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Be My Baby - a short story

BE MY BABY

A Short Story

Written by Joseph Smigelski

During my first month at Our Lady of Fatima High School, I
met a kid named Joey Preen. Since school was our only meeting
place, I always saw him in the same clothes. Like me and all the
other boys, he had to wear the uniform: a charcoal gray suit (let
me tell you, the pants itched), and a blue tie with the initials
OLF in the middle. What made Joey stand out, though, was his
hair. It was so long in back that it covered the collar of his
jacket. Brother Brendan was always bugging him about it.
Before I met Joey, I had never listened to rock and roll.
He couldn't believe I didn't know "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and
"She Loves You" by heart. I told him I'd heard the Fab Four on
The Ed Sullivan Show, but hadn't taken much interest. My passion
was baseball, and my hero Mickey Mantle.
"Hey, I like the Mick, too," Joey said. "But, man, you've
got to dig the Beatles. They're the best thing that ever
happened."
"I don't know about that," I said. "Besides, I don't buy
records. My folks never listen to music, and the only record
player we have is old and beat-up. I'm not even sure where it
is."
"Do you have a radio in your room?"
"Sure. I listen to Yankee games."
"Great," Joey said, his voice breaking. "But there's no
game tonight, right? So tune in Cousin Brucie on WABC, 77 on the
dial."
"Cousin who?"
"Bruce Morrow. Calls himself Cousin Brucie, and he's really
cool. Plays all the best records. Listen to his show tonight
and tell me what songs you like the best. Okay?"
Joey ran off to a class and I shrugged. Here was a guy,
with hair that was too long (I still had a crewcut), ranting
about some silly DJ that I was sure I would never care about. I
decided he was a little nuts, but liked him anyway. Heck, he was
talking to me. So I'd tune in Cousin Fruity, or whatever his
name was, think about the Beatle songs I'd hear, and see what
came of it all.

After supper, I grabbed my books off the coffee table in the
parlor and brought them into my bedroom. I turned the dial on my
lunch box sized transistor to WABC and opened my math book.
That radio station played about a zillion commercials, and I
had never before heard anyone talk like Cousin Brucie. He spoke
a hundred miles an hour, yet I was able to understand every word.
After he played a few songs by singers I had never heard of, and
three Beatle hits one right after the other (not counting the
ads, that is), I heard a voice that shook me like a ten megaton
bomb.

The night we met
I knew I needed you so
And if I had the chance
I'd never let you go
So won't you say you love me . . .

I fell in love. The girl singing that song had the sexiest
and most wonderful voice this side of heaven. No . . . she must
have come down directly from heaven, on loan from God to the
recording studio, because no human being on earth could possess a
voice like that. It made me ache in wonderful places.

So won't you please
Be my little baby
Say you'll be my darling
Be my baby now

I felt like I had new blood in my body. I was ready to
roll.
But what could I do besides daydream? I imagined the singer
having long, flowing blond hair, like Brigitte Bardot's, and
clear blue eyes like a lake on a bright spring morning.
When the song was over, Cousin Brucie said that it was an
"oldie" from 1963 called "Be My Baby," performed by the Ronettes.
Then, there must have been some kind of magical mind connection
between me and this voice in the radio, because what Brucie said
next seemed directed only at me, and not at the millions of
others who might be listening.
"Singing lead is Ronnie Spector."
Ronnie Spector, Ronnie. I repeated the name rapturously.
But something was odd. Wait a minute, I thought, Ronnie's a
boy's name. What kind of girl is named Ronnie? Then I said to
myself, "You numb skull, her name's really Veronica, like the
chick in the Archie comics." I fantasized that gorgeous Ronnie,
with the Brigitte Bardot hair and the Brigitte Bardot pout, was
wrapping her arms around me and singing Be my little baby to me
over and over again.
Yes, I'll be your baby, Ronnie, you betcha.
I hoped I would dream about her that night. But if I did, I
didn't remember in the morning.

