.

.

 

“Every Night at Ten”  was a short-listed entry in our recently concluded 68th Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

.

.

___

.

.

Photo via Discogs

 

.

.

Every Night at Ten

by Dennis A. Blackledge

 

.

…..Tuesday broke bright, beautiful, and seasonably cold. Thanksgiving waited at week’s end with the promise of turkey and mashed potatoes, but little else. Recent events even threatened to cancel Macy’s annual holiday parade. Moisture from Narragansett Bay decorated the lawns of Lyttleton, Rhode Island with a heavy frost befitting America’s somber tone and subdued mood. My gang of sixth-grade friends, “Southies” because of geographical circumstances, trekked northward along our small town’s Main Street. We could see our breath for the first time since March. Up ahead stood the brick fortress of Mary Beatrice Quick Junior High, right where we abruptly left it last Friday afternoon.

…..“I wasn’t really awake, or asleep, just kinda floating, you know,” Sharon Bouchard said, bright hazel eyes shimmering in the low angle of the early morning sun, dirty blonde hair bouncing to the rhythm of our footsteps. “My glow-in-the-dark alarm clock said five ‘til midnight.”

…..“Nobody sleeps anymore,” said Maryellen MacDougall, the acknowledged brains of our outfit. “This whole Kennedy mess has knocked everybody loopy.”

…..“Sometimes I hear sobbing coming from my parent’s bedroom,” said Patty Blair, aka Patty Cakes, her short legs working overtime to keep up with us.

…..Sharon took back the floor. “I started thinking about something my older brother, Billy, told me while we washed the dinner dishes. Said there’s a rock ‘n roll song on late-night radio full of dirty words.”

…..“My old man says rock ‘n roll’s dead, a fad,” said my best friend Biaggio Del Turo, a giant among the little people.

…..“Dirty words on the radio?” Maryellen asked. “How do they get away with that?”

…..“Billy said adults can’t understand what the guy’s singing, but the college kids figured it out. He heard about it from Sonny Sampson.”

…..“I thought Sonny was in Boston,” Duncan O’Malley, our resident egghead, said. We called him an egghead, not because of smarts, although he knew a bunch about weird science stuff, but because of an elongated head.

…..“He came home to be with family during Kennedy’s funeral,” Sharon said. “Told my brother the song’s all over Boston radio. Wrote the lyrics on a piece of scrap paper and gave ‘em to Billy.”

…..“Did your brother tell you the words?” Skinny Ricky asked.

…..“No. He wanted to think about it.”

…..“Yowzah,” said lanky Raymond Montero, the beneficiary of a recent growth spurt. “Gotta be some doozy words.”

…..“Did he tell you the name of the song?” Duncan asked.

…..“Yeah. ‘Louie, Louie’ by the Kingsmen.”

…..Raymond laughed. “So nice, they named it twice.”

,

~ ~ ~

.

…..The next morning, Duncan halted our school-bound procession, kneeling to unzip his gym bag.

…..“I got sumpin’ to show you guys.”

…..“Eeeewwww,” Patty said, scrunching her full-moon face. “You’re not gonna whip out your jockstrap again, are you?”

…..Ignoring Patty, Duncan dug deep, extracting a 45rpm record in a flimsy paper sleeve.

…..“Is this what your brother was talkin’ about?” He handed it to Sharon.

…..“Yup. That’s what he said. ‘Louie, Louie’ by the Kingsmen.”

…..“Whoa! Where’d you get it?” I asked.

…..“My mother sent me to DeWolf’s Drugstore yesterday after we got home from school.”

…..“She let you out by yourself?” Maryellen asked.

…..“First time since Kennedy. Told me to come straight home. No foolin’ around.”

…..Sharon sighed. “They think they’re protecting us.”

…..“Our folks are wiggin’ out,” Maryellen said. “They think the world’s ending and maybe it is, but enough already.”

…..Mumbles and nods showed consensus. Parents and school officials squelching young people in the wake of the Kennedy assassination dominated our conversations. Frustration ruled our universe.

…..“Anyway,” Duncan said.  “On the way home from the pharmacy, I got to thinking about that dirty record and stopped at Nero’s Music Emporium. Saw it was on the shelf behind the register. Told Nero I wanted to buy a copy. He asked me if I was twenty-one?”

…..“What did you say?” Sharon and I asked simultaneously.

…..“Owe me a Coke,” she said, delivering a hard jab to my upper arm.

…..“Ow.”

