Johnny Be Goode

Johnny Be Goode

“Hey, Dad. I brought the whole crew with me. We should be able to clean out the basement, the attic, and the garage all in one day.”

“Great.”

“Great”- often spoken with a tinge of enthusiasm, but even with a normal, nondescript voice, the word connotes something agreeable, pleasing, perhaps even wonderful. Spoken with a hint of sarcasm- not so much.

The cleanup crew- son Dave, Dave’s wife Marci, and the three grandchildren: 16-year-old Tom, 14-year-old Debbie, and 9-year-old Ben. The mission- sort through a lifetime of artifacts, save some, discard some, and debate the fortunes of many. The purpose- John’s wife of 51 years died three years ago, and the house was going on the market.

Dave sensed the uncertainty in his Dad’s voice.

“Dad, we’ve gone through this so many times. The place is just too big for you to be knockin’ around in all by yourself. You can’t be mowing the lawn and shoveling snow anymore. Isn’t that right, Marci?”

“You’d have to hire some kid to do that, and that costs money. And kids aren’t all that reliable nowadays.”

“And your heating bills, Dad. This is a big house… with poor insulation.”

“Right.”

“Right” can also be taken two distinctly different ways, depending on tone. John was thinking- sure, he’d probably save some money, but at his age, what the hell would he do with it? He and his bride Sarah had been in that house for 38 years. It’s hard to part with part of you.

“One of those condos on Clarkson would be perfect for you, and you’d be just a mile from our house.”

“That sure would be …swell.”

“Swell”- lots of possible connotations.

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” The perceptions between those who lived it and those who did not can be substantial.

“Dad, why would you want that old captain’s chest? It’s too big, and it has a big scratch all along the top.”

“Your mother picked it out. She loved that thing. And you’re the one who put the scratch in it."

"I understand, Dad, but Mom isn’t… it’s just too big for your new condo.”

Division of labor. Marcie and Debbie attacked the attic, Dave and Tom tackled the garage, and John and Ben confronted the impressive menagerie of items calling out for order from the basement. John sat on an old sofa sorting through paperwork, from their first real estate tax bill to stacks of sympathy cards.

 Nine-year-olds aren’t all that helpful, whatever the task, especially if they have a penchant for exploration… and asking questions.

“What is this thing, Grandpa?

John smiled.

“That, my good man, is a telephone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, that’s an old phone. We had to dial up the number we wanted to call.”

“It’s so big.”

“That’s how it was.”

“And what’s this thing?”

“That’s a typewriter. Your Grandma could bang out 80 words a minute on that beast. We didn’t have computers.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

Persistent exploration will often yield the mother lode. Ben tugged away at a pile of blankets resting atop… something. Ben’s eyes popped wide open at the unveiling.

“Holy cra… cow, Grandpa! What is this thing? It’s huge!”

John stopped sorting as his eyes and mind locked onto Ben’s discovery- a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox. A sympathy card dropped from his fingers as this powerful piece of his history took him back to the world of yesterday’s music, seemingly so consequential at the time, but now a dusty memory. It had been his comforting companion for so many years, and he felt a sense of betrayal for allowing it to remain silent for so long in a darkened corner of a basement.

“It looks like a robot or some kind of spaceship. What is it, Grandpa?”

John walked across the room and placed his hands over the rows of buttons used to signal a selection. It had been years, but he remembered the songs, the times, even the moments.

“It’s a jukebox. It plays records.”

“What’s a record?”

“Look inside. See those black discs toward the back of the machine?”

“Yes.”

John noticed the small box of 45’s on the floor next to the jukebox. He reached down and pulled one out.

“Here, Ben, this is a record.”

Little fingers curiously caressed the vinyl disc, grooves, edges, and the big hole in the middle.

“How does music come out of this thing?”

John smiled as he reflected on the leaps in technology during his stay on this earth, and his efforts to keep pace. He was confident his little grandson was more adept at using a laptop and a cell phone than he was.

“I think this thing will still work. I’ll show you. Let me get an extension cord.”

When life was breathed into the aging artifact, colorful lights blinking, a few clicks, and a little humming sound, John’s excitement exceeded Ben’s. It had been a long time since he last beckoned this mainstay of his life to play him a tune.

“How does it work?”

“Push one button with a letter and one with a number, and you’ll see.”

