I had just agreed to pay six dollars for a brand new tire for the car that I needed to drive to work every day. The cause of this windfall was the fact that one of my car tires was continually leaking air, and could not be repaired. And, since I had purchased road hazard insurance when I had originally bought the tire, they were charging me only for that portion of the tire that I had irrevocably worn away. I guess they just couldn’t see Lincoln’s head when they used the penny to check the tread. Rumor had it that when you could see Old Abe’s head but he looked like he had a crew cut, it was time to get a new tire.
The salesman handed me a few sheets of paper and said, “This shouldn’t take too long. You can wait in the customer waiting area, or use this discount voucher in the store if you want.”
I looked down at the shopper’s dangling carrot that I now held in my hand. Reading the copy, I found that I could save five dollars if I spent twenty five dollars, or, I could just discard the document and save twenty five dollars; or would I really be saving thirty dollars? Abandoning this question as being far too Abbot-and-Costelloesque to take seriously, I walked over to the room indicated by the salesman, sat down, and took the paperback copy of Catch-22 from my coat pocket. I then put the document that promised so much shopping bliss on the seat beside me. Maybe someone else would scarf up this ticket to a shopper’s paradise.
While it’s true that it no longer said, Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back : Period, on the front door of the store, I really was a pretty happy camper. I HAD purchased road hazard insurance, (sometimes I do something right) and six dollars was a good price for a new tire, so I really had no complaints. That is, of course, until one of the mechanics walked into the customer waiting area and turned the television set on.
Yes, that’s what I called it: a Television Set. That is what they were called when I last watched them with any regularity.
I knew he was a mechanic because he had dirty, greasy hands and was wearing soiled work clothes, that at one time had either been dark blue or dark green, and had the name of the store on the front pocket. He no doubt thought that he was doing me a favor as he reached up and pushed a button on the side of this gigantic rectangle that was mounted to the wall about a foot below the ceiling. I wasn’t prepared for the resulting sights and sounds that now poisoned the ambiance.
The effect was immediate. I thought that televisions had to warm up a little before operating, but this baby was off and running in about one second. The picture that imposed itself on the customer waiting area was an outdoor scene of a very flat grass covered surface that was marked with several regularly spaced white lines. Crammed onto this area there were several large men all dressed in uncomfortable looking tight clothes, with about half of the men wearing green and white, while the other half were dressed identically, except that their garments were black and orange. All of their shirts were adorned on the back and chest with large two digit numbers that were of a color that contrasted with the color of the shirt, as if to make it impossible for an observer to not notice what the number was. Also, in smaller print, there were what appeared to be the surnames of the men across the shoulders of their shirts. The numbers must have been there for ease of identification, because these men were also all wearing helmets that completely concealed their hair color and did a good job of obscuring their facial features and completions.
The accompanying audio was equally dumbfounding. At first, it sounded like two guys having an indecipherable conversation, but, after a while, I was able to tell that they were talking about what was going on on the screen. They spoke of punts, downs, korter-backs, lines of stimage and other confusing jargon that went over my head.
Attempt though I might to avert my gaze from the screen and read my book, I found my attention repeatedly drawn up toward the primordial spectacle unfolding before my eyes. The determination, cooperation, and balletic timing of the men on the screen was remarkable as they all demonstrated a single mindedness of purpose that was exemplary. The object of their continual attention appeared to be a ball, of sorts, that wasn’t spherical, but tapered at two ends. They would all ritualistically squat down at the same time with the men in green and white on the left side of the screen, and those in black and orange on the right. There they would remain, keeping perfectly motionless for a few seconds, and then, to a man, they would all start running into each other in an apparent attempt to either get, throw, or catch that tapered ball. This activity was repeated several times with little variation.
As rapidly captivating as it had been at first, the activity on the screen was now just as rapidly starting to loose its charm for me when I noticed a couple of things that piqued my interest.
The first thing to renew my interest was when I noticed that as one of the men was running across those white lines with that ball in his hands, I could plainly see in the picture two or three young women wearing very short skirts and short tops, with a goodly portion of the skin of their legs, stomachs and backs exposed. They were jumping up and down, clearly excitedly enthusiastic about something. My attention in this vein, though understandably focused, and intense, was short lived. Alas! The young women were soon out of the picture.
The next thing that really got my attention was of a different nature, that, while not as base as the former, in a way it turned out to be even more gripping. Read on.
