Thank you, Hawkman, Delta, Dougy and Steve for your comments on the last.
Here's the next one, featuring a recurring character* named Arlene Henry. Arlene began as a secondary character in a novel which may or not be finished in this millennium, but she spun off into several short stories of her own. I think of her as a fellow Baby Boomer, albeit slightly older than her author. She also carries a tune much better than her tone-deaf creator ever could.
A brief note about the two songs alluded to in this story under the "Fair Use" provision of the copyright law. The first song, composed in 1930,is not directly quoted at all; and the second, from 1947, quotes only a single line in addition to its title, my title, and a paraphrase in the very last sentence.
With that, let's take a trip back in time for a little number I like to call
All to Myself Alone
In the carefully researched blind spot behind the far eastern end of the bleachers, a distance of two football fields from the building, Arlene struck a single match. Sheltering its flame from the wind, she gave her friend a light before lighting her own. One would think that after moving heaven and earth to find the location where they could smoke without detection, the two girls would've relished the lunchtime rebellion, but it was becoming less of a ritual than a thoughtless habit. Just as in the television commercial, they were “smoking more but enjoying it less,” though it wouldn't have occurred to them to stop. They were, after all, seniors.
Mary Pat took a drag so shallow that no tell-tale white puff came out when she spoke. “Can you believe it? Only a couple more weeks and we'll be out of this dump for good!”
“First I gotta pass trig. God, how I dread that Regents exam!”
“Oh, you're so smart, Arlene. You'll graduate with flying colors.” Mary Pat held her cigarette daintily between two fingers. A waxy ring of her hot-pink lipstick encircled the tan filter.
“ When am I going to find the time to study for the damn thing? I mean, with all the stuff going on at home-- and don't forget, I gotta write the stupid class song! What rhymes with ‘St. Hilarius’? ”
“Gee, I dunno -- Precarious? There’s another one right on the tip of my tongue, but -- ” Mary Pat slapped her own forehead. “I forgot to tell ya! Brendan’s coming home this weekend! For the whole summer!” The announcement tumbled out with a heightened tone, the words accelerated. She grabbed Arlene’s forearms and jumped up and down.
Vicarious. That’s the word –and the reaction–Mary Pat was evidently looking for. She searched through her mammoth pocketbook as well, finally pulling out an envelope that showed all the signs of repeated handling. “He says he’s taking the first bus down from Dartmouth, the second he finishes his last exam. That’s how much he wants to see me!” Mary Pat held the envelope to her lips and kissed it, adding another hot pink imprint to its once virginally-white back. With great reluctance she slipped the letter back into her bag and snapped it shut. “ ‘Course we'll be coming to the Spring Fling. We'll hear your song!”
“If I ever finish it.”
“Brendan’s sister thinks the Spring Fling is a glorified Friday night CYO canteen. The year Cathy graduated they still had a Senior Prom.” Off the front of her uniform skirt Mary Pat brushed a bit of ash perceptible only to her.
“That’s true. You know what they used to do, though? The senior class president used to go from classroom to classroom and row by row shakin’ down everybody to buy bids. She'd stand by your desk and stare you in the face and yell, ‘Are you going to The Prom? Why not?’ “
“You're pullin’ my leg, Ar. I can't believe the nuns would let ‘em–“
“Effin’ -A. They forced you to admit in public that you couldn't afford it or that you couldn't get a date. Embarrassing as hell. And a few years before that the seniors used to get to go to Washington D.C. for the weekend–train trip, hotel, the whole shot. I don't know what happened – I bet the kids went nuts and caused all kinds of scandal. What does S’ter Mary Celestine always scream about? Oh yeah –‘Drinking and carousing.’ “
“Wow. That stinks. How come everybody else got to have all the fun?”
“We're not supposed to have fun, M. P. We go to St. Hilarius.”
As ever, the auditorium was locked, opened only for special events, and nobody would tell Arlene how she could obtain the key. Rehearsal-- if one could call it that–had been relocated in the basement area reserved for music, essentially no different from a regular
classroom, except for the cork walls and an ancient upright in the corner. To their credit, the baker’s dozen of Hilariettes compensated for the cramped quarters by arranging themselves as symmetrically as they could.
“Don't worry, Girls,” Arlene said, “it'll sound better when you're all lined up on the risers. Okay, let’s take it from the top:
“Here we are –
aiming for that far-off star –
If you want to see us fly
We are really gonna try–
Here we are!”
