Little Did I Know: A Novel (27 page)

I was appointed driver of the float. To avoid any problems, I had to run the van with the heat on full blast so the fan would cool the engine. I was a man about it, and intended to drink lots of water and an occasional iced beer. I made Veronica promise she would wipe me down before the day was over. Oh boy, how I loved show business.

It was a quick drive to Plymouth Mount, where the festivities began, and then a nine-mile slow descent down Plymouth Hill into the heart of the town, at Plymouth Knoll. The knoll had a viewing stand that held nearly a thousand spectators, and nearly five thousand more populated the grassy hill down to the water. The entire parade route was four, five, six deep in people all along the way. This was Americana at its greatest, and when I mentioned to Bobby that all he had forgotten was a twenty-one gun salute at the end, he smiled and gave me a sweaty hug, saying, “I didn’t forget a thing. Not a single thing.”

Then, as the floats ahead of us left Plymouth Mount to the cries and cheers of the crowd, we waited our turn with glee. Our band sounded stupendous, our skimpily clad girls were like delicious lemon drops. The minisets of our other shows were eclectic and eye catching, and the float itself, this big theater barn on wheels covered with patriotic colors, was breathtaking. We had over fifty actors, actresses, and musicians on the flatbed. It was awash in America. The best of family and youth and innovation. A fantastic gift for Uncle Sam. Two hundred candles on the cake that awaited us down by the knoll.

Before I got behind the wheel, I found Bobby and kissed him on both bright-red cheeks. I needed to shout to be heard. I screamed right in his face, “There are those decisions that change a mood or a day or even a week, but this one, Bobby, changes a destiny. You are
fucking fantastic!”
I released the brake on the powder blue van.

If I were ever elected president and a motorcade took me to my inauguration, it could not be any better than these few hours in Plymouth. The crowds moved along with the van as we crept forward. We had fifteen to twenty people on each side of the bus as we headed into town. The music from our orchestra became the music not just for the entire parade, forgive me, but for all the people of Plymouth. You could hear the tunes from miles away, and there was a selection for every generation.

Under Louis’s direction, the guys played swing and jazz and Sinatra. “Fly Me to the Moon,” “The Summer Wind,” and of course “My Way.” They played Basie with trombones low and strong and trumpets soaring. Ellington’s “I’m Beginning to See the Light” and “Take the A Train.” They played show tunes and people sang along with “Seventy-Six Trombones” and the Beatles! Everyone sang along with “Let It Be.”

The crowd following us grew bigger and bigger. Despite the heat, the cast was roaming the parade route with offerings of Ma’s spiked lemonade. We handed out flyers championing our shows and the season. Cameras flashed everywhere, and some PBT chorine or actor could be found in uncountable photos, smiling with families, becoming part of their keepsake for the summer of ’76.

Occasionally, local reporters hopped in alongside me to conduct brief staccato interviews. What could I say? A picture said it all and this was some snapshot. This was Woodstock without the mud or the LSD: a lovefest, an unscripted happening still gaining momentum.

The Pied Piper float continued to make its way toward Plymouth Knoll and the five thousand attendees waiting its arrival. The viewing stand was packed as if anyone who was anyone or hoped to be anyone was there hoping for a photo op. The crowd that followed us became larger and more festive; the band cranked up the volume and kept the minions dancing all the way. The heat was a blessing; it exaggerated the day, made it memorable simply for how hot it was, ensuring embellishment of the legend of PBT throughout the years.

As we took the last turn from Plymouth Mount and made our way to the knoll, I was certain I would shortly die of heat prostration. It must have been 150 degrees inside the van, but as of the moment I cared not. This was one big, fucking joy ride and I was not getting off until the amusement park had shut down for the night.

As we descended the last hill, all the young kids who had worked with us through the early morning ran through the crowd handing out placards with lyrics on them. The cast and others carried glasses of Ma’s “lemonade,” which in this heat packed a punch. We were now in full view of the thousands of people who blanketed Plymouth Knoll. Louis Rosenberg shouted, “Hit it,” which was followed by a drum solo orchestrated to let the greatest of celebrations begin.

