Short Story Week, Part I: You’re Nowhere if You’re Not With Me, by Ron Wertheimer

This week we serve up something special at The Jade Sphinx, three short stories never before published for your summer enjoyment.  Up first is You’re Nowhere if You’re Not With Me, by Ron Werthermer.  Ron Wertheimer, author of the novels Back Then and The Rutherford B. Hayes Show and a longtime newspaperman, retired in December after 26 years as an editor for The New York Times.  We could think of no better way to start this series – you are in for a treat.

The man of my dreams was drafted,

And shipped away like that.

Now each night I write a letter

To the gent in the striped top hat:

You called the guy I care for,

He said he had to scram.

It’s sadness I’ll prepare for,

Till they cry uncle, Uncle Sam.

That boy is quite an eyeful,

Now teary-eyed I am.

He’s got to tote that rifle,

Till they cry uncle, Uncle Sam.

I know he has to bear arms,

His duty he must do.

Return him to my fair arms.

I’m counting, Sam, on you.

When all the fighting’s over,

I’ll get my sweetie lamb.

And we’ll all be in clover,

When they cry uncle, Uncle Sam.

I bet you never heard that song, Charlie. I got it from the Internet — downloaded it, like you showed me. See? Your old grandpa may get to be a computer whiz yet.

It’s amazing to me — all those great old songs, still alive, floating out there in space.

O.K. Laugh if you want. That’s how it seems to me.

So what do you think of it? Pretty catchy, huh? Oh, I know it sounds corny now.

Even I can hear that. But back in 1944 — that’s the year I turned 18 — people went for this kind of thing. It was wartime, of course. That song was on the Hit Parade for seven weeks. Made it as high as No. 3. It was one of the biggest records for the band, Tootles Flume and His Barefoot Wanderers. No, really.

Tootles Flume himself played the trombone. He was a tree trunk of a man — must’ve been 6 foot 3. His group didn’t take itself as seriously as some of the other top bands. They were known for novelty numbers like “The Rooster’s Revenge” and “Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Omaha.” But that outfit could really play. Some of those guys are still revered among jazz and swing fans. Even Tootles. He got some awfully sweet sounds out of that horn.

But his big draw during the war was the girl singer, Annie Swanson. That’s her singing there. You’ve heard of her, right? Later, she was in some movies, and she was on TV for years and years. She’s dead now.

You could hear her winking right through the record grooves. But if you could actually see her, that was much better. She was this adorable little blonde, with a smile you could get lost in. I know.

Wait. I’ll show you. I have it here somewhere. Oh, over there. That leather photo album on the bookcase. Get it for me?

Here, see? Pretty cute, right? Some figure. And look, she’s singing a duet with this very handsome young fella. You recognize him? Look again.

That’s me, Charlie, honest, at the height of my professional singing career, which lasted all of four months.

How is it I never told you about my big band days? I bored your mom and your Uncle Jim with some of my tales when they were kids. But Grandma didn’t like it when I talked too much about those days. She wanted to think that my life really began when I met her. Or when I noticed that George Hasbrouck’s little sister was all grown up, and I asked her for a date.

But that came later. A lot of stuff came later. In ’44, I was a senior in high school, working at the family clothing store here in town and singing with a trio — the Harmonaires we called ourselves. We could do all the big hits.  Sang at school dances and church socials and such.

Not exactly the big time. But we weren’t too bad. We could carry a tune. And when we did some of the romantic ballads, like “Gretchen” — you ever hear that one? “There’s no girl as fetchin’ as my Gretchen.” Really. That was a big hit, too.

Anyway, when we sang those tunes, the girls would really go for it.

We had no illusions that our singing would ever take us beyond this town. But we were pretty sure what would take us away. The war. We knew that when our birthdays hit — mine was coming that September — well, like the song said, we’d be “shipped away like that.”

Still, we were determined to enjoy the time we had. And we did. Me, I was quite the ladies’ man. Hard to believe, right?

The draft had taken quite a few of the young guys, of course. So there were some pretty fetchin’ Gretchens around here who wouldn’t mind spending some time with a strapping kid like me. And the fact that, with the store and all, my family had the last dwindling supply of sheer stockings in these parts, I had a pretty full — uh — social calendar.

Now, don’t repeat any of this to your mother, Charlie. But you’re a sophisticated college man now, and this is just between us guys, O.K.? I sure never told these stories when your Grandma was alive.

Anyway, some of those lonely young wives, and maybe a couple who weren’t quite so young, they’d stop by the store, buy a couple of things, then ask if Pop could have the package sent around to their houses later. “Maybe, if Billy isn’t too busy after school,” they’d say.

I was never too busy. This one lady, a redhead, was a real good customer. I’d bring her a dress or something, and she’d ask me to wait while she tried it on. “Just sit right here,” she’d say. “I won’t be a minute. Just in case it doesn’t fit, you can take it back. Save me a trip.”

The chair she offered me in the living room had a clear view of the hallway that led back to her bedroom door, which she’d somehow forget to close. I pretended not to look. She pretended not to watch me look. And by the time she called, “Oh, Billy, maybe you could help me with this zipper,” well, we were on the same wavelength.

We must’ve played that game three or four different times. We always acted as if nothing like that had ever happened before. And like some of the others, she seemed to be happy with the notion that she was teaching me something. Sometimes, she was.

At dinner time, when Mama was in the kitchen, Pop would give me a wink and say, “I hope you got a good tip for that delivery.” We never discussed the matter further. He was O.K., my Pop. You’d have liked him, Charlie.

It didn’t occur to me to ask him if he’d have been so winky if some smug-faced boy was catting after his wife or daughter. It didn’t occur to me then, when my hormones were calling the shots. I did think about it, though, years later, when I was a husband and father and running that store. I kept your Uncle Jim on a short leash. No deliveries. 

 #   #   #

I’d been so busy with my duties that I missed the item in the paper about Tootles Flume and His Barefoot Wanderers coming here to play two nights out at the Lakeside Pavilion. But George read about it — my future brother-in-law. Boy, we sure would’ve laughed our asses off at that idea. He was in the trio with me and Pete O’Malley.

George ran over to the store. He said, “You’re not gonna believe this, Billy, but the Tootles Flume band is down by the lake, setting up for a show tonight. I saw them get off the bus and go in. I saw Flume himself, and Annie Swanson.”

Well, this was big news. The thought that we could see them in the flesh was exciting. But George, well, he had something even more exciting in mind.

“Why don’t you go over there, Billy, and see if they want to hire the Harmonaires for the band?”

“Are you crazy?” he said. “What would a top group like that want with three high school boys from nowhere?”

“They don’t have a vocal group. And you know their boy singer’s in the Navy.”

I did know that. Since we fancied that we were in show business ourselves, we kept tabs on the band news in the papers and magazines. We knew that Mike Fontaine was in the service, along with several other Wanderers. The band still had a solid roster — older guys and a couple that the War Department didn’t want. One of the saxophone players, Slim Judson, did a little singing. And, of course, the people all wanted to see Annie. Still, maybe adding a nice-looking trio wasn’t so crazy after all.

“Why don’t you go talk to them yourself?” I asked. But George said I was the one to do it.

“You look the oldest,” he said. “And you can use that smooth patter of yours to talk us into a job.”

And that’s why I went sneaking into the Pavilion that afternoon and found myself gazing up at the stage, where some of the band members were milling around, instruments in hand. Flume, holding a bottle of pop, which looked like an eye dropper in his paw, was having what looked like a serious talk with a little man at the piano. That was Eddie Arroyo, the band’s arranger, pianist and more.

Although Flume used outsize conductor’s gestures onstage, even leading with the bell of his horn during a solo, Eddie Arroyo was the musical center of the Barefoot Wanderers. While the audience looked at Flume flailing away, the players each kept an eye on Arroyo. With tiny movements of his head and quick shrugs of his shoulders, he actually led the band.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that yet. I just knew that I was in the same room with greatness — or as close to greatness as was likely to pass through my hometown. I was trying to figure out what to do next when I was surprised by a not-especially-friendly voice that said, “What do you want, kid?”

I smelled him before I heard him. It was a ripe combination of bourbon and stale cigars. He was the band’s road manager, Fred Apple. His face bore the effects of too much road and too much booze. His suit looked as if he’d slept in it, for months. The expression on his face was as sour as his scent.

“What do you want?” he asked again.

“I — um — well, a job, sir,” I said.

“If you want to help lug the equipment, you can go out to the bus. We’ll give you a couple of passes for ….”

“No, sir. Not that kind of job. See, I’m a singer.”

“Oh yeah? And I’m General Grant. We don’t need some kid ….”

Apple was talking rather loudly, and his voice, echoing in the empty hall, interrupted the discussion onstage.

“What is it, Fred?”

I recognized that voice — deep, with a hint of his Texas boyhood — from a hundred radio broadcasts. Tootles Flume looked out into the hall.

“It’s nothing, Boss,” Apple yelled, but not as hostilely, at the stage. “Junior here says he’s a singer.”

“A singer?” Flume said. “You a singer, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Really? What songs do you know?”

“Everything you ever recorded, Mr. Flume.”

“Is that so? Come up here.”

So while Fred Apple muttered something unpleasant, I made my way to the stage.

All the work up there stopped. The place was deathly quiet.

“What’s your name, son?” Flume asked.

“Billy. Billy Huffman.”

“Well, Billy Billy Huffman, do you know ‘The Moon That Lights My Heart’?”

“Yes, sir, we sing that one all the time?”

“We?”

“Yes, sir. Me and my friends. We’re a trio. I was hoping that you’d like to hear ….”