Arlene winced upon hearing lyrics she'd finished --or rather abandoned-- the previous night at the mystical time evoked by a Sinatra song –“the wee small hours of the morning.” She had only completed making the copies just a few precious minutes before Homeroom, the blue smudges on her fingertips testifying to her haste. It was late afternoon, yet the distinct fragrance of mimeograph fluid still remained strong enough to fill the room. To top it all off, Arlene hadn't the slightest idea of how to lead a vocal group. Gamely she stood in front of her classmates and moved her hands from side to side, just as she'd seen Fred Waring and Mitch Miller do on television.
Watch us soar–
We're the class of Sixty-Four
from good old St. Hilarius--
We've got hope to carry us–
Here we are!
The faculty advisor for the Senior Class attempted to remain in the background, but it was difficult to ignore Sister Mary Celestine’s imposing presence. Stealing a quick glance, Arlene saw her half-heartedly tapping her open palm with a ruler, the instrument of
choice for keeping time as well as less felicitous uses.
“Okay, that’s good.” Arlene lied. “Now let’s go to the bridge–“
History may come to judge
other schools some day--
Whoever was knocking on the door had to pound on it really hard to be heard above the thirteen voices and the piano banging with Barbara Brady’s enthusiastic chords. It was Sweet Little Mrs. Prendergast from the office. Sister had to bend far down so the school secretary could whisper in her ear. Then, upon straightening up, Sister looked directly at Arlene. The expression on the nun’s face was unreadable. It could have been anger. Or horror.
Inward Arlene started screaming. Oh my God! It’s Dad!
“Miss Henry! Report to Father Roche’s office immediately!” This time there was no question of tone. Sister was definitely mad, and Arlene was in big, big trouble. Definitely. “Now, Miss Henry. Father is expecting you. The rest of you girls are dismissed.”
“Meet ‘cha at the bus stop, M. P.” Reaching for her bag, Arlene remembered the partially-crushed pack of Marlboros jammed in the secret inner compartment. She thrust the purse into Mary Pat’s stomach. “Watch my pocketbook. And for godsakes don't let anybody go through it.”
The short walk down the block just past the Church and the rectory seemed like the Last Mile. It didn't help that the early June sun blazed like the future fire about which Arlene and her classmates had been warned to expect in the next world if they didn't change their ways in this one. It also took a while to find an unlocked entrance.
The halls of the Grade School seemed eerie as she walked by the silent classrooms, filled with empty chairs lined up and waiting for tiny ghosts. When no one answered the door marked “Principal,” an exquisite sense of relief washed over her, but dried up instantly at the sound of “Come in.”
The priest’s handshake was genial, pleasant even. “Arlene! So nice to see you! I wish I could say that I've seen your dad at Mass lately –“
“Oh, well, Father, he’s been si–er-- ill.“
“Oh? I'm sorry to hear it.” He cleared his throat.
A glass jar of cellophane-wrapped candies occupied a prominent place on the desk between Arlene and Father. One of those peppermints would be perfect to cover up–if not a multitude of sins–then certainly a mortal infraction against School Rule Number Four, assuming that was the crime of which she was accused. She knew enough not to help herself to the sweets, but if he offered–-
“I may be wrong, Arlene, but I bet you're wondering why we had you rush over here on this fine Spring afternoon, hmm? Well. You know, it’s always wonderful when a student from St. Hilarius shows a bit of a flair, a God-given talent in some creative endeavor. A little bird told me that when it comes to music, you're quite the thing, Young Lady. . .well, perhaps I ought to come to the point. Today I received a rather unusual phone call around lunchtime.”
Then it was the smoking. Somebody had spotted them! But then –why was she in the hot seat and not Mary Pat?
“It seems that one of the Hilariettes went home for lunch today. While her Mom was making her sandwich, she used the time to practice the number you'd composed for the spring show and her mother recognized the tune right away.”
“I didn't steal it! I just borrowed the music, not the words. It’s a parody, Father–“
“I'm fully aware of that, Arlene, but it’s the words of the original song that –“
“If that’s the case, how come nobody said anything last year when they robbed a whole slew o’ stuff right off Broadway? They did an entire medley from The Sound of Music and nobody batted an eye. I'm sorry, Father, but it’s just not fair!”
“I appreciate how much this hurts, Arlene. But the parent who called me was really disturbed by the song you chose to- –to emulate. I hope this doesn't embarrass you, but ‘Love for Sale’ tells the tale of a, er-- how can I put this delicately?-- a lady of the evening. You didn't realize that, no doubt.“
In a extraordinary effort to hold back sarcasm, Arlene bit her tongue.
