CHAPTER EIGHT
Allison worked as a cashier at a Brooklyn supermarket, where she sat in the break room with her best friend, a young African-American named Janet. They lit cigarettes and tuned the radio to the soul station WWRL. Joe Tex sang “I Gotcha.”
“So,” said Allison, “like I was saying, when Sammy Davis Junior kissed Archie on the cheek, I thought I was going to die laughing.”
Janet talked as she exhaled smoke. “Yeah, that is a funny show. I love it when he calls his son-in-law ‘Meathead.’”
A teen-aged deli clerk walked in. “Can I change the station?”
“To what?” Janet replied.
“WANK.”
“Must you?” said Allison.
The girl sighed, “You two need to get with it,” and changed the station without her co-workers’ permission. Allison tried to block out Cher’s “Gypsys, Tramps and Thieves,” but became attentive when the song ended and the DJ said, “Bobby Dreamland.”
Janet laughed. “Bobby Dreamland? What the fuck kind of a name is that?”
“Shh!” said Allison.
As Bobby’s record played, she hoped that the response would be universally negative and that her family would finally get back to normal. But as Happy Harry interviewed Clark Fulsome, Allie knew that would not be the case.
“Gee,” the deli clerk exclaimed. “Looks like Bobby Dreamland’s going to be the next big star.”
Allison said nothing.
Janet regarded her. “What you looking so worried about?”
When Allison got home from work, the house was abuzz with excitement.
“Did you hear Bobby’s song on the radio?” Maria asked her daughter.
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Me, too,” said Vince. “I was out on my route and the dispatcher got me on the two-way and said, ‘Tune to WANK.’ So I did, and there was Bobby’s record! It was the biggest thrill of my life.”
“What a disturbing thought,” said his daughter. “So, where is the next Donny Osmond, anyway?”
“At Dominic’s office,” said Maria. “They’re taking us all out to dinner.”
“No, ma. They’re taking you out to dinner.”
Vince exhaled noisily. “Why you always gotta be so goddamned negative?”
“Because I’m the only one in this house who’s worried about what those barracudas are doing to my brother.”
Before her parents could accuse her of being jealous of her kid brother, Allison went upstairs to her bedroom and called Skip Mitchell at his hotel room.
“Key, kid! What’s up?”
She wished he wouldn’t call her “kid.” “Have you heard the news?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Listen, my parents and Bobby out to dinner with Stronzo. You want to come over and listen to soul?”
“That sounds great, kid! Can you come get me, though? I don’t want to try and figure out your subway system.”
Allie left Patrice with their grandparents and drove to Mitchell’s hotel in midtown Manhattan. During the drive back, she said, “So, Bobby’s record is all the rage.”
“Don’t remind me. What have I done?”
“Hey, it’s not your fault. If you hadn’t produced the goddamned thing, somebody else would’ve.”
He seemed not to hear her. “Jesus Christ, when that thing breaks nationally.... Why the hell didn’t I keep my name off it?”
“I’m just worried about my brother. That fucking record business could ruin him.”
“You got that right.” Pausing, Mitchell said, “You know, I never dreamed it would come to this. I’ve got this friend out in Muscle Shoals, name of Jimmy Ricks. He owns a studio down there.”
“The Consortium.”
“Oh, you’ve heard of it?”
“I collect soul records, remember?”
“Right. Anyway, Ricky cut his teeth on rhythm and blues. All through the ‘60s, man, it was nothing but black music. Yeah, some of the musicians were white, but that was only on the surface. So, who do you think Ricky’s producing these days? Tom Jones, Mac Davis, and the Osmonds.”
Allison made a gagging sound.
“Exactly! When I asked Ricky what was up, he said, ‘Economic necessity.’ He just couldn’t make a living off R&B anymore. But somehow, I never thought it would happen to me.”
“We’re here.” Allison pulled into the Leonettis’ driveway. As she unlocked the front door, Mitchell continued to unburden himself.
“Man, when I think of the talented people I’ve worked with.... Did you know, I had Otis Redding over to the house a dozen different times?”
