Irwin Linsacker did not seek attention. Attention implied dogs and children. When Irwin was a child, his mother’s dismissal of a crying jag with a brusque, “Oh, he just wants attention,” dissuaded him from further lapses in self-control. Recognition, however, was something different: recognition implied acknowledgment within a select group and was something any adult who played life’s game fairly was entitled to. At odd moments, the otherwise undemonstrative Irwin Linsacker submitted his bids for recognition.
He considered one of those bids as he sat next to his wife in Carnegie Hall in October 1965. Had he really, actually done that? He chuckled softly to himself. His wife glanced curiously at him but said nothing. She had long since become used to her husband’s little chuckles and sighs, and treasured them. A short, middle-aged man in a gray suit, with his own business, a comfortable home, a loving wife, and two reasonably tolerant children, Linsacker had been looking forward to this concert of Benny Goodman and his quartet for weeks. Since youth he had loved the King of Swing: his peerless big bands, his superb small ensembles, and his incomparable clarinet. Irwin sighed in happy anticipation of an evening of glorious music. Irwin peered around at the massed faces. Had any of them been here in March 1940? It was certainly possible; 1940 wasn’t really all that long ago. He relaxed back in his seat and smiled. Yes, I really did it.
It was drowsy early afternoon and Irwin’s eyelids were drooping when the music teacher, Miss Krimsky, announced that the class was the lucky recipient of three reduced-price tickets for a concert at Carnegie Hall. Irwin continued to nod—until Miss Krinsky revealed the name of the headlining performer: Benny Goodman. He jerked upright; as a bona-fide hep-cat and as big a fan of the great Goodman as anyone in tenth grade, he could barely keep his hand down.
There was, however, a catch: Benny Goodman would not be appearing with his great band, not even with a hot rhythm section. In fact, he would not be playing swing at all. “Mister Goodman will not be playing jazz,” said Miss Krimsky, making it sound like a bad word. “He will perform Mozart.” Specifically, Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major.” She smiled primly. “With the New York Philharmonic.”
What? thought Irwin.
“Aw, gee,” muttered Joe Bivvo, Irwin’s best friend, across the aisle.
Miss Krimsky continued: “Mr. Goodman is taking a rare opportunity to advance his art by performing with the Philharmonic. You might look upon this as an historic occasion.” Irwin’s heart raced; historic or not, Mozart or not, it was still Benny Goodman. He thrust his hand up, Joe raised his, and so did three other students. Straws were drawn, and Irwin, Joe, and Putsy Ringwort were the lucky winners. Miss Krimsky wagged her finger and said, “Now, students, you must remember that you will be representing your school, and conduct yourselves accordingly.” Irwin and Joe exchanged wry grins, but nodded obediently.
The following Saturday evening two young men in blue suits emerged from the subway at Broadway and joined the throng converging on one of the world’s great concert halls. So far, Linsacker and Bivvo had been as impeccable representatives of Spuyten Duyvil High as Miss Ida Krimsky could have hoped for. As the boys entered the grand lobby, however, standards began to slip. “Gee, some dump, huh?” said Joe, gazing pop-eyed at the onyx-and-marble magnificence. Too awestruck even to laugh, Irwin saw two girls smile their way. Good old Joe, he knew how to do it!
Putsy Ringwort’s bland face swam out of the crowd. She wore a gauzy light green dress under her camel coat, jarringly alien from what she appeared in at school. Putsy was quiet and serious and played the flute, and Irwin’s feelings toward her were resolutely neutral. She smiled primly and in a voice made haughty by the surroundings said, “Hello, Joe. Hello, Irwin.”
Joe and Irwin said, “Hey, Puts” in unison, and the three ascended to their seats in the top balcony. “Oh, it’s so far up!” exclaimed Putsy. “The nose bleeders,” said Joe. Irwin wondered if his friend had been there before. They settled into the hard wooden seats, Joe in the middle, and gazed raptly at the stage, impossibly far below, and at the great proscenium arch gaping like an enormous mouth to swallow the heads tilting toward it. Perfume and more obscure odors filled the room. Irwin was speechless. This was it:the big time!
“Boy, some dump, huh?” Joe said again, for Putsy’s benefit.
“Oh, you silly,” said Putsy, “this is Carnegie Hall.”
