by Ray Bradbury
“You’ve decided then, Captain?”
“There’s only one thing to do, sir.”
“Yes. Only one possible thing to do.”
“IT’ S NOT POISONOUS !” SAID THE WIFE.
“But!” The husband jumped up, raised his foot, stomped three times on the rug, shuddering.
He stood looking down at the wet spot on the floor.
His trembling stopped.
I GET THE BLUES WHEN IT RAINS (A REMEMBRANCE)
1980
THERE IS ONE NIGHT in everyone’s life that has to do with time and memory and song. It has to happen—it must spring up with spontaneity and die away when finished and never happen again quite the same. To try to make it happen only makes it fail. But when it does happen, it is so beautiful you remember it for the rest of your days.
Such a night happened to me and some writing friends, oh, thirty-five or forty years ago. It all began with a song titled “I Get the Blues When It Rains.” Sound familiar? It should, to you older ones. To the younger, stop reading HERE. Most of what I have to offer from this point on belongs to a time before your birth and has to do with all the junk we put away in our attic heads and never take out until those special nights when memory prowls the trunks and unlocks the rusty hasps and lets out all the old and mediocre but somehow lovely words, or worthless but suddenly priceless tunes.
We had gathered at my friend Dolph Sharp’s house in the Hollywood Hills for an evening of reading aloud our short stories, poetry, and novels. There that night were such writers as Sanora Babb, Esther McCoy, Joseph Petracca, Wilma Shore, and a half dozen others who had published their first stories or books in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Each arrived that evening with a new manuscript, primed to be read.
But a strange thing happened on the way across Dolph Sharp’s front room.
Elliot Grennard, one of the senior writers of the group and a onetime jazz musician, passed the piano, touched the keys, paused, and played a chord. Then another chord. Then he laid his manuscript aside and put the bass in with his left hand and started playing an old tune.
We all looked up. Elliot glanced over at us and winked, standing there, letting the song play itself out nice and easy. “Know it?” he said.
“My God,” I cried, “I haven’t heard that in years!”
And I began to sing along with Elliot, and then Sanora came in and then Joe, and we sang: “I get the blues when it rains.”
We smiled at one another and the words came louder: “The blues I can’t lose when it rains.”
We knew all the words and sang them and finished it and when we were done we laughed and Elliot sat down and rambled through “I Found a Million Dollar Baby in a Five and Ten Cent Store,” and we discovered we all knew the words to that one too.
And then we sang “China Town, My China Town,” and after that, “Singin’ in the Rain”—yes, “singin’ in the rain, what a glorious feelin’, I’m happy again....”
Then someone remembered “In a Little Spanish Town”: “’Twas on a night like this, stars were peek-a-booing down, ’Twas on a night like this....”
And Dolph cut in with “I met her in Monterrey a long time ago, I met her in Monterrey, in old Mexico....”
Then Joe yelled, “Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today,” which cut the sentiment for two minutes and led almost inevitably into “The Beer Barrel Polka” and “Hey, Mama, the Butcher Boy for Me.”
No one remembers who brought out the wine, but someone did, and we didn’t get drunk, no, we drank the wine, just the right amount, because the singing and the songs were everything. We were high on that.
We sang from nine until ten, at which time Joe Petracca said, “Stand aside, let the wop sing ‘Figaro.’” And we did, and he did. We got very quiet, listening to him, for we discovered he had a more than ordinarily firm, sweet voice. All alone, Joe sang sections of La Traviata, a bit of Tosca, and finished off with “Un bel dì.” He kept his eyes shut all the way to the end, then opened them, surprised, looked around and said, “For Christ’s sake, it’s getting too serious! Who knows ‘By a Waterfall’ from Golddiggers of 1933?”
Sanora did Ruby Keeler on that one, and someone else came in like Dick Powell. We were ransacking the house for more bottles by then, and Dolph’s wife slipped out of the house and drove down the hill to bring up more booze, for we could tell if the songs went on, then the drinking would too.
