Sometime in New Haven - Part VI

Sprague Hall is one of the gems in the city - great music on a regular basis - and few people know about it. Haven't been there in a long time, but we used to practice nearby and would quietly stop in afterwards to see who was using the room to rehearse. The talent level, as you would expect from Yale, was incredible!

SOMETIME IN NEW HAVEN
The Story of the New Haven
Berlin Survivors

Part VI


We left Fitzwilly’s and started walking downtown.
I was amazed at how things work. Here I was, on what should probably be the most depressing day of my life. One of my best friends moved out of state and one of the people I most admired in the world had been murdered. And I was not going to be given the opportunity to sit around and mope. I wasn’t going to be allowed to have a dark cloud drape my spirits.
Instead, I had a chance to show Sara some of the reasons why I stay in New Haven.
Besides, I knew there would probably be a very good moping party at the house later. The people that lived there thrived on reasons to have a party. I also knew John Lennon’s murder wouldn’t make sense to me no matter what I did; whether I sat around at the house or walked around the city.

We walked to the Copper Kitchen on Chapel Street, a small counter top breakfast joint where we ordered a couple of corn muffins and another coffee and tea.
“So how long have you lived in New Haven?” Sara asked.
“About a year,” I said. “I came here after I got out of the Air Force.”
“Oh yeah, did you fly?”
“As little as possible,” I said, thinking that I should stop telling people I was in the Air Force so they will stop asking me if I flew. “I hate flying. I was a cook. I guess I hate cooking too. But I was able to spend two years in Virginia, a few hours from Virginia Beach, and three years in Germany.”
“That’s great, why did you get out?”
“Because I hated people in uniforms telling me what to do all the time,” I said. “I hated being in a uniform myself. I wouldn’t have stayed in so long, but my parents were proud of the fact that I was in the military. They were enjoying the fact that they had a son in the Air Force so much that I couldn’t really leave early. And I guess I had no reason to leave early. So how long have you been in Connecticut?”
“I just moved to Madison from New Hampshire,” she said, between bites of her muffin.
“So what was in New Hampshire? Do you have family there?”
“No, I went to college there for a few semesters,” she said. “I was living with my boyfriend in Portsmouth the past year, but things weren’t going so well. I had to leave. So I came down here to take a break from everything. I’m living with mom and my twin brother, but I don’t know how long that can last. I always thought by the time I was 23 I would be doing something besides living at home.”
“Hey, didn’t we all. But it works as a short term plan,” I said. “So what do you eventually want to do?”
“In life?” she said. “Go back to school to be a social worker. I want to work with kids. I really want to help kids. What about you?”
“I’m not too sure about that one,” I said. “I want to play music and write, but I don’t know if I can really make a living at it. I don’t know what I want to do to sustain my music and writing habit. I figure it would have to be something where I figured I was doing some good.”
We finished our muffins and both lit up cigarettes. I was thinking that I had to find out more about this boyfriend situation. It was just my luck, though, that a boyfriend would drift into the conversation.
In the background, the radio news report talked about John Lennon’s murder ("ex-Beatle killed by a deranged fan"). I tried to listen to see if there were any more details, something that would make me understand why it happened. I couldn’t hear, although a handful of people walked over and huddled by the radio.
“Are you originally from New Haven?” she asked.
“No,” I said, taking another drag and watching the smoke float to the ceiling. “I’m originally from Stratford. While in high school, my friends and I used to come to New Haven all the time. This was where everything seemed to be happening. So after five years in the Air Force, away from friends and family, I thought this would be the perfect place to start new. This is a good place. There seems to be a lot going on every day here.”
“Like what?” she asked in a challenging tone.
“Well, do you want to check out some music?”
“Now?” she asked.
“Now,” I said.
“Where can you do that on a Tuesday afternoon?” she asked.
“Yale.”
“My only dealings with people from Yale is from the restaurant,” Sara said. “And I’m less than impressed with the way some of these people act.”
“It’s probably a good thing we do this because they all aren’t like some of the arrogant little shits you meet at Fitzwilly’s, where they are usually running wild with Daddy’s credit card thinking we are some substitute for the servants that wiped their asses back home,” I said, thinking I may have gone a little too far on that tirade. “Most of the people you meet outside of that situation –outside the restaurant - are pretty cool.”
I found that there are actually two Yales. The first is the one we always bitch about, the arrogant little shits. The other Yale helps make New Haven very cool. We walked past the green and up College Street towards Sprague Hall, which is a recital hall next to Woolsey Hall. Like any walk through New Haven, it was inevitable that you would be cutting through some corner of Yale. As much as I complained about some of the Yalies, I knew that if you took Yale out of New Haven you would be left with Meriden.

“What is that song?” I asked, finding something very familiar in what Sara was humming.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I hum it all the time and half the time I don’t realize I’m doing it.”
“It sounds familiar,” I said.
“Yeah, my auntie used to sing it all the time when I was a young girl, but I don’t know what it is,” Sara said. “My auntie - my mom - says she thinks she heard someone sing the song at a Joni Mitchell concert, but she doesn’t remember the words or who it was. It was probably some unknown, obscure artist and we will never know what the song is. Where do you think you heard it? If you can tell me what it is you will be solving probably the longest running trivia question of all time.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Keep humming it and it may eventually come to me.”
