Jingle Boys, page 6
Frankie joined Max and leaned forward too. “It was like you were in some sorta trance,” Frankie said. “You really connected.”
“Bobbi was the real star,” said Wally. He kept his eyes on the window, uncomfortable with the praise that was being heaped upon him. He understood that compliments were how guys apologized without actually saying, “Sorry.”
“That Bobbi likes you,” said Max. “You oughta ask her out.”
“Doubt she’ll ever want to see me again,” Wally said. “Not sure I could face her now, anyway.”
“Course, you will,” said Max, “when we win the contest.”
“We need that money,” said Frankie. “You’ll see. We’ll get the dough, you’ll get the girl, and everything will work out fine.”
Wally nodded and smiled, but he knew a lie when he heard one.
Under the glow of their Kensington brownstone’s interior hallway light, Wally, Max, and Frankie keyed their way back into the Lipkins’ apartment, careful not to wake Mr. and Mrs. Lipkin. The guys were exhausted, not just from their trip to Manhattan but from the extra hour it had taken to retrieve their clothes from Mulligan’s and to return the Edelmans’ suits to A-Rite. They had to dry-clean and rehang the garments to cover their tracks, and that level of detailed deception, it turned out, was a time-consuming, tiring business.
Frankie crashed on the sofa with a Lipkin family afghan blanket, and Max face-planted onto his bed in the guys’ bedroom, snoring before his head hit the pillow. Wally, on the other hand, found it harder to wind down from the events of the evening.
He paused at the dresser he shared with Max, suddenly drawn to the hidden heirloom he had long ago secreted away under the clothes in his large top drawer. He quietly pulled it open and pushed his hand into the depth of his folded underwear and socks, feeling around for a ring box he had tucked away at the age of thirteen, the day after his bar mitzvah.
The long-languishing box was a small, smooth wooden cube etched with fine, Hebrew letters, arranged to spell his Hebrew name. Like all Jewish boys, upon his birth, Wally had been gifted a Jewish name along with his given name—a name designed to be used in communal ceremonies like circumcisions, bar mitzvahs, or weddings.
His name was Shelomo—Hebrew for Solomon.
He had only heard himself referred to as Shelomo twice in his life, once during Max’s bar mitzvah and once again during his own coming-of-age ceremony. It felt odd to have a name designed to fit, but to be used only rarely, like a rented wedding tuxedo or a new funeral suit. He supposed it made sense to give a man a secret identity, like Clark Kent and Superman, for those times when a guy just wanted to pretend his miserable life actually belonged to someone else. But since the Lipkins were not temple-going Jews, this name, Shelomo, now seemed like an artifact, an artifice, a public thing to wear on the right occasion, but meant to languish like his ring box, tucked away for some special occasion that never seemed to come.
Tonight, oddly, for the first time in years, that box called to him.
He pulled it out, slowly pushed the drawer closed with his shoulder, and retreated to his bed, where he sat by the buzzing radiator. He lifted the box open against tiny golden hinges under a wash of moonlight that beamed through his bedroom window, clouded with frost. Inside was a silver ring, a thing of beauty, adorned with Hebrew letters along the band, like those etched on the box. A Jewish star seal on the ring’s face shone like an emblem wealthy noblemen might use to endow hot wax with a family crest. This, however, was not the tool of a nobleman. It was a bar mitzvah gift from his grandmother, an heirloom left behind by his grandfather, who had passed when Wally was just seven.
His bubbe Esther had pulled Wally aside after his last bar mitzvah guest had left the temple, while his parents were putting away the leftover challah and brisket. It was a time before anxiety neurosis had become Wally’s curse, when remembering his Torah portion and Hebrew pronunciations were the largest of his concerns.
He recalled Bubbe Esther cornering him by the bathrooms, taking his hand, and placing the box square in his palm. “This, Walter,” she said, “is for you.”
Wally had opened the box and gaped at the shining ring. “Why?” he said, believing himself unworthy and undeserving of such a family treasure. “Isn’t this Papa Herschel’s ring?”
