Take One by Tony Van Witsen

Take One
by Tony Van Witsen

In time to come, the 21st century perhaps, future historians of advertising might notice the near monopoly a vocal group (called M4) and their soprano, one Theodora Mercedes "Mercy" Mulligan (me) held over nearly every singing commercial recorded in Chicago at midcentury. In the interest of sowing confusions about this cartel, I've assembled what follows out of scraps and embarrassments. Meaning this biopic of me singing about detergent and floor wax five days a week might not have happened as I describe it. Did we really record 1500 jingles in a single year? Was it 1400? Did I actually make more money than I knew what to do with? Would a musician lie to you? No? Yes? Is this a biopic at all or merely a sitcom crafted to appall my loving parents back in Minnesota and my idiot older sister Rose? What if it's not a sitcom at all, merely the punchline of an extended joke?

FADE IN:

My living room: curtains on the floor, carpets rolled up, travel posters of France and Portugal lying in a jumble. Front door wedged open, two big men from the Cook County Sheriff's office edging through it with a burgundy crushed velvet couch. An eviction is in progress.

Me: Watch that! You'll damage it!

CUT TO:

The bedroom: more Sheriff's men dumping clothes in a large carton.

Me: Careful, you're wrinkling that.

They roll their eyes.

CUT TO:

Open apartment door where M4's baritone, Martin, is pushing past the couch, waving a check in his hand.

Martin: Hold it! I've got your rent money, Mercy.

I try to edge past the Sheriff's men and the couch.

Me: Marty, where'd you get that?

Marty: Two new gigs! We just got two commercials for Nickey Chevrolet and Magikist. Stan Dale at Leo Burnett agency called. Five hundred dollars!

By now, men and couch are out the door, apartment walls bare but for a couple of recent movie posters. Gigi. Seven Brides For Seven Brothers.

Me: Marty, come here.

I grab him in a hug. For no reason we indulge in an orgy of jingle-singing: Chevrolet, Wheaties, Pledge, Pepsi-Cola, Joy, Alka-Seltzer. We end with socko finale.

Marty and me: Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean! Mr. Clean!

Marty: My God, it's like a movie.

Me: A bad movie.

I reach out and snatch the check from his hand.

That never happened; no landlord evicted me. You want facts? As soon as I had my voice degree from U of M I headed to the nearest city where they made commercials: Chicago. And—bam! Like that, I was working. Chicago's an Arcadia, center of the world for commercial production. Except when I'm shaving my legs, fighting with various landlords, watching TV, eating, sleeping in, sleeping elsewhere, or putting in the requisite drinking hours in bars, I'm in the studio recording jingles. Can you picture it? I made 50 thousand dollars in 1964. Last year, 1966, I made twice that.

CUT TO:

Recording studio. Closeup of the four of us: Me, Mel, Mike (whose real name is Warren) and Marty. Sheet music on stands, four Sennheiser MD421 super-cardioid dynamic mikes above our heads. Sound baffles behind us, coils of wire on the walls, a tarp-covered grand piano. Everything informal and casual yet clearly a place of serious business. Professionals work here.

Voice on intercom: Ready for a take?

Me: Give us a sec.

Voice: What happened to one - take Mercy and her troubadours?

Smiling, I scan the music score.

Voice: How many jingles did you do today?

Me: Ten so far. We did Universal Recording for an hour, cut two spots for Polk Brothers appliances at Hall Studios, walked down the street to CRC and did some audio signatures for WLS. Now it's your turn.

Voice: And after this?

Me: Ready, guys? (to voice) We're more than ready.

Voice: We're rolling.

Me: One! (I snap my fingers) One! Two! Three! Four!

I sometimes think if one detail of my selfhood could be altered—one tiny shift in the sequence of amino acids that form my genome—I would have been Peggy Lee and not a studio session vocalist. But I like this life, making music every day without the touring, the friendship-and-relationship-wrecking travel. Stan says our jingles sound like a piece of three dimensional sculpture hanging in the air before your eyes. Weekdays we shimmer down the street from studio to studio, yodeling or barbershop harmonizing, propelled, as it were, by the thought that somewhere there might still be a commercial as yet unrecorded by us. We sing about appliances, banks, airlines, car rentals, snack foods. It doesn't matter what we're selling; I love the thrill of nailing it in a single take. When we're selling Pringles or Pop Tarts you can feel the pulse and throb of the whole economy surging through us. We sing about washing machines, instant puddings, shoes, headache remedies. Imagine us getting high on that high note while a vast factory in Battle Creek pours forth boxes of Rice Krispies.