“Alright,” she said. “A few people have said it sounds familiar but no one ever knows what it is.”

“That’s so messed up about John Lennon getting shot,” I said after a pause. I was actually amazed I hadn’t brought it up in the Copper Kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s such a shame,” Sara said. “I liked the Beatles.”
“Yeah, and I really loved his solo stuff,” I said. “This is really a bummer. I loved him.”
I had to chuckle. Normally, back at the house, any reference made to John Lennon’s solo career and his career as a Beatle would have started a debate between the two. There’s no doubt Lennon brought an edge to the Beatles, musically and lyrically, but most of us maintain his most important work came as a solo artist, where he developed into more of an activist. Still, if Jack and I ever baited anyone into that kind of argument, we would usually debate it for fun for awhile, then abruptly end it with the resolution that it is a stupid argument. The correct answer, we would arrogantly say is that Lennon’s solo career was more important, but because of the depth of the Beatles catalog and the influence the Beatles had on music as well as culture, we would also accept the Beatles as a correct answer. We really were snobs.
“My brother was pretty upset this morning,” Sara said. “I think he took the day off from work. Actually, my auntie was more immersed in the 1960s generation thing than we were and I know she was really upset.”
“So, what’s with this ‘auntie’ stuff?” I asked. “How did she get that name?”
“I don’t know,” Sara said. “We’ve been calling her that for years. But she's really mom. Or auntie.”
We walked into Sprague Hall and started heading up one of the side stairwells.
“Can we be here now?” Sara asked.
“I never really asked anyone,” I said. “You just have to act like you belong here. And we have to be really quiet.”
We went up to the balcony and grabbed a seat. On the stage were two women playing cellos. I think they were playing Mozart, although I wasn’t sure. I was never sure what anyone was playing when I stopped in. I just knew that someone was usually using the stage and it always sounded good.
We were slumped in the seats, lounging and looking around at the architecture while listening to the music. Sprague Hall looked like a turn-of-the-century opera house. It sat about 1,500 people and its upper balcony wrapped around the back and sides, cutting in front of the six large arch windows along each side. The shades were down on each window, as they usually are in the afternoons. I looked over at Sara and she seemed to be enjoying herself. I admired the way her hair flowed to her shoulders and wished I was close enough to count the freckles on her nose. I was startled though, when she looked over to catch me staring at her.
“This is nice,” she said after a pause.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
I could usually stay in Sprague Hall for hours, even if no one was playing. There was always a calm in the large room. There was always inspiration. It was a great thinking room.
I was glad I had the chance to share it with someone. Actually, I was glad I had the chance to share the day with someone. My luck with women was somewhat nonexistent.
Not a particularly fast mover, I usually had to get to know a woman well before asking her out. By that time, they either had a boyfriend or I was misclassified into the “friend” category. Once in the friend category, it is inevitable that you will eventually hear the line, “I wouldn’t want anything to ruin our friendship.” And, of course, that always applies to sleeping with each other. I guess friendship shouldn’t be a foundation for a relationship.
I enjoyed the occasional physical relationship I had with women since I moved to New Haven, although I think I usually kept an emotional distance from them. Maybe it was time to change that. I didn’t know if Sara was the one I would change that with, but I knew it would have to be a woman who, like Sara, usually left me breathless for a second or two whenever I saw her.
“Rory,” Sara whispered, startling me out of a good mind drift. “Isn’t that a John Lennon song?”
I listened for a second and heard that the song “Imagine” was flowing gracefully from one of the cellos. The other cello player was already quietly packing up her instrument. I still couldn’t imagine Lennon dead. And I wished I could at least talk it through with Aragon. I still had a dry lump in my throat.
When the woman was done playing, she walked to the side of the stage and quietly started packing. No one was on the stage. I stood up and slowly clapped my hands together about a dozen times, getting louder each time. The cello player looked a little startled, but still glanced over and smiled. She quickly went back to gathering her things.
“I thought we had to be quiet in here?” Sara asked.
“We do,” I said. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Where to?”
“Well, I thought we could hit the Group W Bench,” I said. “Unless there’s something you would rather do.”
“No, I’m following you,” she said.
Instead of heading straight back to Chapel Street, where the row of shops are, we cut back through one of the Yale courtyards where the monuments and benches always made me feel like I was walking through a castle courtyard. Whenever I cut through there at night, I often wondered if the people inside the walls looked at the moon and sky any differently than the people outside the ivy walls. I wondered if the safety of Yale made the world look any different.

Group W Bench was a head shop, of sorts, that sold cards, clothing, bumper stickers, jewelry, incense and all the gear you would possibly need to join the counter culture. Like just about every place we hit, there was Lennon music playing while we were there. The Group W Bench, though, was the kind of place where every time you went in there they had really cool music playing.
“Have you ever been here?” I asked, as Sara smelled the various sticks of incense.
“No.”
The day seemed to be filled with firsts for Sara. She said she found a new favorite store in Atticus Bookstore where I think we spend an hour or so browsing and reading. I think I almost died watching her sit cross-legged on the floor reading Maya Angelou. Between shops, we chatted about all sorts of things and even agreed on most, such as how we both believed President-elect Ronald Reagan was the anti-Christ. No matter what we talked about, my mind kept jolting back to John Lennon.
