by Jon McDonald
But as he was headed towards her room he was waylaid by his father in the kitchen. “Laddie,” his father said, catching Lank by the shoulder. “Got a wee bit a good news for ya.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“The fishing ban’s been lifted. The shrimpers are assembling. It’s off for a grand old time sporting with the nets. You’re a grown man now, Lank. The Briar and Thistle will one day be all yours. Wanna take her out? T’would be your first time to solo at the helm. Today you will be my Captain! Whadda ya say?”
Lank paused for a moment. He saw himself aloft on the bridge - Captain’s cap at a jaunty angle - sun setting over his shoulder into the calm, reflecting Gulf. The boat’s holds were bursting with fresh shrimp. And as the boat neared the wharf, a half dozen adoring women awaited his return, each yearning for the undivided, attention of the brave, successful, and very rich and handsome Captain Lank MacPherson.
Lank looked up at his father, and a brand new twinkle lit up his eye. He quickly crumpled up the article about the Great White Hunter, and casually tossed it into the kitchen trash.
You Are a Winner!
Eight year-old Gregory Jankowski lay on the floor with his chin resting on his hands, sprawled out in front of the wooden temple of sound. Before him three pillars, masking the dark recesses of the fabric covered speakers, rose in fluted columns to just below the pale, benign, glowing face of the dial. His eyes were half closed. His feet bobbed and swayed to the music. “Hi Oh Silver, away!” The music swelled and the drama began.
Each day had its ritual. And Gregory was like a strict station master clocking train schedules. He knew every show on each day, and its exact time. And he was as precise as a watch maker as he found the bars on the dial that blared forth his favorite programs – Sergeant Preston, The Inner Sanctum, Jack Benny, Sam Spade, The Thin Man, Edgar Bergan & Charlie McCarthy, The Green Hornet, Straight Arrow, The Shadow. And the list went on and on.
Gregory’s father was not at all pleased with this devotion to this frivolous entertainment. He wanted Gregory climbing trees, building forts, charging the enemy lines out of doors. He was disgusted with this sissy, artsy crap. He wanted to be building a real man. But his mother always intervened on Gregory’s behalf. She stressed how necessary it was to stimulate the imagination of a growing child, and besides the boy played outdoors all the time, as well. Of course, she neglected to say that the play was mostly with the girls who lived across the street. They adored letting Gregory be the cowboy hero - constantly saving them from fates worse than death. He used to ride his horse – a large abandoned trunk, found in the alley and about to be picked up by the trash collectors. It was secreted to a hiding place behind the tool shed and dragged out with cries of “Come on, men!” whenever damsels needed to be rescued.
“Oh mother, please, please, pretty please,” Gregory pleaded, tugging at his mother’s sleeve in a way he knew she could not resist, and clinching the plea with his head resting mournfully on her shoulder. That should seal the deal for sure. The only ploy more appealing would be tears, but he was not about to stoop that low – unless absolutely necessary.
“So, I don’t understand. What’s this all about?” she finally enquired, after much sleeve tugging.
“It’s the Lone Ranger contest. First prize is an all-expense paid trip for the whole family – that’s you and me, Bobbie and Dad – all of us – all paid – for a week to Hollywood to meet the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Just think what a treat for the whole family.” He had no reservations now about applying his urgent how can you resist me look.
His mother sighed and weighed how she was going to explain this to dad. But maybe she wouldn’t need to. “Okay, what exactly do we have to do to enter this contest?”
Gregory smiled and became both animated and diplomatic. “I have to write a 250 word essay on why I want to go to Hollywood. Then we need just ten Wheaties box tops and an official Lone Ranger entry form - which is on the back of each Wheaties box – but we only need just one of those.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Ten boxes of cereal? Couldn’t we buy just five and use the top and the bottom?” - his mother ever practical and thrifty.
“Oh mother, no. The tops and the bottoms are very different. That wouldn’t work. I would certainly be disqualified”
“Well….I think there’s one box in the pantry. And there might be another in the trash. You can take those two and we can collect the rest over time as we use up the boxes.”
Gregory began to panic. “No, no, no, no. You don’t understand. There’s a deadline. We have to send them in by the end of this month.” Okay, add pleading eyes, really convincingly - right now. Gregory rose to his knees and took his mother by both of her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. “Mother, please we need to buy at least eight more boxes of Wheaties this very afternoon.”
His mother started to speak but hesitated.
Gregory went into hyper mode. “I’ll eat Wheaties every single day for breakfast and lunch till they are all gone. I promise. Think of all the money you’ll save on peanut butter and jelly and other unnecessary groceries.” Gregory now applied his I am serious stare, and rested his case. He knew he had her.
“Oh, all right then. But don’t tell your father, understand?”
“Oh mommy, I love you so-o-o much.” He kissed her and gave his award winning smile.
As the trash had already been collected, nine more boxes of Wheaties were duly purchased - their box tops rendered up, and the stash of cereal boxes hidden away in the laundry room where daddy never ventured except to get a screw driver or a pair of pliers, as he kept his tool box there. Mother counted on Dad never questioning why the endless supply of Wheaties boxes had no tops. She knew he was never very observant about mundane household matters.