“No shit?”
“Wouldn’t shit you, kid. Yeah, Otis was the nicest fellow you’d ever want to meet. Everybody loved the man, from the janitors all the way up to the label chiefs. Hell, even my wife liked Otis.”
They entered the living room. “What do you mean, even your wife?”
“Well...she ain’t the most tolerant person you’ll ever meet. Della wishes Archie Bunker was real so he could run for president.”
“Sounds like your wife is from Bensonhurst.”
Mitchell laughed. “Not quite.”
“So, has anyone ever called you a nigger-lover?”
“Not to my face.”
“Ah, so that’s the difference north and south.” Slipping out of her coat, Allison continued, “Back in high school, most of my friends were black, and that’s a no-no in Bensonhurst. The racists finally did stop fucking with me, though. All I had to do was break the football captain’s nose.”
“Good for you, kid! Show those motherfuckers who’s boss.”
She still wished that he wouldn’t call her “kid.” “So, how did you end up married to a racist, anyway?”
“Our families went back a few generations. It was pretty much expected that me and Della would get married, so we did.”
Allison invited Mitchell to sit, then went into the kitchen for drinks. When she returned, Allison joined Mitchell on the couch and asked, “So, how long you been married?”
“Sixteen years, and you know what? I’ve never loved her.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sixteen years with a woman you don’t love.... How the hell do you keep your sanity?”
“Through my work.” He took a pull off his beer. “You know, when we first got married, she thought my dream to produce ‘that colored music’ was just a phase I was going through. When she realized that I was serious, Della got real mad. Talked to my parents, threatened to divorce me and take the kids, you name it. Took all the willpower I had to stay with my music.”
“Thank god you did. Those records have gotten me through some rotten-ass times.”
“Hadn’t have stuck with it, I’d be dead now, because I damned sure would’ve killed myself. But hell, kid, let’s stop talking about me. How about you? What do you do for work?”
“I’m a check-out girl at a fucking supermarket.”
“Really? With a brain like yours, you work in a supermarket?”
Allison, unused to being complimented, blushed. “Well, it’s not like I went to college. Hell, I dropped out of high school in my junior year.”
“How come?”
“Kerouac.”
“Kerouac? You mean, that beatnik guy?”
“Yup. When I was seventeen, I read On The Road and decided I wanted to cross the country. So, I took all my money out of the bank and went to San Francisco.”
“Why’d you come back?”
“Got tired of sleeping in Golden Gate Park. And those fucking hippies really got on my nerves! You know all that bullshit about them being these big non-conformists? That’s all it is — bullshit. Fucking hippies were just as conformist as those pieces of shit I went to high school with. And don’t even get me going on their music. ‘In-a-Gadda-da-Vida,’ for chrissake.”
Mitchell laughed.
“So, I came back to Brooklyn. That was three years ago.”
Mitchell gave Allison a long look. “I’m damned glad I met you, kid.”
Embarrassed, she looked away. “Uh, my records are upstairs. Wanna see ‘em?”
“Sure.”
Upstairs was an unused room that Allison had claimed as her own. Taped to the door was a hand-printed sign that read, ALLIE’S RECORD LAIR. When Mitchell saw the hundreds of albums and singles that filled the room, he exclaimed, “Holy shit! You really do like music, don’t you?”
“And rest assured, nothing of Bobby Dreamland’s will ever find its way in here.”
Mitchell picked up a box of forty-fives and burst out laughing. “’Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’?”
“I was eight years old! Give me a break. Besides, you’re looking in the junk box. The good stuff is on the shelves.”
Mitchell saw what she meant. This nice Italian girl from New York, and she had LPs by Aretha Franklin, James Brown, Sam and Dave, B.B. King, and artists Mitchell thought nobody up north had heard of, like Irma Thomas and O.V. Wright. The only white records he saw were by acts like the Flaming Ember and Dusty Springfield. Next, Mitchell turned to Allison’s forty-fives.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” He held up “Steal Away” by Jimmy Hughes. “I haven’t heard this in years.”