Burly though these men were, they all seemed to show a deference to about thee or four guys in white pants and black and white striped shirts. These other men were also crammed into the same small space as the big guys, but they took no part in trying to get the tapered ball that the big guys made such a fuss over. They were smaller and seemed to be older and wiser than the big guys; a couple of them having large stomachs to boot. But the proof of their high standing and pedigree was the volume and authority of their voices when they were unhappy with something that one of the big guys did, and proclaimed it to the world. They would authoritatively stop the action, sometimes throwing handkerchiefs in the air, and sometimes even moving the ball while the big guys milled around and helplessly watched. And then the camera would focus in close on one of them, and he would say with an obviously amplified voice something like, ‘clippering, illegal contract, or off-slides’, and then make some kind of a hand or arm movement that I guess has some meaning. When this happened, all other action on the grass stopped. The power that these little guys had over the big guys was obvious and absolute. I wondered how this was possible.
But there was something about these guys with the stripped shirts that touched me so deeply that it became frightening. At first I was just mildly uncomfortable, and I just attributed it to my lack of a decent breakfast, or the peperoni pizza that I had eaten the previous evening, but then, my condition started to get worse. I felt myself wincing now and then while watching that television, and after a while I realized that my discomfort was due to something that was in the audio component of the televised signal. It was definitely a sound and I was now noticing it every time that it came out of the speaker. My conditioned stimulus turned out to be a shrill, high-pitched noise that rattled my audio memory whenever it occurred. Now I know how poor Pavlov’s dog felt. It was worse than the Tell-Tale Heart, and made The Raven’s rapping seem like a walk in the park. I now had to go through one more trial by fire before I was able to put an end to this madness and put my mind at ease. As if on cue, the camera then zoomed in on one of the little guys in a striped shirt. His face was in full close-up as he took something from around his neck, put it in his mouth and blew into it.
That sound went through me again…. but this time I was at peace, because I now remembered: FOOTBALL! And a whistle. November, 1968.
That was the month and year, and I was then a senior at Bridgewood Senior High School; so named, I guess, to distinguish it from the ‘Junior High School’ that had at one time been the ‘High School’, or maybe it was the ‘Senior High School’. I guess when the new high school was built circa 1956, the school administrators wanted to avoid any confusion, so they named it a ‘Senior High School’, and re-named the old high school, calling it the ‘Jr. High School’. Furthermore, I found out recently, that apparently, in a rash of creative insight, they have since dropped the term ‘senior’ from the name of the High School, and renamed the Jr. High School, the ‘Bridgewood Middle School’. Simplicity! Simplicity! Simplicity! Thoreau would approve, but I’m still confused.
It was that time of year again. Time for another four day weekend of the two that were guaranteed to us every autumn: the two days off for the teacher’s convention (aka teachers-raise-hell), and that more honorable American holiday: Thanksgiving-and-the-day-after.
Now, lest you think that this November Evergreen was time off for everyone at the school, teachers and students alike, be advised; some people weren’t so lucky, and didn’t get by unscathed. Although it wasn’t mandatory for the whole school to attend, there was the little matter of a Thanksgiving Day football game between our beloved school and the dreaded adversary that existed down the road apiece: P.J.Stephanopolus High School, in Perthtown. This yearly ritual resulted in a command performance for all student members of the football team, band, and all of their associated sub groups (like cheerleaders and the girls who twirled batons, waved pom-poms in the air, or marched around with white dummy 1903 Springfields), and, of course, the necessary faculty members: coaches, advisers, and band director.
The rivalry between the two schools had existed for decades. The Game was always played on Thanksgiving Day with kickoff at 10 A.M., and its importance was SO ingrained in some families that for more than one or two generations, the tone of the family Thanksgiving diner that followed the game directly depended on its outcome. There was many a family in Bridgewood that ate Thanksgiving dinner in stony silence when Bridgewood lost to P.J.Stephanopolus, and had a correspondingly exuberant, jolly dinner, when their team won. I have no doubt that similar domestic traditions also existed in Perthtown.
It didn’t make much difference to me who won the game. I was happy when we won, but was never adversely affected when we didn’t. I guess it might have been because my family was a relative newcomer to Bridgewood, and I lacked the town pride that was so entrenched in the local strata.
This vainglorious attitude was evident in the choice of a mascot for the school. We were known as the Bridgewood Dukes, and the anthropological representative mascot showed up at the game wearing a top hat, opera cape, dress shirt, white tie, dress pants, cummerbund and black patent leather dancing pumps.
P.J.Stephanopolus High School had a history that was not quite as old as Bridgewood, but was just as revered. It was named for an early twentieth century entrepreneur whose efforts resulted in the fact that Perthtown had more diners per square mile than any other town in the state. The personification of their school spirit came to the game dressed all in white with a white mushroomed hat. Yes, our adversaries every Thanksgiving were known as the P.J.Stephanopolus Chefs.