Ben made his random selection, one letter and one number, and the jukebox sprang into action. A slight grinding sound, and the carousel of discs started rotating, emitting a bit of a buzz as it brought the chosen tune forward. It stopped abruptly as metal met metal, and to Ben’s amazement, the aptly named “grabber arm” sprang into action, reached into the carousel and snatched a 45. The record was placed onto a turntable where it began spinning as it awaited the arrival of the tonearm, the last piece of magic needed before the music played.

And it played loud!

♬ Deep down in Louisana close to

     New Orleans

     Way back up in the woods

     Among the evergreens…♬

G-7! Johnny Be Goode by Chuck Berry! The foundation of his high school memories. One hundred songs in that jukebox, and Ben picked that one! It was uncanny.

♬ He used to carry his guitar in a

   gunny sack

   Go sit beneath the tree by the

   Railroad track.♬

Central High vs. crosstown rival Jefferson. The BIG GAME. John poured in 24 that night, and at the dance after the game, the band played Johnny Be Goode. The students put two and two together- John's great game and the Chuck Berry hit- and Johnny Be Good was then played before every home basketball game to fire up the crowd. G-7 brought back that special feeling for John.

♫ Go, Johnny, go, go

    Go, Johnny, go, go

     Johnny Be Goode tonight ♫

“John” quickly faded away and was replaced by the much cooler-sounding “Johnny”. All his friends… and eventually even the teachers… would leave Johnny with a lively “Johnny Be Goode”. To those who knew him back then, he would always be Johnny, and after all these years, at this moment, he still felt a little like “Johnny” himself. It was good to get a visit, courtesy of G-7, from the guy he once was.

“Gosh, Grandpa, that’s some pretty wild stuff… for a grandpa.”

“Well, Ben, that was quite a while ago.”

“Wait a minute! I’ve heard that song before. That movie- Back to the Future. That was some wild stuff. You didn’t bounce around stage with a guitar like Marty did?"

“Uh, no.”

The loud music shot up three floors to the attic. Debbie came to investigate.

“What’s going on down here? It sounds like you two are having a party. Oh, my goodness, Grandpa, a jukebox! I never knew you had this, Grandpa.”

“Well, it’s been tucked away down here for some time.”

“Debbie, you just push these buttons, one letter and one number, and it plays a record. Don’t do G-7. I already did that one.”

Can I try it out, Grandpa?”

“Be my guest.”

Debbie studied her choices. It seemed that she had entered a different world.

“Grandpa, what are these songs? I don’t see anything here by my favorites like Taylor Swift or Snoop Dog.”

 “Who?”

“Oh, my gosh, Grandpa. You never heard of Taylor Swift or Snoop Dog?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Go ahead, Debbie, pick one out. You’ll see what real music was like.”

Debbie studied the names of the artists and the songs on the dozens of small labels typed by John’s wife years ago with the feature song above the performer’s name and the lesser-known offering, a/k/a the flip side, shown below. It was all foreign to her, so she took Ben’s cue and picked one out at random

.

♬ While I’m far away from you, my baby,

     I know it’s hard for you, my baby.

     Because it’s hard for me, my baby,

     And the darkest hour is just before dawn. ♬

John’s mood changed in an instant. He went from cheerful bantering with Debbie to downright sad and somber. Debbie thought he was close to crying.

“Are you okay, Grandpa?”

“Yes… I’m okay. It’s just that song…it was…”

“Was what, Grandpa?”

“Well, when I went off to college, we were apart all that time before we got married. Your Grandma told me that when I was away she played that song every night before she went to bed.”

“That’s so sweet, Grandpa.”

“Yes, yes it was. ‘Dedicated to the One I Love’ by the Shirrelles. It sort of became our song. In fact… and don’t tell anyone… I started playing it too. I remember every word of it.”

Debbie put her hand on her grandfather's shoulder as he wiped away a tear. A comforting hand usually beats whatever words come to mind.

♬ Each night before you go to bed, my baby,

    Whisper a little prayer for me, my baby,

     And tell all the stars above-

     This is dedicated to the one I love. ♬

“Hey, you slackers! Who said anything about taking a break?”

“Hey, Tom. I’ve just been showing Debbie and Ben one of my prize possessions, an old Wurlitzer jukebox.”