…..Duncan rolled his eyes and continued. “I told him no — you know I am not twenty-one.  Nero ignored me for the longest time before finally throwing one in a bag. Charged me forty-nine cents and told me not to tell anyone where I got it.”

…..“Did he say anything about dirty words?” Ricky asked.

…..“No, but he said the weirdest thing. Said the horse got out of the barn in Boston and now it’s galloping through Cleveland and Pittsburgh.”

…..“What does that mean?” Biaggio asked. Duncan shrugged.

…..“Did you listen to it?” Sharon asked.

…..“Yeah,” Raymond said. “What does it say?”

…..“I don’t know. I don’t have a record player.”

,

 

…..We spent an otherwise melancholy Thanksgiving weekend clandestinely passing the record from one backyard to the next, taking great pains to keep the contraband hidden from the prying eyes and ears of sibling rats. We intentionally left Patty off the distribution list because she tended to crack under pressure.

…..Sneaking off to my bedroom, I played the disc at a low volume on the suitcase record player my folks got me from Sears. The tinny-sounding, mod-colored device did little in the way of revealing Louie’s secrets. We shared reviews on the first school day of December.

…..“Distorted. Hard to understand,” I said.

…..“I wouldn’t know…” Patty, the owner of a world-class pout, mumbled.

…..“I heard ‘Louie, Louie’ and ‘Me gotta go,’ Skinny Ricky said, “but not much else.”

…..“It has a good beat,” Sharon said. “You can dance to it.”

…..“The singer sounds like he’s losing a fight with the Boston Strangler,” Biaggio said.

…..Maryellen, our resident gold-star student, called it, “Unintelligible.”

…..Frank Sinatra this was not.

.

~ ~ ~

.

…..“I know ‘em,” Sharon said, her tone confidential.

…..“Know who?” I asked.

…..“Not who, them.” Cupping her hand to my ear, “I know the dirty words.” Sharon raised and lowered her eyebrows in rapid succession as the lunch line in the cafeteria lurched forward.

…..Part tomboy, part budding knockout, Sharon ruled my dreams. At times it felt mutual and at other times, not so much. We existed in an eddy of pre-teen confusion but always friends at heart. Having received our weekly ration of what Raymond called “eye-tal-yen food,” we set off to commandeer our usual table.

…..“Do you believe Lame-o Lombardo killed all basketball games for the rest of the year?” Biaggio asked.

…..“Out of respect for our fallen president.” Raymond’s imitation of our principal’s grumbling speech and histrionic mannerisms made us laugh.

…..“He canceled everything,” Patty said. “Even the Christmas Dance.”

…..Lombardo’s latest proclamation placed my fantasy of asking Sharon to dance on indefinite hold.

…..“I was looking forward to it.” Maryellen appeared to be taking the cancelation extra hard. “Got a new dress and everything.”

…..“He’s such a dick!” Sharon said.

…..Heads swiveled. Sharon’s hands flew to her mouth in mock embarrassment. “Dick” did not appear on the list of approved words eleven-year-old girls could use in mixed company.

…..“Now that I’ve got your attention…” She glanced around. Deeming the space safe, she said, “I got it.”

…..“Indigestion?” Raymond asked.

…..“I know the words.”

…..“The words to what? Patty asked.

…..“Louie, Louie.”

…..“Get outta here,” Biaggio said.

…..“How?” Maryellen asked.

…..“My brother forked over the paper with the lyrics on it. I knew he couldn’t hold out on me forever. He said I should memorize it and then eat it.”

…..“Did you?” Patty asked.

…..“Did I eat it? No, I didn’t eat it.”

…..“Why didn’t you say something this morning?” Biaggio asked.

…..“Blabbermouths walk among us.”

…..All eyes shifted to Patty.

…..“What?” Patty said, barely able to keep a mouthful of rigatoni where it belonged. “I told Maryellen I was sorry.”

…..“That wasn’t the only time,” Duncan said. “You snitched on me for peeing behind the fence at Moses’ Field.”

…..“I’ve changed. Tell ‘em, Maryellen.”

…..“Look,” Maryellen said. “We all agreed to allow Patty back into the group — no strings attached. She swore all for one, like the rest of us.”

…..Biaggio turned to Sharon. “So, are they dirty?”

…..“Oh, yeah.”

…..“Come on Sharon, spill,” Duncan said.

…..“Here? Are you nuts? Too many teachers walkin’ around.”

…..“How about on our walk home?” I asked.

…..“Can’t. My mother’s picking me up for a doctor’s appointment.”

…..“How about during our library time this afternoon?” Maryellen asked.