“Geez,” Irwin said, “no kidding! Where the hell’d ya think we were?” Taking his cue from the older hep-cats he hovered around at school, Irwin had recently installed “hell” as a regular component of his vocabulary. And why not? He wasn’t a kid anymore, he was almost grown-up, and grownups knew that life was full of hell. As his father often said, “Hell, that’s life.” Lyman Linsacker was a little gray man but he had made good, he didn’t take any guff from anybody (as he also often reminded his wife and son), and around the neighborhood he was recognized and greeted as a man of substance. Irwin was proud of his dad and took for granted that, one day, the same recognition would be given him.
Putsy wrinkled her pug nose. “Irwin, some of us were taught proper behavior in public. Remember what Miss Krimsky said about representing our school.”
Irwin suddenly hated Putsy’s snooty tone, her stuck-up face. “Aw, Grimsky-shrimsky,” he said. “Right, Joe?”
Joe nodded. “Right, Irwin! Take it easy, Puts. This is supposed to be fun, isn’t it?” Actually, Joe was mildly surprised by his friend’s boldness. At “Spittin’ Devil” Irwin had always been one of the quiet ones, never speaking out, never attracting attention, just a little guy with glasses and an oddly appealing smile, whose fawning eagerness to be accepted by the hep-cat gang was pathetic enough to win him Joe’s friendship. Lately, though, Joe sensed a new Irwin emerging: a stouter, bolder, cockier new Irwin. Sometimes, he found himself missing the old one.
“I’m not against fun,” Putsy said, “but we’re here to learn, too.” She turned away and buried her face in her program.
Irwin’s cheeks flushed. It seemed like, lately, a stranger’s voice had taken root in his throat and blurted out things he never used to say. Things like “hell.” When he said them, he felt both exhilarated and just a little ashamed. The shame that did not last long, however, and Irwin shrugged off Putsy’s wet-blanket remark. Was she really that dumb? He craned his neck and scanned the crowd, wondering if someone from school, or maybe one of his father’s friends, would see him. Neither Irwin nor Joe had seen Benny Goodman, but they heard him plenty on radio and records. They were far from alone in their enthusiasm, and Irwin noted several probable hep-cats in the crowd. But why wasn’t Benny playing what he always played? “Mozart, schmozart,” he grumbled to Joe. “Why’s he messin’ with this stuff, anyhow?”
“Beats me, Irv. Ain’t no percentage in it.” Joe Bivvo was big on percentages.
“You figure he got tired of the usual stuff?” Irwin asked.
“C’mon! Ya don’t get tired of ‘King Porter Stomp’. Jeez, get tired of that and you might as well croak.”
Irwin giggled while Putsy let out a genteel sigh and read aloud from her program: “It says right here, ‘Mister Goodman has long been a lover of Mozart and other great composers, and is very gratified to have the opportunity to render this significant part of the clarinet repertoire’.” She smiled tightly. “So there.”
“Well, goody, goody,” said Irwin. “So, maybe he’ll jazz it up a little, anyway.”
Putsy looked at him disdainfully. “Of course he won’t, silly. They can’t just go off playing whatever they want.”
“No?” said Irwin, his gorge rising. “Well, that doesn’t sound like any fun to me.” Frowning, Irwin entertained a sudden vision of a feisty hep-cat, claws out, poised to defend swing against ickies like Putsy Ringwort.
“It’s not supposed to be fun, Irwin,” sighed Putsy.
“What the hell’s it supposed to be, then?”
“Hard labor,” said Joe, who had been eyeing a young lady in angora two seats forward. “This long-hair music’s all about serious junk like the meaning of life.”
“Geez,” said Irwin, “can’t that be fun, too?”
“Irwin,” said Putsy, in a mewling tone, “life isn’t just about fun
Irwin was beginning to hate her. “So,” he said, “what the hell’s life about, then?”
Joe answered for her: “I say it’s about gettin’ the best percentage and a little fun thrown in.”
Men in formal dress began filing onstage with fiddles, cellos, trumpets, bassoons. Irwin studied the musicians intently. He had been studying the clarinet for a solid year and the previous fall had joined the school band. But that was nothing like the hot groups he loved listening to on the radio, and he was having a hard time concentrating on scales and arpeggios, let alone producing anything resembling his idol’s soaring tone and fluid articulation.
He asked his friend, “You ever think about playing an instrument, Joe?”
“Nah, I don’t got any musical talent, ‘cept for listenin’.” The musicians’ tuning and warming-up prompted him to quip, “Geez, don’t they play any better than that?” Irwin laughed, gratified to see a dignified gentleman in the next row look at his wife and chuckle along with him.