I ran up to Joey Preen the moment I spotted him tooling down
the hall.
"I heard a song, a singer, a voice, a -- "
"Hey, man, get a hold of yourself." He grabbed my shoulders
and pulled me aside.
I realized then that I had been shouting, and saw that a few
of the other kids were gawking at me as they hurried past.
"Man, you've got to calm down." Joey spoke quietly, but
with a tremor in his voice. "What the heck did you hear last
night?"
"Just the best thing ever."
"Wow," Joey said. His eyes were huge. "What was it?"
I told him everything, even about imagining that Ronnie
Spector looked like Brigitte Bardot.
Joey squinted and curled his upper lip. "Wait a minute,
man, you've got that part all wrong."
I must have looked incredibly puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Ronnie Spector is colored," Joey said.
I leaned back against one of the cold gray lockers that
lined the walls.
"Colored? You mean like Sheila Younger?"

Sheila Younger was the only colored girl in my high school
class. I had heard that she lived on lower Main Street, the
section of Poughkeepsie that some of the kids called "little
Harlem."
Since the school was divided into the boys' side and the
girls' side, I hardly ever saw her. The only places where the
two sexes could mingle were the cafeteria, the hallway in front
of it, and outside by the football field. And from what I had
seen in the past couple of weeks, it was tricky for a guy and a
girl to have a conversation without a nun's ear being within
spitting distance.

Before catching the bus home, I walked to Recordland on
Market Street. Joey had told me that it stocked a great
selection of oldies, and was sure to have "Be My Baby."
On my way there, new thoughts buzzed in my head: Was it
okay to feel the way I did about a colored girl, even if she had
a voice to die for? I knew I wasn't prejudiced, or at least I
didn't think I was. Mom never said "nigger," "spook," or any of
the other ugly names that some people used. Yet I remembered her
saying to me once, "There's nothing wrong with the coloreds, but
whites shouldn't marry them. Each should stick to his own. It's
what's best for everybody all around."
Then I thought about Sheila Younger. I had passed her in
the hall outside the cafeteria a couple of times, and had noticed
her eyes. They were very, very dark and liquid. I had heard her
talking to someone once, and tried to recall the sound of her
voice, but couldn't. I wondered if she could sing anywhere near
as wonderfully as Ronnie Spector. But then I thought: Get a
brain, jerk. Just because Sheila Younger happens to be colored,
she's supposed to be able to sing like an angel of God? I'm
white. Can I hit like Mickey Mantle? My face got cold and
tingly. Maybe I did have prejudiced thoughts. I didn't really
know any colored people. But, then again, the few I had been
personally exposed to were never really pointed out to me as
being colored. My uncle Jake had a few colored customers at his
Texaco station, but he never treated them or talked about them
any differently than he did his white customers. And whenever
Phil Rizzuto or Mel Allen talked about Elston Howard or Hector
Lopez on the Yankee broadcasts, they never mentioned the race of
those players.
The walls in Recordland were covered with posters, album
covers and, I was happy to notice, 45 rpm picture sleeves. Maybe
"Be My Baby" came with one, and I would be able to see a picture
of Ronnie!
No such luck. But, hey, after plunking down 79 cents, I
owned the record. I held the voice!
The 45 had a plain white sleeve with an opening in the
middle that revealed a red and yellow label. Above the hole was
the name, "Philles Records" and the motto, "Tomorrow's Sound
Today." Below the hole was the title, "Be My Baby." Reading it
gave me chills. Underneath that were three names in parentheses:
Spector-Greenwich-Barry. I was hip enough to know that they were
the songwriters, and wondered if Spector meant Ronnie or someone
else. Then, below the writers' names I noticed the words,
"Produced by Phil Spector." Who was Phil? Her brother? Her
father? Not, God forbid, her husband? A girl with a voice like
Ronnie's shouldn't be some guy's wife. Of course, my idea of a
wife was an aging PTA supporter who cooked meals, vacuumed
floors, and made beds.