The crowd started to applaud loudly and joined in with whoops and hollers. Then before the noise had found its apex, Danny Davis, our man with a horn, blew his trumpet like he was the angel Gabriel. The notes were true and clear and electric. The riff was complex and joyous, and cut the summer heat with a sound so cool the weather disappeared. It was a precursor to “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and after a moment the whole orchestra was playing and those “saints” were marching and the crowd was on its feet cheering as if it were game six of the World Series last year when Fisk hit his home run into the October night.

Our cast was everywhere, serving lemon punch and dancing with kids and grandmas. And if anyone wasn’t tapping their feet, well, that lasted for as long as not at all. Everyone held up the placards with the lyrics to “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and quickly the crowd was singing in counterpoint and the number was more powerful, more electric, and more full of hope and optimism than was humanly possible.

Flashbulbs clicked by the hundreds as the float moved slowly toward the end of the route. Every person as far as one could see was singing and cheering and dancing their ass off. Husbands kissed their wives and little kids climbed onto the shoulders of their moms and dads so they could take the moment in. The float stopped at the bottom of the knoll and the applause and laughter and whooping and hollering cascaded over us like a tsunami. The crowd roared as twenty-one young men standing at attention in militia uniforms lined the shoreline.

The band stopped and the disparity between the volume a moment ago and the silence now was chilling. A sergeant’s voice shouted, “Take arms!” and each solider shot his rifle into the sky. Twenty-one times. On the last shot the orchestra and company launched into “God Bless America” with all its history, meaning, and pathos. The crowd joined in immediately.

Thousands of voices singing all the way from their soul. Hats found their way over hearts. Daddies picked up their little boys and girls to hug them, and tears ran down the faces of oh so many. Then just when you thought it had all reached the highest crescendo possible, the song ended on the lyric
“my home sweet home,”
and fireworks were unleashed above the bay.

Plymouth, Massachusetts, would never forget that day, and neither would anyone who had the good fortune to wake that morning and through some serendipity, or the grace of God, be part of the experience of it all.

I
t was almost 6 p.m. The horizon was mixture of deep purples and blacks. The heat of the day was waning. A slight breeze had found its way through the cauldron, and a few pastel cottonball clouds moved lazily across the eggplant sky. By midnight, the air would be cool and clear with a shine so vibrant you’d feel you could actually reach out and touch the stars. The weather was like life in so many ways. Perfect, yet ever quixotic and endlessly surprising. A moment of safe harbor, comfort, peace, yet vulnerable to the counterpunch of a ghastly storm, some dark clouds. And then, well, you find yourself navigating out of the swells of an unexpected, angry, biting sea.

N
ot every day brings joy and triumph, at least at the level we had all experienced earlier today. Bobby rode the high throughout the night. He had arranged for live features on the news from six major affiliates. Practically everyone was interviewed, and more pictures were taken that summer afternoon than at a Kennedy wedding. I was interviewed so many times that I could predict the questions before they were asked. Our chorus girls were given the key to the city and the mayor was quoted as saying, “This has been the most important day for Plymouth since the Pilgrims first set foot upon the land over three hundred years ago.” Adding, “There was no way our ancestors were as attractive as you young ladies.” Despite the inappropriateness of a sixty-year-old mayor leering at our girls, everyone cheered. He told us the city wanted to host us at the White Cliffs that evening. Again the crowd roared.

When asked to speak I said very little, but what I did say made Bobby proud.

“My friends and I are so very grateful to be spending our summer in Plymouth. Your graciousness and generosity tonight will remain with us forever. I ask you to bring the same ferocity with which you have praised us today to our box office and buy tickets. Call your friends to do the same. Drop all other plans you may have and make the experience of theater here on the Cape a top priority. Let us celebrate the summer of America’s two-hundredth birthday by sharing music and laughter and dance before Labor Day too quickly arrives.”

The crowd cheered. And seemingly within minutes the phones began to ring. They rang as if it were Christmas eve. They rang like the Hunchback was working overtime with abandon, grace, and power. Maybe it was time to start relaxing and have some fun.