By some inaudible cue, the orchestra fell silent. A door opened, and Maestro Barbirolli strode to the podium and bowed. Then, there he was, clarinet in hand: Benny Goodman. Irwin nudged Joe and leaned forward, staring at his hero. He looked so small, but even at that distance he emanated confidence as he strode briskly to the front of the stage beneath a hail of applause. In the far upper balcony, the two young men did their best to outclap the multitude.
Glasses glinting, Goodman gave a barely perceptible nod to the conductor. Barbirolli flicked his baton and the strings rustled softly. Irwin listened keenly. He hadn’t heard much of this kind of music, and as the fiddles continued sawing Irwin felt a strange uneasiness well up inside. The music was hard to follow, it wandered around, not seeming to follow any kind of regular beat, just rising and falling, up and down, up and down. And Benny just stood there! Why didn’t he play? Irwin felt a strange pang of embarrassment, hoping Joe wouldn’t think him a square for bringing him here.
At last, Benny placed his clarinet in his mouth, raised its bell slightly in that way he did, and filled the hall with piping melody. Thin and pure and oddly detached from their source, the notes soared into the vast space and mingled with the meandering of the strings and the mutterings of the winds. Benny sure could play! But what was he playing? This was a long way from “King Porter Stomp.” Irwin kept trying to take it in, but the notes simply swirled around him, not settling, not swinging.
He peered around at the nearby faces all staring at the stage. How many of the fur-collared ladies and tuxedoed men were actually enjoying themselves? He thought of something his dad had said at dinner: “Don’t be snookered by all those stuffed-shirts, son. They may look respectable in their monkey suits, but you can bet half of ‘em are crooks.” His mother remonstrated—“Oh, now, Lyman”—but his dad insisted: “What the hell, Lou, he might as well learn the up-and-ups now.” It was one of his father’s pet sayings, and Irwin took it to heart. How many of those nearby faces were jewel thieves and embezzlers, even gangsters? It was an exciting thought.
Several seats to the left, his eyes paused on a high cheekbone, a delicate nose, a wave of dark hair flowing from under a purple beret. Irwin raised his chin slightly to see better, and willed his gaze to remain on her. A quick flash of white: her eyes, too, were drifting. She raised a hand to her mouth— was that a yawn? Yes, Irwin thought: she was bored, bored, just like him! He tore his eyes from the young woman, excited by the knowledge that a kindred spirit sat just a few yards away—a very beautiful kindred spirit, a hep-kitten who would have preferred “King Porter Stomp,” preferred it in spades! Irwin looked back to the stage, where the famous clarinet sang, not gloriously wild and free but thin and cold, harnessed in the service of Culture, harnessed by fiddles and frosty-faces and the guy waving the stick, harnessed into something alien and remote. Poor Benny! Irwin actually felt sorry for him—sorry and baffled by the whole thing. He let his eyes drift back to the girl. Would she catch him looking at her? He didn’t care. In fact, he hoped she would.
The first movement ended. Programs rustled, people coughed, but nobody clapped. Irwin looked at Joe in puzzlement. Joe only shrugged, saying nothing. Benny Goodman stood stiff as a frozen carp. The musicians turned their pages and the conductor held his stick up and it all seemed so stupid. Irwin glanced again at the girl in the purple beret, and a mad inspiration burst like a runaway subway train from the turbulent tunnel of his brain. He would get her attention—he would make her laugh! To hell with this square stuff, Grimsky-schrimsky, Mozart-schmozart! Irwin Linsacker would show them all what was what. Heart pounding, he leaned forward, craned his head, and yelped, “COME ON BENNY, SWING IT!”
Hisses exploded around them. Putsy’s face jerked to face him, her mouth a horrified oval. “Geez, Linsacker,” Joe whispered. Irwin felt a stab of fear that his friend was annoyed, but Joe grinned and gave his arm a gentle punch. The man in front chuckled softly. Then, from the left, came a faint but unmistakable feminine giggle. Her? He peeked sideways and froze. She was looking right at him: looking at him and smiling! At least, it sort of looked like a smile.