After I got off the school bus, I walked almost halfway home
before remembering that Mom had asked me at breakfast to pick up
a copy of Redbook at Molloy's Drug Store. Molloy's was right by
the bus stop, which was about a half mile from our house. All I
had to do was double back, but it was a pain because I couldn't
wait to listen to "Be My Baby."
While looking for Redbook, my eyes passed over Sports
Illustrated, Baseball Digest, Popular Mechanics, and then stopped
on a Hit Parader which had the Beatles on the cover. I picked it
up because Joey was so wild over these guys, and leafed through
it. Boring. But then I spotted a Teen Beat which boasted a
piece on "the girl groups." I grabbed it, and thumbed the pages
until I found the article. There were a lot of pictures, one of
them a wedding photo. Its caption said that the newlyweds were
Phil and Ronnie Spector. Her veil hung back away from her face,
and her white dress was tight enough to show that she had a
perfect figure. She was every bit as beautiful as her voice had
promised. Her mouth was slightly open in a smile, and her lips
looked like soft, tiny pillows. Then I remembered that Mom had a
habit of saying that this or that colored girl (one she happened
to see on TV or in a magazine) was "pretty for colored" -- always
with that qualification. But Ronnie Spector wasn't "pretty for
colored," she was just plain pretty. No . . . gorgeous,
beautiful, a knockout to crawl over broken glass for. She was
every bit as lovely as Brigitte Bardot, even as good as Marilyn
Monroe, although that last thought gave me a shiver, since
Marilyn was dead.
I thought again about Mom's phrase, "pretty for colored."
It reminded me of the hate I saw on the TV news all the time. I
felt there was something wrong, something really wrong. Because
who in their right mind could hate someone who could sing like
Ronnie Spector?

When I got home, I looked around for the old record player,
and found it on top of a pile of junk in the basement. I went up
to my room, shut the door, and put the machine on the floor next
to my bookcase. Two pennies had been taped on the arm above the
needle to keep it from skipping. I lay in bed on top of the
covers and listened to "Be My Baby." The lousiest record player
in the world couldn't obstruct the beauty in Ronnie's voice. The
notes soared from her heavenly throat like beautiful wild birds
penetrating an azure sky. Definitely an angel of God.
When the song, two minutes and thirty-seven seconds of
perfection, was over, I picked up the Teen Beat, and turned to
Ronnie's wedding picture. It still bothered me that she was some
guy's wife. Then I almost swallowed my tongue. How could I have
missed this before? The guy standing next to Ronnie -- you know,
the groom? -- was white! And not only was Phil Spector white,
but he was short and skinny, and wore glasses. He didn't look
much older than a high school kid. And, hey, was that acne on
his cheeks? He was a twerp. This guy who had married an angel
of God looked just like me!
Around eleven o'clock, when I was sure my folks were asleep,
I locked my door and took off all my clothes. I set the heavy
arm of the record player on "Be My Baby" for about the fifteenth
time, and crawled under the covers. While I stroked myself, I
tried to think of nothing but Ronnie's voice.

I'll make you happy, baby
Just wait and see
For every kiss you give me
I'll give you three

I wanted no pictures in my mind to inhibit that glorious
sound from bathing every atom in my body. But one image snuck in
at the high point of my enterprise -- Sheila Younger's eyes. I
saw them as clearly as I've ever seen anything, but didn't know
why.
As the needle scratched around and around on the inner
groove, I felt a little uneasy, to say the least.