“It is.”
“Shouldn’t it go to Max?” said Wally. “He’s the oldest.”
His bubbe scoffed as though she’d eaten something sour. “Don’t be foolish,” she said. “Why should being born first make a person more worthy of a gift?”
Wally had shrugged.
“Max has many gifts of his own,” his bubbe had said, “and he’ll have many more, just because he’s first. Your papa Herschel was third in his family, and I was second in mine. This is not a gift for the first born, tatala. This ring has always been for you. You were named for Solomon after all. Shelomo was granted the kingdom, even though he was not the first born to David.”
“I’m no King Solomon,” Wally had said.
“Solomon was many things,” Bubbe Esther had replied cryptically. “Even had a ring of his own. Perhaps someday you will understand.”
Wally had cherished Bubbe Esther’s words more than the ring, particularly the permission her words seemed to grant that he, like his namesake, could be many things. And, after several hours of eyeing the heirloom, imagining all the many things he might one day become, he had returned the ring to its box and shoved it in his underwear drawer, where it had sat for years.
He now angled the open box in the moonlight. He remembered the tale from Hebrew school, a Jewish story about wise King Solomon and his own ring of power, bequeathed by God himself. The ring gave Solomon the ability to talk to animals—and even plants—but, most importantly, it held power over demons like Asmodeus.
The mighty Asmodeus, king of the demons, according to the tale, had threatened the Jewish people, tricked and tormented them, and created mayhem and discord. However, through the power of the ring, Solomon—Shelomo—had overcome Asmodeus, tamed and controlled him, and forced the mighty demon to use his strength and guile to help build the Great Temple of Israel, restoring hope and life back to the Jews.
It was a story Wally now remembered, not just because he shared the wise king’s name but because, ever since that stunted kiss with Eleanor Getzman, he had longed for a way to control his own demon. He was tempted to don the ring now and implore it to vanquish the demon inside him, the one that seemed determined to sabotage his life. He wished now to activate the ring and smote the anxiety neurosis that plagued him, dogged him, and unraveled the fabric of his life, to use the ring to end his misery and allow him to dream of a life without his curse.
But Wally knew his answers didn’t lie in a ring bequeathed by his grandparents, hidden beneath his underpants. God had not looked upon Wally as he had upon Solomon, and deemed him worthy of divine intervention. Wally’s demon was not named Asmodeus. Wally was his own demon, and how did one smite oneself and reap any benefit?
He quietly closed the wooden box as if closing the chapter on his book of childish dreams, stepped over to his bureau, and once again buried such hopeful nonsense back in the depths of his top drawer. When his weary head finally hit the pillow and his delusions faded, his last thought was to wonder why anyone would want the power to talk to plants anyway.
3
Visitors
Wally and Max stood bleary-eyed by the family phone, awaiting Brubaker’s call and the results of the jingle contest. There had never been a more important call, and Wally wished he was more lucid as he faced his fate.
“This is like waiting for water to boil,” said Max, staring at the phone receiver.
“Huh?” Frankie rose from the Lipkins’ couch, the family afghan in a heap beside him. His red hair was uncombed, and he couldn’t stop yawning.
“When’s this Brubaker character supposed to call anyway?” Saul asked. He stood by the open front door, wearing his coat and hat, clearly eager to get to work.
“He said he’d call this morning,” said Max. “He didn’t give us a time.”
“What kind of meshuggener doesn’t give a time?”
Sadie, already in the hallway, peeked around the open door. “You boys can use the phone at the shop.”
“Brubaker doesn’t have the shop number, Ma,” said Max. “He’s gonna call us here.”
“Pop, can’t we just meet you at the cleaners?” asked Wally, finally rising to the moment. “It’s right downstairs. I don’t understand why you even wear your coat and hat.”
“It’s work, and it’s December,” his father snapped. “I take work seriously and so should you.” He pushed his hat forward as if punctuating his thought. He pressed his fingers to his lips and touched them to the doorframe mezuzah, giving his home the traditional Jewish blessing before stomping out the door and down the stairwell.
