would like to meet me. Priscilla, a veteran of the Laura wars (and I of
hers), had the snappy answer ready, “Go introduce yourself, yourself.” And he
did start to come over but I kind of turned away to avoid him just in case he
had escaped from somewhere (yah, like I said before my luck has been running a
little rough lately so I am a little gun-shy). Still he worked his way
over.
And this is the very first
thing that Allan ever said to me. “I noticed that you kind of perked up when I
played LaVern Baker’s "Tomorrow Night". Have you been disappointed
when things didn’t work out after that first night of promise too, like in the
song?” Not an original line, but close. I answered almost automatically, “Yes.”
Then he introduced himself and just kind of stood there not trying to sit down
or anything like that waiting for me to make the next move. Then Priscilla came
back and said she had run into Albie St. John and he wanted to “talk” to her
before the band came back for a second set (she said with a certain twist like
she was doing him this big favor and not like she was practically drooling at
the idea. Like I said I am definitely driving home alone today.). She left and
Allan was still standing there, a little ill at ease from his look. Befuddled
by his soft non-threatening demeanor, and soft manners, I was not sure if I
wanted him to sit down or not but then I said what the hell, he seems nice
enough and at least he was not drunk.
So he sat down, and gently,
actually very gently, shook my hand and said “thank you” for letting me let him
sit at the table. In the flush of reaction to that gentle handshake, I swear no
man had ever taken my hand in such a manly manner without guile or gimme
something before, I relaxed a little and
asked him, not an origin question but I was curious, what brought him to
Johnny’s. He started to tell me about his country minute, about finding out
about the wild boys of country music, about Hank Williams (I winched, that was
my father’s music) about this guy Townes Van Zandt and so on.
And then he said he was
looking for me. I winched again. Not another crazy. No, not me exactly, but me
as a person who he sensed had been kind of beaten down in the love game lately
like he had. He said he saw that look in my face, in my eyes, when he kind of
half-checked me out at the jukebox. (I made him laugh when I said we were
kid-hide-and-seeking earlier). I said I thought he had fully “checked me out”
but he would only confess to the half. We both laughed at that one.
And after that opening,
strange to say, because being a country girl, and being brought up in a
Methodist-etched household to keep my thoughts to myself, or else, or else Dad
would have a fit, I started to talk to him about my troubles lately. And he
listened and kept asking more questions, not in-your- face questions, but
questions like he was really interested in the answers and not as some fiendish
experiment to take advantage of a simple girl.
And then I asked him a few things and before we knew it the evening’s
entertainment was over and Lannie kept telling us that we had to go. I still
had some doubts about this guy, this city boy and his city ways, and his fierce
piercing blue eyes that could be true or truly devilish.
As we got up to leave he
asked, kind of sheepishly with a little stutter, asked, for my telephone
number. No “my place or your place, honey,” or “let’s go down the Charles and
have some fun,” or “I brought you six drinks (we had each bought our own) and
so I expect something more” or any of that usual end of the night stuff that I
have become somewhat inured to. He simply, softly, said he wanted it because he
wanted to call me up tomorrow night. We kind of laughed at that seeing the way
we met, before we met. I hesitated just a minute and he, sensing my dilemma,
started to turn to leave. A guy who knows how to take no for an answer, or the
possibility of no, without recrimination or fuss. Wait a minute, Laura. Before he took two steps
I blurted out my number. And then put it on a cocktail napkin for him. As I
passed the glass wet napkin to him he said he would call about seven if that
was okay. I said yes. And then he shook my hand, shook it even more gently than
when he introduced himself, if that was possible. I flushed again as he headed to the door.
Something in that handshake said you had better not let this one get away.
Something that said you had better be near the phone at 7:00 PM tomorrow night
waiting for his call. And I will be.
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