And, between shops, Sara kept humming that song. I still didn’t know what it was although I was sure I had heard it before.
Of course, we disagreed on basics, such as how she thought the best place in the world to live would be in an A-frame house in the woods, far from the city, while I insisted that the best place to live would be in a brownstone in a city neighborhood.
“So, should we take a stop by Rudy’s and see if anyone from the restaurant made it?” Sara asked.
“It’s up to you,” I said. “I could live without it.”
“Let’s go, it might be fun,” Sara said. “If it’s a drag, we’ll just leave.”
“Cool, let’s go,” I said, liking the fact that she already opened the door to leave.
We went to Rudy’s. Ordered a couple of beers from Leo the bartender and sat at the booth in the bar near the front window.
“So, do you like cooking?” Sara asked, lighting a cigarette. “Are you good at it?”
“I can hold my own,” I said. “I could cook a dinner if I needed to and it would taste great. But, no, I don’t really like cooking that much. Do you like being a hostess?”
“No,” she said. “I’m doing this to get in line to be a waitress so I can make some money.”
“Yeah, I’m in it for the money too, although the money would probably be better if I was doing something else.”
“Why don’t you wait tables or bartend or something,” she said. “You have the personality for it. You would probably only have to cut your hair.”
“Is that all?” I said sarcastically. “But I don’t want to cut my hair. I just got finished having to cut my hair regularly and wear uniforms for the better part of five years. I don’t want to do it again for a while. I’ll hang out in the kitchen for now; dress like a bum, let my hair go, pass on shaving for a few days if I want.”
“It sounds like the life,” Sara said.
“I know, but it works for now,” I said. “I’m in transition. I just feel like I have to find my footing.”
“You know, you don’t sound like you cared much for the military,” Sara said.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“So, how did you end up there?”
“I had nothing else to do,” I said. “My grades weren’t great and I had no money for college. Life at home was kind of rough, so I joined the Air Force. I didn’t really think it through because I immediately found out that I hated it when people told me what to do all the time.”
“So why didn’t you leave?” Sara asked.
“It doesn’t really work that way,” I said. “The make it tough for you to get out. They kept bringing up that damn contract I signed with them. Besides, like I said, every time I went home my parents seemed so proud of me and had told all their friends that their son was in the Air Force. I felt like I really couldn’t leave. Besides, there wasn’t really anything to get out for.”
“So how did you end up a cook?”
“Once I realized that I didn’t have all the guarantees I thought I had going in, and that I was probably going to get a shit job, I started raising hell trying to convince them not to make me a member of the base security force,” I said. “I didn’t want to have to walk around the perimeter of the base all day carrying an M-16. I would be training on the rifle range three days a week. You know, the targets they used on the firing range are shaped like humans. It just didn’t seem like it would fit my personality. They finally assured me that I wouldn’t have to use a firearm, which I thought was a good thing. But they gave me a spatula instead."
“So did you cook before you joined the Air Force?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I didn’t have to because I had three sisters that liked to cook. So, did you grow up in New Hampshire?” I felt I had to get the conversation off me.
“No, my family moved around a bit,” she said. “We lived in a few different states. I eventually moved to New Hampshire because of school.”
“And why did you stop taking classes?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” Sara said, looking down at her beer. “You don’t really want to hear all about this.”
“Come on, I already told you more about myself than I usually tell anyone,” I said.
“Well, I really wanted to work with children,” Sara said. “I’ve wanted to help children since I was very young. And I landed this internship last semester at a family counseling clinic. I was really excited about it. At first, I worked part time, but soon I was able to work more hours because they were so short-handed. The problem was that no matter how many hours I put in, there was always more that needed to be done. The kids were wonderful, but the problems they faced were so complicated and intervention was needed on so many levels.” Sara paused often while talking, taking drags off her cigarette or staring out the window. She didn’t seem comfortable in the conversation, but she continued.
“In each case there was a real obstruction,” she said. “Some were because of the parents, some were the doctors and some were the insurance companies, who never seemed to want to understand what it takes to help a kid. But I couldn’t accept that. I would work all hours trying to get things done; trying to get through to people. After a while, I found myself taking the work home with me. I was working 12- to 16-hours a day, sometimes just working the phones at my apartment, and finding that I still wasn’t able to accomplish anything. And there was this one child, he was physically and emotionally abused by his parents. I kept documenting his case, but nothing was being done. No mater how many bruises he had or tears he shed, no one was able to help him. I went nights without sleep trying to think of a way to help. I kept imagining the unimaginable; I mean, how could someone hit and degrade a child? I started becoming obsessed with the case. I couldn’t understand how it could happen. I don't know."
“But you’re going back?” I asked.
“I have to.”
“To New Hampshire?” I asked.
“Maybe not,” she said. “I don’t know yet. I still have to find the right approach to this.”
“And how do you find the right approach?”
“That’s what I’m going to spend the next few months trying to figure out,” Sara said. “And now I’ve just told you more about myself than I ever told anyone. We’re even.”
“You know, don’t they teach classes on what to expect when you get to an internship?” I asked.