On the Big Turkey morning, after my obligatory daily shower (a benchmark of my battle with acne), I was up in my bedroom listening to the new Jimi Hendrix LP that had been recommended to me by this weird guy in my physics class. After 2 or 3 years of listening to Motown records, it took some getting used to, and I was wondering what he meant by, ‘sceuse me will I kiss this guy’ when I heard the telephone in the hallway.
After two acoustic ‘vintage telephone’ rings (that were then as contemporary as Jimi’s feedback), I picked up the receiver and telephone and brought it into my room.
“Hi, Jon.” It was my old friend, Jimmy Flynn.
“Hi, Jim. What’s happening?”
“You’re goin’ to the game, right?”
My answer was matter of fact, “Yeah. Joe wants me to go.”
Jimmy definitely had more enthusiasm than I, as he said, “Yeah, he asked me to take you guys over. You wanna’ go in style, right?”
“Sure.” I said, and I was beginning to wonder. Jimmy’s voice betrayed uncharacteristic excitement.
He then said, “We’ll be right over!” and then I heard a click as he forcefully returned the receiver to its cradle on that indestructible product of Western Electric.
What’s got into Jimmy, I wondered? I’d always known him to be kind of… dull.
No matter. They would be here soon, and I had to get dressed.
Now I couldn’t very well wear the clothes that I usually liked to wear to school or when steppin’ out. I was going to the turkey football game, and white-on-white dress shirts with french cuffs, monogrammed alpaca golf cardigans, and those DRESS PANTS just wouldn’t make it. I could just see myself sitting in those concrete bleachers wearing a pair of dress pants of such shimmering iridescence that when seen in sunlight, they looked as though someone had spilled gasoline on them.
No. They would never do. Fortunately, I had a few more casual pieces available that had been gifts from my parents and other relatives; a solid burgundy wool C.P.O. shirt over a fisherman knit sweater, a pair of slim fits and penny loafers, and I was on my way downstairs to wait for my friends.
I walked through the living room where the TV set was NOT on (wonder of wonders), and peeked into my parents bedroom. Pop was in there, sitting in an easy chair in the corner, reading the newspaper.
I sauntered in and said, “Hi, Dad.” in a half-hearted attempt to make contact with the Old Man before going to the game.
“Hi.” he said, continuing to read, occasionally emitting a slight chuckle as he did so.
As I stood there in the room that I knew so well, having played there as I child, I perfunctorily looked around, and noticed something that I had always known was there, but was now about to take on a whole new significance. Hanging on the headboard of the bed, was a thin cord that was drawn through the loop on the back of a whistle. Suddenly, this artifact that had been there since my earliest days, served as the impetus for a dastardly devilish deed that started fermenting in my mind.
I found myself saying, “Hey, can I borrow this?” as I picked up the whistle by the neckband and looked at it more closely.
It was made of metal, had a little ball inside, and had a picture of a duck in flight etched on one side of it, and a picture of a sad looking dog on the other. The dog looked sort of like the kind that Walt Disney would put in one of his cartoon movies; when he wanted a dog character who was loyal and had a good heart, but wasn’t too bright.
The Old Man took his time answering. He folded the paper and put it on the bed and said, “Sure. Just make sure you bring it back.” and then he added, “I’ve had it since high school…. class of ’35.”
He then said, “Boy, that Buchwald is funny.” and then we both heard Jimmy’s horn in the driveway.
I said goodby to the old folks and stepped out onto the front porch with the whistle in my pocket, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw out there. I had to stop before going down the stairs, to take it all in, and realize what I was looking at. I didn’t do well when assaulted with cognitive dissonance.
I still don’t.
Out in the bright sunshine Jimmy’s two tone red and white ’57 DeSoto was sitting in the driveway, with Jimmy Flynn and Joe Wickitet in the front seat. This normally gaudy car from the American Automotive Rococo, was now even more outlandish with what was obviously a home grown whimsical paint job. The already busy color scheme had been compounded with red and blue stripes down the hood, deck and sides of the car, and these same colors had been used to write some indecipherable script on the front fenders and the hood.
I walked around to the driver’s door so as to get a good look at Jimmy as he proudly sat behind the wheel. He was sporting a big grin, and one of his oversized floppy golf caps with his red hair sticking out from underneath, betraying his need of a haircut.
He proudly looked at me and said, “Well, whadiya think? I call er’ Captain America.” and then he revved the engine, emitting much blue smoke out the dual exhausts.
This blue smoke that now swirled around us, sadly, did not match the blue that had been added to the color scheme.
I was never a fan of Marvel Comics, but I don’t think that I would’ve been any more enthusiastic about a Man of Steel, or a Caped Crusader car either, so, toning my reaction down a bit, I managed to say, “Well, it really makes a statement.”
