“We’ll be done in a few minutes,” said the photographer, looking through the lens. “Just hold still.”
Frankie smirked and then smiled for the camera, when the photographer’s pretty assistant suddenly burst in. Her face was pasty, and there was a haunted look in her eyes. “This better be important,” said the photographer.
“It is,” the assistant stammered. “President Kennedy has just been assassinated.”
The photographer lifted his head from the camera and stared at his assistant with a look of disbelief. “What?” he gasped.
Frankie covered herself in a robe and stepped toward the assistant. “What? How did it happen?”
“In a parade—in Dallas—it’s all over the news,” she muttered. “It’s on television.”
Frankie ran back to the dressing room and quickly changed into her clothes. When she returned she found the photographer, the assistant, and several others gathered around the television in the studio office, watching Walter Cronkite broadcast the news of the President’s death.
Dead silence filled the room, except for a few whimpers. Frankie, unable to control herself, wiped the tears that fell from her eyes. Frankie had never been one to involve herself in politics, but Kennedy’s death touched most Americans on a much more personal level. Suddenly, it seemed, one could no longer take anything for granted.
Later that evening, in the small Spanish-Colonial apartment she shared with Katie, Frankie’s eyes were glued to the television as the assassination footage was rebroadcast over and over. Every time it played, every time Kennedy’s car pulled closer to the crowd, Frankie silently hoped for a different outcome—somehow the bullet would magically miss him. But it was always the same.
The apartment door swung open and Katie entered, tossing her tailored jacket over the back of a chair. She kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the couch next to Frankie.
Frankie glanced sideways at her. “I can’t believe you went on your date with all that’s happened.”
Katie peeled off her white gloves. “L.A. is as dead as Kennedy tonight.”
“I can’t believe you can be so callous,” said Frankie, wiping a tear from her eye.
Sorry. I just don’t know what to think or how to feel. It’s all just so surreal. It really kind of sticks to you, you know? One day you’re alive, the next day dead,” said Katie. “I don’t know what to feel.”
“I can only imagine what Jackie is going through,” Frankie said with a teary sniff. Imagine having your husband die in your arms and you are helpless to do anything for him.”
Katie wrapped her arm around Frankie’s shoulder. “You can’t spend all your time worrying about death, Frankie. You have to concern yourself with living.”
Frankie knew it was the truth, but in the days that followed, it was hard for anyone to contemplate living. The road to Kennedy’s funeral was a sobering experience for many Americans. Frankie and Katie sat on their couch, watching the televised procession with a box of tissues between them. They witnessed the band play “Hail to the Chief,” after which ushers carried the president’s casket, draped with the American flag, up the steps of the Capitol. Life in America at that moment seemed to stand still. If there was any denial in any American that day, there was none now—Kennedy’s death was certain.
Tears streamed down Frankie’s face, seeing Jackie and her two small children—Caroline and John Jr.—parade behind the procession, but what pained Frankie more was seeing Robert Kennedy, standing tall and strong, yet his face was tight with mourning. She couldn’t help it; she burst out sobbing. Katie pulled out a tissue and handed it to Frankie. “Thank you,” Frankie choked, wiping her face.
Katie was rather cool and calm throughout it all, until the moment came when little John Jr. saluted the procession passing before him. She started balling, and it was now Frankie’s turn to hand her a tissue. It was so very tragic to everyone in the country who cried tears of grief—the sight of this little boy standing and saluting his father’s passing, without any clue to the significance his simple gesture would have on millions over the world.
During the weeks that followed, Americans had no choice but to move forward; the United States watched as Lyndon B. Johnson was sworn into the office of president. It was only a short two months later, however, when the mood of the nation was transformed by the Ed Sullivan Show as it introduced a rock-and-roll band from England called the Beatles.
That evening Frankie and Kate had forgone dates for the sake of a girl’s night in with a big bowl of popcorn and a six-pack of soda pop. There was so much anticipation for this band from England that the crowds they drew and the traffic they caused were almost rivaled those of Kenney’s funeral. How quickly American’s attention was diverted from sobriety, thought Frankie.
Frankie was curious, but could not understand the sensation these young men were causing. Sure, the Beatles were cute enough, but what caught Frankie’s attention was the reaction of the crowds. How could girls let themselves get so carried away? she thought. They’re just boys like any others.. It was almost laughable.
Katie tossed a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth. “Those girls need to get laid—badly.”
Frankie grabbed a huge handful of popcorn and shoved it in her mouth and spoke while she chewed, “Why, they’re having orgasms right there in audience!”
“Why waste a perfectly good orgasm without a dick?” Katie sipped her soda pop through a straw.
Frankie laughed. “Maybe there’s something to it; orgasm and still get to keep their virginity.
“Seriously, Frankie, do you really believe that?” questioned Katie. “Have you even had an orgasm?”
Frankie hit Katie with a cushion. “Shut up. I must have. I’ve had sex before.”