“They do try to give you a good idea of what to expect, but nothing prepares you for dealing with the real life circumstances like being on the job and actually doing it,” Sara said. “I think I was just convinced that I would be able to help that I didn’t pay close enough attention to the stories of the obstacles I might encounter. It was a frustrating experience, but it will help in the end. Now I just have to realize I have limitations and do the best I can.”
“I just think it’s admirable that you are so dedicated to helping kids,” I said. “I was only asking about the classes because I was wondering how much they prepare you for the real life situations.”
“Actually, they have classes that deal with just about everything,” Sara said. “But, like I said, there are some things you just can’t teach. And they watch over you pretty closely so you can’t screw things up too much. I always wondered why there wasn’t a mandatory class that would help everyone identify all the demons they have inside them and then teach you how to exorcize them. That would be a great help.”
“I know a few people that would probably do well with a class like that,” I said, taking a swig from my Schaeffer bottle. “That could be their college major.”
“So, if you could take a class on anything–anything at all–what would it be?” Sara asked.
“Oh, hell, I don’t know,” I said. “Something music related, probably. Maybe something on writing.”
“Like what?” she asked. “Who would you want to take a music or writing lesson from?”
“Actually, Jack and I used to say we would love to get music lessons from John Lennon and just work them off as farm hands,” I said. “Now, I don’t know. If I was to take any kind of class I wanted, I would love to take a song writing class taught by someone like Ray Davies or Lou Reed.”
Arthur, a Fitzwilly’s waiter, walked into the bar and grabbed a beer.
“Hey kids, how’s it going?” Arthur asked. “You mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“So, is anyone from Fitzwilly’s coming over?” Sara asked Arthur.
“I just pulled myself away from a few people over there, but they are clinging to the bar pretty hard,” Art said. “I don’t think they will be leaving for a while. They seem to be giving Michael a run for his money. Actually, Michael didn’t look too amused with them.”
“Who’s over there?” I asked.
“Brian and Rick, they got off work when I did, and a few friends of Brian’s who were waiting for him,” Art said.
“So, did you have a good day?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Art said. “I’m surprised I worked. The news about John Lennon really bummed me out. Hey, Ronnie left work early, I think he was going to your house Rory.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So I heard. That’s alright. He’ll be in good hands with the crew there. I gotta tell you, though. I can’t make sense of this Lennon thing.”
“I just want to know why,” Art said. “Why?”
“That’s the million dollar question,” I said. “Why? I don’t know why.”
“I don’t either,” Art said.
“There was a nice Lennon tribute we heard at Yale today,” Sara said. “We went to one of the music halls and a woman played ‘Imagine’ on a cello. It was beautiful.”
“This was at Yale?” Art asked. “They had a tribute today? I didn’t hear anything about it.”
“No, we were just hanging at one of the music halls listening to a couple of women rehearsing when one of the broke into ‘Imagine’,” I said. “It was really nice.”
“You can always count on the Yalies to do something extraordinary,” Art said. “So what’s the game plan for today?”
“I think we will probably head back downtown and maybe grab a bite to eat,” I said, looking at Sara to see if she agreed.
“That sounds good to me,” she said.
“You know,” Art said. “I gotta say that I was looking forward to the 1980s. I mean, disco is done and the attitude of rock-performer-as-God is gone. I was really looking forward to better things. But now we lost John Lennon. It was like we had to sacrifice one of the good ones to get rid of all the bad.”
“And there was some real bad music in the 1970s,” I said.
“And there was some good too,” Sara said.
“Such as?” I asked.
“Bruce Springsteen," she shot back without hesitation.
“Alright, darling, I’ll give you that one,” Art said. “Who else do you listen to?”
“I like Southside Johnny,” she said. “I’ve seen him live a few times and it was great every time.”
“Oh, a Jersey girl,” Art said.
“No,” Sara said. “I’ve actually never been there. I really like Ricky Lee Jones and Steve Forbert too. I like a lot of stuff.”
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Hey, where’s Aragon?” Art asked. “Someone at the restaurant told me that he is heading to Boston.”
“Yeah, he headed out late last night,” I said.
“He’s a real character,” Art said. “I hate to see him go.”
“I don’t think I every really got a chance to meet him,” Sara said.
“Did you ever go into work on a day shift and hear extremely loud and usually weird music piped into the restaurant?” Art asked.
“Yeah, a few times,” she said.
“That was always a sign that Aragon was working,” Art said. “One day he would have Miles Davis blasting and the next day he’d play DEVO. It was always an interesting mix.”
“Especially since most everyone else who brought in music tended to stick with the more middle-of-the-road shit,” I said.
“You know, Aragon always struck me as someone with an extremely high intelligence,” Art said. “I was always surprised that he was in a kitchen and not either a student or teacher somewhere.”
“He couldn’t do anything like that because he would feel like he was conforming,” I said.
“A real Rebel, huh?” Art asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Kitchens tend to attract the non-conforming type, I guess. There are some real interesting people working in the kitchen.”
“I know,” Art said, checking his watch. “It’s a fun bunch. I party with the night crew often. Look, I hate to drink and run, but I’ve got to get going and meet a few people. I just figured I’d stop by for a quick beer.”
“Well, hang in there,” I said.
“Yeah, well, do you know of anything going on anywhere later?” Art asked.
“I don’t know, except there is probably a group of people who all feel the same way we do at my house,” I said. “Stop by if you want. You know where it is.”