Gregory worked diligently on his essay for days after school - a nub of pencil scratching out block letters on a sheet of ruled notebook paper - a fantasy about the delights of Hollywood, California and why he just had to go there. Then he carefully filled out the entry form, and counted out the box tops over and over again to be certain the count was accurate. He addressed the envelope, and accompanied his mother to the post office to make sure the postage was sufficient. He even offered to pay the postage from his meager 25 cent per week allowance. But mother was generous, and paid for the postage herself.
But now came the agony of waiting for the announcement of the contest winners. It would be at least three months. How was he ever going to patiently wait that long to find out if he was the winner?
Now Bobbie, Gregory’s elder brother by two years, was a star pitcher in Evansville’s Dryer Little League. He was almost always found wearing some part of his baseball uniform on any particular day – except for church and Sunday dinner after. One day it might be his baseball shirt. Another day his pants, or his red striped socks and cap. Dad was so proud. At least there was one real boy in the family. Bobbie constantly urged his father to catch as Bobbie practiced his pitching routines. Dad frequently urged Gregory to join them, but Gregory always had a convincing excuse – homework, an ingrown toe nail, sniffles, or an urgent need to stack the firewood his father had grouched about for weeks last fall. But one Saturday there were just no more acceptable excuses. Dad had slipped on a ladder cleaning out the gutters and sprained his ankle – no way could he be catcher today. Now it was Gregory’s duty to catch as Bobbie practiced his fast ball.
Gregory assumed the catcher’s stance – urged on and corrected by his father who was temporarily leaning on the grandfather’s borrowed cane.
“No, no. Crouch lower,” Dad growled. Gregory complied. “Glove facing out. The pitch is going to come straight at you.” Gregory was sweating. He just knew his face was about to be ripped clean off with the first pitch. “Head up. You got to be ready for the pitch.” Already Gregory’s legs were beginning to shake from the unfamiliar crouch position. He was beginning to get a cramp in his right leg. “Okay, now Bobbie. Let him have it.”
B
obbie wound up. His right arm poised for maximum thrust - his outside leg compensating for the juxtaposed arm. He eyed his target, and let the ball fly with an urgent whoosh. The ball slammed towards Gregory. Now while Gregory was not exactly athletic, he was quick. And as soon as the pitch was launched Gregory knew he had but one serious course of action. He fell forward on his face, arms outstretched as the ball whizzed over his head. He was not about to try to catch that nuclear missile.
“Ah, come on,” Bobbie buzzed as the ball bounced across the lawn and into the alley. Dad was incredulous and for once speechless. Gregory was not about to give them a moment to collect themselves. He picked himself up, and raced down the street to the woods across the highway where he had a comfy hiding place in an old abandoned tree-house constructed by neighborhood kids a decade ago.
Gregory came trailing home just in time for dinner. His dad was so disgusted he didn’t even speak to Gregory during the whole dinner. Bobbie had completely forgotten the incident, and was rambling on about the Little League finals just two weeks away. The team believed they had a shot at the state title. Mother, previously apprised of the catching fiasco, managed to steer the rest of the dinner table conversation around to other less controversial topics.
The subsequent months passed by in an agony of anticipation as the deadline neared for the announcement of the contest winners. Bobbie’s Little League team had, indeed, won the state title, and was now grooming for the nationals. Gregory saw this as a positive omen for his own success in the contest, and was already planning what he would pack for his trip to Hollywood. Swim suit, of course - they would surely visit the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, Venice Beach, or perhaps even manage a trip to Laguna Beach. (Gregory had studied the map of California with the intensity of Magellan charting his circumnavigation of the globe.) And of course, shorts, tee shirts, and sunglasses. Even though it would be winter in Indiana it would always be summer in sunny Hollywood.
Then the day finally came. The Lone Ranger program promised they would announce the contest winners on the program this very afternoon. Gregory was stretched out in front of the radio - his hearing so sensitive he could hear the tubes humming in the growling bowels of the radio’s intestines. For once he could not endure the trivial exploits of the Lone Ranger and Tonto. All he wanted to hear was who had won the trip to Hollywood. And then finally…. The announcer came on before the final credits.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. I know you have all been waiting breathlessly for the announcement of the winners in our Lone Ranger Trip to Hollywood contest. And I am now proud and pleased to announce our Grand Prize winner is….” Gregory’s heart stopped and his breath ceased. “…Rachel Marquette of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Congratulations Rachel.” Gregory finally took a breath.
Mother had been listening along with Gregory. “Sorry honey.” She put her hand on Gregory’s shoulder. Tears welled up. But the announcer continued.
“But that’s not all boy and girls. We have additional winners to announce as well. Stand by till after this brief commercial announcement. Wheaties – Breakfast of champions….” The announcer continued but Gregory did not hear the rest. Maybe the judges had been so enchanted with his essay that they had decided to grant a second trip to Hollywood. He was certain that was the case.
Finally the announcer returned. “Now then, I am pleased to give you our additional winners. First we have two runners up. Nathaniel Bradbury of Cleveland, Ohio, and Betty Jane Laughton of Wenatchee, Washington.”