Now that I had been briefed about the car’s new motif, some things became more clear, if not obvious. I could now appreciate why the red and blue had been added to the original two tone white and red; obviously to add a flavor befitting Captain America. Also, I found that when I squinted, I could just about make out the words ‘Captain America’ done in what looked like red and blue runny poster paints on the hood and fenders. This car would be a real head turner when it rode down the street. And it was about to take us to the Turkey game. What the hell, I figured, and walked around to the passenger front door and squeezed in beside Joe. (57′ DeSotos didn’t have bucket seats.)
Now Jimmy wasn’t a student at Bridgewood. He went to St. Josafus’ in Perthtown. This meant nothing to us; we all went to different schools together, so I asked him, point blank, “Do you want to go with us to the game? It only costs 50 cents.”
“You kidding? I could buy two hamburgers with 50 cents. Besides, I’m busy today.”
I didn’t ask anything more until we got to the light that would bring us across Route One. ”You goin’ to a car wash? I don’t think you’re gonna find one open today.”
“Hey, make all the jokes you want, and have fun at your football game…. I’ve got a date!’
We didn’t say much after that, and after about a 5 minute drive to the school, he dropped us off at the curb by the school grounds, and took off in a fiery cloud of smoke.
Joe and I headed for the stadium, about 200 yards away. Joe was the first to speak, “He’s got a date on Thanksgiving … in the morning?”
My response was, “He’s got a girlfriend.” and then I added tactfully, ”I think she’s Irish.”
Joe’s response to this was just as heartfelt and eloquent, “Figures.”
We were soon at the entrance to the football stadium. This ‘stadium’ was really just a couple of bleachers on either side of the football field. The bleachers on the right were for the home team, and it was actually a poured concrete building that housed locker rooms for the home and visiting teams, with a couple of school run refreshment stands built into the back. The home team spectators sat on the terraced bleacher seats atop this building. The opposing bleachers were on the other side of the field, of course, and were not quite as big as the home team’s; and, let’s just say that they would self destruct quicker than the home team’s.
We approached the gate to give the man in the booth our money for a morning of fun filled gridiron bliss. I recognized the guy, having seen him at the school many times. Today he would be called a custodian, but we called them janitors back then, and he looked like he would rather be anywhere than where he was. I reached into my pocket, got my two quarters, and handed them over, first making sure that they had been minted AFTER 1964. There were still some silver quarters circulating in those halcyon days.
We walked in, soaking up the holiday atmosphere of the crowd. It was a beautiful day, and looked like it was going to be a good turkey turnout. The bleachers were already pretty crowded and the game had not even started. As we walked slowly up the five or six steps that brought us to the first landing of the bleachers, I looked around, taking it all in. The place was packed with lots of students, many of whom were underclassmen that I didn’t recognize. Looking down, I saw the auxiliaries; cheerleaders, color guard, etc., milling around on the track that was between the field and the stands. This was where the cheerleaders jumped around in their short skirts, thereby making themselves utterly beautiful. Looking up, I saw a bleacher that was well stocked with football enthusiasts; old timers that had been going to the Turkey Games since the Roosevelt administration, underclassmen who wanted to fit in, and a few recent alumni, sitting there in corduroy sport coats and turtleneck sweaters, smoking pipes.
Moving on a little farther brought us to the middle of the stands. The walkway stopped here, where there was an opening at the base of the structure where the football players entered the field. Even before I got to this point, I could hear the rhythmic chanting of the players that were down there, waiting to be released onto the field. When I reached the end of the walkway, I looked down onto a scene of pure malevolence.
The noise that had been the precursor to this spectacle was a spine chilling mixture of 20 or 30 pairs of football shoes prancing on gravel, and the hoarse vocalizations of the guys wearing them. There was the repeated use of the words ‘Bridgewood’, ‘Fight’, ‘Let’s GO!’ and an occasional ‘KILL’ that punctuated these vehement ejaculations. The sight of these athletes completed what was indeed a sobering experience, and, fortunately, there was chain link fencing that not only kept these guys off the field until the gate was opened when the game started, but also covered the top, making it impossible for any innocent bystanders in the stands to fall into this dangerous pit of doom.
These guys were the P.J.Stephanopolus Chefs, who were obviously intent on making mincemeat of the Bridgewood Dukes. As I looked down on them, the thought occurred to me that at the conclusion of the game, these fine exponents of young manhood would either be just as, or more vociferous…. or, as quiet and unobtrusive at church mice. It all depended on the big wooden numbers. If the eventual numbers on the old wooden scoreboard indicated that the word ‘VISITORS’ had a higher number under it than the word ‘HOME’ did, then they would cavort off the field in their comradery, carrying their helmets, slapping each others’ backs, with bright eyes and big bright smiles with teeth as big as piano keys. However, if the big wooden numbers on the old wooden scoreboard indicated the opposite, they would slowly slither away, only to silently occupy their bus before it left for Perthtown, sitting there motionless like the workers in that Fritz Lang movie, Metropolis.
