A Midsummer Night's Typing

As many of you are musicians as well as visual artists, perhaps you may find a bit of simpatico with this anecdote. Last summer, after the sister of my dear friend Chloe discovered she was “in a family way”, and, as tradition and natural laws dictate, “brought forth new life” she chased the father to England, DNA results and various writs in hand, leaving Chloe to function not only as lead vocalist for the punk-jazz ensemble Professional Driver On Closed Road but as publicist as well.

She was not completely unprepared for such responsibility for she had served in that dual role as leader of her first melodic assembly, Cinnamon Sinatra. CinSin, as they became known to the cognoscenti, performed, in the same style as Chloe’s current group, cover tunes made famous by the Chairman of the Board and could only be experienced in a live club setting. That encounter could never be considered complete until, after hearing le jazz punque´ groupe’s renditions of “Summer Wind” and “In the Wee Small Hours”, the show was brought to an ovation by “Somethin’ Stupid”, with Chloe singing, such is the range of her voice, both Mr. Sinatra’s and his daughter Nancy’s parts in that pop classic!

Now her current band, PDOCR, is preparing to release its first cd, “Objects D’Art (Are Closer Than They Appear)”. It will include a few standards, “Lush Life”, “Autumn Serenade”, and “Nature Boy” among them, but, like all artists, their preference is for their own originals, so the release party will feature a live performance of their signature tune, “Do Not Attempt”.

It is this soiree that became Chloe’s first publicity project following her sister’s quest to bring paternistic justice to her paramour, as he clearly had no interest in bringing himself to such justice. I accepted Chloe’s Saturday night request for help in formulating the CD release announcement and arrived at her West Village apartment to discover that her computer had given up its ghost in the machine. She had produced an archaic Underwood typewriter, rolled into it a sheet of parchment and was preparing to hunt and peck her way through this document, using all of the weight in her slight frame to push each key, which would rise from its resting place like some great lumbering beast, crash to the paper with a dull, but thunderous KER-THUNK, leaving an inky mark of typography in its path instead of a footprint. This irregular but persistent noise caused her boyfriend, Myron, to storm from the bedroom, rage about how he could not sleep with this racket and figuratively, if not literally, throw us out of the apartment. A stockbroker, Myron has never been one to relax and the time since the Great Unpleasantness has certainly not improved his disinclination to drift easily into the arms of Morpheus.

Temporarily relieved of a space in which to work, we agreed there was only one alternative: treat ourselves to a bit of imbibitions! The Cubbyhole is Chloe’s favorite neighborhood landing, so off to West 12th we sauntered, trading an occasional example of soft shoe along the way. Upon arrival we ordered our
favorite choices of cocktail and sat down to enjoy the parade humaine. Presently a young man stepped up to our table, introduced himself as Gerard and announced that he was offering free cigarette samples in exchange for answering a few brief survey questions.

He was promoting a new brand, “Ocean Mist Lights”. The prizes were a form fitting, flask-like pack for the back pocket, a regular package, and a cd rom of cigarette commercials. I passed, but Chloe said, “Certainly, ask away”, and after a couple of minutes filling out a brief form (something she does in other ways as well, might I add) she was presented with her nicotine laced booty, and off went Gerard seeking other quarry.

“Why”, I asked, “did you accept such an offer as this is not a vice to which I was aware you were disposed?”

“I don’t smoke tobacco, as you know”, she replied with a conspiratorial air. “I’ve got a part time summer gig teaching English to French exchange students. I’ll give these as prizes to the top three students in next week’s essay test. They all smoke like oil refineries.”

She then tapped her purse with a finger.

“But speaking of smoking I have in here a small leftover of what Myron and I were enjoying before you came over. He was trying to get some help sleeping and I needed a little hype inspiration for the
press release. Want to finish it off?”

“In here?” I asked with a bit of feigned concern.

“Of course not, outside!” she replied.

“Ahh, in that case, after you.”

We stepped outside and onto a nearby dark side street. Chloe fished in her purse and produced the remains. She lifted it to her lips and fired her lighter. It suddenly appeared to me to resemble a small white moth flying too close to the flame as loose bit of paper flared with a bright red and yellow light. After a long draw she passed it to me, and I was reminded of my dear Grandmama’s affection for the Weed With Roots In Hell, as some ancient film described it. My reverie was broken by the distant sound of footsteps. I looked furtively to my left and saw two forms approaching us some fifty or so yards away.

“Cops!” hissed Chloe, and I realized it was indeed two of New York’s Finest coming toward us with some deliberation. “They must have seen the flame! Toss it and let’s go.”

I cast aside what little had survived our joint endeavor, and we walked back around to the bar entrance and went inside. Quickly ordering two more cocktails we tried to take on the manifestation of newborn innocence.

After a few moments two police officers walked past the windows, peered into the door, entered and walked directly up to Chloe and me.

One of them, a rather bulky African American fellow, stated more ascommand than question, “Would the two of you join us outside please?”

No sooner had we followed these authoritarian figures onto the sidewalk just outside the bar, than they turned us around and proceeded to bind our hands behind our respective backs with plastic restraints!

“Is there a problem, officers? We would never intentionally displease Heroes of New York!” I said, respectfully.

“The problem is what you two were up to around the corner”, the second policeman answered, with no small amount of intimidation adding gravity to his already gravelly voice.

“We’ve got you dead to rights”, said the other, quoting, I assume, some bit of obscure crime film dialog, as he brandished the evidence he had scraped from the nearby street.

Having no wish to disturb Myron further, arousing him from whatever pitiful respite he may have found from the plunging Dow in order to relieve us from the confines of the local hoosegow, Chloe at once launched into a long explanation of how we came to be on that side street enjoying a full flavored smoke. Her elucidation included a claim to have not engaged in such activity since University, how she had acquired the questionable material from an old chum visiting from Hawaii, how he was long gone, and she had discovered the remains of that adventure in her purse, what a shame it was to let it go to waste, what a, of course, simply TERRIBLE and STUPID mistake it all was, and it would certainly would absolutely without question never ever happen again under any circumstances whatever and that I had nothing to do with any of it, I was just keeping her company. I simply lent silent moral support, although I did attempt to send her a psychic message of “You go, girl!”

The Bobbies looked at each other, then at us, then again at each other.

“Well all right”, said the gravelly one, “See that you behave the rest of the weekend at least.”

Being peppered by our profuse thanks, both walked on to other, hopefully more pressing duties. Chloe and I, in unison, performed a most dramatic wiping of our brows, then walked back into the Cubbyhole. We immediately discovered the entire scene had been witnessed by the whole of the patrons who greeted us with a standing ovation worthy of one of Chloe’s “Somethin’ Stupid” performances!