We slid the long way back to “You were meant for me, I was meant for you.... Angels patterned you and when they were done, you were all the sweet things rolled up in one....” By midnight we had worked through all the Broadway melodies old and new, half the 20th Century-Fox musicals, some Warner Bros., with bits and pieces of “Yes, sir, that’s my baby, no, sir, I don’t mean maybe,” thrown in with “You’re Blasé” and “Just a Gigolo,” then fell off the deep end into all the old mammy songs, a baker’s dozen of lousy sweet rolls that nevertheless we sang with fake tenderness. Everything bad sounded somehow good. Everything good was simply great. And everything that had always been wonderful was now superb beyond madness.
By one o’clock we had left the piano and sung our way out to the patio, where, a cappella, Joe tossed in more Puccini, and Esther and Dolph duetted on “Ain’t she sweet, see her comin’ down the street, now I ask you very confidentially....”
From one-fifteen on, keeping our voices down, because the neighbors telephoned and said we should, it was Gershwin time. “I Love That Funny Face” and then “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”
By two we were into some champagne and suddenly remembered our parents’ songs sung in home cellars fixed up for birthday parties in 1928 or hummed on warm summer night porches when most of us were ten: “There’s a Long, Long Trail a-Winding into the Land of My Dreams.”
Then Esther remembered that her friend Theodore Dreiser had written the old favorite: “O the moon is bright tonight along the Wabash, from the fields there comes the scent of new-mown hay. Through the sycamores the candlelight is gleaming—on the banks of the Wabash, far away....”
Then it was: “Nights are long since you went away....”
And: “Smile the while I bid you sad adieu, when the years roll by I’ll come to you.”
And: “Jeanine, I dream of lilac time.”
And: “Gee, but I’d give the world to see that old gang of mine.”
And: “Those wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.”
And finally, of course: “Should auld acquaintance be forgot....”
By that time all the bottles were empty and we were back at “I Get the Blues When It Rains,” and the clock struck three and Dolph’s wife was standing by the open front door holding out our coats, which we went over to and put on and walked out into the night, still whisper-singing.
I don’t remember who drove me home or how we got there. I only remember tears drying on my face because it had been a very special, very dear time, something that had never happened before and would never happen again in just that way.
The years have gone, Joe and Elliot are long since dead, the rest of us have grown somewhat beyond middle age, we have loved and lost in our careers and sometimes won, and we still meet on occasion and read our stories at Sanora’s or Dolph’s, with some new faces among us, and at least once a year we remember Elliot at the piano playing on that night we wanted to have go on forever, that night, which was loving and warm and fine, and all the sappy songs meant nothing but somehow meant everything. It was just as dumb and sweet, just as awful and lovely as Bogie saying, “Play it, Sam,” and Sam playing and singing, “You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh....”
It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t be magic. You shouldn’t weep happy and then sad and then happy again.
But you do. And I do. And we all do.
One last memory.
One night about two months after that special fine evening, gathered at the same house, Elliot came in and passed by the piano an
d stopped, eyeing it dubiously.
“Play ‘I Get the Blues When It Rains,”’ I said.
He played it.
It wasn’t the same. The old night was gone forever. Whatever had been in that night was not in this. Same people, same place, same memories, same possible tunes, but... it had been special. It would always be special. Now, wisely, we turned away. Elliot sat down and picked up his manuscript. After a long moment of silence, glancing just once at the piano, Elliot cleared his throat and read us the title of his new short story.
I read next. While I was reading, Dolph’s wife tiptoed behind us and quietly put the lid down on the piano.
ALL MY ENEMIES ARE DEAD
2003
THERE IT WAS ON PAGE SEVEN, the obituary: Timothy Sullivan. Computer genius. 77. Cancer. Services private. Burial, Sacramento.