If people romanticize the performing life I'll have to revise this.

CUT TO:

A bar, evening. One of those places carved out of a Victorian townhouse on the near north side. Fake Tiffany lamps, real ferns. Amid the noisy kids smoking and imbibing, I've struck up a conversation with Fred, mid 20s, very ivy league in sport jacket, slacks and tie. I'm holding a Bloody Mary.

Fred: I'd love to have you meet this producer I know.

Me: Producer? Of what?

Fred: Mostly films but he dabbles in music too.

Me: What did you say you did?

I pull on my cigarette.

Fred: Public relations. (wave of the hand) I'm with the Rock Island.

Me: The what?

Fred: (as if to a child) The Rock Island is one of the largest and most extensive integrated rail networks in the world. We run thirty thousand freight cars most days. We recently acquired an IBM 7070 electronic computer.

Me: How do you know movie producers?

Fred: (chuckles) A railroad p.r. man has to know everybody. Brakemen. Movie stars. I have a company pass and as long as I'm riding one of our consists, I can comp the drink orders in any bar car.

Me: What's a consist?

Fred: That's how we in the railroad business describe the exact sequence of cars that make up a train. (overly didactic) A train, you see, has to be assembled with a set number of day coaches and sleeping cars depending on the run and the load factor. I'm talking too much. Anyway, my producer friend Alex comes to Chicago next week to look for new talent. You two might hit it off.

Fred sips his drink with a thoughtful look. People behind us giggling loudly at something they find hysterically funny.

Fred: Alex says talent is the hardest thing to find but—

Freddy was a con artist but I enjoyed his company. He read Irish writers like Joyce and he had a sweet line of bullshit. He could quote literature till it put you to sleep. His company got into a proxy fight, he got fired, and we lost contact. I think he later wrote a novel. Maybe I'm in it.

False start; that began too early.

CUT TO:

One of those fake Irish joints, "The Dublin Inn," or "Paddy O'Halloran's" that are Chicago's venue of choice to get wasted. Fred and I barely visible in the murk.

Me: What's a consist?

Fred: Have some more wine.

Fred pours into my glass; the open bottle is nearly empty.

Me: My throat's weak from singing all day. We had to do four takes of one number.

Farther down the bar other drinkers are arguing belligerently.

That never happened either but it could have. I have no idea about the money coming in. Except for my little green Austin-Healy Sprite (my one indulgence), it's enough I can buy shoes and bottles of wine and live in one cheap old townhouse after another on the near north side. Cut glass windowpanes in the front door; exterior studded with Victorian whimwhams. Summer evenings, I open the French windows overlooking Rush Street and serenade the seething crowds below looking for nightlife action. One Thursday a familiar looking man in an Italian cable-knit cardigan strolls by, looks up at me singing and stops. Do that again, he says, taking the pipe out of his mouth. Which I do, swinging the first eight bars of Alka Seltzer. Damned if it isn't Mr. Hugh Hefner down there. Thank you very much he says. That was lovely, he says, waves his pipe and strolls on.

That is the truth. I sang, Hef listened, smiled and sauntered down the street. The dumb bastard. That is the truth. Some of the other episodes are lies. How much truth am I obliged to tell?

FADE UP FROM BLACK:

Interior of an elegant town house decorated in very chic taste: travertine floors, black leather chairs. There's a party in the drawing room. Superimpose on screen: PLAYBOY'S PENTHOUSE. Music: the Modernaires.

Dissolve to: YOUR HOST HUGH M. HEFNER. Music fades under and out.

Hefner: Hello, glad you could join us this evening. Come on in and meet some of our guests. Well here we have Lori Winston and Rosemarie Hillcrest, two of the loveliest of our recent Playmates. (Puffs on pipe) As you've just heard, we also have the Modernaires along with Nat King Cole, George Shearing and a group of young singers you'll be hearing a lot more about, M4.

Me: (standing with my guys next to Hefner, warm smile, evening clothes) Thank you, Hef.

Hefner: Tell us about your new LP. Is it a ballad collection?

The Modernaires and Cole look on admiringly from the couch, holding glasses of something with lots of ice.

Me: Actually, Hef, it's a collection of commercials. Twelve numbers: soft drinks, yogurt, refrigerators, lawn care products, disposable diapers—

Cole leans forward, intrigued.