“I don’t need a trio, Billy Billy Huffman.”

“Can’t you sing by yourself, Farm Boy?”

I turned my head and found myself just inches from Annie Swanson. She was so beautiful, I almost jumped. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, like the ones Pop sold. Her blond hair was held back by a kerchief. Nothing fancy. No makeup to hide her freckles. But I’m telling you, Charlie, she glowed. Glowed. Compared to her, all my small-town lovelies were just — well, small-town lovelies.

“Sure I can. But my friends ….”

“Your friends aren’t here, are they?” she said teasingly. She was ridiculing me. I thought it was the most endearing thing anybody’d ever said to me.

“No, I guess not,” I said.

“And you can sing ‘The Moon That Melted Your Heart.’”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You hear that, Boss?” she said to Flume. “He called me ‘ma’am.’”

Eddie Arroyo played a bit of the chorus.

“Can you sing it like Mike Fontaine?” he asked, without looking up from the keyboard.

“Not exactly like him. But in the same key.”

Now he looked up, at me.

“And what key is that?”

“D,” I said. “The one you’re doing there.”

Arroyo looked at Flume.

“He’s right about that, Abner.”

Abner was Tootles’s real first name. The Flume part he’d been born with, if you can believe it. Eddie Arroyo was the only living person who got away with calling him Abner to his face. It was a kind of signal that Arroyo was saying something he wanted Flume to pay attention to.

“Can you start with the verse?” Arroyo asked me. It was on the record that Fontaine and the band had made, so I could. And I did.

When I finished the song, everybody — the whole band was gathered around the piano now — looked to Flume. He said nothing.

“How about ‘You’re Nowhere if You’re Not With Me’?” Annie asked. That was a duet she had sung with Fontaine.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Arroyo played the introduction that the brass took on the record. Then, as she’d done countless times, Annie began the first part of the chorus, making the song sound fresh, as if she were improvising it on the spot.

You may go to Rome,

Or to London or Nome.

You may take a stroll ’round Paree.

But any big town

Will just let you down.

You’re nowhere, if you’re not with me.

I knew it was my turn, and I went for it.

To Frisco for fish,

St. Paul, if you wish.

Try Shanghai, if you’d like some tea.

But any old place

Is just a disgrace.

You’re nowhere, if you’re not with me.

She joined me at the bridge.

Forget all those trips to the Bronx or Bermuda,

Set sail for your lover’s address.

So plotting your tour, you just can’t elude a

Return to my tender caress.

And we kept on going.

Now, Rio is sweet,

Des Moines can’t be beat,

And Lapland’s a land you must see.

But south, east or west,

It’s Loveland that’s best.

You’re nowhere, if you’re not with me.

And the big finish together, like on the record.

You’re nowhere — if you’re not — with meeee.

“Not bad, Farm Boy,” Annie said to me.

“Not bad, Abner,” Arroyo said to Flume. “We wouldn’t have to change the arrangements.”

Flume looked at me.

“How old are you, Billy?” he asked.

“I’m almost 18.”

“How almost?”

“In October.”

“You go to school?”

“Yes, sir. But I’m going to graduate next month — if I’m still in town. I’m a good student. They’d let me leave early, you know, if I had someplace important to be.”

“Like going on the road with a band?”

“That would be important,” I said.

“Boss,” Annie said, “if he was grinning any wider, his ears would fall off.”

“O.K., Billy, I’ll tell you what,” Flume said. “Tonight’s show’s at — what time?”

“Eight.” It was Apple again. He’d come up on the stage during my impromptu audition.

“You come back at 6 for rehearsal,” Flume said. “We’ll hear how you sound with the band. Then we’ll see what comes next. How’s that?”

“Great,” I said.

“Fred,” Flume said, “do we have a suit for him, to match the other guys’?”

“We still have Fontaine’s stuff,” Apple said. “He won’t need it tonight.”

“You’re not exactly the same size,” Flume said to me.

“My mother can fix it, over at my family’s clothing store. She’s the best tailor in town. Everybody says that.”

“I bet everybody does,” Flume said. “Fred’ll get you a suit. Be back here at 6. And bring your mother with you.”

“You want some more suits altered?”

“No. But before I make any lasting alterations in her boy, I’d like to ask her permission.”

“Any my father?”

“No, just your mom. If it’s O.K. with her, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

I thanked Flume and followed Fred Apple to a rolling wardrobe from which he produced a rumpled gray suit. A few of Mike Fontaine’s cigarettes were still in the pocket.

“You’re one lucky bastard, Junior,” Apple said, without a hint of joy.

“I know.”

#   #   #

I was back at 6 sharp, with the suit — taken in here, let out there, cleaned and pressed and relieved of the smokes. Flume greeted me onstage, then turned to Mama and thanked her for coming, as if he were welcoming her to a party.

He pointed me up toward where chairs were now arranged behind gleaming music stands emblazoned with “T.F.” in sparkly gold script. Eddie Arroyo was seated at the piano at the far left, in a gray suit just like mine. At the back, at the right, on a riser, was the drum kit of Ken Woodward. It looked like he had a dozen drums up there, and cymbals and bells and blocks of wood. It thought he had enough artillery for a battleship.

 “Go see, Eddie,” Flume told me. “He’ll put you through your paces.”

Then he led Mama to some seats at the back of the hall, where they sat, side by side.

Many dizzying hours later, when I finally got home, and Pop had gone to sleep, I asked Mom what she and Flume had talked about.

“He’s so nice, a real gentlemen,” she said. “And him being a big star and all.

“He said that entertaining people is a true calling, especially in difficult times, and that music was very important in life, even popular music like he plays. But he said that some things are bigger, like family. He said he’d never do anything that would harm my family.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“Of course, dear. He said that you’re handsome and sing quite nicely and seem to know his band’s songs. He said that a man called Eddie ….”

“Eddie Arroyo, the piano player.”

“Yes. He said that Eddie believes you can fit right in with the band. He seemed to put a great deal of stock in what Eddie believes. But he said that it was really up to me.”

“You?”

“He said you’d have the night of your life tonight ….”

“I did, Mama. I sang with the Barefoot Wanderers, with Annie Swanson.”

“And he said that if I wanted this to end there, he would tell you that he couldn’t hire you, that you weren’t good enough, that it would all be on his head, and you could hate him forever. But if I was willing to let you go with him, he’d do everything he could to make sure that you’d be safe.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I was counting on him to watch out for my boy.”

At that point, we were both crying.

#   #   #

After my first meeting with Flume, I stopped at George and Pete’s houses on my way back to the store.

“I didn’t really think you’d get to talk the man himself,” George said.

“Well, I did. But I’m sorry that he ….”

“Are you kidding? This is great. Don’t worry about us.”

He really meant it. That’s the kind of guy your great-uncle George was. We were friends for the rest of his life.

Pete, who hadn’t heard about the original scheme, was confused until I went through it two or three times. Then he wished me luck. He was the one who could have used the luck, though. He never came home from the war.

But back at 6 o’clock, while Flume and Mama were chatting in the back row, Eddie Arroyo was introducing me to the band members. Most of their names were familiar to me, especially Ken Woodward and Slim Judson. They were both walking histories of pop music. They’d each been involved in important jazz recordings — white jazz recordings, anyway — since the 1920s. I exchanged hellos with all the others, too, including a slight sax player with slicked-back auburn hair, M.J. Compton. The others called out a greeting as Arroyo said their names, but Compton just smiled and waved.

The whole ensemble was there, except for Flume and Annie. Arroyo said they’d be along, and he started the guys on the vocal numbers. I made good on my boast about knowing all the lyrics. But though my voice was strong, I was already sweating through Mike Fontaine’s jacket.

Arroyo told the guys to take a break. Then he gave me a pep talk and suggested I get a cold drink.

“We don’t want you passing out during your big debut,” he said. He looked around and spotted Fred Apple in the shadows backstage, taking a not-so-cold swallow from a flask.

“Fred,” Arroyo called. “Would you please get Billy here a bottle of Coke or something? And you might get one yourself. You don’t want to be drinking too much of that ….”

“Yes, sir, Seeen-yore Arroyo,” Apple yelled back. “Anything you say, hombre. We wouldn’t want you complaining to your special amigo Mr. Flume, now would we? One frosty pop, coming up.”

“Jesus, he’s drunk already,” Arroyo said, more to himself than me.

Apple was a little unsteady on his feet, but he was back quickly with the soda, which I took gratefully and downed in three gulps.

Then Flume appeared, and he and Arroyo started going over the set list. The musicians knew that this was time to get up and walk around. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, but Slim Judson walked over to me.

“Sorry you had to see that unpleasantness right off,” he said. “But you might as well know from the top that not everything about this band thing is quite what you read in the fan magazines.”

I smiled and nodded. Some of the guys were heading for a door off the side of the stage. It led to a lawn that sloped down to the lake.

“Why don’t we go out for a little air until the Boss is ready for us,” said Slim Judson, who was not at all slim. He had a worn, friendly face and red hair that was white at the roots.

He and I would have many long chats during the next few months. I’d learn that he had in fact been slim when he was given that nickname years before, and I’d happily listen to his stories of all the years since. I was as glad to hear them as he was to tell them to a new listener.

Judson told me that he was from Texas, too, and that he and Flume had met there as young musicians. Judson was one of the original Barefoot Wanderers.

“That name was a joke, of course,” he said, “a joke on ourselves. We had grown up barefoot — well, nearly — and we were hoping that we could wander beyond home. By the time we hit it big, records and radio and all, the name had stuck. I stayed with Tootles a few years, then I had my own outfit for a while. But when the whole music business began to contract with the war, he kindly asked me to come back with him, and here I am.