I turned around to say something to Joe, and he wasn’t there. I then heard ,”Hey Jon, up here!”
Joe Wickitet was up a few steps higher in the bleachers and had connected with our mutual friend, Luke Gestos. He then said, “Comon, let’s go sit by the band.”
“OK, Joe.” and with that, I joined them, and we went over to the other side of the home bleachers where the band members sat.
We were very friendly with some of the band members, and usually sat with them at the regularly scheduled Saturday games. After the games we would usually go with them to the local McDonald’s. (They REALLY had big Golden Arches in those days; making the place look like a giant partially buried gyroscope.) But, there would be no post game party today; and not only because we all had to go home and eat turkey. As we shall see, today was a day the would Live In Infamy.
Luke sat down next to one of the band members on the edge of the designated band area; her name was Karen Costacovich, and she played that big instrument that looks like a wooden bazooka. Joe sat next to Luke, and I sat next to Joe; but not before dusting off the poured concrete with my handkerchief. (Yeah, I know, I wasn’t wearing sharkskin, but old habits die hard.)
We sat there making small talk among ourselves and with some of the band members and noticed who was sitting where, and with whom, in our immediate vicinity. The football players had been released onto the field and were about to start their annual struggle, when I noticed an interesting situation off to my right.
About 15 feet over and one row down I saw four people under what looked like a great big horse blanket with four holes in the top. Looking closer I could see that it was actually a long body sweater for four people with no arms; just four holes. The holes were strategically placed so that four people could sit comfortably together in a line at a sporting event with their heads protruding. At first glance, it seemed that the purpose of this arrangement was to keep the wearers warm. The people occupying this cocoon were two boys and two girls, in a girl, boy, girl, boy ordered arrangement. I knew one of the girls. Her name was Helena Freedonia, and she sat next to me in Spanish class.
The thought occurred to me that it wasn’t very cold that day, and I wondered about the possible fringe benefits that such an all encompassing garment could offer, when my thoughts were interrupted. The omnipotent announcer’s voice jarred my reverie as he started to proclaim over the P.A., just who was playing what position, and for which team. I could clearly hear the voice, and it was enough to shatter my thoughts, but what he was saying didn’t mean anything to me. It didn’t mean much to Luke either, as he said to Joe, but loud enough for me to hear, “Where’s Anna Lee sitting?”
Joe shrugged, and so did I, but I followed up with a supposition, “Probably down in the front with the big shots.”
The ‘big shots’ were the big wheels of the band. They were the section leaders, and virtuosos, and they sat down close to the front of the band area. I guess the band director must have sat with them too; I never noticed. In fact, this day would be the first time that I ever noticed the band director doing anything at all; and only because it would involve me and my cohorts.
In mentioning Anna Lee, Luke was tipping his hand concerning his amorous intentions with respect to her. I had suspected this because of a few observations that I had made on some of the after game outings that we had partaken in. It had become our habit go out on the town on Saturday nights with some of the band members, and one particularly memorable outing was a trip that we made to a famous restaurant/ice cream parlor in Springfield. As good predictable high school students, we had ordered ‘The Bathtub’ for our table, which was a large container filled with enough ice cream to choke a Triceratops. In fact, there was so much ice cream, that half of it ended up a runny amorphous mass that we eventually took out to the parking lot in plastic containers provided by the management. That night Luke had hovered around Anna Lee all night, eventually posturing and conniving for the privilege of sitting with her in the back seat of the car on the way home.
This was perfectly understandable. Anna Lee Hofbrau was a statuesque, beautiful blond; a real live debutant, if there ever was one at Bridgewood High. She was in the band and the only thing that I ever noticed her doing there was standing on the stage with mallets in her hands during concerts, playing those big drums that sat on the floor. (You know, the ones that after hitting them, the player steps on a pedal and the drum goes ‘BAROOOMM’.)
My two friends and I liked the social aspect of palling around with the band members, but we could never be in the band, ourselves. For one thing, we weren’t musicians, and couldn’t play a note. When people asked me if I played an instrument, I would say, “Yeah, the Radio.” And even if we could play instruments, the music that the band played was just too square. We made up for our shortcomings by saying that we were just too cool to be in the band; and, especially, the Marching Band. Regardless of our abilities, or lack thereof, marching around dressed up like Kaiser Wilhelm just wouldn’t make it for us.
