I got dizzy whenever I held that girl in my arms.
“Nancy,” I said to her, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“What is it, Bert?” she said, and then immediately said, “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. It’s something terrible.”
“How can you know it’s something terrible?” I asked.
“Because the cream whipped stiff this morning,” she said.
“Oh now, Nancy...”
“That’s a bad sign,” she said.
“Well, this isn’t anything so terrible.”
“What is it?” she said. “No, don’t tell me.”
“I joined the Army this morning,” I said.
She was silent. Her hand tightened in mine, and she looked up into my face, her green eyes wide with shock and disbelief, and then she just sighed and rested her head on my shoulder and still didn’t say anything. I wished she would say something.
“When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you,” Red sang in his deep baritone, the megaphone throwing his voice out into the small hall as couples whirled by us, “Down in lovers lane, my dearie,” girls in velveteen and tricolette, frocks of satin veiled with chiffon, crepes and jerseys, brocades, young men in flannels and tweeds, a few uniforms here and there among the crowd, “So wait and pray each night for me, till we meet again.”
“Nancy?” I said.
“Why’d you do it, Bert?”
“It’s a changing world,” I said.
“Don’t you love me, Bert?”
“I love you, Nance, but it’s a changing world, everything’s changing. They’re talking about renaming Eau Fraiche, did you know that, Nance? They’re talking about calling it Freshwater.”
“What’s that got to do with your getting killed?”
“I’m not going to get killed, Nance.”
“But, Bert, why?” she insisted. “Why?”
“Because I have to do my part,” I said. “I owe it to America.”
“It’s no use,” she said, “men are but children of a larger growth,” using a tried-and-true family expression, handed down from generation to generation together with a trunkload of proverbs and maxims that Nancy pulled out every so often like cherished relics from another age. I loved her for it. I loved everything about her. I loved the way her hand rested so lightly on my shoulder now, trembling just the tiniest bit, I loved the curve of her waist where my fingers spanned the sash of her gown, I loved the sweet scent of her, and the solemn look of her, the deadly serious look on her face as she raised it to mine, never missing a step, her eyes filming, glittering, caught in the red and blue rotating lights of the hall, Red Reynolds’ voice behind her distorted through the megaphone.
“Don’t die,” she said. “Bert, please don’t die on me, promise me you won’t die.”
The band stopped playing.
I stood with Nancy my love in the middle of the floor. We didn’t say anything for the longest time, we just kept looking into each others’ faces, and finally there was music again, and I smiled at her, and pulled her close, and we danced.
February
I was at the center of all that sound, the sound buffeted me in successive electronic waves, I felt exhilarated and dizzy and confident, certain now that we’d win the battle. Standing behind my Farfisa organ, I banged out the chord progression of “Louie, Louie,” A, A, A, and D, D, and E minor, E minor, E minor, and D, and D again, and heard Nelson to my left crashing away at the cymbals in rising crescendo. The name of the group was lettered in a psychedelic circle on Nelson’s bass drum, dawn patrol, and the drumskin vibrated now with each successive thumping whap of Nelson’s right foot on the pedal. This group is flying tonight, I thought, we are flying high above it, that’s what this old group is doing, and exuberantly shouted “Haaaaaah,” as Rog went into the final chorus. The sound was incredible. Connie was working the volume on his amp, building the feedback so that he had it sounding like a fifth instrument, Rog whapping away with the fuzz tone up full, Nelson beating the drums to death. My own fingers felt sore and swollen as I struck chords on the organ, sprinkled organ dust into the harmony of lead and bass guitar, threw crashing organ blasts out into the crowd there milling around the school gym. I saw Cass Hagstrom from the corner of my eye, and zocked a big E minor straight at her, and then grinned, and hit the volume pedal as we went into the last four bars.
I was sweating like a pig when we finished. Nelson was wearing a wild flushed crazy look on his face, “I think we took them, Wat,” he said, “Jesus, we sounded great!”
Connie came over, unstrapping his guitar, his big round face broken in a toothy grin. “Hey, how about that?” he shouted, and slapped both me and Nelson on the back, almost sending poor skinny Nelson through his own bass drum. Rog meticulously turned off the amps, put his bass down on the seat of the folding chair, and walked over, looking very serious and pale and worried.
“What do you think?” he said.
“We sounded great,” I answered.
“You think so? I think The Four Ducks were better.”
“Never,” Connie said.
“I think so. They had a better mix.”
“Man, did you hear what I was doing with the feedback?” Connie said, still grinning, still very excited.
“Oh, man, that was tough,” Nelson said.
“Man, we don’t take first place...” Connie started.
“We’ve got to take first,” I said. “We don’t take first, the hell with any more battles. Who needs them?”
“We’ll take first,” Nelson assured us both.
“The Ducks were better,” Rog said solemnly, and then took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Did I sound okay on ‘Rising Sun’?”
“You sounded great,” I said.
“There’s Mr. Jaegers,” Connie said.
“Shhh, shhh.”
Mr. Jaegers, the president of the Talmadge Lions’ Club, which had sponsored this battle of the bands, adjusted the microphone, blew into it, and then said, “Can you hear me back there?” One of the kids standing at the back of the gym shouted, “Yeah, we hear you!” and Mr. Jaegers said, “How’s that?” and a lot of kids this time shouted, “Great, crazy,” and Mr. Jaegers blew into the microphone again, and said, “Our three judges are now deliberating, but before we give you their results, I’d like to make a few acknowledgments. I want to thank, first of all, the ladies of the church Altar Society for providing tonight’s refreshments, and especially Mrs. Peggy Greer, who contacted the Coca-Cola Company and had them deliver the dispenser set up in the hall outside. I want to thank Mr. Teale, your principal, who gave the Lions’ Club every cooperation in making the school and the gymnasium available tonight for the battle. And I want to thank our three judges — Mr. Coopersmith, who, as you know, is in broadcasting, and who was kind enough to come over here tonight, and also Mr. Isetti of the Clef and Staff Music Shop in town, and our third judge, who like yourselves, is a teen-ager and a member of The...” Mr. Jaegers paused, consulted the slip of paper in his hand again, turned away from the microphone, and asked, “What docs this say?”
“The Butterfly Push,” I said.
“... a member of The Butterfly Push,” Mr. Jaegers said into the microphone, “that’s the name of his band. But most of all, I would like to thank Mr. Kevin Price of the Lions’ Club, whose idea it was to have this battle, and who worked so hard co-ordinating all the various elements that have gone into making it a success.”