“Tootles’ road manager was drafted a while back, and someone recommended Fred. But either that someone was nursing an old grudge, or he didn’t know that Fred had become a mean drunk. ’Cause that’s what he is. Don’t pay him any attention. He’s spoiling for a fight. Don’t give him — oh, shit. What’s that fool up to now?”

I followed Judson’s gaze to the walkway along the lake. A bunch of the kids from the high school were gathered there, and in the middle of the group, with a fistful of tickets, was Fred Apple. He was giving out free passes and shooing away the kids as they got theirs.

That left him with one ticket and one beneficiary. He was hovering over the girl, a freshman named Lucy Barber. He positioned himself between her and an escape route. He had taken his flask out of his pocket and was offering her a drink, which she clearly didn’t want.

With panic in her eyes, Lucy looked around and saw a familiar face atop an unfamiliar suit.

“Billy?” she called. “Is that you?”

“Let me do this,” Judson said, already moving toward them. He pulled the ticket from Apple’s hand and gave it to Lucy.

“This gentlemen is just fooling, young lady,” Judson said. “Go back with your friends, and enjoy the show.”

Lucy ran off toward the street.

“That was none of your goddam business,” Apple grunted. “Nothing wrong with a bit of tail now and then.”

“She’s a child.”

“Yeah, I like ’em young.”

“Look. Stay away from kids like that. You’ll get us all in a heap of trouble. Now, I don’t want to have to tell Tootles that ….”

“Yeah? What’s he gonna do to me? Sic that little Seen-yore Arroyo on me? Or maybe hit me with his handbag?”

“Listen, shithead, just stop ….”

Arroyo came out into the alley to call the musicians back to the stage.

“Just behave yourself,” Judson said. “And if you can’t hold your liquor, don’t drink it.”

“Fuck you,” Apple said, taking a ceremonious swallow from his flask. “And that goes for you, too, Junior.”

#   #   #

The musicians took their places on the bandstand. On the right side, in front of the saxes, were chairs for the singers. Arroyo motioned me to one chair. I sat there and tried to keep breathing. I was succeeding, until Annie materialized from backstage.

“Hello, Farm Boy,” she said, shooting me a smile. “You look all grown up in that suit.”

I’d been dazzled by the sight of her that afternoon. Now, seeing her slink over in a form-fitting satin dress, I damn near fainted. She glowed. I had never been close to anything that beautiful in my brief and sheltered life.

She was only six years older than I, but to me she was from another era, another universe. She even smelled exciting — a floral perfume that would mix with sweat under the hot lights and create an intoxicating scent.

The doors at the back of the hall opened, and the crowd streamed in. I recognized dozens of my schoolmates, mixed with young people from the surrounding towns and older people, too. Some of them ran to stake out spots close to the bandstand.

Flume picked up his horn and played the solo riff that began the band’s theme, “The Open Road,” a slow and soulful number. After just one short chorus, Flume and Arroyo nodded to each other, and the band lit into one of its biggest hits, the hard-swinging instrumental “Flea Bit.”

The dancing was spontaneous. Feet and hands were flying everywhere, and those who wanted to watch and listen moved quickly to the safety of the perimeter of the floor, where chairs and tables waited. I spotted my sister, Jeannie — she was 15 at the time — twirling with Pete O’Malley. Pop and Mama were standing at the back. I made eye contact with them and smiled, but I knew I shouldn’t wave, even though I wanted to.

The number wound through multiple choruses, as the brass and reeds traded the melody back and forth. Slim Judson stood up for a raucous solo, as did the trumpet player Hank Faselli. Ken Woodward got his moment in the spotlight, coaxing a diversity of sounds from his drums, cymbals, woodblocks and more.

Finally, Arroyo shrugged his shoulders. The band went through one more hot chorus, then ended the tune with a harmonic blast.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Flume let the noise build, then walked slowly to the microphone and waited, beaming regally, until a bit of calm descended.

“Hi, again, everybody,” he said, his signature radio greeting. “We’re glad to see you all here tonight, and we’ve got a great show for you. Now, I won’t make all those fellas wait another minute. Here she is boys, Miss Annie Swanson.”

To a new round of cheers, Annie rose slowly from her seat and walked easily to the microphone. The smile she had given me was just a flashlight compared to the headlight beam she trained on the adoring crowd. Faselli’s horn pealed a syncopated bugle call, then Annie slowed things down with the verse for “Till They Cry Uncle, Uncle Sam,” picking the pace way up for the first chorus. Some of the dancers were now gathered at her feet as she sang. She seemed to be enjoying the song as much as they were.

After a slow instrumental, Flume stepped back to the microphone.

“Now, I’m sure more than a few of you recognize this young fella sitting here, our special guest vocalist tonight, your own Billy Huffman.”

The room erupted at my name, which made Flume laugh.

“You might even cheer him after he sings,” he said, ushering to into the spotlight.

I sang “The Moon That Lights My Heart,” a little uncertainly at first. But after the band took a chorus, I came back for the finale with a gusto that even surprised me. I was singing with a big-league band, and I was holding my own. It was thrilling.

I got to sing another couple of solos and my duet with Annie on “You’re Nowhere if You’re Not With Me.” But she was the star of the show, although Flume didn’t seem to mind. He beamed at both of us like a proud father.

When the last encore had been played, a bunch of my friends actually carried me from the stand and off to a victory party. I finally had my talk with Mama and my restless last night in my bedroom for a while. The following day was a blur. I met with the principal, who excused me from the rest of the term with congratulations. I made a special point of saying good bye to the music teacher, Mrs. Gardner, who had taught me to read music and to sing from my diaphram. Then Pop and I made a whirlwind tour of Main Street, picking up the things I’d need for the road that he didn’t sell himself. Most of the merchants wouldn’t let me pay for anything, not even the suitcase that Pop’s friend Mike Henley insisted on monograming for me.

After the next night’s show, I boarded the bus with the Barefoot Wanderers, and I was off.

#   #   #

I had to make all kinds of adjustments as I entered the band’s world, starting with my internal clock. Each night’s show was over at 10 or 11, then the bandstand usually had to be struck, and we’d often face a late-night bus ride. By the time we hit the next hotel, it was pretty late by my standards, but we weren’t expected anywhere until late the next afternoon. Some of the musicians liked to socialize well into the night — card playing, drinking, they even had marijuana in those olden days, Charlie. Others would disappear into their rooms — or somewhere — until it was time to go to work.

Slim Judson was one of the socializers, and he took me under his wing. I heard some fascinating stories about making music and raising hell in the ’20s and ’30s. Some of those tales may have been true.

Fred Apple must have been able to keep his mind clear part of the time, because the buses and trains, and the endless successions of halls and hotels always seemed to be waiting. Some of the men preferred private rooms, others paired up for company. No one asked me, but a single room was always waiting for me. Flume and Arroyo shared the hotel’s best accommodation — a suite if there was one.

I asked Judson about that arrangement.

“Those boys have a special bond,” he said. “Tootles is the band’s heart. Eddie’s its head. You need both. They kind of complete each other.”

“But,” I said nervously, “are they — you know?”

“Privacy is hard to come by when you live like this, Billy. We just give them theirs.”

“Yes, but haven’t I seen pictures of Tootles in magazines with his wife and daughter?”

“Sure, lovely family. But they’re home in California, and we’re all here, doin’ the best we can.”

Annie was pleasant and supportive during those first performances, but she didn’t make much small talk with me. “How’re you holding up, Farm Boy?” she’d ask. I’d say that I was fine — a little sleepy, but fine. She always disappeared right after the show was over, and then magically reappeared onstage just before the next one was to begin.

One night, a week or so into my run, she touched my arm as I was getting ready to board the bus back to the hotel.

“Skip the poker game tonight, Farm Boy,” she said. “I could use some company. How about it?”

“Sure,” I said.

She gave me her room number, and an hour later, I knocked on her door.

She opened it with a warm smile, inviting me into a room that was a great deal larger than mine. She had traded her dress for a modest robe. She’d cleaned off her makeup, and for the first time since I met her, she looked tired.

She showed me to a couch. A table beside it held glasses, an ice bucket and some bottles, liquor and soda. The bottles were all sealed, except for the ginger ale, with which she’d filled one glass for herself.

“You want a drink, Farm Boy?” she asked quietly.

“I’ll just have some soda, too,” I said. “I’m not much for the booze yet.”

“Me neither,” she said. “Does that surprise you?”

“I think you’d surprise me whatever you drank.”

She laughed softly.

“Good answer,” she said. Then she poured me some ginger ale and clinked her glass to mine.

“Here’s to the farm,” she said.

“You know, Miss ….”

“Annie,” she said, almost shyly. “Please call me Annie. It’s my real name — Annie Swenson. But somebody thought Swanson sounded ….”

“I know.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.”

“But, Annie, I don’t really come from a farm.”

“I do,” she said. “I come from a crappy little farm that I couldn’t wait to leave.”

“And you’re sorry you did?”

“Hell no. This is much better. I traded one kind of work for another, but I’ve done pretty well so far. It’s just that sometimes all this stuff gets a bit, well, tiresome, and I wouldn’t mind a nice simple conversation with someone from home.”

“From home? But I’m from ….”

“You’re from a home, Farm Boy. Close enough.”

She took my face tenderly in her hands and kissed me slowly.

“Just two old friends from home,” she whispered. “And no one else needs to know what happens between two old friends, right?”