…..“Good idea,” Biaggio said. “The librarian takes a puff break a little after two.”

…..“Okay, but everyone needs to take the oath of secrecy again,” Sharon said.

…..Biaggio eyed Patty. “You need to take it twice.”

…..Patty gave the time-honored three-finger salute of the Girl Scouts.

…..“Okay. Pinkies in,” Biaggio said, throwing down first.

…..One by one, we extended our littlest digits to the center of the table, seven small pinkies attempting to latch onto Biaggio’s grand master.

…..“Cross your hearts,” Sharon said.

…..“And hope to die,” everyone replied, releasing pinkies and tracing an X on the center of our chests.

…..Quick’s wincingly loud bells once again pushed the limits of human endurance, ending our circle of trust and scattering us to our various elective classes.

.

~ ~ ~

.

…..Whispering Malarky, Quick’s head librarian and a dead ringer for Olive Oyl, ran a tidy, no-nonsense ship from her perch high atop a stool behind a half-moon counter. Malarky never spoke above a whisper, whether giving Dewey Decimal System instructions, discussing the treachery of an overdue book, or scolding the latest outbreak of “hooligan behavior.” A large handmade sign on the bulletin board declared “Profiles In Courage” as December’s Book of the Month for eighth graders.

…..Our sixth-grade class was given exclusive use of the library during last hour of every Tuesday. We headed for the large oval table at the back of the room, next to the library’s rear exit, the outside world beyond. Many a truant made their break for freedom from this outpost. The table sat eight — nine if you counted Biaggio twice. Sharon sat, backside to the exit door so she could see the entire room. We took seats left and right of her. I pulsed with excitement, doing my best to keep it in my sock. I sensed my fellow conspirators felt the same.

…..Everyone opened a book, the picture of conscientious students. I found the room’s musty smell relaxing, even though I never met a book I liked. Maryellen produced a notebook, pencil, and oversized eraser. She disappeared into the stacks and returned with two hefty tomes.

…..“What are you, some kind of Einstein?” Biaggio asked.

…..“She kinda is,” Skinny Ricky said.

…..Malarky looked up. “A little less talk, please,” her whisper audible from across the room.

…..At exactly 2:15 p.m., according to the library clock, Malarky retrieved a silver cigarette case and matching lighter from beneath the counter. She put on a coat and scanned the room for trouble. Observing none she whispered, “The honor system is hereby instated.”

…..She walked past our table, skinny backside waving goodbye, lady perfume mixing with a hint of ashtray. Malarky stepped out the rear door into the sunny world of freedom and Kool cigarettes. She wedged a wad of paper between the door and jamb to keep it from locking. All heads turned to Sharon.

…..“Come on Sharon, before Malarky comes back,” Raymond said.

…..“Now or never.” Biaggio tapped the tabletop.

…..Sharon looked each of us in the eye, saving Patty Cakes for the last and longest. Patty mimed zipping lips. Sharon reached between the last page of a book and its back cover, withdrawing a scrap of lined white paper, soft and worn with hints of feathering along its creases, evidence of frequent folding and unfolding. She placed it business side up on the table, palm covering its content, all eyes fixed on the back of her hand. Smudged scribble, the victim of transcription by #2 pencil, peeked out. Sharon took one final scan of the room, our eyes following as if connected. Other sixth-grade classmates seated at distant tables appeared busy. We leaned toward Sharon, some of us hovering above our seats. Raymond and Ricky rose quietly and repositioned themselves over Sharon’s shoulders, a modern art rendering of the Last Supper.

…..Sharon slowly revealed the words in a pulp fiction striptease. The paper lay naked for all to see, eyeballs straining to make sense of the scribble.

…..Maryellen broke the silence. “Oh – my – God.”

 

Every night at ten, I laid her again.

Fucked that little girl all kinds of ways.

In my arms I see her. See her bare.

I felt my bone high in her hair. *

 

…..We had little experience with such language, even less in mixed company. Simultaneously embarrassed and titillated, the word sinful danced in my head. Ricky took a seat rather than reveal just how titillated. A grin covered the entirety of Sharon’s face. She looked at me, pretending to flick an imaginary cigar. Clocks halted, eyeballs locked on the paper, and the world flew away. Mesmerized, we consumed it, impressed by our boldness.

…..A whoosh of air made my hair dance as a giant hand descended between Sharon and Raymond, landing directly on top of the paper with a loud bang. Everyone jumped. Hairy knuckles led to a cuff of white, followed by a rumpled gray suit sleeve, and the tortured, twisted face of Principal Lombardo. Whispering Malarky stood smugly over his shoulder. No one noticed the dynamic duo slipping in the door behind us. Busted.