“Good luck, boys,” said their mother. “I’ll handle your father. And don’t forget, it’s the first night of Hanukkah. I’m making a brisket.” She blew them a kiss and dashed after her husband.
With his parents gone, Wally closed the door and leaned against it, the pressure of the moment building in his head. “I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life,” he said. Of course, neither Max nor Frankie knew that Wally’s life depended on what Brubaker said on the phone. He needed a Hanukkah miracle.
“Relax,” said Max. “Brubaker will call to congratulate us, and we’ll be celebrating in no time.”
“I need that dough,” said Frankie, his voice raspy from lack of sleep and a night full of whiskey. He stretched his arms to the morning and then ran his fingers through his red mop. “Don’t jinx it.”
Before Wally could ask why Frankie was so obsessed with money, the doorbell buzzed, vibrating the door at Wally’s back. When he opened it, Roger Brubaker was standing there in the flesh, wearing a long coat, a bright-blue bow tie under his chin, his hat in his hand. The cool air from the street downstairs still swirled around him in the hallway and gave his cheeks a flushed glow.
“Mr. Brubaker?” said Wally. “We were waiting for your call about the contest.”
“Figured I’d pay you a visit instead.” The station manager looked in from the doorway like a tourist on some foreign vacation, ogling the scenery. “Place ain’t easy to find.”
“Don’t just stand there, Walter,” chided Max. “Invite him in.”
“Right. Sorry, Mr. Brubaker. Please, come in.”
The station manager walked past Wally into the family room, continuing to size up the place. When he spotted the piano, he pointed at it with his hat. “An upright. Nice. That a Wurlitzer?”
“Yessir,” said Wally. “Course, it’s nothing like the Steinway at the studio.”
“We use what we’ve got,” said Brubaker. “And that there is a lesson.”
Wally puzzled over his words but couldn’t quite understand his point.
“Please have a seat,” said Max. “Can we take your coat?”
“No need. Can’t stay long.” The station manager sat in their father’s chair, rested his hat on his knee, and leaned forward. “I came to give it to you straight and in person, boys.” He shook his head. “You fellas didn’t win.”
The oxygen seemed to leave the room, and Wally’s apartment walls felt like they were closing in. Brubaker’s single pointed declaration confirmed every fear he’d had. He’d never see Bobbi LaFleur again, and he would die for sure in some European ditch. He staggered over and sat on the piano bench.
“Didn’t win?” Max repeated.
“You’re talented. All three of you,” Brubaker added. “Each of you, standouts. The lyrics, the composition, the playing. All top-notch.”
“Thanks, I guess,” said Frankie, “but we were hoping for the cash.”
“And the radio play.” Max hung his head.
Wally just wanted the job, but now, the lesson of his life was clear: broken men were destined for broken hearts. His fate was sealed, and for good measure, Rat Rubinstein would skewer them alive in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Everything was falling apart.
“Don’t sound so glum, fellas. You won second place.”
“There’s a second place?” Wally perked up.
“You bet there’s a second place,” said Brubaker. “Second out of fifty-three contestants. That’s pretty good in my book.”
“What’s second place get?” said Frankie, now more awake.
“Second place gets a shot at another jingle. A paid one. That is, if you’re interested.”
“Sure we are,” said Max.
“Another jingle?” said Wally. The air quickly returned to the room, and it smelled like lilacs. “Is there still a job in it? The one in Washington?”
“I suppose jobs could still be on the table,” said Brubaker.
Wally’s greatest wish burned like the undying Hanukkah shammos, lasting beyond the oil that could reasonably be expected to fuel its flame.
“What’s the jingle for?” said Max. “More war bonds?”
“Podolor Diaper Service,” said Brubaker with more fanfare than Wally thought diapers deserved. “The Podolor ad men are in a pinch and need a jingle, pronto. Think you’re up to it?”
“What’s it pay?” interrupted Frankie.
“Gig pays thirty bucks,” said Brubaker, “ten of which goes to me as your manager in this little arrangement. Anyone will tell you that’s a square deal.”