Maybe it was the taste of sour grapes that was the inevitable result of such an attitude, or simply a lack of recognition that was the impetus behind the devilish scheme that had germinated in my mind that morning. That whistle was going to be our back door to immortality on this Turkey day of ’68, and I figured that it was about time to get the wheels turning. With this end in mind, I turned toward Joe, reached into my pocket, took out the whistle and held it in my hand between us both, and said, “Hey Joe, look at this.”
He had been in on a conversation between Luke and Karen Costacovich and eventually turned to me and said, “What?”
I repeated my suggestion and made the whistle even more prevalent with my gesture.
Joe looked down at my object of interest and said, “Yeah? It’s a whistle.”
I then asked my old friend of about 10 years, “And what does one do with a whistle at a football game?”
At first he just started to answer the question reasonably, “Well you blow it for…….” and then he stopped, opened his eyes wide and said, “Where’d you get that thing?”
“It belongs to my Father. He used it in high school when he was a trainer for the basketball team.”
He then said, enthusiastically, “Lemme see that.”
Two seconds later he made my father’s whistle emit a loud short chirp, causing me instant agita.
I immediately said, “Don’t blow it now, you’ll screw up one of the plays. You don’t want unhappy football players after us, do you?”
“No. I guess not”, he reasonably agreed, quickly coming to his senses.
I then adopted the conspiratorial look that was frequently common to us both, and said, “Wait until Half Time.”
Within the next few minutes, I managed to get the whistle back into the pocket of my Levis. I don’t know what quarter we were in. All I knew was that we hadn’t reached Half Time yet, and when we did, I’d be ready.
The next half hour or so was uneventful. One thing that happened was that our team got a touchdown, so, right after this there was the obligatory rendering of the song, ‘Three Cheers for Bridgewood High School’. The band always played it when we got a touchdown, and we all chimed in in song.
I guess it was about 15 minutes until Half Time when most of the band members started getting ready to go down to the field to strut their stuff.
Down in the front row, Fred Monoclonius had stood up and authoritatively addressed his minions, thusly, “Let’s go! Look sharp!”
“Who does he think he is?”, Luke asked rhetorically.
Karen offered a legitimate, accurate answer, “He’s the Drum Major.”
Luke wanted more detail, “He’s the WHAT?”
It was now Joe’s turn to display some savoir faire, “He’s the DRUM MAJOR… The Boss….you know…. The Big Kahuna.”
Truer words were never spoken. Fred Monoclonius had been lugging a trombone case back and forth to school since the Kennedy Administration, (yes, I know what a trombone is.) and had now ascended to the apex of power in the Bridgewood Senior High School Band. I remember it well when he would occasionally get on the Big Yellow Bluebird, and ride it home with the rest of us pleebs. With his trombone case at his side, he was the only guy on the bus who wore a trench-coat and a fedora. All the other guys wore black leather jackets or bench warmers. Fred was his own man, and on those occasions, in stark contrast to the rest of us, he emulated Jimmy Stewart playing Glenn Miller.
Now, as he was assembling his troops, he looked more like Franz Joseph of the Austro-Hungarian Empire than anyone else. The hat alone would cast him in that mold. It was like a french policeman’s hat, but it was twice as tall as the hats that the rank and file band members had on their heads, and it had a feather sticking out of the top that was long enough to have served as an accoutrement for one of Ginger Rogers’ dance costumes. The rest of his regalia was like that of all the other band members. The color scheme of red and black toned down things a bit so that they all didn’t look like they were members of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band.
It seemed to me that Fred was being a little over the top, and I said to no one in particular, “Boy, he’s really on the warpath today.”
“Who?”, said Joe.
“Fred. Who else would I be talking about?”
Karen then interjected, offering some pertinent information as she shouldered her bazookaphone, “He’s been really antsy lately, especially at rehearsals.”
She seemed to have our attention, so she continued, “We’re going to perform a new production today. Toward the end of the routine, he’s going jump out of a bottle and go running up the field, throwing his baton into the air.”
I responded to this with typical, uninformed, clueless curiosity, “His BATON? I thought he played the trombone….. How can he jump out of a bottle? What are you talking about?”
Karen continued as well as she could given the time constraints, basic knowledge, and attention span of her listeners, “The band members will be aligned so that the whole band will be in the SHAPE of a bottle, and Fred will come out of the top very quickly surrounded by four of the color guard girls holding pom poms. He’s going to then break away, and run up the field. He and the pom pom girls are supposed to be a cork popping out of the bottle. After that, the whole band, or the bottle, will follow him off the field.”
We heard this last tidbit as she was hastening away. As we watched the band members leave the stands, we all stood there for a few moments, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
I was the first to speak, “This is too good to be true.”
Luke countered, “You mean ridiculous.”
I had to agree,”Well, yeah, that too, but this gives us a golden opportunity.”