The next day at lunch time, I saw Sheila standing in the
hall outside the cafeteria, talking with another girl. I tried
to be inconspicuous by shuffling my feet and putting my hands in
my pockets. Sheila's hair was black, and wavy because of the
processing junk in it. Mom worked at a beauty shop during the
hours that I was in school, and she had told me about colored
girls using that stuff. Was Sheila's hair soft, I thought, or
would it feel like Mom's after Mom covered hers with hair spray?
Sheila gestured with her hands, and I marvelled at how much
lighter her palms were than the rest of her skin. She looked a
little too wide at the waist, but how much could you tell about
any girl's figure when she was wearing that awful school uniform?
Like all the girls at Our Lady of Fatima, Sheila wore a white
blouse buttoned all the way to the neck, and over it, a washed-
out looking blue jumper that reached down to mid-calf.
The more I studied Sheila's face (without actually staring,
you understand), the prettier she seemed to become. Then I
remembered Mom's words, "pretty for colored." I closed my eyes
and told myself that Mom was full of crap.
After a couple of minutes or so, the girl Sheila was talking
with went into the cafeteria, and Sheila was alone, looking at
notices on the bulletin board. I found myself walking towards
her. For once, there were no nuns around.
"Hi, Sheila," I said.
I expected her to look at me, smile politely, say "Hi" back,
and then turn and walk away. Well, three out of four ain't bad.
She didn't leave.
I cleared my throat, looked at the floor, and said, "My
name's Paul Brezinski."
When I looked up, Sheila was still smiling. Was she glad I
spoke to her, or was she gearing up to make fun of me?
"Yeah?" she said. She didn't seem annoyed or
inconvenienced, or even shy.
My mouth zoomed light-years ahead of my brain, and I started
to sound like Cousin Brucie.
"Do you want to go to the dance with me tonight? I know
it's the first one and it's last minute and you've probably
already got a date and -- "
The smile left her face, and she looked at me hard. She
seemed to be searching for something. Then, she either found
what she hoped for, or didn't find what she feared, because her
smile came back and she said, "I'd be happy to."
I hadn't planned on even talking to the girl. I certainly
had no intention of asking her out, and never considered the
possibility that she would say, "I'd be happy to." I had gone on
only two dates before, and . . . well . . . I would be terminally
humiliated if I uttered another syllable about them.
All I could think to say was, "I don't have a car, so I
won't be able to pick you up."
She laughed, but it was kind, not mocking. "Well, how do
you plan on getting to the dance? Do you live around the
corner?"
"No," I said. "My mom'll give me a ride. I know that
sounds twerpy, but -- "
"Not at all," she said. "I'll meet you in front of the gym
at seven-thirty, okay?"
My mouth wouldn't work anymore, so I just nodded.
"Well, look Paul," she said, "I've really gotta go now.
You're a crazy kid, you know that?"
Then she breezed away down the hall into the depths of the
girls' side of the school.
A crazy kid. Wow.

After I ate supper, I took two showers, put on deodorant
twice, brushed my teeth for fifteen minutes, and gargled with
Listerine -- I hated the taste -- a half dozen times.
While we were driving to the dance, Mom said, "It's a girl,
isn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"Now, don't try to fib me, Paul. A mother knows."
She moved her hands higher up on the steering wheel and
nodded. She was wearing a huge yellow house dress with pink
flowers on it, and a purple babushka. I thought she looked
silly, like a nun at a costume party. Then she said something I
couldn't believe was coming out of her mouth. The words seemed
to march off her tongue like heavy-booted combat troops.
"She's not colored, is she?"
Mom glanced at me. I must have looked completely
dumbfounded because she chuckled and said, "Just kidding, dear."
A cold, empty pocket formed in my stomach. I had to keep
from thinking about what she just said or I'd get sick, so I
turned on the radio. It was tuned to the all news station, and I
listened to a caller on a talk show complaining about the price
of radishes at Grand Union.
I asked Mom to let me out at a corner about a block away
from the school.
"It wouldn't look too cool being dropped off by a parent," I
told her.