…..“Oh, no!” Patty spoke for us all.

…..Our principal reached into his suit jacket and retrieved reading glasses. He raised the scrap paper to eye level and studied it. Shock and disgust fought for possession of Lombardo’s face. He folded the paper and carefully placed the evidence into an inner pocket.

…..“Follow me.”

…..The Louie, Louie Eight trailed behind Lombardo, heads bowed. The sound of shoe leather slapping hardwood floors mixed with Patty’s mewling. One by one we filed into the principal’s waiting area.

…..“Sit on the bench and do not move,” he said, disappearing into a warren of interior offices.

…..Patty’s drawn-out blubbering morphed into hiccups, giving way to exhaustion and merciful silence, head drooping. The strident bells of Quick signaled the 3:00 p.m. dismissal.

…..Long Tall Mr. Ball, our English teacher, passed through the waiting area, giving us a surprised once-over before stepping into the inner offices. I heard Lombardo say, “Pornography.” No idea what the word meant, but I knew it didn’t sound good. Ball emerged and paused in front of his favorite A student.

…..“Maryellen MacDougal, I expected better from you.” He left, head shaking in disbelief.

…..Battle-axe Molloy, teacher of history and ruler of the universe, entered. Looking down at us, she said, “Junior high is where the riffraff gets weeded out.”

…..Other teachers and staff, closing up shop for the day, entered the prisoner’s compound, each displaying a look of surprise or disappointment or both.

…..We continued our silent vigil long after the exiting hubbub faded.

…..“My butt’s killing me,” Biaggio said.

…..“No small problem.” Everyone, but Patty, mustered a chuckle at Raymond’s gallows humor. Duncan stifled a snort.

…..Nearly an hour passed. I noticed Patty Cakes crying without tears or sound.

…..“It will be okay,” Maryellen said, placing a hand on Patty’s knee.

…..“No — it — won’t.” Patty’s words were interspersed with hyperventilation. “It’s — all — my — fault.”

…..“What do you mean?” Maryellen asked.

…..“I told Nancy Malarky about our plans while sitting out gym class together.

…..“The librarian’s daughter?” Maryellen half asked, half stated. “Oh, Patty, no.” She removed her hand from Patty’s knee.

…..“I was so excited you guys were going to let me in on it. I couldn’t help myself. Said she could keep a secret. I’m — so — sorry.”

…..Groans made their way up and down the bench.

…..“Stupid me. I knew not to trust you,” Sharon said.

…..“You swore,” Biaggio said. “Pinky swore.”

…..“You — hate — me. I know you do!”

…..No one disagreed.

…..Lombardo finally emerged. “Your folks have been notified to pick you up at 5:00 p.m. You will be released into their custody. How could you commit an act such as this, and with the community still mourning our late President?”

…..Angry, surprised, and shocked parents walked through the door at the appointed hour.

…..“Your child was caught sharing pornographic literature on school grounds. They are suspended from all academic activities for three consecutive days, commencing tomorrow. I will reinstate them next Monday. I encourage you to add on whatever additional punishment you feel is warranted.”

…..Mothers leaned into crying. Dads either chose the stoic route or displayed visible anger. Skinny Ricky’s father, face a shade of heart attack red, yanked him off the bench by the collar. Biaggio’s old man cuffed the back of the big guy’s head three times in rapid fire.

…..My folks showed up last. They came late to everything. Mom wore an “I knew it” expression, while my dad looked distant as if weighing bigger worries. After a painfully silent ride home, I was remanded to my bedroom without supper. Our phone line smoldered into the night.

…..The next morning, my folks summoned me to the kitchen table. My mother fussed over breakfast sizzling in a cast-iron skillet. The heavenly smell of bacon and eggs infiltrated my nostrils leading my stomach to produce an avant-garde symphony of sounds.

…..“Parents have agreed to ground everyone for two weeks,” Dad said backed by a slurp of black coffee and a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

…..Not so bad, I thought. Kennedy’s assassination already triggered a mass social shutdown.

…..“In addition,’ my mother said, “all telephone privileges for you and your friends are suspended indefinitely. You are not to watch television or listen to the radio. Reading and homework are allowed.”

…..“Back to your room,” Dad said. “We’ll call you down for lunch. Here. Have a banana.”

…..As I walked away with my allotment of fruit, my mom asked, “What were you thinking? And at a time like this.”

…..I kept walking. I knew they wouldn’t understand.

.

~ ~ ~

.