But what about Benny? Irwin felt a stab of fear. He looked to the stage, dreading a baleful glare aimed his way, but if Irwin’s yelp reached Benny Goodman’s ears, the great man didn’t show it. The baton flicked and he played on, serene, impassive, implacable. Irwin studied him, noting his pure tone, his sinuous phrasing, and the way body moved in subtle time to it. Irwin saw what everybody else in Carnegie Hall saw: that Benny Goodman was music personified. Not for him archaic smiles of plaster caryatids, tragic sighs of front row matrons, or stray balcony yelps. Goodman was beyond mortal trifles. Irwin saw this and marveled, even as he remained truculently earthbound and beyond the reach of the music his idol was playing. Under sheet after sheet of meandering notes, Irwin felt like he was drowning. His legs itched to jump and run from the hall, but he willed them into stillness, let his eyelids droop, and not long into the third and final movement of the concerto, Irwin Linsacker fell asleep.
He opened his eyes to light and noise. Joe poked him in the arm. “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up.”
Irwin opened his eyes. “Now what?”
“Intermission.”
“Oh…” Irwin rubbed his eyes. He wanted to get up. Leave. “We gotta sit through more of this stuff?”
“Yeah, guess so, unless you want to cut out.”
Irwin nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Ah, but what’ll Grimsky say?”
“Aw, don’t worry. She don’t have to find out.” Joe glanced toward Putsy. “And if she does find out, we’ll just say you got sick or somethin’.”
Irwin thought of Grimsky, of Putsy, of the girl, and of Benny. Well, they’d seen Benny. He nodded at his friend, “Great, Joe, let’s get outa here.”
They stood and turned toward the aisle, and Irwin felt free already. But the way was blocked by a formidable obstacle: Putsy Ringwort, glaring at him in righteous fury. “Irwin Linsacker,” she said, “how could you do such a thing? Miss Krimsky will be furious!”
Irwin wanted only freedom and the lights of Broadway. He wanted hot music. He wanted the girl in the purple beret. He looked Putsy in her stupid, stuck-up face and sneered, “Who’s gonna tell her?” Putsy shrugged and marched toward the foyer. Irwin looked back, hoping to spot the girl, but saw only a crush of anonymous faces crowding up the aisle. Should he change his mind and stay? Was there a chance their eyes would actually meet, that—?
The crowd took them up the aisle, and if he stopped now, what would Joe think? Showing their heels to Culture, the boys hotfooted down Seventh Avenue, and on the subway Joe laughed and punched Irwin’s arm and said, “Boy, oh boy, Linsacker, I didn’t know you had it in you! Shit, I only hope Grimsky don’t find out.”
“Who’s gonna tell her, Bivvo?” Irwin said, mock-menacing. The aggressiveness in his deepening voice alarmed him—he hoped Joe wouldn’t drop him. He smiled. But Joe said, “I ain’t tellin’ her, Irwin. We stick up for each other, right?”
“Right, Joe. Geez, I don’t know what got into me, there, yellin’ out like that. I guess just seeing Benny with all those stuff-shirts…”
“Yeah, Boy, I guess he aced that concert, though. I didn’t hear any fluffs, did you?”
“Boy, how can you tell with that stuff?”
“You got that right. Next time I hear Benny I want to hear killer-dillers.”
“You said it!”
“King Porter—dah-da-dah-da-dada-daah-da-daah…”
“Bah-bah, bah-bah, ba-ba-bada-baaahh…”
Between riffs, Irwin considered the consequences of his outburst. Would Ringwort spill the beans? Would his parents find out? God, no—please. Rather than arrive home suspiciously early, they stopped for custard at the Sweet Shoppe, then parted, best buddies. When Irwin at last slammed the hall door and his mother asked, “How was the concert?” he could answer with complete honesty, “Fine, Ma, great.”
Euphoria had long since fled when Irwin walked to school the following Monday. Sure, he had demonstrated his hep-cat credentials. Joe had smiled and swore to stick by him, and a girl—the girl, he was sure of it—had laughed. Now, however, it was time to face the music.
But first came the gang. Surrounded by Blum and Garski and Schmorleitz in their usual cafeteria corner, Joe Bivvo spilled it: “Holy shit, you would not believe Linsacker at the Goodman concert! Cripes, Benny’s playin’ Mozart, and all of a sudden, numbnuts here yells out, right in Carnegie Hall with all the stuffed-shirts, ‘Swing it, Benny!’”
“No!”
“Criminy!”
“Leapin’ lizards!”
“I’m tellin’ you,” Joe said, chewing a bacon sandwich, “Irwin laid a wowzer, all right. And you should have seen the look on Benny’s face, like somebody came up behind him and goosed him right there onstage!” The boys hooted with delight and Joe grinned broadly, even paternally. “Yeah, Linsacker,” he said again, “I didn’t know you had it in you.” Irwin smiled self-consciously in his moment of triumph which, as all school boys know, is only one part triumph and several more parts envy, disbelief, resentment, and perhaps something more dangerous.