“Thanks, maybe I will,” Art said. “Oh, and speaking of Mike, he wanted me to tell you ‘Fuck-you’ if I saw you over here. He said you would know what it’s about.”
“I’m not sure I do, but I’ll find out,” I said.
“Either way, he said you owe him big time now,” Art said. “Well, be good.”
We finished our beers and decided to order a couple more while we tried our hand at the pinball games in back.
“So, tell me about this house of yours,” Sara said.
“I live with six other people in the old Eli Whitney Boarding House on Whitney Avenue,” I said. “They are really good people living there. We get along really well and some of us didn’t even know each other before we ended up there.”
“So, how did you all meet?” Sara asked.
“Jack and I were stationed in Germany together,” I said. “Jack met a couple of the other guys, Jerome and Ken, while at Ron’s Place one night. Jack told them he was looking for a place to live and they said they were looking for a housemate. Then, Jack and Jerome used to run into David and Rudy at the downtown Dunkin Donuts all the time. Jack and Jerome would go there for a coffee every night after bar hopping and David and Rudy were always there, sitting at the same table. They would hang out and talk for hours and eventually, Jack and Jerome figured out that David and Rudy had no place to go. So they invited David and Rudy to the house one night and they eventually moved in. Then Jack called me when I came back from Germany and I took the last vacant room.”
“So, are your initials in here?” Sara asked, looking over the walls in the back room.
The initials were between the framed pictures, some of Yale athletic team captains from throughout the years, that cluttered the walls.
“Yeah, but I bet you can’t find them,” I said.
“I bet I can’t either,” she said, taking her attention away from the initials and looking closely at the large mural of a packed Yale Bowl crowd that covered one wall.
“Should we get your initials in here somewhere?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “But where?”
“We’ll find a spot somewhere,” I said, scanning the walls and tables.
We found a suitable spot near the window, borrowed a knife from Leo and Sara carved her initials into the wall.
Having accomplished immortality, and realizing that no one from the restaurant was coming over, we set out for downtown again.
“We could stop by Fitzwilly’s if you want,” I said. “It’s only at the other end of this block.”
“No,” Sara said. “We’re doing just fine on our own. Besides, it sounds like everyone there is already over the top.”
Yes!

Sometime in New Haven - The Story of the New Haven Berlin Survivors - Part V

OK - so this is what Fitzwilly's looks like now, an empty building looking for someone to make it home. Back in the day, though, it was a thriving restaurant with the cast iron lettering "This is a Restaurant" on the side. When it first closed, around 1993, it reopened as a Goth Night Club. Quite depressing. But that, of course, is a story for another day...

SOMETIME IN NEW HAVEN
Part V

I watched Rudy walk out of the room. I couldn’t believe what she just said. I wanted to call after her and ask her to repeat it. I wanted to call out but nothing would come out of my mouth. I had a lump in my throat.
What the fuck, I thought. I felt sick. How could this be? What about ‘Imagine’? What about ‘All the people living life in peace?’ This isn’t right, I thought, starting another cigarette.
This is a mistake. I stood up, then sat back down for a minute. Then I got up and walked to my room. I walked slowly, hoping to hear someone else awake I wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to see if it was really true. I put on the radio in my room. Another John Lennon song.
I laid back down on my bed. I felt I had to do something. I didn’t know what to do besides have another cigarette. I felt like crying. I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. My mind was racing. How the fuck could this be? I thought. This is a person who would have his name associated with peace. He wrote about love; he wrote ‘All You Need is Love.’ He wrote the song “Love.” He had a billboard put up in 11 cities that said “War is over/If you want it/Happy Christmas.”
He wrote the song “Happy Christmas (War is Over).” What the fuck? How the fuck does this happen? What the fuck? What the fuck? In 1969 he returned the Member of the Order of the British Empire medal to the British government. What the fuck? The lump in my throat made my face hurt and tears were rolling from my eyes. Things would be very different from now on, I thought. I felt like the love and peace stuff was just a lie.
Jack came in and sat down on the cushion chair facing the window in my room.
“You know what happened,” Jack said in a matter-of-fact manner.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess we aren’t going to the dairy farm.”
“No, we’re not.”
We didn’t talk for awhile. We just listened to more John Lennon songs on WPLR. Every once in a while, one of the housemates would stop into the room. This happened often at the house, people walking into each others’ rooms. I think I even dosed off for a short while.
Jeff, who regularly visited the house, walked into the room and sat cross-legged on the floor. We would often find Jeff sleeping on one of our couches in the morning. None of us are sure how Jeff came to hang out at the house or who he was originally friends with. But he was a nice guy who would buy beer and even groceries on occasion. He was also a Jesus freak. Jeff was an artist, of sorts, and would spend hours at the kitchen table with his colored pencils and pens creating art on dollar bills; coloring in the existing design and creating new designs. We would call it “Jeff’s Psycho Dollars.”
“Would you guys like to join me in prayer?” Jeff asked. “I think we could all use one.”
“You pray, I’ll listen,” I said, still staring at the ceiling.
“I think you guys will find comfort in prayer,” Jeff said. “Especially today.”
“Why?” Jack asked.
“Why pray?” Jeff asked. “Because on a day when we lost a brother, we need God to embrace us so. . .”