Sheila was waiting for me outside the gym, standing apart
from the crowd that had gathered near the door. Any girl would
look better in real clothes than in the ugly school uniform, but
the transformation in Sheila was truly magnificent. She still
looked wide around the waist, but her dress made her seem taller.
It was a green floor-length gown, and instead of sleeves, there
were only two skinny straps over her shoulders. It reminded me
of the dresses the Supremes had worn on The Ed Sullivan Show a
few weeks earlier.
Then I remembered that the lead singer of the Supremes was
one of the women Mom had called "pretty for colored." I wanted
to turn and run far away from that dance. But then Sheila saw me
and waved.
What could I do? I went up to her and offered my arm. As
we walked together toward the entrance, several kids stared at
us. I heard somebody say, "What a pair." Sheila tugged on my
arm, hurrying me inside.
The dance committee must have put in a few hours decorating
the place. There were streamers and balloons everywhere. And
right in the middle of it all was a big rainbow-colored banner
screaming, "Welcome, Freshmen, to OLF High."
I was scooping through my brain trying to think of something
halfway intelligent to say, when the music started. Sheila
pulled me onto the dance floor and started shaking, just like
about a hundred other kids. Someone nearby said, "Hey, get a
load of that."
I didn't know how to shake right, or even if there was a
right way, but through the first few songs, I jumped around and
moved my feet like a maniac. I was glad the DJ had chosen fast
numbers, so I didn't have to talk.
But I knew my luck wouldn't last. A ballad eventually came
on, and before I could suggest to Sheila that we get something to
drink, she grabbed me around the waist and we started dancing
close and slow. I had my right arm around her, and I liked the
feel of my hand on the back of her dress. Her right hand was
holding my left. It didn't feel as soft as the hands of the
other girls I had danced with (the two disastrous dates), but I
liked Sheila's better. Her hand felt strong, and somehow certain
of what it was doing. Then her body pressed against me, and for
a moment I thought I was going to get a hard on, but luckily I
didn't.
I had completely forgotten about trying to think of
something to say. But then Sheila said, "You know something?
You don't dance too bad for a white boy. I mean you're no James
Brown, but you do okay."
"Well, I try my best," I said. I hoped I wasn't blushing.
She laid her head on my shoulder, and my cheek brushed
against her hair. It felt a little stiff, probably because of
that processing junk, but different than Mom's after the hair
spray treatment.
Then what Sheila had said hit me. You don't dance too bad
for a white boy. If Sheila said something like that, maybe there
was nothing wrong with what Mom said. Maybe people's differences
shouldn't be overlooked. Didn't the French always say, Vive la
difference? But then I thought about the way Mom sounded when
she used that little phrase of hers, compared to how Sheila had
sounded. Mom's voice always had a sneer in it. Sheila's was
light, playful, almost mischievous, but without a hint of
meanness. My brain started to boogie-woogie inside my skull. To
say I was confused would be like saying that the Yankees had had
just a tiny bit of trouble in the '63 World Series.
I thought I'd better say something, though, before Sheila
thought I was the dud date of all time, so I asked her if she
went out with guys much.
"Not really," she said. "I usually dance with my
girlfriends at the playground behind the big Chevy place on
Hamilton Street. Know where that is?"
"I think so," I said.
"You know, you're the first guy in this school to ask me
out."
"I don't know why that is."
She pulled her head off my shoulder, and looked at me with
those dark, liquid eyes. "Yes you do."
I glanced around the dance floor and saw that several people
were giving us looks over their partners' shoulders. When the
song ended, Sheila said she was a bit tired and asked me if I
wanted to get a little air.
We stopped by the punch bowl, and then walked outside.
There were bleachers near the track which circled the football
field, and we sat down. A quarter moon winked from behind a
cloud, and a spotlight was on about a hundred feet away. But
even in that skimpy light, Sheila's eyes had something special.
I thought my mind might slip, and I'd fall into them.
"Paul, you seem like a heck of a nice guy," she said. "But
I think this date might be a mistake."
I thought about the looks and the comments from the other
kids. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
"So, let's go back in, but not together. Okay?"
"Sure. But first, did you really mean what you said about
my dancing?"
There were those eyes again. "I never lie," she said.
As I was getting up, she took my arm, pulled me back down,
and kissed me. Her lips were as soft as I had imagined Ronnie
Spector's to be. Tiny pillows.
There were no more words after that.
Back inside the gym, we went our separate ways. Whoever was
spinning the records was doing a fine job, because the music
sounded nice. I was listening carefully because I didn't want to
think too much about that kiss.
Then I saw Joey Preen leaning against the wall beneath a
blue and gold poster that urged, "Go Warriors!" and went over to
him.
"Paul, how are you doing?" He gave me a serious look.
"Hey, man, don't you have any other clothes?"
I felt like a jerk. I had been so wrapped up with Sheila
and my thoughts, that I hadn't noticed that the guys at the dance
were wearing real clothes, instead of charcoal gray suits. They
still had jackets and ties, but they all looked different. Joey
had on a blue blazer over a pink shirt, a red tie and black
slacks. I supposed he looked cool. Like a dope, I had assumed
we had to wear one of our uniform suits. Jeez, I thought, what a
clod Sheila must think I am. But, then, why did she kiss me?
"Hey, man, I asked you a question. Where are you tonight,
on Mars?"
"Oh, uh, my keen threads are all at the cleaners," I told
him.
He looked at me funny and shrugged. Then he said, "Was that
you dancing with Sheila Younger before?"
"No, Joe, it was my twin brother, Englebert."
He laughed, then lowered his voice. "Was it nice?"
"Was what nice?"
"Dancing with Sheila, stupid."
"Yes," I said to Joey, "it was very nice."
"All right," he said, and then hit me on the back.
I decided that he was a friend I was going to keep, even if
I had to listen to every Beatle record that was ever released and
memorize all the lyrics.
"So, are you digging the sounds?"
His words filtered through a haze of tears that I was trying
to fight back.
"What did you say?" I asked him that for no other reason
than to steal a couple of seconds to steady myself.
"The sounds," he said. "Are you digging the sounds?"
"Oh yeah, they're great. The Beatles are great."
"That's not the Beatles, you dolt, it's the Stones."
"Oh, really?"
"Hey, man, you and I have got to have a long talk real
soon."
Then I remembered something. "Joey, who's James Brown?"
He slapped his thigh and howled.
"Who's James Brown?! Man, we've really got to have a long
talk."
"Okay, but not right now, 'cause I gotta go water the
daisies."
"Check, man, see you later."