But why did Joe keep saying he didn’t know he had it in him? What did he think he had in him? And what was this stuff about goosing Goodman? Benny didn’t get any kind of funny look on his face, he just went on playing like nothing happened. Only the people sitting nearby reacted, and maybe even not all of them heard. (Though he was certain that the girl in the purple beret had heard, and that she had laughed.) Why did Joe say that Benny, so far away and so above everything, got a funny look on his face? And why goosed? That was kind of gross, and Irwin hadn’t intended to be gross, certainly not in front of the girl in the purple beret. Did Joe really see it like that? Or had he lied?
Joe did that. “Sometimes, Linsacker,” Joe once said, “you gotta lie. It’s what grownups expect. Shit, if I didn’t lie half the time, my old man’d pop me one.” Irwin, whose own father was stolidly un-physical, marveled at the very concept of having an “old man” who would actually pop him one like Joe said his did, almost like he was bragging about it. Irwin sometimes wondered if Joe’s old man was really as bad as Joe said he was. Was Joe was lying about his father, too—making him more of a tough guy than he really was? Well, it was too bad Joe made up the stuff about the goosing and Benny’s face and all, but that was that. As the laughter died and the bell rang, Irwin shrugged and smiled at the gang and strutted away coolly and deliberately, not letting the bell or the skirts or the ickies or the gang rattle him. He had done it.
But the worst lay dead-ahead. Ten minutes after Irwin’s lunchroom triumph, Miss Krimsky smiled her terrible tight smile and said, “First, I would like to ask our classmates who attended the Carnegie Hall concert Saturday night to tell us about their evening.”
Irwin felt his gullet rise, but Joe—good old Joe!—flung his hand up. “Yes,” said Miss Krimsky, “Joe Bivvo. Tell us about Benny Goodman and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”
Joe stood manfully and in a loud, clear voice decanted the performance into a few neat sentences: “I didn’t think I’d like Mozart, but I ended up liking it pretty good. Benny Goodman really sounded nice. Sweet, like.” Irwin gazed at his friend in astonishment. Sweet?
Joe took his seat and looked at Irwin, smiling shyly. Joe’s performance left Irwin more confused than ever. Was he lying now, to make himself look good to Grimsky? With a strange feeling, Irwin knew that he probably was. And if a person could lie so easily, how much could you trust him? Irwin’s insides churned, his ears burned with the anticipation of hearing his name called.
“Thank you, Joe,” said Miss Krimsky, “that is very interesting. You see, class, Mr. Goodman is able to do what few musicians are able to do: play convincingly in very different styles. Imagine that: from jazz to classical. That demonstrates a profound musical ability.” Irwin wished she’d call his name and get it over with, but she prattled on: “That is a very big distance, class, that distance from mere jazz to the immortal classics. Well, it sounds as if Benny—Mr. Goodman—rose to the occasion.” Miss Krimsky’s savage eye swept the room and stopped. “Putsy Ringwort, did you enjoy the concert? What else did the Philharmonic play?”
Irwin gripped his desk. Putsy would rat on him for sure. Maybe she already had. That would figure. Yes, maybe Miss Krimsky already knew: knew and was saving him for last, to make an example of him to the class. Irwin’s gut churned, the room swam in and out of focus.
Putsy rose and simpered, “The other piece performed by the New York Philharmonic was Brahms. The symphony number—umm…”
“Four,” said Miss Krimsky.
“Yes. Symphony Number Four. It was very nice. But long.”
The class laughed and Putsy continued, “The piece is in four movements, each of them are different—slow, fast, and so on. The different instruments go in sections, sort of. I liked the cellos, they are so pretty, and so is the flute. I liked hearing the flute player—I’d like to play that piece sometime.” She gave a faint smile and sat down. Irwin felt a strange emptiness. Putsy didn’t tell on him. She didn’t tell!
Miss Krimsky thanked Putsy, then carried on with stuff about Brahms being different from Mozart and both being products of their time and it showing up in their music, and all music being a product of its time. She kept going, and it sounded as if she was going to move on to other things, the way her eyes and her voice wandered and, yes, she was moving on for sure!
“Irwin Linsacker.” Only a knife could feel like that: like Grimsky staring straight at him with those cold, blue eyes and that awful smile. “What did you think of the concert?”
