Short Story: ‘… Comin’ Home!’

Short Story: ‘… Comin’ Home!’

"Wait a minute, wait a minute I tell ya – you ain’t heard nuthin’ yet!"

"I’ve bin away from you a long time! - I never thought I’d miss ya so, some how I feel, your love is real – near you I wanna be!"

" The folks up north will see me no more, when I get to that Swanee shore! I love the ol’ folks at home!"

"Hey Deke, do you think this is really going ta work?" asks the portly figure behind the enormous brown Victorian writing desk. Tamarine Grange has somehow managed to negotiate his ample frame into the capacious high-backed chair behind the desk, but he now rather resembles a squashed mushroom, in the dim light of the back-stage anteroom.

The tall, lean man sitting opposite him pushes forward, and studies the typescript that lies curled upon the cluttered desk. Despite the acrid smoke that drifts up from the heavily chewed cigar perched upon the silver ashtray, the air is still breathable, despite ignorance of the ‘Clean Air Act’. Derek Flynapper begins to turn the pages slowly. "It’s well written, the scores are great, and the old home town charm is very current, very saleable. If we don’t push this now we’ll probably never get another chance. When times are hard, and the world’s on its knees, there’s only voice that can do the business. It’s been done before, and the time is right for this type of show again."

The lean man pauses, looks into the pink-fleshed face impresario opposite, and presses home the urgency of his bid. "He was there in the depression of the Twenties, and led show business from the front. That’s what the business is crying out for now - it’s his time again. Its time he came back ,back home to the business."

The man in the overly-tight Hawaiian shirt flicks the side of his fleshy hand at the typescript, and reaches for the smouldering cigar again. He pulls heavily upon its contents and blows a thin column of smoke high into the greying air.

"I’m not sure…seems very old hat to me, but what the hell? We have a one legged juggler and two dancing dogs heading the show at the Roxi in Lynemouth this season, and one of them has already bitten the stage manager twice! Lord knows how I’m gonna square that with the indemnity." Tamarine Grange leans back, and turns his bulging eyes to the long cracks in the ceiling, as if considering some great state secret, and for all purposes, could take a passable roll in the production of ‘Oh! Mister Churchill!’ playing to full houses at The Grande, a few miles further along the coast.

"I’ll tell what I’ll do Deke, if your holdin’ the foldin’ and can get this off the ground, I’ll back you for a run at the Pavilion. It’s local, and it’ll be a good kick-off for your boy - what’s his name?"

"Steve – Steve Saffron. He’s keen as mustard, but more importantly he has the voice," announces Derek eagerly. He pushes his lean frame upright and waves a hand at the open door, "Listen to that. It’s no put on - he can push that tone all day. The guy’s a natural I tell you."

"Ok, sure, there’s something in what you say, even I can tell, and I’m tone deaf. Sounds pretty good on the monitor too, but that kind of singin’ went out with button shoes. To lay it on the line - will it put bums on seats? More to the point, what’s it goin’ ta cost me to front-up?"

The checked jacket hanging loosely on the lean frame of Derek Flynapper becomes animated, and the arms begin to flail at the rotund figure behind the desk. "Take my word for it Tam, Steve has it, and I mean to push ‘…Comin’ Home!’ all the way. I know this type of show has been done before, and sure, most have crashed, but they always go for a name or a false voice, and they just don’t work – but Steve Saffron has the feel of the thing. As you can see, they are all great numbers, and its basically a one man show sitting on some up-tempo props, laser lighting, and a great sound system. We can contract out most of the…"

"Hey! Hold on there Deke," interjects Tamarine Grange, "a kick-off show is one thing, but what we need is a tour to get a decent return for our investors. Gonna have to scale this up, if it works. I don’t wanna reach out too far into the risk business with this." Tamarine leans forward, picks up the typescript, and thumbs the pages casually. "I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if the kick-off show works and your boy can perform, I’ll arrange a tour, and if that breaks even, I’ll take it further."

Tamarine Grange stares out into the darkness of the theatre, and the cogs of his mind begin to crank over. "It’ll cost plenty mind, and your neck’s on the line, but if we’re goin’ ta make this work big time, it’ll mean London. I’ll need to pull a few favours out of the drawer for that. The West End’s the place, of course," he continues at length, "but that’ll need a whisper in the ear of the Lord – and that really is goin’ ta cost."

"That’s great Tam - it’s enough to know you’re behind this, and it means a great deal to everyone. There’s been a lot of work put in by all the crew to tie this show together – you won’t regret it, trust me."

"I do Deke, I do, but let’s take this one step at a time. I kinda like the idea of the old times comin’ home, has the right smell about it – money. But if it’s a turkey you’re on your own."

"That’s great Tam, all we want is a chance - you won’t regret it."

"Ok. Ok. Get the guy up here so we can chew over contracts, and call Marilyn through. She has some great American contacts - maybe we can spread out some of the pain."

*

I push upon the heavy door with the ‘Black Knight’ insignia, and it swings slowly open. I emerge through the half-light and the smoke that permeates the anteroom. The room is a make-shift office of dubious origins; oddly there are two galvanised pipes protruding up through the floor that no-one has had the inclination to remove. They stand out proudly like two forgotten tulips on the bed of the grey concrete floor. With an experienced jink to the left, I step away from the tripping hazard, and move towards the three figures sitting awkwardly around a large desk.

"Come in dear boy, come in," offers the soft voice of the South’s leading impresario, "take a seat."

I grab the warm fleshy palm that is offered, and glance quickly around for the non-existent chair. Oh dear! I resolve to lean nonchalantly upon the edge of the desk with palms down, alongside Derek, with as much dignity as I can muster. Yet he has already bounced from his chair, and the rope of his arm wraps itself around my shoulders.