“Right,” I said, as she took my hand and guided it inside the robe.

#   #   #

After that, I’d go to Annie’s room a few of times a week. Sometimes, we’d just talk. Other times, it was a different kind of communication. I was in awe of her, even when she seemed like a lonely girl. Mostly, though, she was a self-assured woman, which was wonderful.

One night, when she hadn’t asked me to visit, I was on my way back to my own room after a card game. As I was walking past Annie’s door, it opened, and M.J. Compton, the quiet sax player emerged into the corridor. Head down, Compton brushed past me. I looked toward the door, and Annie stuck her head out, gave me a wink and closed the door.

I went back to my room, miserable. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that I might not be Annie’s only late-night visitor. That’s because I was a naïve fool. I tried to tell myself that we were two adults, doing what adults did, with no strings attached.

The next time Annie asked me to come see her, I pouted like a baby. She gave me an especially warm smile. “Come on,” she said. “It’s O.K. You’ll see.”

I couldn’t have stayed away. Annie was in her robe, as usual. But instead of sitting alongside me on the couch, she took a chair facing me.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you, Farm Boy?” she asked, without a hint of condescension.

I said I guessed I was.

“I’m flattered,” she said. “But if we’re going to be friends like this, you’ll have to get past that. You’re a wonderful young man, and I treasure our time together. I really do. You make me feel special in a way I really need. Don’t ever forget that.

“But this isn’t high school, and we’re not sweethearts. We’re something else. O.K.?”

“O.K.,” I said softly.

“Fine. And there’s one more thing you should know. M.J. is a different kind of friend. M.J. stands for Mary Jo.”

My expression made Annie burst into laughter.

“Am I the only one who didn’t know she’s a — a she?”

“Hopefully not. I’m sure the guys in the band know, although no one ever talks about it.”

“There are a lot of things no one ever talks about.”

“Yes, thank God. It’s a kind of respect, a way for us all to cope with this life of ours.”

“And you and Compton ….”

“That’s none of your business. But I’ll tell you. We talk. Just talk. Mary Jo is trying to make some money while her husband’s away in the Army.”

“Husband?”

“Husband. She misses him like crazy, although that’s not your business either. She didn’t like the kinds of jobs she could’ve gotten back home. And those girl bands play all that sappy stuff. So she cut her hair, put on a baggy jacket, and here she is.”

“So Flume knows ….”

“Flume knows a great many things. He cares mightily about giving the people a great sounding band, even when musicians are hard to come by. So he was glad to have Mary Jo along, and he asked me to keep an eye on her.”

“And me?” I said. “Did he ask you …?”

“I took this assignment on my own, Farm Boy.”

#   #   #

One night, when I was playing cards with the guys, and losing as usual, Flume came into the room. This was a rare after-hours appearance.

“Deal you in, Boss?” asked Judson, who was shuffling the cards.

“No thanks,” Flume said. Then he looked at me. “Got a minute, Billy? Let’s take a walk.”

I followed him out of the room, down the hall, through the lobby and out into the warm night.

“Mind a walk around the block?” he asked. I said I didn’t mind at all.

After a few silent strides, he said, “How’re you doing, kid?”

“Fine, Mr. Flume. Fine.”

“Good. You writing to your mom? I promised her you’d write.”

“Yes, sir.” It was the truth. I sent my folks a letter every few days. I had promised, too.

“This is a funny way to live, Billy. I guess you’ve figured that out.”

“Yes. But I like it.”

“Some people do. A band’s like a family. You don’t always get along with everybody, but we’re in this together, so we try to look out for one another.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ve been spending some time with Annie, huh?”

I could feel myself blushing.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not gonna tell your mom about that. And I guess you won’t either.”

I laughed nervously. I didn’t know what to say.

“Annie is a wonderful talent,” he said. “If she doesn’t burn out, she’ll be a big star, far bigger than the rest of us.

“She knows how to project her personality directly to everybody in the audience. Whatever you need her to be — your daughter, your best friend, the love of your life — that’s what she is for you.

“But it’s make-believe, you understand? When the show’s over, she isn’t your daughter, or your best friend, or the love of your life. Sometimes, I’m not sure she knows what she is, really. I hope she figures it out.

“So be careful, Billy. Don’t let her hurt you. And don’t you hurt her.”

He paused, then asked, “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” she said.

We were back at the hotel now.

“Good,” he said. “Go back to the game, now. And don’t let those vultures take all your money.”

#   #  #

I didn’t make any records with the Barefoot Wanderers during my brief wandering. The musicians union was in the middle of a lengthy dispute over recording payments. And besides, the world was not clamoring to hear me sing.

But we did make some national broadcasts, which my family and friends back home did manage to hear. On one of them, I introduced a song that Fontaine had never gotten around to.

Flume told the radio audience: “Folks, we have a new song tonight, and a new singer to share it with you. Here’s Billy Huffman with something called ‘Nothing Is as Easy as It Looks.’”

I still like to think of that as my song. And thanks to my rendition that night, it immediately fell into the obscurity it so richly deserved.

I used to think that life was like a puzzle:

Spot a problem, solve it — you can’t miss.

But your reaction when I tried to nuzzle

Made me see that ignorance ain’t bliss.

Climbing up a mountain may seem simple.

You can find the basics in some books.

But just misjudge the hill,

You’ll fall like Jack and Jill.

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

Whipping up a dinner may seem basic.

You can get some hints from practiced cooks.

But your first try at stew

May taste a lot like glue.

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

I thought winning you would be a cinch, dear.

I’d just flash a smile, and down you’d fall.

You said I wouldn’t do — not in a pinch, dear.

Won’t you heed a novice lover’s call?

Catching lots of fish may seem quite painless.

Just unspool the line and bait the hooks.

But like a girl, a trout

Takes skill to land, no doubt.

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

I thought charming words would do the trick, dear.

I hoped my pizzazz would turn your head.

Then you said my patter made you sick, dear.

Are my chances with you really dead?

Now I know that fledglings can be foolish.

Though they think they’re wise, they’re really schnooks.

Please give me a chance

To learn about romance.

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

I’ve learned my lesson!

Nothing is as easy as it looks.

Ushering a tune into the Great American Songbook, apparently, is no easier than succeeding at love.

#   #   #

As my weeks with the band tour went on, I began to feel comfortable with its pace. There was something reassuring about the quiet kindness that the musicians showed one another, even when that kindness meant essentially being left alone.

The one sour note, offstage that is, was Fred Apple. He was hardly the only drinker around, but he was the only mean drunk. He did his job, but he transmitted a kind of misery.

A couple of months after I joined the group, we were in another small city, setting up for another show. Flume was going over the music with Arroyo, when he was interrupted rather emphatically by the manager of the ballroom. He pointed to the back of the hall, where Apple was standing, looking more sorrowful than usual, with a beefy man in a blue police uniform and a girl, maybe 14 years old.

“You stay here,” the man in uniform barked to the girl as he grabbed Apple’s arm and dragged him to the bandstand.

“Mr. Flume,” the manager said, as delicately as possible, “this here’s our sheriff, Jim Nesbitt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” Flume said.

“I doubt you’re gonna be pleased with anything,” Nesbitt said, “unless you approve of this character going around town annoying young girls.” He pointed at Apple.

“This man says he works for you. That right?”

“Yes, it is. What is he accused of?”

“No accusin’ about it, Mister. Your man here’s been tryin’ to get our kids up to his hotel room, promisin’ them tickets to your show. And booze, too. Looks like he’s had quite a bit of that himself.”

“Is that right, Fred?” Flume asked.

The look that Apple flashed him was fueled by equal parts alcohol and fury.

“It’s right,” Nesbitt said. “We don’t like that kind of thing around here. I especially don’t like it when it’s my own daughter who’s been disturbed.”

“I am so sorry, Sheriff,” Flume said. “I take it that no young people actually went anywhere with him.”

“Our kids have more sense than that.”

“Thank goodness. So nothing actually happened — other than Fred here acting like a fool.”

“I wouldn’t call it nothing, Mister. I could easily cancel your show right now and lock up your man on any of a dozen charges, all of which would stick.”

“I’m sure you could, Sheriff. Or I could promise you that I will personally make sure that Fred does not bother any of your citizens for the few hours longer we’re going to be here in town. Perhaps you have a fund of some kind, a charity perhaps, that we could donate to, as a show of our good will. Say five hundred dollars.”

“Seven fifty,” Nesbitt said coldly.

“Seven fifty it is,” Flume replied. “I’ll make sure you have the cash before showtime. And again, my apologies.”

Nesbitt marched to the back of the hall, taking his daughter by the hand as he walked by. No one moved or said a word until he was gone.

Then several musicians, including Will Gibson, the large bass player, moved quickly to surround Apple. Gibson put a hand on Apple’s shoulder in a menacing way.

“You’ve brought disgrace on this organization, Fred,” Flume said.

“Oh, you’re one to talk, you ….”

Gibson tightened his grip.

“Look, Fred,” Flume said. “I could just walk away now and let Will and the boys show you how disappointed we are with your behavior. I doubt that the sheriff would object. I’d actually prefer to have the boys deliver you to the sheriff. But that would make this thing drag on and impact negatively on the rest of us.

“Let’s just do this: You make sure that our bookings and other details for the next few days are in order. Then you take the money I’m going to give you and get yourself out of this town as quickly as possible.

“If you’re smart, you’ll go somewhere where they can help you with that unpleasant drinking problem. But I don’t think you’re smart, Fred. So just go somewhere.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Apple said.