Joe then looked at me with the wildest expression that I ever saw on his handsome, chiseled face, “You DON”T MEAN!?”
“YEAH! Remember, I said…. wait until half time?”, I yelled back.
We both started laughing uproariously like a couple of lucky hyenas, and continued until I was able to collect myself, and talk normally.
Not wanting to keep Luke in the dark, I said to him, “You know how Fred’s always blowing a whistle to get the band members to do something when they’re out there on the field during half time?”
“Yeah…. I guess…. come to think of it, yeah, he does that a lot.”
I then reached into the pocket of my non-prewashed, five dollar, Levi slim fits, pulled out the whistle, and said, “We’re going to help him today.. with this”
He looked at us stone faced, and said, “You mean…. from up here?”
We didn’t need to say anything. Luke’s face just broke into a grin that matched that of Joe’s and my own. Luke had just moved into town at the beginning of the school year and he hadn’t been hanging with Joe and I for very long, but he was starting to conform, and adapt to our devious ways quite nicely. He understood, endorsed and embraced our plot, completely.
We watched as the band members started to take their places on the right side of the field by the goal post in the end zone.
It was at about this time when I heard a female voice off to my right. It wasn’t very loud, but it was clearly audible from where I sat. “Chicken!…. ya Chicken!”.
These three little words were spoke by Helena Freedonia, and they were directed to a guy who was extricating himself from the quadra-sweater that I had noticed earlier. After taking off his quarter of the sweater, he calmly went over to the isle and walked down, loosing himself in the crowd below. Helena was now sitting there, without someone occupying the head hole next to her. This vacancy was located on the leftmost end of the sweater. The impression that this gave was like that of a snake that had just stated to molt.
The man with the microphone and the big voice then said, “Ladies and Gentlemen…… The Marching Dukes!”
We sat there and watched as the whole high school band slowly marched toward the middle of the field in preparation for some kind of a half time show. They had started playing their instruments, but I don’t remember anything about the music. At that time of my life, if it didn’t sound like something that Bruce Morrow would play on the air, it just didn’t register with me. Also, I’m sorry to say that I can’t recall what the theme of the half time show was. It probably had something to do with Thanksgiving, or turkeys. All that I know was that there was supposed to be a bottle with a cork coming out of it at the end. That’s all that I remember, because that was all that I was watching for.
I don’t know how long we sat there watching our bedecked fellow students as they did a pretty good job of marching around in an orderly fashion while playing musical instruments, but at one point I noticed a short chirp from the field, presumably coming from the whistle that Fred had blown. Precisely at that time, the band, that had seemed to be shaped like a pumpkin, or maybe an apple, suddenly started to change shape as the band members obeyed the signal and obediently marched to their next formation.
Joe must have observed this also, because he then immediately said to me, “Gimmie the whistle.”
Almost simultaneously off to my right, I heard, “Jon.”
I had a strong suspicion about who it was that called my name, and looking over toward whence it had come, I saw Helena sitting there, smiling in my direction. I then remembered my earlier musings concerning what might be the benefits of partaking in such a collective raiment arrangement.
My attention was then brought back to the field, when I heard another short whistle signal, and observed that the band had started to change shape again, the humanoid manifestation on the field now seeming to take on the shape of a paramecium who was well on his (or her) way to the 50 yard line. This change of affairs precipitated another demand for the whistle from Joe.
As one might expect, my focus of attention had started to take on the attributes of a spectator watching a game of tennis, when I again heard Helena’s call off to my right. But this time when I looked over, she beckoned with her hand up through the empty hole. (Not like Captain Ahab beckoning while lashed to Moby Dick’s back…. more like Lauren Bacall enticing Humphrey Bogart). It was at this point that I reached into my pocket, extracted the whistle, and gave it to Joe.
I was considering going over and succumbing to Helena’s solicitations when I heard Joe give several short rhythmic blasts on my whistle. This brought my attention back to the field, where I was just in time to see the bottle, as it had been advertised, and also its premature demise. My eyesight was much better in those days, and I clearly saw Fred, unmistakable in his high hat, running into, and knocking down a couple of saxophone players. The decomposition of the bottle continued, until it had taken on the form of an animated pile of rubber throwup.
Before I could even think of changing my seat, and disassociating myself from my two confederates, Mr. Stanislav Urbanechev ( known to the band members as Stosh ) was on his feet, at the bottom of the stands on the first landing, looking in our direction. He was the band director, and had lost no time in pinpointing us as the guilty party. It was pretty obvious that the renegade whistling had come from our direction, but I’m not sure if he had seen us do it or not. In any case, he made no secret of his anger.
“What do you guys think you’re doing? These people work very hard to put on a good show. Get out of here!….. Tom, throw these guys out.”