“Uh-huh. If you don’t know if you did, then you didn’t,” said Katie.
“See, there’s my point,” explained Frankie. “You don’t have an orgasm with every guy you have sex with, right? Sometimes sex can be really lame. So, if orgasm can be induced without having to bear through a boring date full of wet, icky kisses, and feeling guilty the next day, then why not?”
Katie slid down in her seat. “It would save a lot of wasted time.” She pointed at the television. “Oh my God, check out the chick in the dark glasses. She just wet her seat.”
“And the girl beside her—holy shit!” commented Frankie. “See? We girls have better things to do than put up with bad dates and lame sex.”
“Yeah, we can watch the Beatles,” roared Katie.
Frankie giggled and took another big mouthful of popcorn. “You know what, Katie? I think we’re dating men from the wrong hemisphere.”
During the months that followed the Beatles’ 1964 introduction to mainstream America, a tremendous wind of change was blowing westward across the Atlantic Ocean, causing a global uproar. The winds of this storm helped carry away the stinging effects of the Kennedy assassination and the lingering sobriety that it had caused.
The playful, lighthearted beats of foreigners were just what the younger generation needed. The overall effect created a psychological condition for people worldwide that blew the lid off “traditional values” and American conservatism. For those whose minds, hearts, and bodies were still stifled by such traditions and values, suddenly there was a bright light of opportunity—a new way of living, of loving, and of being. This new clarity of vision inflicted many of the young who were more than ready to recreate a new world. It was fresh and absolutely brilliant.
The clean-cut family values of the 1950’s were already under duress from the likes of Elvis Presley, Eddie Cochran, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, and others; but the bands invading from across the Atlantic were able to make Elvis Presley’s swaying hips seem like the bunny hop at
a church luncheon. Young women of the world were ready and waiting for what seemed like centuries to be set free from their sexual boundaries and to let go completely.
The bands of the British Invasion did more than just rise to the top of the American pop charts; they invaded the hearts of American women—daughters, girlfriends, and even wives. They did this so very subtly, dressed in pressed suits, singing seemingly harmless songs of love, while at the same time pulling the proverbial wool over the eyes of Americans in the form of hot, steamy sheets.
It wasn’t just the boy bands with their often raw voices, heavy beats, and gyrating rhythms; young female performers were also stepping out, expressing their own needs for freedom. Songs declaring liberty from centuries-old traditions that had kept them in the kitchen, and love songs dedicated to rebellious young men of whom Daddy surely wouldn’t approve were among the top hits for the girls. Many young women were in search of their very own “Johnny Rebel” with whom they wished to experience passion.
On a clear August night screams could be heard echoing through the hot, dry air, creating a vacuum of sound throughout the Hollywood Bowl until nothing was audible except for a high-pitched shrill. Girls danced orgiastically to the music while young men watched, far more interested in the young ladies’ performances than that of the British band, The Dark Knights onstage, performing their top hits, Insatiable Lady, Street Beat and Girl, What I See in You. By any standard, a good time was had by all, and the passion felt at the concert would no doubt continue afterwards into the night.
Frankie was among those present in the audience at the Hollywood Bowl that night. She shook her body so hard until sweat streamed from her fair-skinned pores. There was nothing demure about her as she moved to the blood-pumping rhythms.
It was still too early in the women’s revolution for men to accept the assertiveness of a young woman, especially one so beautiful. So Frankie learned to play the game, to give men a little of her sexuality—a flirt here and there, a tease or suggestion—letting them think they could rule her, while she actually had them in the palm of her hand. This game worked very well for her; men were dishing out all kinds of opportunities.
This particular night the favor granted to Frankie and her friends was access to a party being held by the band The Dark Knights after the concert. While most girls could only go home and dream, Frankie had the opportunity of a real-life meeting. Being a celebrity herself, she did have a much cooler and calmer attitude toward meeting famous musicians. She, of course, was excited, but she had developed the poise to not appear beside herself in the presence of an attractive, famous young man.
While crowds were being hoarded through lanes marked by police barricades, talent agent Les Brown, a clean-cut man, worked his girls—Frankie; Katie; Gillian Leary, a long-haired, naturally blonde beauty; and Emily LeMore, a short, curvaceous brunette—through the crowd to a waiting red Ford convertible. It was Les’s job as chaperone to be responsible for the young starlets’ reputations.
As the convertible wound through the Hollywood Hills, the wind blew Katie’s hair around her face while she applied of lipstick over her perfect full lips. She had to keep pulling her hair off her lipstick holder and reapply it.
“You’re going to waste that entire tube before you even get to make your mark,” teased Frankie as the wind blew her own hair, turning it into a big blonde mop. Frankie was rather careless about her appearance. She rarely wore makeup outside of performances, appearances, or photo shoots. Even without makeup, she was still far more glamorous than most women who spent hours getting ready. This disregard for enhancing her own beauty was also part of her rebellion.