…..We resumed classes on Monday, the 9^th of December on what amounted to a work-release program. Patty Blair steered clear. We didn’t shun her — hard to do in a small town — but we unanimously revoked her tribal membership.

…..Smirks, snickers, and exaggerated winks greeted our reentrance into Quick. We deserved getting our chops busted for being stupid enough to get caught, but something about this razzing felt different. Jocks swooped in to jostle us but their actions lacked the usual malice. The older girls, previously oblivious to my existence, smiled at me, a show of pity I figured. Students at lockers gave us thumbs up as we passed. I got the sense they knew something we didn’t.

…..At lunch, with our news embargo lifted, we learned “Louie, Louie” had breached the American Top 40. Radio stations in the Deep South were banning it because of supposed dirty lyrics.

…..One kid said, “I saw some church group on TV chanting, “Hey. Hey. Ho. Ho. This ‘Louie, Louie’ has got to go.”

…..“Then they tossed records into a bonfire,” his older sister said.

…..These events only served to make the song more intriguing and enticing to us and apparently to the majority of America’s pent-up teens. The following week, Louie stormed to #2 on the national charts where it remained for six consecutive weeks. My gang’s street cred soared past the moon. “Louie, Louie” was ultimately thwarted in its quest for #1 by morality’s final line of defense — the Singing Nun.

…..Only eleven weeks separated Kennedy’s death, Louie’s assault on the pop charts, and Ed Sullivan shouting, “The Beatles!,” triggering Rock’s Big Bang and the ensuing madness of Beatlemania. While matters of far greater concern and consequence waited for us over the horizon, we delighted in the innocent turbulence of the moment. Skirmishes between generations heated up. We pushed. Authorities denied. We pushed. Authorities punished. We pushed. Facades cracked. We pushed. Walls crumbled. We threw off the last vestiges of fifties culture and ran pell-mell into the sixties.

.

~ ~ ~

.

…..It took two years, but I finally worked up the courage to ask Sharon out. We attended the Goodbye Dance held on our last Friday night at Mary Beatrice Quick Junior High. We danced to two fast songs in a row followed by the Righteous Brothers’ slow burner, “Unchained Melody.” Sharon’s blouse felt soft and silky and the sweet fragrance of her perfume hinted at promises yet to come. We pulled each other closer; the song’s fading notes casting spells of summer love. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming. Sharon’s face signaled agreement. Her hazel eyes blinked before slowly closing. Chaperones scrambled, moving in on us at a high rate of speed. Our lips touched as the opening guitar riff of “Louie, Louie” strafed the dance floor.

…..Sharon’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh my God!,” she said. “We gotta dance to this.”

…..In a miracle the equal of anything the Vatican ever sighted, the Kingsmen’s “Louie, Louie” rose like Lazarus. Two-plus years after the Kennedy assassination, the little bitty record with the great big dirty mouth returned to the American Top 100. Sharon pulled me deep into the pulsing mass of our friends where we stomped and sang with unbridled enthusiasm. After all, we already knew the words.

.

.

___

.

.

 

 

Author’s Note: * The “Louie, Louie” lyrics appearing in this story are not the published words of composer Richard Berry, but rather the Boston Lyrics, one of several alternate libretti developed by young people in different cities across America. Rogue lyrics circulated by direct conversation, by telephone, and by handwritten note — mass communication of disinformation in the pre-internet age.

.

.

.

___

.

.

Dennis A. Blackledge is a working professional in the American Theatre. As a writer, he has published articles for Blue Suede News, scripted Rock & Roll Heaven for radio, wrote the book for the musical Smokestack Lightning, and published a short story in Fabula Argentea.

.

.

Listen to the 1963 recording of The Kingsmen playing Richard Berry’s 1955 composition “Louie Louie”  [The Orchard]

.

.

And…listen to the 1956 recording (released in 1957) of Richard Berry and the Pharaohs performing “Louie Louie”

.

.

___

.

.

Click here to help support the continuing publication of Jerry Jazz Musician, and to keep it ad and commercial-free (thank you!)

.

Click here to read “Saharan Blues on the Seine,” Aishatu Ado’s winning story in the 68th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

Click here to read more short fiction published on Jerry Jazz Musician

Click here to read The Sunday Poem

Click here for information about how to submit your poetry or short fiction

Click here for details about the upcoming 69^th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

Click here to subscribe to the Jerry Jazz Musician quarterly newsletter (it’s free)

.

.

.

___

.

.

 

Jerry Jazz Musician…human produced since 1999

.

.

.