A round faced, tough looking Bridgwood policeman had materialized, straightened his military style cap, pointed an old fashioned billy club in our direction, and, waving it slightly, he said in a authoritative voice, “Let’s go boys!”
We WERE guilty, so we started to walk down the steps. I guess Joe didn’t want to be caught with Exhibit A, because he handed it to me when we were halfway down. It went back into the slim fits pocket, and there it would stay.
Right after securing the whistle, I unbuttoned my C.P.O. and brought the collar up and over the top of my head the way I had seen it done by people in newsreels who were being arrested and didn’t want to have their identity know to any onlookers, or captured by photographers. It made maneuvering down the stairs and across the landing a little tricky, but I was up to the task. Our walk down to ground level was uneventful. I only regretted having to walk by the bouncing cheerleaders without being able to see them. ( In those backward, oppressive days, all cheerleaders were female.)
Maybe this policeman was inexperienced, or maybe he didn’t think that maximum security was necessary when escorting illicit whistle blowers from a high school football game. Whatever the case, he was walking in front of us instead of behind, so, as soon as we got to the end of the stands, I was able to run around to the back of the building without being seen by him. There was a pretzel stand that was built into the back of the building, so I took off my C.P.O. and handed it to the girl behind the counter, and said, “Hold onto this for me, will you?….. Can I order a pretzel…. please?”
I then immediately started leaning on the counter, not unlike a man at a bar who had had too much to drink, with my head just barely erect. The girl didn’t even bat an eye. As if responding to the most natural request in the world, she took the C.P.O. and threw it on a table behind her, and walked a few steps to the right to fetch me a pretzel.
When I got to the point where I had to kiss another emasculated quarter goodby, I caught peripheral sight of the cop as he walked by, obviously looking for me. Apparently, the simple ditching of the C.P.O. worked, because he had failed to finger me. This must have been the case, because he walked by, and then turned around and went back to the front of the stands. As soon as he was out of sight, I moved swiftly to the other side of the stands; the side that was farthest away from the entrance to the stadium. I now had a warm, soft pretzel, but no C.P.O.
By this time the band had left the field, as it turned our, ignominiously, but I wouldn’t find that out until I got an earful concerning the fallout of our dastardly deed on Monday morning. Presently, the football players had left the locker-shower-recuperation area, and were now running out onto the field to resume their yearly struggle. Trying to seem inconspicuous, I nonchalantly walked up the steps that would get me on the first landing of the stands, and slowly made my way up the steps on the edge of the bleachers.
After a few minutes of weaving and climbing, I was at the top of the bleachers, and could look down and see the band members returning to the stands, right next to the Scene of the Crime. As I stood there, I thought of all the problems that would be solved if I could go down and join Miss Freedonia (at that time it was still possible to use the personal title, Miss, without being considered obtuse, or at least, antediluvian). I could use the incognito factor that that communal sweater would provide, and I was finding out that it wasn’t quite as warm in the bleachers as it had been when I was wearing my trusty C.P.O. And as a corollary to this, I thought that she might be able to warm me up a bit. (Isn’t rationalization wonderful?)
With the last bit of my pretzel now sliding down my esophagus, I took a deep breath and started my descent, hoping that none of the band members would notice me. It took a little while for me to get within earshot of Helena and her sweater, and I was standing a few feet away when I managed to say in a slightly quavering voice, “Hi.”
She looked up, immediately favored me with a Mona Lisa smile, and said, “Hi, Jon. Comon in, I could use some company.”
She then lifted the empty quarter of the sweater with her left hand completing the invitation with a sweet gesture that seemed like icing on the cake to me, and then said something that was a harmless reference to our common bond in Spanish class, “Mooocho Gooosto.”
All thoughts of football, the band, and whistles immediately left my mind, thus, helping me to muster up the courage to sit down on the poured concrete about a foot to her left. I was about to enter this knit of untold promise when I heard off to my left, “Mr. Dumbledore”.
I looked up and said, “Huh?”
“Mr. Dumbledore. Your car’s ready……………. the Taurus Wagon.”
It was with equal parts of disappointment and exasperation that I answered, “That’s, Womelsdorf.”
I looked up and saw a heavy gauge plastic bag containing my car keys and some papers that were of the type that immediately loose their significance as soon as they leave the garage. These things could be seen, although the plastic bag was mildly opaque due to endless handling by mechanics.
THIS mechanic reached into the bag, handed the keys to me and said, “Sorry…… Mr. Wombeldore.”
I was allowed the privilege of driving my car off the lift, and as I entered the parking lot, and made my way out toward route 22, I wondered: Where is Helena today?
And where is Anna Lee?
I didn’t care who won the game.
Jonathan Womelsdorf 2015