“No,” Jack said. “Why would God let this happen?”
“God didn’t let this happen,” Jeff said. “It’s not like God is controlling people’s actions, moving people around like he’s playing a chess game. God has given us each the ability to make choices that will grant us eternal life.”
“Is that what God granted John Lennon?” Jack asked.
“Probably,” Jeff said. “But God also gave us the ability to find comfort in him. If anything, this is teaching us that we need to embrace God more. This shows we are becoming Godless.”
“And it’s all that easy,” Jack said, shaking his head.
“No, it’s not easy,” Jeff said. “But Jack, think about it, you might find comfort in prayer. Think about it. Just try.”
“I’d feel like a hypocrite if I prayed now,” Jack said. “You pray. I’m with Rory. I’ll listen.”
Jeff mumbled a prayer under his breath. I couldn’t really hear him, but I said “Amen” after he did. Jack said nothing.
“God bless you,” Jeff said as he walked out of the room.
“Who sneezed?” Jack asked.
Every once in a while, Jeff would try to get people to pray with him. There were never any takers.
After staring at the ceiling for another song or two, I looked over at Jack, who was thumbing through a Village Voice. “Well, I can’t just lay here, but I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“Do you want to play?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I mean, no,” I said, not wanting a reminder of how bad I could play. “Not right now. Maybe we should go to New York.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I think I want to keep a distance from what’s probably there.”
“But there will probably be a lot of Lennon fans there,” I said.
“Yeah, a lot of mourners,” Jack said. “John Lennon was a man of peace. He had a vision. He was so full of life. That’s what I want to hang on to. I can’t hang out with mourners.”
“You know, looking at everyone’s face as they walk in and out of here reminds me of how that guy Sgt. Hiser acted when he found out Elvis died.” I said.
“Sgt. Hiser?” Jack said. “You remember that?”
We all had Hiser pegged as a bit of a square. He was a teenager in the 1950s, so by the time he had to deal with us in the 1970s, we thought the train had left him far behind. And by that time, we were all grunt workers and he was the authority. He was a really nice guy and all, but we just couldn’t associate with him.
The day Elvis died, though, he walked into the storeroom of Eifel Hall – or Awful Hell, as we all called the dining hall at Bitburg Air Base – and sat down while Jack and I were talking. He looked up with red, teary eyes and a blank expression on his face and said, “The King is dead.”
“Shit Jack, you gave the guy a hug,” I remembered.
“Hey, he looked like he needed one,” Jack said. “He looked lost. His soul was hurt.”
“His world was shattered that day,” I said. “I couldn’t understand it then. I mean, we had fun going to the NCO club that afternoon and listening to old timers talk about Elvis.”
“And the occasional Elvis sing-alongs that happened throughout the evening,” Jack interrupted.
“But I didn’t really understand the whole thing,” I said.
“And now you do?” Jack asked.
“Maybe now I understand a little better about how they felt,” I said. “But I’m sure this is much different. John Lennon is much bigger. John Lennon was. . . Fuck, he’s dead I can’t believe it.”
Jack looked like he was about to cry, but quickly composed himself. “I’m going upstairs to play. I don’t want to see people.”
“I want to see people,” I said. “I’m going downtown for a while. If I go to New York, do you want me to call you? Just in case?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
Jack walked past David, who was standing by the door with tears streaming down his face.
“Do you want to go downtown or anything?” I asked David.
He shook his head no, and walked away.
I took the bus downtown and, probably because I was in a daze (coupled with a slight hang-over), I walked straight to Fitzwilly’s. I figured I’d see if Ronnie survived the evening.
“Rory, what are you doing here?” Michael said as he dropped a napkin in front of me.
“I was looking for Ronnie, do you know if he’s here?”
“Actually, he left a while ago,” Michael said. “He was having a rough day. He was pretty upset about John Lennon. I think he said he was going over to your place.”
“That’s alright, there are people there,” I said. “Could I get a cup of tea?”
“Sure, are you feeling alright?” Michael asked, walking away. “You’ve got me serving tea?”
I walked upstairs to the kitchen to see who was working. The kitchen was laid out in an “L” shape and was only as wide as a hallway, so it was never easy to maneuver around up there.
“Rory, what’s up?” asked Pat, one of the prep cooks, in a deep Jamaican accent. “Hey, someone told me Aragon moved to Boston. I know he wouldn’t do that without saying good-bye to me.”
“He just might have,” I said.
The song “Cold Turkey” was blasting out of the portable radio in the prep area. I couldn’t help but smile because it reminds me of how my sister Cathleen Emily once drew a picture of a turkey chasing a person while listening to that song. She was only six-years-old at the time and would sing, “A turkey/ has got me/ on the run.”
I had “Cold Turkey” on a cassette with a mix of other Lennon tunes, including “Imagine” and “Working Class Hero.” Cathleen and my little brother John Francis, who was five at the time, would try to sing along with the songs.
I had no idea, though, that the kids were taking my John Lennon cassette and playing it on their little play cassette recorder when I wasn’t around. My father, of course, hit the roof when he found out.
It seems John Francis was walking around singing “A working class hero is something to be.” When my father asked him what he was singing, John Francis said, “Come on, I’ll show you.”