“Wow! That is so cool. Just like I’ve seen in the movies. I wish we had one of these things. You know, Grandpa, this would look good in our rec room. I mean, if you weren’t going to be using it anymore.”

John smiled. He would like this treasured item to find a good home.

“I’ll talk to your Dad. Your turn. Pick out a tune.”

“You just hit one letter and one number, but don’t do G-7 or whatever dopey love song Debbie picked out.”

“Got it, Ben.”

Tom scanned the lists, and one immediately caught the eye of the 16-year-old who just got his license.

♬ Well, you heard the story of the Hot Rod race that fatal day,

    When a Ford and a Mercury went out to play,

    Well this is the inside story, and I’m here to say,

     I was the kid that was drivin’ that Model A. ♬

A big smile appeared on John’s face as his mind put him behind the wheel of his 1958 Plymouth convertible- no radio, dented right fender, and a worn canvas roof that seemed to leak even when it wasn’t raining. He loved “cruisin’ the Ave” in that big boat or pulling into the drive-in on a Saturday night. With its prominent rear fins, his ride was called the Bat Mobile by all his buddies. God, he wished he had hung on to that car.

♬ Well they arrested me and put me in jail

    And called my pop to throw my bail

    He said, “Son, you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’

    You don’t quit drivin’ that Hot Rod Lincoln!”

'That's Hot Rod Lincoln by Charlie Ryan."

“A hot rod Lincon. That sounds pretty cool. That’s what you guys would have called a “muscle car”, right, Grandpa?”

“A muscle car, that’s right, Tom.”

“What kind of car did you have, Grandpa?”

The smile somehow got even bigger.

“A pale blue 1958 Plymouth, a convertible. It was cool, and do you know what?”

“What?”

“I felt pretty cool driving it.”

“I’ll bet you did. I don’t suppose you have it stored away someplace. You know I have my license now.”

Grandpa laughed.

“No, unfortunately, I don’t. I wish I did.”

“You know, Grandpa, a muscle car sure would be a nice Christmas present.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Your turn, Grandpa, you pick a song.”

“I couldn’t make up my mind, Ben. I love them all. You pick one for me.”

Ben didn’t argue that one. He rushed to the jukebox and pushed down hard on one letter and one number.

♬ I’m gonna wait ‘til the midnight hour

   That’s when my love comes tumbling down

    I’m gonna wait ‘til the midnight hour

    When there’s no one else around. ♬

Another big smile from Grandpa, this time supplemented with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Those crazy college days, the bar in the basement, the fraternity brothers gathered around the jukebox, crooning off key to the melody blaring out of the Chapter’s entertainment center. He spoke in a hushed, reverent tone.

“The Wicked Pickett.”

“What? The guy’s name is Wicked?”

“No, it’s Wilson Pickett, Tom, and the song is In the Midnight Hour. People just called him the Wicked Pickett.”

♬ I’m gonna wait 'til the stars come out

    And see them twinkle in your eyes

     I’m gonna wait ‘til the midnight hour

     That’s when my love begins to shine. ♬

The saxophone was pulling John in, a little shifting of the shoulders and a hint of movement with the feet. He drifted back in time as the melody wrapped itself around him and put him back in front of that jukebox in the bar in the frat house basement. John reached his hands out toward Debbie.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, young lady?”

 “Certainly.”

It wasn’t exactly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but it was wonderful. John held onto Debbie’s hands and gracefully guided her across the basement floor, with a little dip here and a little twist there. Whatever part of the room wasn’t touched by the glow from the jukebox was lit up by the smiles on the faces of Ben and Tom.

Tears can be catching. When she saw the little tear in the corner of Grandpa’s eye as the music stopped, Debbie let loose. Happy, loving tears. Even at 14, she understood the meaning of the past and recognized the nearing of the finish line.

John noticed Dave coming down the stairs, holding his cell phone in one hand.

“Dad! The realtor lady left me a message. She wants to see the house sometime next week. What day is good for you?”

A delayed response as Grandpa surveyed the room, his grandchildren, all the odds and ends collected over the years, and of course, the jukebox.

“Tell her I’m not selling. I’m staying put.”

“What?! Dad, why?”

“A single thought occurred to me down here, son.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not dead yet! G-7, Ben! G-7!”

Dave could only shake his head as Johnny, with a hint of a shimmy and a little sway, two-stepped his way back to the jukebox.