“If we were uncharitable, we could speculate how one of our devoted parishioners herself had acquired such um, worldly knowledge, so we'll let that pass. Nevertheless, the lady was concerned that others might also recognize the provenance your class song, and put two and two together, viz the unsavory connotations of the original piece. People might begin to question why Catholic school seniors–for that matter, senior girls-- would in any way associate themselves with suggestive subject matter. We're taught not only to avoid the near occasion of sin but also to avoid the appearance of sin. Your little song dangerously flirts with both. We shouldn't treat sin lightly, Arlene, especially sins against the flesh–the temple of the soul-- specifically, sins against the Sixth and Ninth Commandments.”
Arlene’s mid-section nearly buckled in her effort to stifle the laugh. She got the connection with the Sixth-- since adultery was a blanket term covering the spectrum of carnal transgressions outside the Sacrament of Marriage, pre- and post-- but the Ninth? She'd never heard of a case of a St. Hilarius student ever coveting his neighbor’s wife. (Then again, having witnessed the preternatural horniness exhibited by some of the members of the football team, she allowed that could be wrong.)
“The important thing is. . well, the faithful among the parish of Saint Hilarius have invested much into our beloved schools, our grade school and especially our high school. “ The priest’s apologia continued. “We're expected to uphold our tradition of preparing young people for adulthood and the working world with the highest academic standards. In addition to those worthy goals, we-- unlike our friends over at East Hogwash Senior High–we try, at least, to teach them how to live as responsible human beings and to set good examples as Christians in every way, such as keeping God’s Commandments. That’s what the woman was getting at, I believe.
“Oh, but you should've heard her, Arlene! She was fit to be tied! At one point I almost believe she had forgotten just who it was she was talking to.”
In Arlene’s young life there had been few desires stronger than the one that pressed upon her to say to the priest: “You should've hung up on her!” Somehow, via divine intervention, perhaps, she resisted the temptation.
“She wanted me to expel you from school, bar you from your own graduation ceremony. I calmed her down and finally got her to accept a compromise.”
“Oh, I'll drop the song, Father, I don't mind. Really. The song goes.”
“Well, that goes without saying. Anyway, I assured the woman that you would be forbidden from attending the spring show as well as all the other school-sponsored social events for the remainder of the school year, and to my enormous relieve, she agreed-- reluctantly--
Still, that’s my final decision. I'm sorry, Arlene. I hope isn't overly harsh.”
That was harsh? Harsh was Sister Mary Celestine’s ruler held an alarming distance above one’s knuckles. “I understand, Father. I have a question though. How do I explain all this next time I go to confession?”
“ Confess what? Where’s the sin? Let me tell you a little secret, Arlene. Years from now you'll look back on this incident and laugh–that is, if you hadn't completely forgotten all about it. Come to mention it – tell me, Arlene, what are your plans? College?”
“That'll have to wait for a while, Father. At least until my father gets better.”
“Sure. As I often mention to some of the senior girls, why waste your time and money in college when you're just going to get a M. R. S. diploma, followed by post-graduate degree in diapers. But it would be a crying shame if you abandoned your music –Ah!” Father Roche snapped his fingers. “Just thought of something. Have you got a minute?”
From out of nowhere appeared an old-fashioned 78 rpm record. Removing the it from its plain-brown slipcase, Father handled it with extreme care, gingerly but firmly grasping the wafer-thin disc by the extreme edges of its circumference. The priest’s fingers
showed calluses and a slight yellow tinge, possibly the tell-tale traces of nicotine.
On a shelf behind the priest’s desk sat a phonograph player, humble and a far-cry from the futuristic hi-fi sets which the well-off families of the parish could easily afford. After placing the record on a felt-covered turntable as if he were crowning a king, Father picked up the stylus as if it were a scepter encrusted with precious gems. The revolution began, initially exploding with pops and whirls.
The side started as a typical number from the Big Band era; but the downbeat and ambient rhythms sounded remarkably current – not like rock ‘n’ roll but a “swinging” arrangement similar to that of Nelson Riddle. Kenton even. Then after the introductory instrumental entered the vocal:
I'd like to get you
On a slow boat to China —
The voice was a robust baritone, with Crosby-like phrasing, but something about the singer sounded utterly familiar. Where had Arlene heard it before?
“Why, that’s you, father! I thought I'd recognized it. You sound just like you do at the CYO canteens! But you actually sang! Professionally, I mean. Who knew?”
Father Roche was beaming, treading perilously close to a near occasion of the sin of pride. “Lay people are under the mistaken impression that we clergymen go into the seminary the day after we graduate from high school. In the case of yours truly, I did a stint in the Army, and after the war –well, you can see– or should I say, ‘hear’-spent some time interpreting the works of Mr. Frank Loesser and his talented contemporaries, to ‘make a joyful noise unto the Lord’ as it were.”