He played it on his plastic cassette player. My father started a slow burn while listening to it but went into an immediate rolling boil when he heard the line, “But you’re all fucken peasants as far as I can see.”
When I got home from a tough day at high school, my father was waiting for me. “Is this the type of shit you want your brother to hear?” my father asked, tossing the cassette, which he broke into three pieces, at me. “Why don’t you get a fucken haircut and cut the crap.”
It was actually very reminiscent of the time, years earlier when I was in elementary school, when my father pulled one of my sister’s Beatles’ albums off the turntable, while the needle was still on it, because, “I don’t want anyone bringing that shit into this house.”
The Beatles seem so mild now, especially the early albums, compared to other bands that have come and gone. But, at the time, they were disrupting what most of these old folks saw as the proper way to sing, play, look, perform, talk; …everything!
My father would listen to the likes of Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole, Jerry Vale and the big bands. Of course, if he was feeling really wild, he would toss in some Johnny Cash. “I don’t know how you kids can listen to these assholes that haven’t learned yet that you can’t sing, dance and play instruments all at the same time,” my father would say. “I don’t even know how they can see what they’re doing with all that long, dirty, disgusting hair falling in their faces.”
I, of course, took great pleasure in watching him hit the overload level whenever bands like The Rolling Stones or The Animals would be on the Ed Sullivan Show. In high school, I also took a liking to leaving Frank Zappa albums by the downstairs turntable so he could see the album covers. Zappa perfected the look that all the old folks hated.
My father did like one album I had. Once, while listening to the Kinks, “Everybody’s in Show Biz,” my father sat down during the horn-driven song, “Look a Little on the Sunny Side.”
“Hey, this is almost listenable,” my father conceded, looking over the album cover. “It swings. That's Dixieland. It’s bouncy. I like it.”
It was a nice, brief, break for us: talking – not arguing – about music.
I found the album on the turntable a few times, so I know he listened to it again.
Of course, there were a few other things besides just music that got my father upset. He hit the roof one Saturday when he thumbed through my copy of Jerry Reubin’s “Do It” that I accidentally left on the dining room table. I loved the book because at one point Reubin suggested that people should pay for the car behind them at highway tolls, although he later reasons that we should just blow-up tollbooths because they have no right charging us to drive on the highway. One page had nothing but the word “Fuck” written over and over.
Once my father got a hold of that book, I never saw it again.
The Beatles, though, were always public enemy number one because they started it all, my father reasoned. And John Lennon was even more hated by the old timers because he became involved with the anti-war movement.
“So, I heard you and Aragon were trying to get a hold of me a couple of days ago,” said Heidi, a prep cook with deadly beautiful eyes and a fondness for Frank Zappa music.
“Yeah,” I said. “We were having a small send-off for Aragon and we thought you might like to join us.”
“When’s Aragon leaving?” Heidi asked. “Some people think he’s gone already.”
“He’s gone,” I said.
“You guys are crazy,” she said.
Being cute, tough, and a Zappa fan may make Heidi the perfect woman. And Aragon and I thought she would be the perfect woman for Jack. Although they work in the same restaurant, they both work different shifts. We figured if we could get them together, they may hit it off.
Jack, of course, knew nothing of the discussions.
“So, what are you up to today?” I asked.
“Working,” she said. “And I’m working tonight for Arizona. I know it’s a sad day for everyone, so when Arizona called me at eight this morning, on no sleep and lots of JD, I figured I’d help him out.”
“That was nice of you,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “I did want to attend this talk at Yale this evening, but Arizona sounded like he was in rough shape.”
“Are you a Yalie?” I asked.
“No, but I hit some of the seminars,” she said. “I couldn’t be a Yalie, though. I have too much fun working for a living.”
I wished Aragon was still around. I walked back downstairs to the bar and figured I’d have a cup of tea while I figured out my next move.
I lit another cigarette and watched the fire burn on the match as I held it over the ash tray.
“Hello Rory,” a voice next to me said.
“Oh, Sara, hello. How are you?” I asked, trying not to make faces as the fire burned my finger.
“Playing games with matches again?” she asked. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with fire?”
“Yeah, but it seemed like such a good idea until I got burned,” I said nervously. She looked beautiful as usual. She was wearing jeans, a sweater and heavy jacket. She was also carrying what looked like her work clothes folded in a canvas bag.
“Are you working today?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I thought I was working a double. But it’s not until next Tuesday. I read the schedule wrong. Now I’m stranded here until I can get a hold of my mother. My car is getting fixed. And I don’t really like New Haven.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Madison.” she said.
“Figures,” I said.
“Hey, Sara, nice job reading the schedule,” Michael said as he placed a cup of tea in front of me. “Remind me never to ask you to check my schedule for me. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll have a coffee,” she said.
“Oh, sure, doesn’t anyone drink alcohol anymore?” Michael asked.
"Why don’t you like New Haven?” I asked.
“It’s not that I don’t like it. I guess it’s because I really don’t know New Haven that well,” she said. “I haven’t been here that long, I just moved to Connecticut from New Hampshire and I don’t know what, if anything, there is to do here. I know there is the art gallery on Chapel Street and a few theaters. What else is there?”
“There’s quite a bit, really,” I said, taking a deep breath, ready to take the plunge.
The diving board was quickly pulled out from under me, though.
