by Max Shulman
Opie did a sight of close work on his tour, all of which he thoroughly enjoyed, and he wrote a few new songs—not more than two or three hundred—and then he came back to Nashville, bought himself a sky-blue Cadillac, made a second appearance on Grand Old Opry, recorded some songs, and left on another tour (third billing in a troupe of five this time) which took him east to the Carolinas, north to Vermont, and then back through New York State, Pennsylvania, and Ohio.
A notice from the draft board followed him all through this tour but did not catch up with him until he was back in Nashville. It could not have been more untimely, coming as it did when he was just beginning to get a foothold in country music, but it never occurred to Opie to ask for a postponement. Instead he got magnificently drunk and in the morning sent off his Cadillac to his daddy and reported quietly for military service.
There was a tiny bit of trouble during his first days in the Army. His barracks mates had some things to say about his sideburns, his buckskin fringed suits, and his guitar, all of which Opie bore with sweet patience until it became clear that direct measures were indicated. Then he cold-cocked his two principal tormentors with a short left and a short right respectively, and the ragging stopped.
Looking at Opie with new eyes—especially after his cowboy duds had been traded for khaki and a G.I. barber had darkened the floor with his sideburns—the boys in the barracks began to see that he was no rustic pantaloon, but a man of considerable parts. He was friendly, agreeable, and intelligent; he was no stranger to the world; he could drop a man with either his right or left hand; and he sang from the heart.
The mantle of leadership fell naturally upon Opie’s shoulders, and he wore it with the lordly unconcern of the born commander. The company NCO’s, also aware of Opie’s quality, quickly promoted him to acting corporal. When the company was detailed to Putnam’s Landing, the designation was made official.
Now Corporal Opie Dalrymple sat easily on the troop train clacking north by east and rested his feet on a barracks bag and struck soft chords on his guitar. He was content. He did not look back and curse the fate that had cut off a career full of bright promise; nor did he look forward with dismay to two years’ duty in a little New England backwater called Putnam’s Landing. “Country’s country,” he had said, and he felt with a serenity based on accomplishment that no man need go loveless.
As he sat and anticipated a rich, full life in Putnam’s Landing, his muse, never distant, lighted on his shoulder and moved him to composition. From the heart he sang and picked the following:
Ah’m a long gone soldier in a faraway land,
And muh load of grief is great,
But if you’ll let me hold yore dear little hand,
Ah’ll be at Heaven’s gate.
15
“Daddy-O,” said soft young Comfort Goodpasture to her hard old father Isaac, “what are you doing?”
“I am trying to write an editorial,” replied Isaac, “and you do not lighten my task by humming Love Me Tender and rasping your fingernails. Is it possible that you might do those things in your own room?”
“But I want to talk to you,” said Comfort.
“You do?” he said, mildly astonished. It had been many a long year since such a request had come from Comfort. “Is there anything wrong?”
“There certainly is!” declared Comfort. “Daddy-O, something awful is happening to me—something to do with sex.”
“I knew it!” cried Isaac, going white. “I knew it was only a matter of time!”
“Oh, relax! It’s not anything like that. It’s just emotional.”
“Glory be to God!” breathed Isaac, his color returning.
“Well, it’s nothing to celebrate,” said Comfort resentfully. “I mean this thing has really got me bugged.”
“Bugged,” said Isaac, “is, I think, not an unusual condition for you.”
“Not this bugged,” she insisted. “Daddy-O, listen. Something weird has happened. All of a sudden, I like boys. I don’t just like ’em; I mean I go ape when I think about ’em!”
“I see,” said Isaac. “And when did this transformation take place?”
“I don’t know. Three or four weeks ago, I guess. I first noticed it the night Grady Metcalf came around with his motorcycle. You see, his fossils promised him a motorcycle on his eighteenth birthday if he passed math, and—”
“By fossils,” interrupted Isaac, “I presume you mean parents?”