"Good man Steve, you’re in good voice this morning - come on! Tamarine’s on board, but we need to go through some of the basics."

"Why sure," I offer, forcing a smile at the assembly forming the cohort of my destiny. "Great! I can’t wait to get the opening number choreographed; it’s all starting to take shape … Hi Marilyn."

The sultry form of Marilyn Weeks sits in tight formation next to Tamarine Grange, and her inviting eyes tear me up inside. Somehow I am holding together, and I tell myself the real love of my life is the music and the rendition of the ancient songs of the master – I lie.

"An Al Jolson revival – it’s gonna be great – can’t wait to get into the footlights!"

Derek breaks the suspended silence with his enthusiastic outburst. We are all off again on the rollercoaster and crazy world of show business speak, and the over embellishment of outrageous hyperbole.

"Hi Steve- you’re looking good, you’ve lost a little weight," replies the low voice of the voluptuous blonde siren in the high heels. She crosses her legs and the sheen from her sheer stockings catches the dim light, which causes a sparkle to dance across her long legs.

I can feel perspiration beginning to run down my back, and my palms become clammy. I make a gesture towards the typescript, hinting of changes here and there, yet there is no change in my heart, because the dim flame within begins to twist, dance, and burn brighter. This is going to be tough, there is a lot at stake, and things are moving fast, too fast, and it is all I can do just to hang on.

"A Jolson revival, mmm," mouths the portly figure of Tamarine Grange, and he pulls again at the contents of his cigar. "Of course, I leave the artistic side of this to you Deke, but I want Marilyn here," he continues, indicating with a flourish of his cigar ash, "to keep a tight on eye on the budget. You creative animals have a tendency to get carried away - all right with you ‘M’? You’ll have to hold these boys back on a short lead, or we’ll all be down the ‘Swanee’," and with that, he throws back his large round head and lets out a high-pitched guffaw.

"Sure, Tam, leave it with me. I’ll make sure they all toe the line, and if there’s so much as a twitch of dissent, I hit ‘em where it really hurts," she says smiling in my direction," right in the contracts."

"There you have it boys, you know what you’re up against, so whatever ‘M’ says goes - right?"

"Sure thing Tam, you won’t get any waves from us - you can bank on it.”

"Yep, that’s just what I aim to do; come on lets get to the stage," offers Tamarine. He rolls up the typescript, and with some difficulty pushes back his chair. "I’ll need to see the set-up, and hear the arrangements. Steve has some big shoes to fill, and the clock’s tickin’ - let’s go see if he can measure up.”

*

I feel at home; this is my world. I am on home soil, and I can feel the tension lifting from my shoulders. The ascent steps are on the far side of the stage-front, and as the large base drivers are stacked two deep, and in the way, I leap in one bound onto the black velvet platform of dreams. Trailing audio cables, amplifiers, mixers, radio mikes, and lighting gantries are strewn around the stage, and I move quickly into position.

I hear Derek’s voice of concern echo across the empty seats. “Ok Steve, let’s take it again, from the second intro."

I can just make out the silhouette of ‘Mike the Man’, moving within the control kiosk opposite, and his quick hands begin working dials and sliders and the brain of the laptop. The backing track starts to rise in volume and tempo, the bass starts throbbing beneath my shoes, the L.E.Ds strike my eyes, and dry ice spurts out across the blackness.

I draw a breath, push down on my diaphragm, and count in the beats. Suddenly there is light and sound, and the voice from inside my head crashes across the stage, and away to the pinhole lights of the ink black theatre. I draw another breath and push on the diaphragm once again - I’m off! So much to think about. Try to focus, co-ordinate the sway with the beat; hold the notes, lean into the lyrics, and reach out for the audience.

"When first I saw the love-light in your eyes, I dreamed the world had nought but joy for me. And even though we drifted far apart, I never dreamed but what a dream could be. I love you,as I ever loved before!"

There are other songs; big songs, great songs, and they tumble out of my soul like falling rain, on and on, rising and falling melodies and emotions that rent asunder man and woman alike. The symbolism is there, the melodramatic outpouring of emotive lyrics, and the old homespun charm of mother, hearth and home.

On they roll; ancient hits of the past. "Sonny Boy”, “Oh! Susanna!”, “April Showers”,” Rosie”,” Here I Come!”, ” Rockabye”,” Robert E . Lee”, “Pretty Baby”,” I Only Have Eyes For You” - forgotten songs, show songs, the songs that built a continent. On and on they roll, in waves of the sentimental and the rousing. Larry Parks had been a great imitator, but the energy and stamina required to sustain such a live performance is awe-inspiring, and a true testament to the “Mammy singer” – once labelled the world’s greatest entertainer.

"I’m a comin! I’d walk a million miles for one of your smiles, my maha- mmmmmy!

I’m down on one knee, and can now really appreciate why this was necessary. I’m drained- a mere shell of a man. I’ve nothing left; devoid of breath and drained of emotion. I reach out into the blackness, from the loneliest spot in the world. I drop the microphone – a sin. A clatter of hands spank the eerie silence, and I’m done and undone, unravelled, a spent force – empty.

A face appears from the blackness; mascara is running down the face of the blonde woman reaching out to my hand. Her look, her touch – Marilyn! She is out there, in the dark, in the dark for me! Our hands entwine and I pull myself upright; her scent is also there, and I know. Just one smile and the hurt is gone.

"Oh! Steve!"

We embrace, our bodies crush, and our eager lips press together. We are now one under the spotlight, and at last - I have truly come home.