“Sara, what’s up?” asked Brian, walking to the bar. “Hello Cookie.”
“Hey Brian,” Sara said.
“What’s up with you?” I said, irritated at being called Cookie.
“Work, but it won’t be a long day,” he said. “Sara, you working?”
“No, I thought I was,” she said.
“I think a few of us might hit Rudy’s after work and then maybe grab some Mexican,” Brian said. “Are you going to be around?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I may be getting a ride out of here soon.”
“Brian,” some preppie hostess called. “Table three needs you.”
“I’ll be back,” Brian said.
“Look,” I said to Sara, wanting to get my foot in the door before any other offers popped up. “If you’re stranded here, let’s hang out. We can take the walking tour of New Haven.”
I became suddenly terrified when Sara looked into my eyes as she paused.
“Sure, that sounds like fun,” she said. “I just have to try my mother again. If she got the message at work to pick me up and is on her way here, we’ll have to make it another time, alright?”
“Sure,” I said, praying that her mother never got the message.
Sara left the bar as Michael stopped back with her coffee.
“So, that sucks about Lennon,” Michael said. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I can pack your bags here and put it all on the owner’s tab.”
“And won’t he notice?” I asked.
“He’ll look at it in the morning and figure he had a great time. Hey, do you know this hostess?” Michael said, signaling towards a new hostess walking through the bar area. “She’s a real obnoxious bitch.”
“Oh yeah? She looks harmless enough,” I said. “Maybe a little stuffy.”
“She was complaining about emptying the garbage yesterday, and it’s in a plastic bag so she doesn’t even have to get her hands dirty,” Michael said. “So I said, joking around of course, ‘Oh stop your bitching and empty the trash,’ and she gets an attitude with me saying she doesn’t appreciate that type of language in her presence.”
“What year is she?”
“She’s a Yale grad student, a biology major or something,” Michael said. “She thinks she’s going to be a fucken doctor or something. I’ll fix her. Is she alone at the host station?”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing over while Michael reached for the telephone under the bar.
“Just let me know if anyone is coming over this way,” Michael said, frantically dialing.
Sure enough, the telephone rings at the host station and little miss grad student picks it up.
“Hello, I am supposed to meet a few people there for lunch and I can’t make it, there was a death in the family. Actually, my wife died and I need to get a message to the people I’m supposed to meet, who are probably already there,” Michael said in a deep, shaken-sounding voice. “Yes, well thank you, but I need you to page the people I’m supposed to meet. Please. The person’s name is Mike, uh, do you have a pencil on hand? Oh, okay, the last name is Hunt. The first name is Mike. Thank you so much, sure I’ll wait.”
“Hey Cookie, where did Sara go?” Brian asked walking towards the bar.
“Making a telephone call,” I said. “And, man, don’t call me Cookie.”
“Alright, I’ll call you Rory,” he said.
“Actually, don’t call me anything.”
“Hey, Michael, I just saw you checking out the new hostess,” Brian said.
“Oh, God, no,” Michael said. “I was just watching her to make sure she wasn’t looking this way.”
“Yeah, sure,” Brian said. “It’s cool. She’s cute. I’ll be hitting on her soon. I have a few other women I’m trying to get out of the way first.”
“Yeah, and what if someone else tries to hit on one of them first?” Michael asked.
“You can go ahead and try,” Brian said. “But if you get into that hostess’ pants and bump into anything, it will be my dick because I’m fucking her first.”
“It won’t be me,” Michael said. “Actually, you two probably deserve each other. She’s all yours.”
Brian walked back to one of his tables.
“My mother never got the message, so you’re stuck dragging me around New Haven,” Sara said, walking towards me.
“That’s great,” I said. “It will be a fun day.”
“I left my bag with my work clothes in the office, so we have to end up back here, alright?”
Meanwhile, Kelly, the manager, went flying through the bar area to the hostess station. It seems what when little miss grad student kept saying “There’s a telephone call for Mike Hunt” into the microphone–which was blasted through the restaurant – it sounded like something entirely different.
As Kelly walked back through the bar area, probably heading to the downstairs office, she gave a wave to the bar.
“Hey, Kelly, I really don’t appreciate that kind of language coming from the hostesses while people are trying to eat lunch,” Michael said.
“Get off it, Michael, before I have that call traced,” Kelly said trying to look stern.
“So, you ready?” I said to Sara, excited about the ensuing adventure.
“Sure, where do we start?” she asked.
As we headed to the door, Brian intercepted us at the host station.
“We’ll be at Rudy’s at about two if you’re around Sara,” Brian said.
“You can come too,” he said, glancing my way.
“Gee, thanks Brian, how nice of you to invite me,” I said, although my sarcasm was lost on him as he scurried back to his station.
“Maybe we’ll stop by,” Sara said.
“Oh, wait,,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the bar and placed a ten dollar bill in front of Michael.
“Take it,” I said.
“That must have been one great cup of tea,” Michael said. “What are you, fucken nuts?”
“No, I want you to see to it that Brian gets three or four shots after work, from an anonymous donor, of course,” I said.
“You know he’s even a bigger asshole when he drinks? You know that, right? You are nuts,” Michael said. “OK, I’ll do it. I’ll pack his bags.”
Leaving $10 left me with only about $35, but I figured it may be a good investment in case we ran into Brian later.