“What else?” said Comfort. “Well, anyhow—”
“Excuse me,” said Isaac, interrupting again. “Am I to understand that Grady Metcalf passed math?”
“Weirdsville, ain’t it?” said Comfort.
“It is indeed,” he agreed.
“Yeh,” said Comfort. “Well, anyhow, Grady Metcalf, who is one of the really big meatballs of our generation and I hate him like poison, he took me out riding on his motorcycle, and you know what? All of a sudden, he didn’t seem like such a meatball! And you know what else? When I saw him in school the next day, he looked even better!”
“Weirdsville,” said Isaac solemnly.
“But that’s not the worst of it!” cried Comfort. “All the boys looked good to me! I mean I went down the hall and saw twerps and gropers that I would just as soon step on ’em as look at ’em, and suddenly they didn’t seem so bad after all. In fact, lately there’s not more than fifteen or twenty boys in the whole school that I can’t stand.”
“Tell me,” said Isaac nervously, “this new outlook of yours—has it made you, shall we say, more tractable?”
“Oh, don’t worry, Daddy-O. I haven’t done anything. They still call me ‘The Iron Maiden’ at school … But I’ll tell you the truth, Daddy-O: when I cope these days, my heart isn’t really in it.”
“You do, however, continue to cope?” asked Isaac hopefully.
“I do,” sighed Comfort. “But it seems less important all the time … And that’s what bugs me, Daddy-O. Why do I feel this way?”
Isaac was suddenly touched to the depths of his craggy heart. He rose from his desk, walked over to Comfort, and laid an awkward hand on her shoulder. “Comfort, child,” he said softly, “if the Good Lord in His wisdom had not seen fit to take your mother, perhaps she could answer you. All I can say is no matter how bewildering it all seems, it is quite natural, and soon everything will be in order again.”
“Grand!” said Comfort unhappily. “What do I do in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” answered Isaac, “you’ve got three hundred years of Puritan blood in your veins. Listen to it.”
The Putnam’s Landing chapter of the Dean-Presley School of Juvenile Delinquency met nightly in the parking lot of Fatso’s Diner. Here, starting at seven in the evening, they would stand beside their hybrid automobiles, tilt their pelvises, hug their elbows, smoke cigarettes, tell lies about their sex life, and spit. After a while they would go inside the diner, drink cokes, lean on the juke box and play Fats Domino, the Clef Tones, and, of course, Elvis. Toward midnight they would go home, where, during their absence, their fathers and mothers had been arguing violently, each mother contending that there was nothing wrong with the boy, he was just passing through a phase, and each father insisting that a good belt on the side of the head would send him through the phase a hell of a lot faster. As the boy slouched into the house, the mother would approach him with a sweet, propitiatory smile and say, “Would you like a glass of milk before you go to bed, dear?” By way of reply he would snarl, “Will you get off my back, fa Chrisake?” and lurch up to his bedroom while the mother bodily prevented the father from going after him and fracturing his skull.
Thus passed a typical evening of a typical New Delinquent—spitting, loitering, and addling his parents. No gas stations got held up, no stores got burgled, no citizens got mugged, no blood got spilled.
And no girls got ruined. The sex life of the New Delinquent was wholly conversational. On week nights they had no dates at all; on Fridays and Saturdays the
y drove the local girls to dark places and made out. “Making out” was nothing more than what used to be called necking or petting. This activity, as older readers will recall, covered a good deal of territory, but always stopped short of fulfillment. The New Delinquents were in their hearts as scared of real sex as they were of real larceny.
Now on this night, while Comfort Goodpasture was having a heart-to-heart talk with her father, four New Delinquents were lounging around a fenderless, souped-up 1932 Ford in the parking lot of Fatso’s Diner. Each wore a ducktail haircut and long, greasy sideburns, each held a king-size cigarette in his mouth, each was seventeen years old. They stood, this quartet of rebels-without-causes, these victims of the Zeitgeist, and made the following conversation:
“What’s the scoop for tonight?” said the one called Wally.