“Oh God!” cried Walter Gripp. “Jesus, that does it, it’s all over.”
“What’s all over?” I said.
“No use living. Read that.” Walter shook the obituary.
“So?” I said.
“All of my enemies are dead.”
“Hallelujah!” I laughed. “You’ve waited for that son of a bitch—”
“—bastard.”
“Bastard, yes, for him to kick the bucket for a long time. Rejoice.”
“Rejoice, hell. Now I got no reason, no reason to live.”
“How’s that again?”
“You don’t understand. Tim Sullivan was a true son of a bitch. I hated him with all my blood, guts, and being.”
“So?”
“You’re not listening, I can tell. With him gone, the light has gone out.” Walter’s face grew pale.
“What light, dammit?!”
“The fire, dammit, in my chest, my heart, my ganglion. It lived off him. He kept me going. I went to sleep nights happy with hatred. I woke up mornings glad to breakfast on my need, my need to kill him all over again between lunch and dinner. But now he’s spoiled it, blew out the flame.”
“He did that to you? His last act was to provoke you with his death?”
“You might say that.”
“I just did!”
“Now, let’s get to bed and relapse my need.”
“Don’t be a sap, sit up and drink your gin. Now what are you doing?”
“As you see, pulling back the sheet. This may be my last lie-in.”
“Get away from there, this is stupid.”
“Death is stupid, an insult, dumb trick to die on me.”
“So he did it on purpose?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. Just my kind of nasty. Call the mortuary, read me a menu of headstones, plain rock, no angels. Where are you going?”
“Outside. I need air.”
“I may be gone by the time you’re back!”
“Wait while I talk to someone sane!”
“Who’s that?”
“Me!”
I went out and stood in the sun.
This can’t be happening, I thought.
Oh no? I retorted. Go look.
Not yet. What’ll we do?
Don’t ask me, said my other self. If he dies, we die. No more work, no moola. Let’s talk something else. Is that his address book?
That’s it.
Flip through, there’s got to be someone still alive and kicking.
Okay. I flipped. There go the A’s, the B’s and C’s! Dead! Check the D’s, E ’s, F’s and G’s!
Dead!
I slammed the book shut, like the door of a tomb.
He was right: his friends, his enemies—it’s a book of the dead.
That’s colorful, write it down.
Colorful, Jesus! Think of something!
Hold on. How do I feel about him right now? That’s it! Gangway! We’re going back!
I opened the door and stuck my head in.
“Still dying?”
“What does it look like?”
“A stubborn ass.”
I came in the door, walked in, and towered over him.
“Better close up?” said Walter.
“Not stubborn. Mean. Hold on while I gather my spit.”
“I’m holding,” said Walter. “Hurry up, I’m almost gone.”
“Would that were true. Now listen up!”
“Don’t stand so close, I can feel your breath.”
“This is not mouth-to-mouth, just a reality check: now hear this!”
Walter blinked. “Is that my old chum, old pal?” A shadow crossed his face.
“No. Not old chum, old pal.”
Walter beamed. “Sure, that’s you, old buddy!”
“Since you’re almost dead, it’s time for a confession.”
“I should be the one to confess.”
“Me first!”
Walter closed his eyes and waited.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Recall that missing cash back in ’69, when you thought Sam Willis carried it to Mexico?”
“Yeah, Sam, sure.”
“No. Me.”
“How’s that?”
“Me,” I said. “I did it. Sam ran off with some babe. I snatched the moola and blamed him! Me!”
“That’s not so bad,” said Walter. “I forgive you.”
“Hold on, there’s more.”
“I’m holding.” Walter laughed, quietly.
“About that senior prom in high school, 1958.”
“A wet-blanket night. I got Dica-Ann Frisbie. I needed Mary-Jane Caruso.”
“You woulda had her. I told Mary-Jane all about your womanizing, listed your scores!”
“You did that!?” Walter opened his eyes wide. “So she wound up at the prom with you.”