T
he party at the White Cliffs was a hoot. The company danced with anyone who asked. The food was a royal banquet of the best of the fresh seafood that appeared in Plymouth on any festive occasion. An ice sculpture of our float served as centerpiece, and everything was served by happy-faced waitpersons in starched white coats and goofy chef hats.

Dr. Rosenstein was asked to sub for the tuxedoed piano man. Rich and Secunda sang, and as did Feston and Fitzgerald. They sang upbeat songs like “A Lot of Living to Do,” “Witchcraft,” and “Let’s Face the Music and Dance,” which turned into a group number. Trudy Phillips, our long-legged blonde from Amherst sang a sizzling rendition of “My Heart Belongs to Daddy.” The young men lined up to propose while some of the wives filed for divorce.

The tuxedoed piano man returned and played “What a Wonderful World,” to which the good doctor and Diana Cohen danced for a long time, in their own space, their ardor for each other abundantly clear.

Fitzgerald joined Veronica and me at the bar where Sidney was plying us with all types of libations. Aware of Fitzgerald’s woes, Sidney ordered her a Jamison, straight up. He lifted her chin a bit and looked deep into her Irish green eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “yous a beautiful young girl, yous sing like a bird, yous got legs long enough for two, and blue, my darling, is a color that fades, either in the wash, over the night sky, or when it invades your heart. That mustache kid, trust me, he wants to be where he is. You had him and you let him off the line. Happens every day and more than wit boys. Drink this Jamison, and within an eyelash you’ll be dancing. Trust me.” He kissed her on the nose.

Fitzgerald drank the Jamison and let it settle, warm and soothing. She then took Sidney by the chin and kissed him for a little too long, but maybe not. She looked him in the eyes and said, “I do believe you, Sidney. Without a hint of reservation, I believe you.” Then, rather loudly, “Who do you have to fuck to a get another drink around here?”

Sidney shouted over his shoulder, “Axel, here, now,” and Axel was standing there handsome and tall and so very pleased to be so.

“You can really sing,” he said to Fitzgerald. Sidney brought the next Jamison, and Axel offered it to Kat. She looked him up and down, liked what she saw, and asked, “You ever been in a fraternity?”

“No,” he replied.

“Good” she said, and kissed him on the mouth, lingering just long enough to be noticed. “Now dance with me.”

And they did. But the doctor and Ms. Cohen failed to notice.

My friend ASK walked over with Janet Kessler on his arm. He was so pleased with life that his big red Howdy Dowdy face was about to explode. Janet too was in heaven, and what a couple they made. What did this dropdead beauty see in this Cheshire Cat–faced powerbroker to be? But who cared? If you could bottle what they had between them there would be world peace.

Alan asked if the others could excuse us a moment and took me two steps from the bar. With eyes filled with intensity and love, he hugged me and said, “You did all this, you fucker. And you let me come along for the ride. I love you like my brother . . .”

I pushed him away a foot or so and got his attention. “No, Alan you,
all of us
, did this. You taught me that if I believed in everyone,
we
could get it done. I’ll vote for you whenever you are ready, but not if you let Janet slip away. If that happens, I’ll kill you.” I hugged him a tearful guy hug, and he reclaimed his rightful place beside the well-endowed Janet Kessler.

Veronica and I ignored the rest of the evening’s intrusions. I wanted to dance close to my blond Helena. I wanted to cherish the smell of strawberries that cloaked her hair. I relished in the fact that even though I was part of a generation of people who had sex before they even finished saying hello, I had somehow stumbled onto something deeper with Veronica. Other than the reckless moment we had shared after the Spock episode, we were loving and affectionate, but not indiscriminate or screwing like rabbits. What was happening between us was too rich, too glorious. This was not a fleeting fancy to be tarnished by the pleasure of a moment, no matter how impassioned or wild or intense. I was surprised I wanted more, something that would linger long after. Being twenty and bulletproof was not enough. I wanted something to build on, something or someone to hold on to. If that made me a child from another generation, then I say that youth comes with an eraser.