“Wow, that’s fabulous. Ya know, Father, if this priesthood doesn't work out, you'll always have something to fall back on.” Uh-oh. She'd done it now. Arlene hurled inaudible curses at herself and her big, fat mouth.
The smile hadn't faded, though. Maybe he hadn't heard her, or–since she thought she could see a slight upward shaking of his shoulders and the proverbial “twinkle” in his eye –maybe he had. In any event, he was finished with her for now.
“Well, thanks for stopping by, Arlene. I'll include your Dad in my intentions as well as during Mass tomorrow.” He was standing by the door, waiting for her to take the hint. “Cole Porter, huh? You'd think a girl your age would go gaga for what’s their names –the English ones with the hair.”
“Oh, you mean the Beatles. If you ask me, Father, they're just a flash in the pan.”
“I'm with you.” With that he waved his hands in blessing, followed by a considerably less spiritual but nonetheless chaste kiss on her forehead. Then he put a fist full of peppermints into her hand.
“Thank you, Father! I love these things.”
“Well, don't eat them all at once. Save a couple for later –after you have your cigarette.”
Holy Crap! Did she hear that right? Once thing she did hear, within seconds after he shut the door, was the record playing once again.
For sulking purposes, the back stoop wasn't all that bad a place to sit. Fiddling with the tuning dial on her transistor, Arlene hoped it would pull in one of the jazz stations from New York City, but that night all should could get was country and western music, albeit from a high-powered antenna in faraway West Virginia.
The night sky was clear but the air was humid, a paradise for flying bugs, yet just breezy enough to carry over the fragrance of roses from Mrs. Quackenbush’s garden next door, replacing last month’s scent of the lilacs of Mrs. Miller’s yard on the other side.
The Miller boys themselves were usually a constant presence, with their juvenile teasing, and -- since she had already turned eighteen–pestering her to run down the corner to buy them a six-pack. When Ike and Joey weren't busy bothering her, they'd be in their own driveway, where well into the evening they'd attempt to shoot a basketball into the hoop mounted above the garage door. The constant dribbling on the asphalt was bad enough; worse was their playing skill. For every basket they made, they missed ten or twelve, underscored by the sound of the rim loudly wobbling upon impact. When they practiced while Arlene’s father tried to sleep, his upper body would shudder and his closed eyelids would flinch with each reverberation of the metal ring. But even the irritating Millers were AWOL this night. Not counting the mosquitoes, Arlene was completely alone.
Everything conspired to remind her that she was sitting at home rather than participating in the event on other side of town. As much as she tried to assure herself it was all a bunch of malarkey, the banishment bothered her, which in itself made her feel like a damned fool. Certainly nobody there would be missing her. Who? Her supposed best friend showing off her fancy makeup, lording over everybody her big-shot college boyfriend, himself a failing grade away from the Draft and the jungles of Indo-China? And good riddance to the stupid show itself, slapped together at the last minute, the performers lapping up the phony compliments, some actually believing “Today St. Hilarius, tomorrow Broadway!” Who were they kidding? Oh, it was all crap, and it stunk to high heaven.
Arlene tapped the bottom of her radio on the boards of the little back porch until a tune came in, faint and tinny. Frenetic fiddling backed by a throbbing string bass. Bluegrass? Whatever it was, the up tempo notes from her little radio were twanging out a message of joy.
And at least she had that. Whatever she ended up doing with her life, after Life decided what to do with her, music always would, in a way, belong only to her, just as humans beings everywhere and for centuries claimed exclusive ownership of the huge disc which was at that very moment beaming directly down on her head–that old moon, big and shiny enough to melt the stoniest heart.
[COLOR="teal"] * Arlene's previous appearances:
"Yesterday's Mashed Potatoes"
"Downhill"
"Amateur Night"
"Aren't You Glad You're You."
The Best of the Blest
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Well there is certainly a lot to enjoy in this tale of virtue's reward! There are moments descibing Mr Thornburg's life that ring uncomfortably true - lol. I do have a couple of observations. The one which keeps kicking me is the reference to Grendel. Not, "the monster's mother - it was Grendel himself." I feel you have missed a trick here in that Grendel, though terrible, was a lesser evil than his mother. What if it had been the son doing the menacing for the rent rather than the land-lady. Having failed to get it he could have threatened Thornburg with his mum! It would have saved me a rush to the dictionary to look up, "ecdysiast" - lol.
I was a little unsure whether the policeman was exaggerating when he states, there's nobody left but you, to the pocket revolutionary, because said revolutionary still continues to say "we" in his self justification of stubborness, but I suppose Jamie sees himself as part of something bigger. 