“That’s it.”
Walter fixed me with a brief stare, then looked away. “Well, hell, that’s old water under an older bridge. You done?”
“Not quite.”
“Jesus God! This is getting interesting. Spill it.” Walter punched his pillow and reared up on one elbow.
“Then there was Henrietta Jordan.”
“My God, Henrietta. What a beaut. That was a great summer.”
“I ended that summer.”
“You what?!”
“She dropped you, yes? Said her mother was dying, had to spend time with Mom.”
“Then you ran off with Henrietta too?”
“That’s it. Next item: remember when I got you to sell Ironworks, Inc., at a loss? Next week I bought on the way up.”
“That’s not so bad.” Walter swallowed.
I went on. “Item: In Barcelona, ’69, I pleaded migraine, went to bed early, took Christina Lopez with!”
“I often wondered about her.”
“You’re raising your voice.”
“Am I?”
“Now, your wife! Played Gotcha with her.”
“Gotcha?”
“Gotcha once, twice, forty times Gotcha!”
“Wait!”
Walter reared up, clutching his blanket.
“Grab your ears! While you were in Panama, Abbey and I had a wildcat fun-feast!”
“I would have heard.”
“Since when do husbands hear? Remember her wine tour in Provence?”
“Right.”
“Wrong. She was in Paris drinking champagne from my golf shoes!”
“Golf shoes!?”
“Paris was our nineteenth green! World championships! Then Morocco!”
“She never went!”
“Was there, did that! Rome! Guess who was her tour guide!? Tokyo! Stockholm!”
“Her parents were Swedish!”
“I gave her the Nobel Prize. Brussels, Moscow, Shanghai, Boston, Cairo, Oslo, Denver, Dayton!”
“Stop, oh God, stop! Stop!”
I stopped and, like in old movies, stepped to the window and had a cigarette.
I could hear Walter crying. I turned and saw that he had swung his legs out, letting the tears drip off his nose to the floor.
“You son of a bitc
h!” he gasped.
“Right.”
“Bastard!”
“Indeed.”
“Monster!”
“Yes?”
“Best friend! I’ll kill you!”
“Catch me first!”
“Then wake and kill you again!”
“What’re you doing?”
“Getting outta bed, dammit! Come here!”
“Naw.” I opened the door and looked out. “Bye.”
“I’ll kill you if it takes years!”
“Hey! Listen to him—years!”
“If it takes forever!”
“Forever! That’s rich! Toodle-oo!”
“Freeze, dammit!”
Walter lurched up.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Right!”
“Bastard!”
“Hallelujah! Happy New Year!”
“What!?”
“Prosit! Skoal! What was I once?”
“Friend?”
“Yeah, friend!”
I laughed a physician-doctor-medicine man laugh.
“Bitch!” screamed Walter.
“Me, yeah, me!”
I jumped out the door and smiled.
“Me!”
The door slammed.
THE COMPLETIST
2003–2004
IT WAS ON A SHIP in the mid-Atlantic in the summer of 1948 that we met the completist—that’s what he called himself. He was a lawyer from Schenectady, well dressed, and he insisted on paying for the drinks when we met by accident before supper, and then made sure that we were seated with him at dinner, rather than at our regular table.
He talked and kept on talking during dinner with wonderful stories, grand jokes, and with an air about him that was convivial and worldly and wise.
At no time did he allow us to speak, and my wife and I were entertained, intrigued, and willing to silence ourselves to let this amusing man describe the world he traveled, from continent to continent, from country to country, and from city to city, collecting books, building libraries, and entertaining his soul.
He told us how he had heard of a fabulous collection in Prague and had spent the better part of a month crossing the world by ship and by train to find and purchase the collection and return it to his vast home in Schenectady.
He had spent time in Paris, Rome, London, and Moscow and had shipped home tens of thousands of rare volumes, which his law practice allowed him to buy.