“I just want to make sure these guys won’t know what hit them,” said Katie, pursing her lips together.
“That’s the idea, strike first before they take their first shot,” said Frankie with a gruff, playful voice and displaying a tight fist. “We want to show those boys who’s boss!”
Katie serenaded Frankie with a Dark Knight hit loud and way off key:
Girl, what I see in you
Is more than you will know
Is more than I can ever show
I want you to be mine
Every second of time
I want you to be mine
It’s all I need to feel fine.
“Katie, the was horrid. I’d stick to acting if I were you,” said Frankie casually.
Emily turned and leaned over the vinyl seat to address the girls in the back. “They say the Dark Knights are now bigger than the Beatles.”
“I thought the Dave Clark Five were bigger than the Beatles,” retorted Katie, checking her puckered lips reflection in her compact mirror.
“I heard it was the Beach Boys,” replied Gillian, trying to keep the wind from ruining her hairstyle.
“And I thought it was Gerry and the Pacemakers,” said Frankie with a chuckle, and started swooning over Katie, singing the song “How Do You Do It?” All the girls laughed.
“Okay, whatever! Ladies, we’re going in with a plan. Let’s call it out here before we get there. That being said, I call Nick.”
“He’s married,” Katie responded.
“That’s my choice, Miss Prissy. Gillian, Frankie, Katie: make your call,” said Emily.
“Well, it’s not going to be Robbie, he’s way too pretty—that curly blond hair, those big red lips—and all those sexy moves are kind of creepy,” said Katie.
Emily asked, “What’s the problem, are you jealous?”
“You bet! I don’t need to have a guy who is prettier than me. He’d be competition with all the other guys,” said Katie with a loud laugh.
“Yeah, I heard he goes both ways,” said Frankie. “That would be a serious concern.”
“It could have its advantages,” said Emily. “You could get two guys for the price of one.”
All the girls laughed as Les held firmly to the leather steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror at the girls. “There’s going to be no calls to make,” he said, “none at all. There will not be one or two guys. Hear me! I have agents, PR people, and parents to answer to.”
“Les, you’re a big square,” said Frankie, kicking the back of his seat.
“Aw, isn’t that sweet?” said Katie. “Les is going to protect our honor.”
“Little does he know, it’s already lost,” said Emily. All the girls laughed.
“Hear that, Les? We have no more honor!” shouted Frankie.
“I don’t want to hear anymore,” said Les. “What you girls do behind closed doors is none of my business; just make sure the press doesn’t find out.” He continued along the windy road with mansions on either side, hidden behind large brass gates, while the girls settled impatiently in their seats.
Frankie leaned over the seat behind Les and said, “Girls, we don’t know what we’re walking into. Yeah, these guys are hot topic, but who knows what they’re really like . . . you know, like, in person. All we know about these guys is what we’ve seen on television. They wear make-up. Their noses might be bigger than their heads! They might have unsightly moles, or small dicks, or worse—they could be boring!”
Les shook his head as he turned up a sharp hill toward a mansion on the right. “Frankie, if your father could hear how you talk,” he said.
“Aw, shoot, Les. You’re a big fat bore!” exclaimed Frankie.
“Frankie, you can be a real drag at times,” said Gillian. “Don’t take away our dreams of big dicks.”
Frankie laughed as she fell back onto the leather seat of the convertible. “I’m not going to get sucked into an image; I’m a realist.”
Ahead in the near distance was the mansion where the Dark Knights were staying while in town. Despit
e all the big talk and big ideas, the girls grew nervous. Behind that front door was the wind that was blowing change across the globe. Somehow they all knew, in one way or another, each of them would be changed forever after tonight.
Street Beat
After the concert, Dark Knight guitarist Alex Rowley was in need of some privacy and a cool down. Behind the Hollywood mansion, he stood in the shallow end of the pool, leaning against the edge. From inside the mansion he could hear the Dark Knight’s hit song, Street Beat blaring:
It’s a different kind of beat
With the shuffling of our feet.
Heavy work boots create the sound
While we’re wondering ‘bout town
It’s the street beat
Different from the rest
It’s the street beat
The one we like best
Tapping pulse of a gentlemen’s feet
May be pleasing to all they meet
But they do not have the soul
With the thinness of their sole.
As he ran his fingers across the cool water, he gazed up at the stars. He could see them more clearly in Los Angeles; they were rarely visible back home in England. The cloud cover of England often suffocated Alex. Somehow he felt freer and more inspired under clear skies. There seemed to be more space for his mind to travel. He closed his eyes and submerged under the water. In the cool darkness, there was peace and serenity.
There was darkness and the earth was spinning. Alex reached out to hold on to something, but there was nothing there. He stumbled, tripped over his feet, and fell onto the cracked cement pavement in the backyard of his parents’ terraced home in Manchester, England. It had been seven years since the 1940 Nazi bombings, but debris and rubble still remained.
Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) Page 2