“Same as last night—nothin’,” said the one called Ed.
“Lousy burg is a lousy morgue,” said the one called Charlie.
“Kee-rap,” said the one called Fred.
All spat.
“They ought to have a youth center in this burg,” said Wally, “where a guy could pick up some tail.”
“I could use some,” said Ed. “It’s been more’n a week.”
“Kee-rap,” said Fred.
“No, honest,” said Ed. “Remember when my old lady took me to New York to see this head-shrinker? Well, I snuck away for a half-hour, see, and I’m walkin’ down Fifth Avenue when I notice this dame givin’ me the eye. She’s about 35, see, but she’s still plenty good lookin’. So I just fall in step right next to her, and she don’t say boo. She turns the corner, I turn with her. She goes into a hotel, I go right along. She don’t say a word, see? So finally we get up to her room, and she lets me in and locks the door. Then she rips her clothes off, and of course I rip mine off too, and she drags me to the bed, and, man, we went the whole route!”
“Kee-rap,” said Fred.
“No, honest!” Ed insisted.
“Okay, let’s drive to New York and get her,” said Charlie.
“We can’t, hey,” said Ed. “I mean I promised her I’d never come back. She’s real hi-si, see, and if word ever got out about this, she’d be ruined with the Four Hundred.”
“Kee-rap,” said the other three.
They stood for a while expectorating morosely. Then Grady Metcalf roared into the lot on his big black Harley, and joy abruptly replaced dolor. They all broke into happy smiles and rushed to greet him.
Grady had always been their leader, but lately two developments had solidified his position. First, the motorcycle. Second, now that he was eighteen, he had a draft card and could therefore buy beer across the New York State line.
“Grady, whaddya say? What’s up? How ya makin’?” they cried, looking admiringly at this fine figure of a man in black denim trousers and motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket with an eagle on the back.
Grady regarded them coldly through half-closed Presley-style eyelids, not replying, showing the disdain that became his station. He took out a cigarette, clicked a kitchen match on his thumbnail, lit up, dragged deeply, spat.
“How’s the bike runnin’, Grady?” asked Wally, laying a respectful hand on the flank of the Harley.
Grady deigned to speak. “Cuttin’ out a little in third,” he replied. “Havin’ some trouble speed-shiftin’. Could be a plug.”
The others listened in devout silence, as young seminarians to a bishop.
“But otherwise she’s going pretty smooth,” continued Grady. “Had her up to 97 last night.”
“Kee-rist!” said the others, awed.
Pleased by the response, Grady unbent a trifle. “What are you cats up to tonight?”
“Same as last night—nothin’,” said Ed.
“Lousy burg is a lousy morgue,” said Charlie.
“Kee-rap,” said Fred.
“Hey, Grady, how about hittin’ for New York State?” suggested Wally.
“Sure!” agreed Ed enthusiastically. “Let’s go over to Beer Can Boulevard and get gassed!”
“No,” said Grady.
“Well, then, how about we cruise around and see if we can find some tail?” said Charlie.
“Good idea,” said Grady. “You do that.”
“How about you?” asked Fred.
“I got mine,” replied Grady.
They looked at him with delight and admiration. “Yeh, Grady?” asked Wally. “You on the scheme tonight?”
“That’s right,” he admitted.
“Who is she?” they asked as one man.
“Comfort Goodpasture,” he answered.
Their faces fell. “Aw, Grady,” said Charlie, “what for? You got this beautiful bike. You could pick up any broad in town. Why keep wastin’ time on The Iron Maiden?”
“That’s right, Grady,” said Wally. “Why knock yourself out for nothin’? Nobody’s ever made out with Comfort.”
“Until tonight,” said Grady confidently.
“What makes you so sure?” asked Fred.
“She’s ready,” replied Grady. “I feel it in my bones: she’s ready!”
With this positive pronouncement, he kicked the starter on his Harley and blasted off. His disciples looked after him pensively. “If anybody can do it,” said Ed, “it’s Grady.”