Gregory was once again thrown into utter despair. But then….
“And finally our three consolation prizes go to Donald Brazer, Cathy Campbell, and Gregory Jankowski. Congratulation to you all. You will be receiving your prizes within the next three weeks by US mail.”
“Oh honey. You see, you are a winner.”
“But what’s the prize? He didn’t say. Do you suppose it’s a weekend trip to Hollywood?”
“Oh, I doubt it. It’s only a consolation prize. I wouldn’t expect too much, dear.”
Suddenly Gregory brightened. “I’ll bet it’s a gun and holster, or at the very least one of the Lone Ranger’s personally autographed hats. Or even one of Tonto’s head bands. That would be just so great, don’t you think?”
Every day after the first week Gregory rushed home and asked about the mail. Had his prize arrived yet? And every day he was answered with a “No, dear.” But then the inevitable happened. He rushed home and his mother was out shopping. What would he do until she returned home? He passed through the dining room on his way to the kitchen for a snack, when he suddenly froze. There on the dining room table was a parcel. He approached it almost afraid to look. Yes! there it was - for him. He picked it up and read the label. It was post marked Hollywood, California with the return address of The Abbot Studios. Gregory tore into the wrapping. Inside was a box printed with a Capitol Sports logo. Gregory opened the box and pulled out…a football.
Gregory used a word he had never used before, although he had heard his father repeat it many times before. “Oh fuck!”
Oh Hell,
Everything Else
Leitmotif
To the members of his orchestra he was Humpty-Dumpty. To his wife he was Rosey. And one could instantly see why both names were appropriate - for Landower Schloop was round and roly-poly like an űber-Santa, but with the sweetest rosy cheeks, that would be the envy of even the fairest Swiss milk maid.
Now let’s get one thing clear right up front – Landower Schloop was actually born Norman Krantz of Brooklyn, New York. But he believed he had a great musical gift, and after studying for many years in Europe, acquired his moniker in a schnapps induced binge one evening in the garret of a Brussels boarding house, surrounded by fellow music students of equally doubtful origins, who all needed to enhance their chances of success in the tight and competitive world of the professional classical musician by renaming themselves – where the more exotic the name, the more likely one would have a chance of securing employment in the snobby world of symphonic music in the United States.
And though he had achieved a modicum of success in the US he was by no means a musical star. He had been hired to shepherd the Las Vegas Concert Pops Orchestra but a scant two years ago, after serving as Concert Master and Assistant Conductor in a half dozen scrub orchestras in remote reaches of the country. And now, after all that waiting and struggling for his own orchestra here he was facing the Chairman of the Orchestra’s Board, Justin Case, who did not have very good news.
“Lan, we’ve gone over every option. In this economy fund raising is like trying to pull stars from the sky – a damn near impossibility. We were very disappointed in the end of the year subscription drive and fund raiser. Unless we can come up with half a mil by the end of the month we’re going to have to disband the orchestra and cancel the rest of the season.”
“Oh…oh.” Landower threw his hands up in the air and shook his head.
“You know what it’s like out there right now. Half our subscribers have not renewed their subscriptions, and the foundations and our corporate donors have pulled way back,” Justin added.
All Lan could think about, just then, was how he was going to break this news to his orchestra. Great musicians all, and as loyal and caring a group as one could wish for. It would be a devastating blow to all of them. Not to mention his poor wife, Clarissa, who had just ordered new draperies for the living and dining rooms. Now, they would have to be canceled.
“Is there nothing else the Board can do?” Lan asked hopefully.
“Believe me we’ve tried everything short of armed robbery. Unless you or the orchestra can find a flush, undiscovered gold mine up in the Nevada hills I’m afraid the doors will close at end of the month. The good news is that we’ve scraped together enough for modest severance packages for all of you. But that’s the best we can do. Sorry. Now if you’ll excuse me – the wife and I are flying out tonight for a cooking tour of Provence. She’ll kill me if I don
’t start packing.”
“Well at least somebody is not hurting in this economy,” Lan thought to himself as he was shown briskly out the banker’s office door.
◘ ◘ ◘
“Oh dear, oh dear, what am I going to tell my crew?” Lan fussed, breaking the news to Clarissa, who was grieving over the obvious threat of now having to cancel the order for her new draperies.
“Wel-l-l Rosy, I guess you’ll just have to buck up and tell them the truth. What’s the alternative?” She paused to consider. “Too bad your family doesn’t have money. Do you think your mother might give us a loan for the redecorating?”
Lan ignored her question as not worthy of a response. He was much too agitated about how he was going to break the news to his orchestra.
“We’re not going to have to move again are we? I’m just so sick of all those dreadful little towns in the Midwest whose idea of a symphony orchestra is two violins, an accordion, and a tuba. I mean polkas are nice but….” She was thoughtful once again. “I know…maybe you could get a job playing in the orchestra at the Grand. Then we wouldn’t have to leave. I just can’t imagine what kind of price we could get for the house in this market – if we could even sell at all.”