Hefner: Why would you do a whole album of—

Cole: Hef, you can be such a—(draws a square in the air with his fingers)—sometimes. A man of your sophistication and taste should know commercials are the sound track going through everyone's head.

Hefner: Well possibly.

I hesitate; is this a joke? Then I get it.

Me:: What Nat's trying to say, Hef, is that those jingles are what you're thinking about when you don't think you're thinking anything.

Cole grins at me. I notice how impeccably manicured his nails are as he drew that square.

Hefner: But don't you think—

He pauses. Cole waits, glass in hand, to see what he'll say next. Shearing's upturned face with its dark glasses is wreathed in a Cheshire-cat smile.

Me: Why don't we show you what Nat's talking about? George, do you know the Coca-Cola song?

Shearing: Surely do.

Shearing turns to the keyboard.

Cole: (rising, still holding drink) Mind if I join in?

Hefner: Wait! We can't—

Shearing begins to play as Cole and M4 start to sing about the drink with which things go better.

Hefner: Oh well—

DISSOLVE TO:

Me, descending my apartment stairwell. As I reach the next-to-last step the tread gives way. I shriek and tumble to the landing. A moment later a nearby apartment door opens; George sticks his head out. Late twenties, on the chubby side, slightly rumpled blue pinstripe suit, easy grin under a thick head of tousled brown hair. Even in my pained state I hear music and noise from within.

George: What a brilliant ploy to crash the party! You're not seriously hurt, I hope?

Me (groan).

George: Let me help you. (extends hand)

Me: Thanks.

I slowly rise, grunting.

George: Did you—

Me: No, nothing's broken, I think. God, I hurt all over, though.

I shuffle into the apartment then pause, startled: everywhere I see marbled and mahoganied Victorian perfection. Real Tiffany lamps, no ferns. A piano plays; the party well along, guests nicely oiled up.

Me: (looking around) Are you an architect?

George: I'm a medical student who collects architectural salvage. I visit demolition sites and slip the foreman twenty bucks. It keeps me sane after anatomy class. Care for a slight libation?

He turns to the bar and pours me a glass of wine.

George: Fixing up this place is also part of my campaign to get Sheky to lower my rent.

Me: Sheky the landlord?

George: So you know him? How is that Montenegrin cheapskate these days? I haven't seen him in a while; not that I'd go looking.

Me: I once heard him threaten the old woman down the hall with a power drill. Said he'd pierce her ears if she didn't vacate.

George: (wicked grin) Ah, but he didn't actually do it, did he?

Me: Well—

George: Of course not. Underneath that rough exterior beats the heart of a poet. Who's also a dictator. No man who keeps a complete set of the works of Šilas in his basement office can fail to understand the subtle interplay between force and persuasion.

Me: Who?

George: Šilas. Milovan Šilas. Surely you know the great Balkan author and patriot.

Me: D— Dz— How do you say it?

George: Šilas. A man whose whole oeuvre is finesse in the use of power. Read any of his works: political theory, biography, stories. Power, but not power, you see.

Me: The iron fist in the—

George: Try it in Serbo-Croatian: gvozdena pesnica u rukavici od somota.

Wordlessly, I look around the room. To me Sheky was just a man with a hairy paunch peeking out from his dirty undershirt who didn't fix the stair tread. Behind the bar a sleek blonde bartender in a white mess jacket is kissing a skinny young man in hornrimmed glasses.

Me: Crazy Sheky once spent an hour outside my front door yelling at me from the hall. He said I heard you on the radio once too often. You're out of here, dollface.

George: Time for a rent strike.

Me: I'll take part. That floorboard's going to kill someone. But why don't you just move out?

George: I wouldn't give Sheky that satisfaction.

The bartender and her date are slowly sinking beneath the bar, still locked in their kiss.

George: Tell you what, Mary. Why don't you open one of these?

George reaches for a fortune cookie from a silver tray of them on the bar top. Crashing sound from behind the bar.

George: If it's a favorable fortune, we'll go on strike. If not—

Me: (dropping cookie into my purse) Mercy. And I know my fortune.

Almost everyone at the party subsequently withheld their rent checks. Sheky never said a word but one night two months later someone banged on my door and yelled FIRE! I ran into the street in my robe and slippers and watched the old heap burn with George. The fire made a grand show—no ticket necessary—and kept us warm on a freezing December night. Other strikers fetched hot coffee and doughnuts. I lost everything—which wasn't that much to begin with because I only spent money on wine, shoes, and the Sprite. I moved to another Victorian firetrap, George lost his taste for Gilded Age froufrou and focused on doctoring. Politically educated landlords are a menace to society.