“Unfortunately for you Fred, I can. We all want to get on with our work. And we never want to see your face again. When I deliver my donation to the sheriff’s rainy day fund, I’m going to assure him that you are leaving town quickly and quietly.”

The weight of Gibson’s hand on his shoulder seemed to persuade Apple to forgo further comments. We never saw him again.

#   #   #

My draft notice arrived, as we knew it would. Pop sent me a telegram.

At my final show, Flume introduced me as if I were already a war hero. After the last song, I made my way through the band, thanking the musicians for putting up with me. Flume said that I should get in touch when I got home. He said he was sure he could get me a job, if not with him, with another outfit.

I stopped last at Annie.

“I don’t think — well, I have to get up early tomorrow to get the train, and ….”

“That’s O.K., Farm Boy,” she said. “We’ll catch up someday.”

Then she took my face in her hands and kissed me, just as she had that first night, right in front of everybody.

I went right into the Army, of course. I never left the States, though. Someone thought it was a good idea to put a storekeeper’s son in the Quartermaster Corps, and I spent the rest of the war up to my ass in uniforms and boots.

I never tried to contact Flume after my discharge. I had no illusions about my talent, and my little sip of showbiz taught me that I wanted a different kind of life. I came back to the store, and eventually ran it — me and your Grandma. It gave us a good living till it was time to retire. Then we closed it for good, because a Main Street clothing store really didn’t make sense anymore.

No regrets, Charlie. I hope you can say that when you’re my age.

I did see Annie Swanson one more time, though. It was during the ’80s. Grandma and I were in Las Vegas at a retail convention, and Annie was playing one of the big showrooms. She’d become a sort of nostalgia act by then. Her days as a big star were over, but people of my generation were more than glad to pay for some time with her and some of those old songs.

I knew from following her career that she was on her third husband. After two well-publicized but brief marriages to Hollywood stars, she’d wed her manager, Milt Faulkner, a man somewhat younger even than I was. He stayed devoted to her for the rest of her life.

I told the maître d’ that I had worked with Annie years ago, and in exchange for a nice tip, he agreed to see that my note was delivered to her. Just as the performance was starting, he came back and said that Annie would be delighted to see us in her dressing room after the show.

I did love seeing her onstage. Sure, she was older, and the voice wasn’t what it had been. I suspect that my contemporaries in the crowd were seeing the Annie Swanson they remembered. I know I was. She still had that talent that Flume had described: She was what each member of the audience wanted her to be.

Part of the show was a tribute to the Flume band. She did “Till They Cry Uncle, Uncle Sam” and “You’re Nowhere if You’re Not With Me,” and, to my great surprise, “Nothing Is as Easy as It Looks.”

Afterward, we were shown to a kind of living room, where Faulkner welcomed us like old friends and invited us to help ourselves to the drinks and snacks on a bar. He said Annie would be right out.

“I wasn’t sure that Annie would remember me,” I said

.

“Oh, she sure did,” he said. “She said you were right out of high school when you joined the band.”

“I was pretty young.”

“She said she taught you a lot about performing.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what we were we talking about, but I gladly agreed.

Annie came into the room and greeted us even more warmly than Faulkner had.

“Billy,” she said. “You look wonderful.” She hugged me, then Grandma.

“You’re a lucky girl,” Annie said. “I would’ve liked to snare this one for myself. But the Army got him. Then life happened, I guess.”

Annie settled herself theatrically on a couch across from us. The years had been kind to her. She still beamed.

After a moment, she turned her smile on Faulkner.

“Milt, dear,” she said softly, “would you get me some of that iced tea?”

He practically ran over to the bar and hustled back with the glass. He hovered over her while she took a sip and placed the glass on a coffee table.

Then she looked up at him and took his hand in hers.

“Thanks, Farm Boy,” she said to him.

I think she winked at me then. But I may have imagined it.

Copyright 2015 by Ron Wertheimer

Childish Loves, by Benjamin Markovits

Childish Loves is the third book concerning George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) by Benjamin Markovits.  The first two books – Imposture (2007) and A Quiet Adjustment (2008) – are fairly straightforward historical novels.  The first in the series focuses on Byron and his relationship with John Polidori (author of the one of the first vampire stories in the English language), while the features Annabella Milbanke, who later became Lady Byron.

But Childish Loves tries for something different.  In this novel, Markovits recounts how the previous two volumes are really the work of the late Peter Pattieson (born Peter Sullivan), a teacher at a New York private school.  In the prologue to Imposture, Pattieson/Sullivan was the supposed owner of the Polidori manuscript we subsequently read.  In Childish Loves, its revealed that Pattieson/Sullivan died following a scandal involving one of his students, leaving author Markovits three manuscripts: the novels Imposture and A Quiet Adjustment and three components that make up this book.  It is the conceit of this final novel that Markovits has been merely the editor and literary midwife of these Byronic fictions.

Markovits likes to play the contemporary game of metafiction to a fault.  He narrates this novel in his own voice, including details on possible marital trouble with wife “Caroline” (the book is dedicated to Caroline, and a quick Internet check confirms that this is his wife), while also complaining of mid-career malaise.  He also includes huge swaths to seemingly true autobiography (his past as a basketball player, for example, as well as time spent both in Texas and abroad).  However, it would seem that Pattieson/Sullivan are made up of whole cloth, invented just as much as the passages “by” Lord Byron.

All of this, of course, is the game Markovits is playing.  In this novel, “Markovits” (whether the “real” or “fictional” one) complains at length that the only thing readers wanted to know about his earlier Byron novels were what parts were “true.”  This dual game Childish Loves allows Markovits to explain where his historical fiction departed from fact, while teasing the reader with doubts about the “real” Markovits. 

If all of this sounds beguiling or intriguing, it is … to a degree.  Markovits errs in thinking that people really care to any extent on the historicity of historical fiction – they don’t.  People want a good story, and if the prose is beautiful or evocative as well, all the better.  Everyone expects romanticism in historical fiction, just they expect hyperbole and exaggeration in autobiography, or a closely-structured argument to drive straight history.  Anything written without a particular point of view rapidly becomes unreadable.

Sadly, the Byron of Markovits’ imagination (or that of Pattieson/Sullivan, if you wish to play that particular game) is never compelling or beguiling.  Byron was a man of extreme intelligence, remarkable charisma, great poetic ability and violent passions.  The Byron in these imagined passages is merely an empty-headed spoiled rich kid with murky political ideals – a Brat Packer trying to raise an army.  As such, he never comes to life nor convinces.

Fortunately, Markovits equips his novel with a strong narrative hook: Markovits travels across the country meeting various friends and relatives of the late Pattieson/Sullivan, trying to learn how much of the writer’s personal life bled into his Byronic fictions.  It is much like The Aspern Papers heavily diluted with contemporary angst. 

One plows through Childish Loves waiting for the moment when the novel works better and lives up to it abundant potential, but that moment never seems to come.  There are moments and premises here that seem ripe for more satisfying exploration, but the final taste is one of disappointment.

Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain (Revised 2nd Edition), by Frank Dello Stritto and Andi Brooks

Some months ago, we had so much fun reading Frank Dello Stritto’s masterful I Saw What I Saw When I Saw It, his memoir of growing up during the Golden Age of Television, that we decided to dip further into his corpus.  My interest happily coincided with the new, revised 2^nd edition of Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain.  For those who love Bela Lugosi (1882-1956) or Dracula, and you know who you are, this book is essential.

It is a strange quirk of history and cinematic fanaticism that the great figures of the age often sink into obscurity and people less respected in their own time find greater posthumous importance.  Such is certainly the case with Bela Lugosi; more books have been written about Lugosi than Clark Gable (1901-1960) or Jimmy Stewart (1908-1997) or Gary Cooper (1901-1961) or Bing Crosby (1903-1977) combined, though those luminaries worked in the upper echelons of the movie industry while Lugosi toiled on Poverty Row.

What is it about Lugosi that makes him so potent a figure nearly 60 after his death, while greater stars (and much better actors) fade into obscurity?  Perhaps it has something to do with the medium of film itself.  Though the camera moves very close, it loves the large gesture, the show of big personality and individuality.  Smaller, more subtle actors are applauded by the critics, but the movie-goer loves people who take it big.  And few actors took it bigger than Lugosi.

Lugosi’s legacy to motion pictures remain a handful of interesting performances, a generous number of truly bad B films, and a legend that has lost none of its potency.  Lugosi first played Dracula on Broadway.  When Dracula premiered at the Fulton Theater, neither the critics nor the audience realized that they were witnessing the creation of one of modern theater history's great signature roles.  Typecast as Dracula forever after his 1931 film appearance, actor and role merged for eternity when the actor requested that he be buried in his vampire costume.

Like many jobbing actors, Lugosi strove to go where the money was.  He made two trips to Great Britain – the 1930s and 1950s, respectively – and little is known of his activity there.  Legends among Lugosiphiles suggest that his 1950s tours of Dracula throughout the English countryside were a dismal failure.  However, research by Dello Stritto and Brooks suggest that the tour was wildly successful, and that it was the last great triumph of Lugosi’s tumultuous life.

Dello Stritto and Brooks interviewed many of the survivors of tour, and also unearthed a great deal of previously unpublished material to make this a rich history indeed.  But a book full facts could be deathly dull – despite the inherent interest of the topic – if the historian cannot make them come alive.  Dello Stritto and Brooks do not drown in his own research.  They are scintillating raconteurs, and this 300+ page book moves along as breezily as a fascinating dinner conversation.