“Hand it over and you’ll hear it now.” Allison placed the single on her turntable. As the plaintive ballad filled the room, Mitchell extended his arms.
“Come on kid, let’s dance.”
“Only if you stop calling me ‘kid.’”
He grinned. “Deal.”
They held each other and swayed to the song. As it faded, Mitchell gazed into Allison’s eyes. He rested his fingertips on her cheeks and kissed her. Allison moaned softly and darted her tongue between his lips.
As their faces separated, Mitchell said, “Maybe we ought to slow down.”
“Yeah.”
Mitchell lit a cigarette and offered Allison one. She accepted it and allowed Mitchell to light the cigarette for her. They smoked in awkward silence.
Finally, Mitchell said, “So, how does a nice Italian girl even get interested in R&B?”
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “For my tenth birthday, my parents bought me a radio. I listened to it every minute I could. One night I was flipping around the dial when all of a sudden, I heard this sound. It was like nothing I ever heard before! It was this black woman screaming — not singing, but screaming. And these background voices were taunting her: ‘You know you love him, you can’t understand/Why he treats like he do when he’s such a good man.’”
Mitchell smiled. “Ike and Tina.”
“Yup. Come to find out, it was a low-powered AM out of Queens. They did ethnic stuff during the day, but at night it was pure rhythm and blues, followed by an all-night gospel show. The DJ I dug the most was Millie Jett-Black.”
Mitchell groaned.
“Swear to god, that’s what she called herself. So, the day after I heard the Ike and Tina song, I went down to the record store. They knew me there — so well, in fact, the clerk said, ‘Bet you want the new Connie Francis platter.’
“I told him, ‘Nope. I want “A Fool In Love” by Ike and Tina Turner.’
“He looked at me like I had kicked him in the balls. ‘But that’s a colored record!’
I told him, ‘I don’t give a damn if it’s a colored record. I want it.’” She took a drag off her cigarette. “Turned out, the song was two years old. They had to special order it for me. But from then on, all I wanted was R&B.”
Mitchell listened attentively.
“I also read the Negro press. Come to find out, Millie Jett-Black was a local celebrity. She went and purchased her airtime from the radio station and got her money back by selling ads for the show. She put so goddamned many commercials on the air, I used to really get pissed off. But every night when I went to bed, I flicked on that radio. Millie played stuff that I never would have heard otherwise. Sometimes, I even stayed up late and listened to the gospel DJ who followed her. Funny thing is, I’m now an atheist.”
Allison picked her beer up off the floor and gulped some down. “Then, I started going to shows at the Apollo.”
“In Harlem?”
“Yup. And that’s when my parents shit a brick. Bad enough I was buying all those ‘nigger records,’ but now I’m taking the A Train to Harlem every Saturday. They even talked about sending me to a shrink.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Goddamned racism.... So, is Millie Jett-Black still on the air?”
“Nah. She died a few years ago; throat cancer. I even went to the funeral. Of course, my parents freaked out. After all, it was in Harlem. But you know what? I was far from the only white kid there.” Allison stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. “To this day, whenever I’m angry, depressed, or lonesome, I visit Millie’s grave and I talk to her. Makes me feel better somehow. Don’t ask me why.”
Bobby got out of the car ahead of his parents and darted into the house. He knew Allie didn’t approve of his singing, but he still had to show her the album. She wasn’t downstairs, though, so he tried the record lair. It was empty.
“Allie?” He rapped on her bedroom door and walked in. Bobby gasped when he saw his sister giving Skip Mitchell a blowjob.
Allison screamed, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
Bobby gulped. “Umm.... I’ll keep the folks downstairs.”
“OK, thanks.”
When the lovers came downstairs, the Leonettis warmly greeted Mitchell.
Maria said, “Bobby said you and Allie was listening to records.”
“Yeah, she has quite a collection.” Mitchell looked at his watch. “My god, look at the time! Allie, you’d better get me back to the hotel.”
“You got it.”
After they had left, Vince said, “So, she’s finally making some white friends, huh?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Bobby. “Those two are becoming real close.”
“That’s nice,” said Maria.