We can quickly gloss over the episode in which my idiot older sister Rose visits from Minnesota. Her letter arrived by general delivery while I was hunting for a place to live. I wound up in River North overlooking the back of the Merchandise Mart, never told her I lost all my shoes in the fire and she never complimented me on my new shoes.

Montage of everything Chicago: Rose and me examining handbags in Carson's, examining lingerie in Marshall field's, in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. High atop the Prudential building, Rose gasps then shrieks with laughter as a gust of wind blows her hat off and over the edge. Rose and me eyeing paintings at the Art Institute, lunching at Pizzeria Uno, gawking at Marina City. Rose getting underfoot in the control room at Old Towne Recorders while I'm at work. Rose and me watching Renata Scotto sing "Lucia" at the Lyric Opera.

Which left me exhausted, somehow. Rose's enthusiasms. Her dinner talk.

Rose: Why don't you have your own TV show like Dinah Shore?

Me: I'm busy playing second base for the Cubs.

Rose: You sound a little like her. I noticed it today during the playback.

Me: I was thinking of joining Spike Jones's band.

Rose: Can't you be serious a minute? You have a lovely voice. I don't understand why you waste time with these commercials.

Me: Rose, have you heard Gertrude Stein is joining the Spike Jones band?

Rose: I think you could do it if you applied yourself. Take me, for example. I had no idea how tough nursing school would be. But I grew up fast. I worked very hard and today—

Me: Rose!

I don't know if I care to improve this. There was Rose's life as a hospital nurse and mine whispering in America's ear every day. It's as vicious as I felt toward her at the time.

CUT TO:

Yet another studio. Engineers bustle around setting up microphones. Musicians wander through the frame, one hauling a bull fiddle. I'm sprawled on an old couch ignoring the hubbub, eyes closed, slowly singing.

Me: A-a-a-a-p-r-i-l-l-l-l in P-a-a-a-a-r-i-i-i-s-s—

Ralph, Walt and Stan Dale enter, all in dark suits, talking and gesturing, pointing to script pages. I ignore them, eyes still closed.

Me: A-a-a-a-p-r-i-i-l-l-l-l in P-a-a-a-a-r-i-i-i-s-s—

Ralph: (noticing me) Hey Mercy! What wears white robes and rides on a pig?

Oblivious, I'm still crooning.

Ralph: Lawrence of Poland, get it?

Stan: Ralph knows the best Polish jokes.

Walt: Ralph knows the best jokes, period.

Ralph: Mercy's in her own secret world, am I right about that?

Stan: She can't hear you.

Ralph: Do you know how the Polish interplanetary space force is going to land astronauts on the sun?

Stan: They're going to land at night.

Ralph: You spoiled my joke.

Stan: We still haven't fixed the last line.

Walt: What's wrong with it?

Stan: (reading) Frigi-King. For the coolest car in town. Doesn't rhyme.

Ralph: Who cares if it rhymes as long as it sells? Where's Estelle with the new pages?

Estelle enters carrying a sheaf of paper, hair set in a disciplined flip.

Estelle: Here I am.

Walt: (takes pages; reading) I don't like the next to last line.

Stan: What's wrong with that one?

Walt: It's just wrong, that's all.

Stan: We have an hour of studio time. Let's just rehearse with these pages. Ready to go, everybody?

Me: (eyes still closed) I smell chocolate milk. I can't see it but I can smell it.

Ralph: I don't smell anything.

Estelle: I was drinking chocolate milk. Can I run out and buy you some?

Walt: Kids, recording time runs 300 dollars an hour.

Me: (eyes still closed) My funny valenti-i-i-i-i-ne— (still singing) I must have

chocola-a-a-a-t-e m-i-i-i-i-l-k—

Estelle: I'll go get some.

Ralph: Can we try a rehearsal now? (claps hands smartly) Please, everyone?

Stan: We're just wasting time if we don't fix the last line.

Walt: Next to last line. The last line's fine.

Stan: No it's not.

Me: Mike, go find a cop.

Voice: (on speaker) Should we roll tape?

Me: (singing) Three little maids of school are w-e-e-e-e—

Voice: Should we roll tape or not?