This is not just a chronicle of a once-respected actor trying to recapture former glories, but a wonderful evocation of English provincial theater in the 1950s.  It reflects a lost world of interest to theater buffs, movie buffs, Dracula and Lugosi mavens, and people drawn to the nascent English film industry.  It is all there, from train travel and one-night stands in the sticks, to alliances and challenges among a small company of players, to hoping to open big in London’s West End.  (Sadly, that was a triumph denied Lugosi and company.)

In addition to a lively and inviting text, Dello Stritto and Brooks have managed to uncover dozens of photos never-seen-in-print.  Your Correspondent has spent decades reading about Bela Lugosi, with little hope of anything new on the horizon.  Vampire Over London is crammed with photos I have never seen, that provide a greater understanding of both Lugosi the theatrical presence and Lugosi the man.  This is a terrific book, not to be missed.

Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain can be ordered directly from Cult Movies Press at: http://www.cultmoviespress.com/.

Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury

For many years, it was standard practice every summer at the home of Your Correspondent to read Dandelion Wine (1957) by Ray Bradbury (1920-2012).  Somehow, we had fallen out of the habit for the last decade or so, and it was with some trepidation that we recently revisited the book.  Will it hold up?

Dandelion Wine is the story of two brothers growing up in Green Town, Illinois.  The older boy, Douglas Spaulding, is 12, his brother Tom, 10.  The year is 1928, and the narrative is not a single story so much as a series of vignettes that illustrate the summer. 

In the course of the book, Doug and Tom solve no crimes, have no adventures, see little action in the traditional sense.  But it is a formative summer, nonetheless.  First, Doug realizes that he’s alive.  This is a stupendous realization, bringing color and a sense of wonder to all things.  But, he also realizes that some day he will die, which lead to revelations of another sort.

The boys also befriend Col. Freeleigh, a near centenarian who remembers the Civil War, Pawnee Bill and the buffalo, and the mysterious death of magician Chung Ling Soo.  (Look it up.)  They meet an old lady who may never have been young, a neighbor who vows to build a “happiness machine,” and Doug’s best friend moves across the country, out of his life forever.  Grandparents die, new tennis shoes are bought, and feuding neighbors resort to mail-order magic to settle differences.

One reads through Dandelion Wine, thinking that none of it flows in any coherent sense, and then, boom, summer is over and we see that the events of the book fit together in a panoramic mosaic.  It is a startling literary achievement.

So, visiting it again after so many years, I have to confess that I come away more impressed by Bradbury’s work than ever before.  This is a beautiful, lyrical novel, and Bradbury may have been the 20^th Century’s finest prose poet.  It is a book to be read aloud, each word savored and tasted.

Bradbury, of course, built his reputation on his stories of science fiction and fantasy.  He was already a household name when Dandelion Wine debuted, but it was a radical change for the author in that it is not a work of the fantastic.  There are no spaceships, illustrated men, monsters, dinosaurs, Martians or ghosts in Dandelion Wine.  Despite the lack of such flummery, the book is suffused with magic; parts of it read like an outright incantation, as if every word brings the reader closer to the experience of being young.  If you want to know what Bradbury the man was like, read Dandelion Wine.

The book met with glowing reviews from the mainstream press, but the harshest critics of the tale came from the science fiction community, who perhaps felt that Bradbury, in writing a “straight” novel, was abandoning the genre.  This is ridiculous, of course, as Bradbury only wrote science fiction and fantasy in the broadest sense of the terms.  In reality Bradbury was a magical realist – he sees magic everywhere, and thinks the simple act of living a miraculous thing.  If science fiction and fantasy were the tools to best help him achieve his type of lyric prose poetry, fine, but he never really cared about the general conventions of genre fiction.  (Bradbury also had a profound – and wise – dislike of machines and technology, thinking that human connections and interactions are more important.  This is heresy to the science fiction community.)  It is this genius for being himself that enabled Bradbury to escape the ghetto of genre fiction, and assume the deserved mantle of serious writer.

One more observation.  I remembered a book that was beautiful and touched with sadness.  Now, after rereading it again a decade later, I see a book that is sad and touched with beauty.  It is not the sadness of personal tragedy or the particular hardships in life.  Rather, it is the sadness that only comes with the realization of loss.  The great theme of Dandelion Wine is change: it seems we start out in Arcadia, and every summer, every change of our lives, takes us further away from this golden ideal.  To Bradbury’s mind, it’s all downhill from 12 on, and, who knows, he may be right. 

Below is a brief excerpt from Dandelion Wine, one of my favorite passages.  Here, Doug, Tom and some of the neighborhood kids are corralled by Mr. Tridden, the trolley man, who tells them that the trolley is closing down…

At noon the motorman stopped his car in the middle of the block and leaned out.  “Hey!”

And Douglas and Charlie and Tom and all the boys and girls on the block saw the gray glove waving, and dropped: from trees and left skip ropes in white snakes on lawns, to run and sit in the green plush seats, and there was no charge. Mr. Tridden, the conductor, kept his glove over the mouth of the money box as he moved the trolley on down the shady block, calling.

“Hey!” said Charlie. “Where are we going?”

“Last ride,” said Mr. Tridden, eyes on the high electric wire ahead. “No more trolley.  Bus starts to run tomorrow. Going to retire me with a pension, they are. So-a free ride for everyone! Watch out!”

He ricocheted the brass handle, the trolley groaned and swung round an endless green curve, and all the time in the world held still, as if only the children and Mr. Tridden and his miraculous machine were riding an endless river, away.

“Last day?” asked Douglas, stunned. “They can’t do that! It’s bad enough the Green Machine is gone, locked up in the garage, and no arguments. And bad enough my new tennis shoes are getting old and slowing down! How’ll I get around? But … But They can’t take off the trolley! Why,” said Douglas, “no matter how you look at it, a bus ain’t a trolley. Don’t make the same kind of noise. Don’t have tracks or wires, don’t throw sparks, don’t pour sand on the tracks, don’t have the same colors, don’t have a bell, don’t let down a step like a trolley does!”

“Hey, that’s right,” said Charlie. “I always get a kick watching a trolley let down the step, like an accordion.”

“Sure,” said Douglas.

And then they were at the end of the line, the silver tracks, abandoned for eighteen years, ran on into rolling country. In 1910 people took the trolley out to Chessman’s Park with vast picnic hampers. The track, never ripped up, still lay rusting among the hills.

“Here’s where we turn around,” said Charlie.

“Here’s where you’re wrong!” Mr. Tridden snapped the emergency generator switch.  “Now!”

The trolley, with a bump and a sailing glide, swept past the city limits, turned off the street, and swooped downhill through intervals of odorous sunlight and vast acreages of shadow that smelled of toadstools. Here and there creek waters flushed the tracks and sun filtered through trees like green glass. They slid whispering on meadows washed with wild sunflowers past abandoned way stations empty of all save transfer-punched confetti, to follow a forest stream into a summer country, while Douglas talked.

“Why, just the smell of a trolley, that’s different. I been on Chicago buses; they smell funny.”

“Trolleys are too slow,” said Mr. Tridden. “Going to put busses on. Busses for people and busses for school.”

The trolley whined to a stop. From overhead Mr. Tridden reached down huge picnic hampers. Yelling, the children helped him carry the baskets out by a creek that emptied into a silent lake where an ancient bandstand stood crumbling into termite dust.

They sat eating ham sandwiches and fresh strawberries and waxy oranges and Mr. Tridden told them how it had been twenty years ago, the band playing on that ornate stand at night, the men pumping air into their brass horns, the plump conductor flinging perspiration from his baton, the children and fireflies running in the deep grass, the ladies with long dresses and high pompadours treading the wooden xylophone walks with men in choking collars. There was the walk now, all softened into a fiber mush by the years. The lake was silent and blue and serene, and fish peacefully threaded the bright reeds, and the motorman murmured on and on, and the children felt it was some other year, with Mr. Tridden looking wonderfully young, his eyes lighted like small bulbs, blue and electric. It was a drifting, easy day, nobody rushing and the forest all about, the sun held in one position, as Mr. Tridden’s voice rose and fell, and a darning needle sewed along the air, stitching, restitching designs both golden and invisible. A bee settled into a flower, humming and humming. The trolley stood like an enchanted calliope, simmering where the sun fell on it. The trolley was on their hands, a brass smell, as they ate ripe cherries. The bright odor of the trolley blew from their clothes on the summer wind.

A loon flew over the sky, crying.

Somebody shivered.

Mr. Tridden worked on his gloves. “Well, time to go. Parents’ll think I stole you all for good.”

The trolley was silent and cool dark, like the inside of an ice-cream drugstore. With a soft green rustling of velvet buff, the seats were turned by the quiet children so they sat with their backs to the silent lake, the deserted bandstand and the wooden planks that made a kind of music if you walked down the shore on them into other lands.

Bing! went the soft bell under Mr. Tridden’s foot and they soared back over sun abandoned, withered flower meadows, through woods, toward a town that seemed to crush the sides of the trolley with bricks and asphalt and wood when Mr. Tridden stopped to let the children out in shady streets.

Charlie and Douglas were the last to stand near the opened tongue of the trolley, the folding step, breathing electricity, watching Mr. Tridden’s gloves on the brass controls. 

Douglas ran his fingers on the green creek moss, looked at the silver, the brass, the wine color of the ceiling.

“Well . . . so long again, Mr. Tridden.”

“Good-by, boys.”

“See you around, Mr. Tridden.”

“See you around.”

There was a soft sigh of air; the door collapsed shut, tucking up its corrugated tongue. The trolley sailed slowly down the late afternoon, brighter than the sun, tangerine, all flashing gold and lemon, turned a far corner wheeling, and vanished, gone away. 

