TEXAS TWO STEP

         The mad music resumed at its breakneck speed: "In some secluded rendezvous, TOOT TOOT WHEEZE WHEEZE." Spike Jones was serenading the night. It had turned chilly on the deck; the sun had been out when we first sat down, but now thermal sweatshirts were in order. Bartles and James sat in the rosin chairs. Ed popped the top from another beer. I sat against the wall; my coffee and the fellowship of man being enough for me.

         We could have been inside the warm house, but in my living room all seats face the bay window. Conversations cannot be directed face to face but rather are bounced off the glass. Intimacy is lacking, and so we continued our talkfest under the stars while the tape deck rattled the night with 'Cocktails For Two." Midnight approached; the subjects of conversation grew weirder and more off the wall. I mostly listened.

         "I wonder if she's still married."
         "Who, Ed?"
         "Tammy."
         "Tammy?"
         "Yea, you know, the one who heard the mockingbird."

         Come on, guys! 1957 was forty-five years ago. That's a long time for a marriage to last these days. And did they get married? She was a young teenager, wasn't she? Of course, I never knew her. All I can remember is Billy Stewart, my best friend in ninth and tenth grade, telling me that the band would dance to the song at half-time of the next game.

         Billy played mediocre trumpet; there is no way he could have been in Spike Jones' band but he was in the High School motley crew. Our school colors were purple and gold; we were the "Royals," but as I recall the band wore blue coats and gray pants with blue military saucers on their heads. Don't hold me to that; colors are the last thing to emerge in daydreams. I'd check with Billy but I have lost touch. The last thing I heard he had been disbarred from the Bar. I could call someone else but they'd think I'd gone nuts.

         Purple and gold or blue and gray, Billy hated the song. He had to hate it. The band rehearsed it many times a day while working on their steps for the big surprise they were going to spring on their public. I can't remember much about the band leader. The school probably would have done better to hand the assignment to their choral director, a man who doubled as a state Legislator in his spare time. While he directed his singers with his hands in Fred Waring's pockets, I think he would have prevented the debacle that ensued.

         It rained three days straight before the game, but Saturday dawned sunny and breezy. Memorial Field looked beautiful. Our fans sat in two sets of bleachers up on a bluff. On the other side of the pitch, the small set of stands sat at field level, filled with our opponent's supporters. They had come to see our gladiators be whelmed again. At half time the old alma mater was in arrears 21-0, but marching into the fray were our musical minstrels to revive our spirits.

         By now the gridiron warriors had churned the grassy turf into a sea of mud. The musicians ran into trouble assembling in the goo, but did form a square and belted out a fight song and a couple of show tunes, maybe something from a Rogers and Hammerstein show. Then came the moment those fans that had not gone to the parking lot to show off their new Ford Fairlane 500 convertible had waited for all week.

         The band launched into the familiar strains of the nation's number one hit. Just as the multitudes belt out "My Old Kentucky Home" as the horses leave the paddock in Louisville, the onlookers added the poetic words to the music.

"I hear the cottonwood whispering above,
Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love.
The old hooty owl hooty hoots to the dove
Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love."

         While all this rank sentimentality was going on, the band members shuffled their feet in a marvelous Texas Two-Step, or tried to shuffle their feet. Alas, their shoes were stuck in the mud. The music began to fade as the musicians devoted heroic effort to escape the quicksand. It was every tuba player for himself. Billy Stewart may not have been much of a trumpeter, but he led the stocking-foot charge off the field.

         The second half resumed. Our boys were on their way to the short end of a 7-62 score, but at the finish the band serenaded the remnants with our Alma Mater, a song to which no one knew the words. The next week the Band Mothers were out raising money for new boots for those who had ignominiously lost theirs' in battle.

         Bartles and James sat silent in their chairs. I couldn't tell if they had enjoyed the tale or were simply frozen. Spike had quit some time ago, about the time Billy Stewart was disbarred. The temperature now stood at 39 degrees. My coffee was cold. I heard one of my listeners shift their weight in the dark.

         "Gosh, David, never knew you could tell stories like that."

         In the dark they could not see me blush with pride.

         "Well, Ed, I think we better get going. It's getting late. The old moon is rising and Orion is setting."

         We walked through the house to the front door, Ed carrying his tape deck.

         "It was really nice guys, thanks for stopping in."

         "Good night, David, and thank you. Thank you for your patronage."

Valatie May 10, 2002