Estelle: (re-entering) They were out of chocolate milk. I bought a Hershey bar.

Marty: (picking up on my singing) Pert as a schoolgirl well can b-e-e-e-e—

Mel: (continuing) Filled to the brim with girlish gle-e-e-e-e—

Ralph: What is that? No, don't roll yet. People, let's get professional, okay?

Me: (with pages) I don't understand these lyrics.

Stan: It's the same client you cut three spots for last week. Come on, "one-take," you can do this.

Mike enters with police officer.

Policeman: What's going on here?

Stan: My God— The police!

Policeman: What?

Me: The Bickersons can't settle their differences. Arrest them.

Policeman: Lady, I'm very busy—

Stan: Mercy, what have you gone and done?

Walt: This is absurd.

Ralph: Ridiculous.

Me: You're too late. It's up to the law now.

Stan: Pull the plug. Wrap this session.

Voice: I'm shutting off the recorder.

Ralph: I'll call the agency. Frigi-King is going to be plenty angry.

Estelle: Mercy, do you still want the Hershey bar?

The station house was dirty, noisy, crowded— Why continue? We got there, no one could figure out a charge, so we ended up in the tank on general principle. I spent the night with my cellmates yammering about those last two lines, humming songs to myself ba-ba-ba-ba-ba tumpety-tumpety-tum when I couldn't sleep. Next morning—court. Dark wood panels and vast leather-covered doors, supernumeraries running around. One of them shouts "All rise" and in marches Superior Court Judge Oscar J. Mulvaney in his black robes. Bloated cheeks, wisps of gray hair plastered across his pink scalp. Then the shrieking really starts with all the rapscallions shuttling in and out as Judge Oscar shouts "Guilty! Next." Or "Postponed!" I ask "What's going on" and some uniform says "You're up for disturbing the peace" and I'm about to say "What peace we're musicians" when someone yells my name and Judge Oscar says "How do you plead" and before I can say "Not guilty" Stan shouts "Your Honor she was singing" and Judge Oscar says "I asked for a pleading not testimony" but Stan just says "She was singing something about three little maids" and Judge Oscar says "The Mikado? I love love LOVE Gilbert and Sullivan" and starts to sing "As someday it may happen that a victim must be found" and I add "I've got a little list I've got a little list." "You know what rhymes with list?" Judge Oscar says. "Case dismissed." And he laughs so hard as he bangs his gavel the head flies off. Stan says "We better get out of here before you do any more damage."

"That was some fun" I say in the elevator. "I could do with a drink." Next day we're back in the studio, cutting fifteen spots for Polk Brothers.

I beg forgiveness for this next episode.

FADE IN:

Another bar, another drinking companion. Things are at the giggling stage when the bartender hands me a telephone. "Are you Miss Mercedes Mulligan?" With dread, I take the receiver. Because I know.

Rose: Mercy?

Me: Rose?

Rose: Mercy, I have to talk to you.

Me: How did you get my number here?

Rose: You gave it to me.

Me: I did not.

Rose: You did. You gave me the names of five of your favorite bars. To use in an emergency.

Me: There's no emergency.

Rose: I had a feeling about you this evening.

Me: What feeling?

Rose: That you might be in some kind of trouble. It was just a feeling, but it was so strong, you know? This is the fourth bar I've—

Me: What? You called three bars already?

Rose: You're drunk, aren't you? I can tell.

Me: God damn it, Rose—

My drinking companion: Who are you talking to?

Me: Hold on, Rose. What?

Drinking companion: Let's get out of here. I'm starting to hate this place.

Me: It's one of my mother's offspring. (to phone) Rose, I have to go.

Rose: I'm your sister! If you can't talk to family about these things—

I hang up. Two minutes later the bartender tries to conceal his apologetic look as he hands me the phone.

Me: What do you mean calling me again? Who do you think you are?

Rose: Mercy, you can't just go around having fun all your life.

Me: Why? I don't break any laws. I— Why am I arguing with you?

Rose: (singing off-key) My mother gave me a nickel...to buy a pickle—

The forgotten ditty our mom used to put us to sleep when we were four and six.

Rose: (still singing atrociously) But I didn't buy a pickle. I bought choon' gum.

And I almost want to come home with her. Almost. Because who knows the power of song better than I?

I hand the phone to the bartender. It's only a song after all. My drinking companion looks ravishing and sleek and doesn't crowd people.

Drinking companion: Who was that, Mercy?