Words with My Daughter, by Elizabeth B. Joyce and Kayla Allen

We have frequently looked at the work of illustrator/film-maker William Joyce (born 1957) in these pages.  Today we look at Words with My Daughter, an excerpt from an upcoming book by his wife, Elizabeth B. Joyce, written with Kayla Allen.  Words with My Daughter is Joyce’s memoir focusing on the harrowing experience of dealing with a terminally ill daughter.

Mary Katherine Joyce (1991-2010) was diagnosed with a brain tumor while only a teenager.  Young Mary Katherine graduated Magna Cum Laude from Caddo Magnet High School in May 2009, later attending the Sorbonne in Paris.  She would pass away in her 18^th year.  In her memoir Elizabeth Joyce writes with candor and heart-breaking clarity on this tragedy as it unfolds, with words that reach directly to the heart.

The excerpt is available in the current issue of the Yale Review and online at http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/yrev.12247/epdf and it is free of cost.  It is a reading experience you will never forget.

Words with My Daughter is a very emotional narrative, filled with longing and loss, infused with that special brand of love that only a mother can provide.  Elizabeth Joyce has penned a very human document, and it is one of the most wrenching things I’ve read this year.

The accomplishment is all the more remarkable in light of Joyce’s current health.  She has been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.  Now bedridden, Joyce wrote this remarkable memoir with her eyes.  To write such a book while battling ill health is an indication of her remarkable strength of character, and her indomitable resolve.

The complete manuscript of Words with My Daughter has not yet landed with a publisher, but it is only a matter of time before this profound, moving and ultimately life-affirming memoir finds a home.  It is miraculous achievement and a stunning illustration of one mother’s love.  Go to the Yale Review and read it now.

Verdi’s Macbeth at Glimmerglass

Our recent sojourn upstate was punctuated by two very different theatrical experiences – the dramatically reimagined Oklahoma! at Bard SecondStage, and the opening night of Verdi’s masterful Macbeth, at Glimmerglass.

Giuseppe Verdi (1813-1901) wrote Macbeth in 1847; it was his initial foray into translating Shakespeare from theatrical stage to operatic stage.  (He would later do the same with Otello and Falstaff).  Verdi collaborated with Italian librettist Francesco Piave (1810-1876), with whom he would also collaborate on Rigoletto, La Traviata and Simon Boccanegra.  Most of these operas are perhaps better known than Macbeth, which is something of shame as it is a riveting and compelling piece of work.

When approaching Macbeth the play vs. the opera, it is best to remember that the play belongs to Macbeth, while the opera belongs to Lady Macbeth.  Strong players (or singers) are essential for both, but the male performance must carry the play and the leading lady must carry the opera.  This was thrown into stark relief in the Glimmerglass production, which succeeds largely on the masterful performance of Melody Moore as Lady Macbeth.

Macbeth stars baritone Eric Owens in the title role.  Owens has done wonderful work in the past, but he is primarily a singer, and most directors seem to forget that opera demands acting as well.  Though his voice is powerful, it lacks emotional range, and as an actor Owens is utterly hopeless.  Rotund and bearing a striking resemblance to the late Tor Johnson, Owens seems to have only one facial expression as his stock-in-trade:  uncomfortable surprise.  His Macbeth spends several hours as if he just realized a mouse ran up his trouser leg, and it does his singing and the production no favors. 

Banquo is much better served by Soloman Howard, who brings a sense of gravitas and vulnerability to the role.  His singing, at times, seems less sure than is ideal, but he does manage to hold the stage by the tone of his voice and his considerable stage presence.  Strong, too, was Nathan Milholin in the thankless role of the doctor who observes Lady Macbeth’s mad wanderings.  He served as a valuable stabilizing element to Moore’s stagecraft.

However, the evening certainly belonged to Moore and her magnificent Lady Macbeth.  Her singing was a revelation, and her performance deeply affecting and memorable.  All too often (in Shakespeare or Verdi), we are served a one-note Lady Macbeth, but Moore clearly understood the arc of the character, and the many conflicting emotions that drive her early ambition and her later madness.  On top of that, Moore has a compelling presence, charisma to spare, and a quality of glamor that makes her eminently watchable.  This is a singer who will make a considerable mark.

Joseph Colaneri conducted the score competently, but unevenly.  At times, it seemed as if he did not pay proper attention to the entire orchestra, or integrate the vocals with the music seamlessly.  However, the music itself is so wonderful, stirring and majestic that these problems of technique are forgiven.

Perhaps the major misstep of the evening is the direction by Anne Bogart and choreography by Barney O’Hanlon.  Bogart sets the production in what appears to be the era between World Wars, but, once that conceit is in place, seems to do nothing with it.  It is not a comment on fascism per se, nor on nationalism.  She peppers the stage with effectively lit (by Robert Wierzel) refugees … but where does that fit in with Macbeth?  In addition, the murder of Banquo is committed by thugs in bowler hats and Halloween masks, carrying both rather tony walking sticks along with clubs.  Laurel and Hardy Go to Hell may be an interesting idea, but it does have to tie in with the overall concept to make any sense.

Confusing, too, was Bogart’s concept of the Weird Sisters (or witches).  Normally three in number, Bogart serves us 12, all of whom seem to dress like dowdy spinsters straight from Agatha Christie.  This does seem to diminish their power to frighten and mesmerize, and the multi-national nature and broad age-range of the witches seems to add to the confusion.  (Perhaps they are all part of the Coven Exchange Plan?  Who knows?)  The sisters play other roles, suggesting evil omens throughout Verdi’s operatic cosmos, but we never get a handle on who they are or why they are menacing.

The staging is achieved with a minimal set – a rotating wall denoting swanky interiors, and a dark room painted with enormous roses for the mad scene.  It all works surprisingly well … but it doesn’t always play as theater.  In many senses, this is a superb concert performance of Macbeth rather than an overall successful theatrical experience.  With that caveat in mind, Macbeth makes for an enjoyable evening at the opera and worth a trip to Cooperstown.

Oklahoma! at Bard SummerScape

Most Jade Sphinx readers will have seen the film version of Oklahoma! or, perhaps, a Broadway revival or regional production.  Oklahoma! is not only a classic Broadway musical, it is perhaps the key musical, in that it was the first to incorporate song and dance into the story arc.  Prior to Oklahoma!, the plot of musicals went on hold while songs took center stage; it took the genius of Richard Rodgers (1902-1979) and Oscar Hammerstein II (1895-1960) to realize that music and dance are also a form of narrative.

So it was with great interest that Your Correspondent saw the new, much-lauded revival at Bard SummerScape, on view till July 19.  Most people remember Oklahoma! as one of the sunniest of musicals, and most people would be in for a surprise with this production which is being touted as gritty and darker.  For Your Correspondent this would normally mean stay away.  But though there is a great deal here to offend purists, it is a worthy and thought-provoking production that is not to be missed.  The change in tone succeeds in making Oklahoma! a more thought-provoking than toe-tapping experience, and patrons leave discussing motivation rather than just humming familiar standards.

Directed by Daniel Fish, Oklahoma! is staged in the round, with the audience seated at long deal tables in a room decorated for the show’s  closing neighborhood social.  (Chili and lemonade are served during intermission!)  The score – usually lush and orchestral – is strategically reduced to a country band to increase regional flavor.  And Curley, played winningly by Damon Daunno, often accompanies himself on guitar to smart effect.  (This also helps the real deficiency in his singing – Daunno has a charming lilt to his voice, but the demands of the show are beyond his talents as a vocalist.)  Daunno is perhaps too insinuating a leading man, with an extremely lanky frame that seems to slide into each scene rather than dominate it.  We expect good things from him in the future, and he is suited to the darker reimagining of the show, but somehow he never completely convinces.

A bigger disappointment is Amber Gray as the heroine, Laurey.  Gray is a spare and astringent presence, and her Laurey strives to be powerful and independent, and comes off merely as strident and sullen.  Gray, fortunately, has an impressive voice and sings her songs effectively.

Several of the performers, however, are everything one could wish for, and more.  Ado Annie – often depicted as a coy vixen – here is reimagined as a backwoods slut by actress Allison Strong.  Her brazen sensuality while singing I Can’t Say No! leaves nothing to the imagination, and she has a wanton heat that adds considerable sizzle to the proceedings.  She is evenly matched by the delightful James Patrick Davis as Will Parker, who makes hay with an exuberant rendition of Kansas City, and plays with energy and panache.  Benj Mirman as peddler Ali Hakim (always our favorite character in the show) is a pleasing presence, with an understated handsomeness that contrasts well with the all-American he-men surrounding him.  And though not a singing role per se, he has a pleasing baritone and an easy stage presence; we would happily see him again.

Other players, such as Mitch Tebo as Andrew Carnes and Mary Testa as an unusually slatternly Aunt Eller, also appoint themselves successfully.

However, the real revelation of the evening is Patrick Vaill as the villain of the piece, Jud Fry.  A brooding, sullen presence filled with quiet menace and a palpable, latent sense of evil, Vaill nearly walks away with the production in a scene played, surprisingly, completely in the dark.  When Curley comes to Jud’s room to learn more about him, director Fish blackens the stage, recording the conversation between the two with an infra-red camera and flashing the results on the wall monitor.  The effect is unsettling, creepy and other-worldly, and with his listless eyes and slack carriage, Vaill is a spectacular boogeyman.  He is an actor who will deliver great things in the future.

However, poor Jud’s death at the end of the play is more execution than self-defense: an out-of-context anti-NRA commercial that completely up-ends the normally happy ending of the show.   In addition to the anti-gun message, we also get a battle of the sexes that may delight even today’s feminists.