“Yeah,” said Fred. “But nobody can do it.”
Isaac Goodpasture had long ago learned that when a widower like himself raises a teen-age daughter like Comfort, the only possible principle to employ is laissez faire. Let her go where she wants, and depend on Providence and Yankee genes to bring her home intact.
But now as he stood at the window of his study and watched her roaring away on the back of Grady Metcalf’s motorcycle, her hair flying, her cheek flattened against Grady’s leather jacket, Isaac wondered glumly whether the time had not come to drop laissez faire and try a set of leg irons.
But no, thought he. Restraint would only make her wilder. Gentle suasion was the only answer—that and sneaking out on some moonless night and slashing Grady’s tires.
He left the window and returned to his desk, resolutely putting thoughts of Comfort from his mind. He had a job to do—a job that had been thwarting his best efforts for many days. The following week Putnam’s Landing was celebrating “Welcome Nike Day” and it was Isaac’s task now to write an appropriately hospitable editorial for the Gazette.
But Isaac could not think of one solitary reason to welcome Nike. For a man who had dedicated his life to preserving the status quo in Putnam’s Landing, the arrival of Nike was a pure calamity. Nor had he been comforted by Guido di Maggio’s assurances at the town meeting. High explosives were high explosives, and soldiers were soldiers, and no amount of talk could convince Isaac that these two elements would fit snugly into the rustic pattern of Putnam’s Landing.
Still, Nike was a fact, and it would be churlish—not to say unpatriotic—to rail against it now. There was nothing for it but to cast his mind about until he found some aspect, some angle, that would give him a properly cordial editorial.
So he sat and thought and cast. At last he found what he was looking for, and he wrote the following:
To the officers and men of the Nike base, the Putnam’s Landing Gazette extends a hearty welcome. We hope you will be content here.
To those residents of Putnam’s Landing who look upon the arrival of Nike with something less than delight, we offer this consolation: Nike has preempted for its use 100 acres of Johnnycake Hill. If Nike had not come along and taken this land, it is certain that some developer would have grabbed it and constructed 100 houses on the site. It is fair to estimate that the houses would have cost about $30,000 apiece, which means that property taxes accruing to the town from each house would have run approximately $480 per annum.
But before we mourn the loss of this revenue, let us consider another aspect. These new houses would have all been sold to commuters, who, as we have noted with no little dismay, proliferate like rabbits. It cannot be do
ubted that a minimum of three children would be born in each house—children who would have to be educated in our public schools at a cost of $635 per head per year, thus burdening the town with a net annual loss of $1425 on each house!
So we say, Welcome, Nike! And if the Air Force and the Navy would also like to come in, Welcome to them too!
Comfort and Grady sat on a bench at Tall Walnuts with the motorcycle parked nearby. There were stars in Comfort’s eyes, warmth in her bosom. She could still feel the smash of the wind, the roar of the exhaust, the road spinning dizzily underneath.
Grady, pretending casualness, reached over and picked up her hand. She disengaged it with practiced ease. “You start groping,” she said pleasantly, “and I’ll put you in the hospital.”
“Tell me somethin’, hey,” he asked. “What you got against a little makin’ out?”
“I just don’t like people slobbering all over me, that’s all.”
“I don’t slobber,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He gave her a quick, neat, unexpected kiss which, to her immense surprise, she found she was thoroughly glad to have had.
“Was that bad?” he asked.
She shook her head dumbly, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Come here.”
Without volition, it seemed, she slid closer to him. He raised her head to kiss position and fell to work truly and well. She relaxed in his embrace, all but her right hand, which swung in a short, savage arc and slammed into the back of his neck. He sprang away, howling with pain.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Grady,” she said, genuinely contrite.
“What was that for?” he complained. “I thought you liked kissing.”
“Oh, I do,” she assured him. “Kissing is wonderful! It’s you I can’t stand.”