“When do they need it?” asked Max.
Brubaker leaned back in their father’s chair. “Tomorrow.”
“We’ll do it!” Wally replied before Max could answer. He didn’t know anything about diapers, but the new jingle meant he’d have another chance at seeing Bobbi, another chance to hit up Brubaker for that Washington job, another shot at surviving this godforsaken war.
Max caught the fever too. “All right,” he said. “We’re in.”
“But it’s five bucks to you, and the rest to us,” said Frankie. His sleepy eyes suddenly focused like a fox spotting his prey.
“Five’s a little thin for a manager, Red.”
Frankie pushed back an errant strand of hair and stepped forward. “You came all the way to Brooklyn when you could’ve just called us on the phone,” Frankie said. “I’m betting you’ve got no one else to pull off this diaper deal by tomorrow.”
The station manager fell silent, locking a stony-faced stare on Frankie.
“Without a jingle,” Frankie continued, “there’s no money to split. And there’s gotta be a premium for pronto, right?” Frankie raised his eyebrow triumphantly.
Wally held his breath, afraid Frankie might have ruined their chances, both at the money and at the job in Washington.
“Francis,” Brubaker began, using Frankie’s real name for the first time. “I like you”—he gestured toward Wally’s brother—“but maybe leave the moxie to Max.”
Wally was surprised to hear that Brubaker had remembered their names.
Max smirked some quiet victory and Frankie just frowned.
“Let’s keep it at ten clams to me,” Brubaker pronounced. He lifted his hat off his knee and pointed it at the boys. “Tomorrow, we can talk about your future.”
“Sounds fair!” blurted Wally, and Frankie quietly conceded, obviously seeing that money may lie in that future to which the station manager alluded.
Brubaker stood, put his hat on his head, and reached for the door.
“Almost forgot—” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his wool overcoat. “Those Podolor fellas are quirky. They have some specific requests for their jingle.”
“What kinda requests?” said Max.
Brubaker handed him the sheet. “Four-by-four count. Five lines of lyrics. First line’s gotta end with the word ‘hoist.’ Fourth line ends with the name ‘Podolor.’ They wanna hit some notes on certain measures too. It’s all there on that paper.”
“Strange requests,” said Max, eyeballing the sheet.
“Told you,” Brubaker said. “Think you can manage it?”
Frankie snatched the paper and waved it at Brubaker. “You guarantee the pay; we can manage anything.”
“Terrific,” said Brubaker. “See you boys at the station tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp.”
With only one day to pull together the new jingle, the trio realized they would have no time for their day jobs. Frankie placed a call to the grocery and got Mr. Mulligan on the line. With his voice still froggy from lack of sleep, Frankie managed to convince Mulligan he was too sick to come in to work.
Wally’s father would be a different story.
“What are we gonna tell Pop?” said Wally. “He wasn’t exactly supportive this morning.”
“We got second place. We tell him there’s money in it for us,” said Max.
“He’s gonna want his part of it.”
“So, we bargain,” said Max. “You know what he’s like.”
Wally opened the door, ready to accompany Max downstairs for the conversation with their father, but standing in front of them was Audrey.
“Your mother said I could find you here,” Audrey said. Her arms were crossed, and she frowned at Wally like Superman using laser vision to burn a hole through a bank vault.
Panic shot down Wally’s spine as he realized that last night’s trip to the Diamond Club meant he’d missed his radio date with Audrey, her price for keeping his secret.
“Audrey!”
She returned a dark, angry stare and Wally quickly turned to Max.
“Can you handle things with Pop?”
Max eyed Audrey and then Wally. “Fine, but you owe me.”
“Thanks,” said Wally. He leaned into the apartment. “Hey, Frankie, help yourself to some coffee,” he shouted. “Stashed a jar behind the cornflakes. I’ll be right back.”
“Already on it,” said Frankie, opening the cupboard.
Max strode off to A-Rite as Wally closed the door behind him, stepping into the hallway with Audrey.