These days, when we are given the paradoxical dark and gritty Superman, it is perhaps no wonder that Fish serves a light tuneful show as a more real-life dark vision of rural America.  The singing of the signature tune is oddly … defiant, and many of the choices may leave people with a history of the show scratching their heads in dismay.  But if you are adventurous, and want to see a daring, thoughtful and mostly-successful reimagining of a beloved piece of Americana, then the new Oklahoma! is for you.

The Getaway Special, by Jerry Oltion (2001)

One of the many pleasures of summer reading is the serendipitous discovery of new authors.  Since I have raley read much science fiction since my boyhood, I had missed the ascendance of Jerry Oltion (born 1957).  Fortunately, I have just come accross his delightful 2001 novel, The Getaway Special.

Few books would better define summer reading than The Getaway Special, the very theme of which is escape.  It is the story of NASA space shuttle pilot Judy Gallagher and what happens when research scientist Allen Meisner tests his new invention, a hyperdrive that enables spacecraft to travel light-years through space in the blink of an eye.

Meisner is a member of INSANE, the International Network of Scientists Against Nuclear Extermination.  He believes that hyperdrive technology available to the masses will drive humankind’s pioneer spirit, and people will travel through the vastness of space in homemade space craft, populating the universe and ensuring that humanity survives possible nuclear extinction here on earth.  While on the shuttle, and with Gallagher’s help, Meisner broadcasts the secrets of his hyperdrive, which can easily be made with parts at the local Radio Shack.

Instead of being hailed as heroes upon their return, Gallagher and Meisner become fugitives – it seems that the US wants to cover up the whole thing as a hoax and keep the technology for themselves; similarly, governments around the world believe that easy access to off-planet escape technology would greatly reduce the control of people entrapped by their own nations and governments.

Hiding in the American Midwest, the couple are befriended by a redneck cowboy libertarian, his wife, and a friendly Robin Hoodesque bank robber.  With their help -- and with some easily available around the home parts and a well-stocked septic tank (don’t ask) – they leave the earth in search of habitable planets.

In space, further than any human being has ever traveled before, they encounter a race of super-intelligent, space-travelling butterflies, sentient trees that uproot themselves and move around, and … a submarine full of belligerent Frenchmen.

As you can tell from this quick synopsis, The Getaway Special is a lark, designed to amuse and entertain – which is does wonderfully.  It is a very funny book (a rarity in science fiction), and is ultimately extremely humanistic and optimistic (a rarity in contemporary science fiction). 

While reading The Getaway Special, I had the curious feeling of renewing an acquaintance, and then it hit me – in mode of storytelling and imaginative prowess, Oltion was writing a book very much in the vein of L. Frank Baum’s Oz novels.  Like the Oz novels, our heroine and her male friend (often inadequate in some way), travel far and meet a serious of outlandish peoples, who eventually help them return home and resolve the problems that sent them on the road to begin with.  In short, Oltion has written an extremely amusing children’s book for adults.

When looking at Edgar Rice Burroughs yesterday, we said that science is really always about the time in which it is written, and not the future.  That is certainly true here – released before September 11^th, The Getaway Special is frank and honest about how severe a compromise to American interests would be viewed.  However, Your Correspondent read it with a trace of nostalgia – there was still some semblance of law and checks-and-balances of power at play in the novel, and one imagines that today that our heroes would have been shot out of space while broadcasting the hyperdrive specs.

Also interesting is the politics at play.  Oltion seems to appreciate the often good sense of the Right to perceive real and present threats, while also giving credence to the Left and its belief that the vast majority of human beings want the same things.  (And with a forest of sentient trees, Oltion is literally a tree-hugger.)  And one of the more heroic characters (indeed, the one perhaps most responsible for humanity’s eventual survival … is a beer-guzzling libertarian in a cowboy hat.

Oltion’s work is new to me (though he has been active for some time), and I will happily seek out other books.  I was also amused to learn that there is more than a little Allen Meisner in him.  Oltion is the inventor of the trackball telescope, an equatorial mounting system with an electromechanical star tracking drive.  He has put the patent-able portions of it on his Website, making his invention accessible to other telescope makers.

Beyond 30 (AKA The Lost Continent), by Edgar Rice Burroughs (1915)

During your correspondent’s misspent youth – back when dinosaurs ruled the earth – he spent most of his summer vacations reading the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (1875-1950).

Yes … most of you have just lost what little respect for me that you may have had.  However, I believe you judge too harshly.  I say without shame and in complete candor that some of the people I met in my ramblings through ERB’s corpus are among the most important literary friendships that I have made.  Tarzan of the Apes, John Carter of Mars and the explorers of the subterranean world of Pellucidar, where intelligent reptiles live at the Earth’s core, are as real to me to this day as many actual human beings that I have met in later life.  And some of them even make better friends.

No one will argue for a moment that ERB is a prose stylist, or that his insight into human nature was a rare and subtle one.  More damming to his literary reputation are his sensibilities and taste for high adventure; most modern novels are simply slices of life that may better labeled why we are miserable now.  ERB has no patience for that type of thinking or that type of narrative.  ERB wrote adventure stories – set in some of the most exotic places on and off of the planet – and they were unabashedly plot-driven.  If you want know the plight of unhappy men in a midlife crisis, or women struggling for identity in a world redefined by feminism, look elsewhere.  Want to learn how a Civil War soldier miraculously transported to Mars, befriends four-armed green giants and battles rampaging, carnivorous white apes, and you’ve come to the right place.

Minds as brilliant and creative as Carl Sagan (1934-1996), Gore Vidal (1925-2012), Ray Bradbury (1920-2012), William Joyce (born 1957) and Jane Goodall (born 1934) have all credited him as an influence, and his contribution to global popular culture is incalculable.

Whatever the faults or strengths of his particular novels, what is most remarkable about his work is the experience of reading ERB.  The adventure novels of ERB has the remarkable quality of affecting the reader in ways unexpected and serendipitous.  Aside from (not so) simple narrative pleasures as a compelling storyline and absolutely unfettered imagination, it is impossible to read ERB without a sense of delight and of wonder.  In the world of ERB, all bets are off and most anything is possible.  There is a sense of energy, drive and, for want of a better word … pep.  ERB is a tonic; read him and grow young again.

And … ERB believed in adventure.  Much of the literary establishment has written off ERB not only for his prose, but also for his abundant output and for his choice of genre.  ERB was no hack, churning out novels at a penny a word.  Rather, ERB lived in an imaginative landscape that was a real to him as the workday world is real to us.  His Martian society, the (mostly invented) African jungle of Tarzan, and the land at the Earth’s Core all share a sense of … conviction.  In his way, ERB was a serious novelist--as his worlds mattered to him; there was a compelling urgency to his vision that is evident in his fiction.

Finally, ERB had a very definite sense of what life should be.  Unlike many contemporary writers, ERB let it be known that life was for living.  Or, as the hero in Beyond Thirty says when finding land:

"It is the nearest land," I replied. "I have always wanted to explore the forgotten lands of the Eastern Hemisphere. Here's our chance. To remain at sea is to perish. None of us ever will see home again. Let us make the best of it, and enjoy while we do live that which is forbidden the balance of our race—the adventure and the mystery which lie beyond thirty."

I was thinking about Burroughs recently when I luckily came across his book Beyond Thirty while rummaging through the invaluable www.manybooks.net.  This is a resource of public domain books available for free download – and if you want to learn more about ERB, there is no better place to start.

At any rate, I cannot think of the summers of my past without thinking, too, of ERB.  I make it a point to at least revisit one of his novels every summer, or, if possible, read one I have not come across before.  Beyond Thirty (sometimes also called The Lost Continent), was first published in All Around Magazine, and did not appear in book form in ERB’s lifetime.  It was collected in book form first in 1955, and later in 1963 with a delightful cover by artist Frank Frazetta (1928-2010). 

The story takes place in 2137, when Pan-American’s Navy Lieutenant Jefferson Turck, commander of aero-submarine Coldwater, patrols the 30^th meridian from Iceland to the Azores.  The ship’s anti-gravitation screens fail, and it drifts beyond the forbidden territory into Europe.

Europe had been off limits to Pan-America since the start of the Great War in the early 20^th Century, and Turck and a handful of loyal men find themselves in a now savage landscape that was once the civilized world.  Ladies and gentlemen, Beyond Thirty is a corker.

Most science fiction is never really about the future – but, rather, serves as a distorted mirror to the present.  Written in 1915, the world was then plunging into the conflict of the Great War.  The vast majority of the American population (and their politicians) favored an isolationist approach.  What would the world be like, ERB seems to ask, if the New World withdrew from the world stage?  It would appear as if ERB anticipated the American Century before most of the world did – for his tale tells of a unified North, Central and South America that has achieved many marvels of super-science, while war-ravaged Europe perishes when left to its own devices.

Also interesting is what ERB posits happens to a Europe ravaged by global conflict without American intervention.  In short, England descends into barbarism, the countryside now ravaged by wild animals that were once kept in zoos.  Continental Europe is now largely enslaved by Moslems from Abyssinia – who are using slave labor and whatever military expertise they have to prepare for a definitive conflict with the sleeping giant that is China.  With a little tweaking, it would seem as if the foreign policy concerns of a century ago were as pressing today as they were then.

Beyond Thirty is a remarkable and satisfying romp by one of the masters of the form.  It is an extremely short novel, and as a free download, would serve as a terrific introduction to the imagination of Edgar Rice Burroughs.