As I used the urinal, I glanced at the graffiti on the wall.
Amidst numerous slogans and phone numbers, someone had scratched,
SHEILA YOUNGER IS A NIGGER BITCH.
I started to get angry, and it felt good. I wanted to get
so mad that I'd have the strength to tear down the walls. But
then Mom's phrase "pretty for colored" flashed in my mind and I
restrained myself. If I nurtured the rage that was trying to be
born inside of me, I would have to aim it at Mom as well as that
nameless dunce of a scribbler. And I wasn't sure that I was
ready to do that. If I confronted Mom, I knew what she would
say: "Whatever are you talking about? I don't have anything
against the coloreds. I want what's best for everybody all
around."
Yeah, Mom? Well maybe what would be best for everybody all
around would be for you to stick your fat head up . . . No, I
couldn't think things like that. She was Mom, and I loved her.
When I finished at the urinal, I washed my hands, and then
took a soapy paper towel and tried to remove the ugly graffiti
about Sheila. But even scrubbing with all my might, I couldn't
get the words completely off. If you looked closely, you could
still see them.
I went back out on the dance floor and looked for Sheila. I
had no idea what I would say to her, but I felt I had to say
something. I walked around the gym three times, each time
stepping outside to check the crowd getting some air, but Sheila
was gone.
I looked around some more and found Joey.
"Hey, man," (I was already starting to talk like the guy)
"have you seen Sheila anywhere?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I saw her about ten minutes ago, just after
you went to the can. Two guys from the football team were
talking to her, and then she left in a hurry. It was kind of
weird."
The gym was relatively quiet for a few seconds, but then the
DJ spun another platter.
"Hey, man, dig this song," Joey said. "It's the one I was
telling you about the other day. `Can't Buy Me Love.' One of my
favorites."

The End
 
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