Me: Nobody. Crank call.

Twice I slam my fist into the bar making the glasses jump. The pain feels just right. M4 had done eleven commercials that morning and never needed a second take. The joy of it floated me through the afternoon.

CUT TO:

A taxi, Lake Shore Drive, dusk. Within, Fred and I are kissing chastely, holding paper cups of wine. Behind us looms the skyline of north Michigan Avenue. Fred shakily pours more wine into my cup. We both sip then kiss again.

Me: What's a consist?

The cab lurches around a curve. Wine splatters onto my dress.

Fred: (to driver) Can you slow it a bit? (resumes pouring drink) We'll be at my place in a minute. I do a lot of traveling, you know? For corporate, the front office. I've seen the whole interior of this country. Omaha, Des Moines.

Fred puts his hand on my thigh, kisses me again.

Me: What are you doing?

Fred: St. Louis, Oklahoma City, Colorado Springs. The railroad has to maintain good relations with our most important cities. I call on mayors, city councils, big shippers.

He moves his hand upward, kisses me again.

Me: Stop that. You were talking about your travels.

Fred: I love having a pass with access to all areas—

Me: Kiss me again. (we kiss) That's nice. No, just kiss me.

I lift his hand from my thigh.

Fred: Have you ever experienced the first rays of early morning sunrise on the snow-capped Rockies? You owe it to yourself.

Me: You're rambling; just kiss me.

Fred drops his hand to my thigh then we kiss again.

Fred: I believe there is a plan for us. You must embrace your destiny.

Me: Yes. Some things are truly foreordained. Stop that, I said.

I slap his hand smartly.

Me: God damn—

Fred: What's the matter?

Me: What you're doing down there.

Fred: I just—

Me: Don't think I don't know what that's about. (mimicking ecstasy) Oh! Oh God! Oh God, I love you, Fred! Oh God, just— That's right, just— Oh God, it's wonderful! That's what you had in mind, isn't it?

Fred: (to driver) This exit. Then north on Clark.

CUT TO:

Fred's bedroom; morning light creeping around the drawn curtains. I open my eyes, roll over, notice Fred beside me. I sit upright, shake my head, hit it with the heel of my hand. Extract an aspirin bottle from my bag, swallow two tablets.

Me: What time is it?

Fred: (sleepily) What?

Me: Where's my watch?

I reach for it on the nightstand.

Me: Shit! I have a recording date in 30 minutes.

I push back the mess of bedclothes, jump up, wearing Fred's p.j. bottoms.

Me: Damn, damn, damn. What neighborhood is this?

Fred: Lincoln Park.

Me: Shit. I can still make it.

I run out of the room as Fred turns over groggily. Sound of water running. I run back into the room with Fred's pajama bottoms still on, pulling a dress over my head. Step out of the p.j's, reach on the floor for my drawers.

Me: Don't you have to get work? It's nearly ten. Never mind.

I sit on the side of the bed, pull on shoes. Stand, reach for bag, glance in the mirror, extract comb from bag, run quickly through hair. Shake hair out, touch right ear with my fingertips.

Me: Earrings!

Down on all fours, searching floor next to the bed.

Me: Are you lying on them?

Fred: (inaudible)

Me: Here's one. Roll over a minute.

I lean over the bed. Fred rolls to his right.

Me: Not that way, the other way.

I grab Fred's hips, roll him to the other side. Snatch up the second earring.

Me: Did I yell at you? I'm sorry, I overslept. Bye.

Looking this over, I sense, somewhere, Nat Cole's benign influence hovering over everything. I mean his teaching me about the hidden power of our jingles in peoples' minds. This makes him my collaborator in a way, something Hefner couldn't grasp. How else to explain moments like the time we serenaded the warehouse crew, live, at Sol Polk's west side furniture warehouse and got the most applause when we goofed on Speedy Alka Seltzer?

I may take another stab at the groping scene with Freddy, the only embarrassment from which I didn't emerged entirely unsinged. Otherwise, what have I ever done but sing what they put in front of me? Except when I wanted to break up a recording session. Then I only had to trill a few bars of Three Little Maids. No one could stop laughing.

But I wonder—does anyone find any of this shocking in any way? Even Rose, who once tried to shock me into changing my life, shocked me instead when she up and quit the nursing gig, got her music degree and now teaches voice in the Minneapolis public schools. Maybe Freddy was right about fate because I am almost jealous.