Heart pounding, Irwin struggled to his feet, adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and did not dare glance at Joe Bivvo or anywhere else. “I liked it,” he said in a thin croak. “Umm—the concert was good, especially hearing Benny Goodman in Carnegie Hall.” He paused, feeling something sour rise in his gullet.
“Yes, Irwin,” Miss Krimsky said. “What did you like about Mr. Goodman’s treatment of Mozart.” Treatment? To Irwin’s surprise, no throwup came from his mouth, but words. “Well, he sounded nice. It wasn’t anything like jazz—I have a lot of his records, but I don’t have any records of Mozart so I don’t know about that kind of music.” Again, that stranger’s voice was speaking, a voice startling deep, startlingly grownup, almost.
Swept by a wave of confidence, Irwin continued: “He—he didn’t fluff—he didn’t make any mistakes, I don’t think, and you could tell that the piece was very difficult. I could hear that, easy.” Irwin panicked: what about the Brahms? His mind raced, chasing more words. “Uh, the other stuff—Brahms—sounded good, too, but it was long. Maybe I need to hear it again to…to get the, uh—to understand it.” Irwin pursed his lips and collapsed onto his seat.
“Thank you, Irwin.” Miss Krimsky nodded. Irwin’s head throbbed. Now, she’d drive the dagger home. “Class”—here it came—“Irwin has said something very useful.” Huh? “He said that he’d like to hear the Brahms again, to better understand it. Well, that is a very wise statement.”
Irwin gave his head a tiny shake. Had Grimsky really, actually just said he was wise? “Wise,” she continued, “because it’s true that great music often requires more than one hearing to properly comprehend. So, we will listen now to the first movement of the Brahms symphony number four.” She placed a record on the gramophone and fiddles started playing. Irwin heaved a long, delicious sigh and let his eyelids droop. He had pulled it off.
Twenty-five years later and no longer in the balcony, Irwin Linsacker thought about Miss Krimsky and Benny Goodman playing Mozart, and about the girl in the purple beret, and even about Putsy Ringwort. God, what if she was actually here tonight—what if she saw him? Wouldn’t that be a laugh and a half! He thought especially about Joe Bivvo. They had stuck together through sophomore year, then Joe’s family moved away. He never found out where they had gone and never heard from Joe again. For a while he was disappointed, but he figured Joe probably wasn’t the letter-writing type, so he let it go. Then came war; they both turned draft-age before it was over, but Irwin’s impaired vision kept him out. Being a “four eyes” had its percentage. What had been Joe’s percentage: a wife and a home, or a bottle of booze and a park bench? Did his number come up in Europe or Japan or Korea? It would be good to see old Joe again. Then again, maybe Joe wouldn’t be so tickled. People changed. Still, Joe Bivvo was a smart guy. The percentages had probably lined up for him just fine.
As for his own life, he had no regrets, no thwarted desires, no “complexes,” as the hep-cats of 1965 liked to say. Occasionally, like any normal American man, he had the odd feeling that something was “missing” in life. But such feelings quickly passed, and if Irwin felt any lingering pangs or disappointments, he would be the first to say that there was no percentage in stewing over it.
That left Irwin with only one thought: that barbaric, out-of-nowhere, impossible-to-explain, painful-yet-funny-to-think-about yelp. Again, he chuckled, and shook his head. Mandy raised her eyebrows. “What, honey?”
“Oh,” said Irwin, “I was just thinking about my first time here.” He had never told her about it. He had never told anyone about it. “March 1940. Benny Goodman—Benny Goodman, playing Mozart. Isn’t that something.”
“Mozart? Really! You hate classical music.”
“Aw, not really.” He laughed openly.
“What’s funny?”
“Oh…” Irwin sighed. “Just thinking of old Joe Bivvo. Good guy. We saw Benny together.”
“School chum?”
“Yep, best buddies. Joe, he was a cocky little s.o.b. I really looked up to him. I wonder where he ended up.” Irwin looked at his wife and shrugged. “Ancient history.”
He gazed at the great proscenium arch, the cream-colored walls, the black music stands, craning his neck and peering about as if looking for someone, pondering the immutability of some things in a changing world.
The lights went down and out came the sidemen, Teddy Wilson, Vic Dickenson, Jimmy McPartland. Then, Benny. He looks the same, Irwin thought, only more like me, now. The crowd clapped loud and long and the quartet swung Carnegie Hall with “Dinah” and “Flying Home” and “Body and Soul.” Irwin was in heaven—why the hell couldn’t old Joe be here now? Hell, maybe he was, sitting somewhere nearby.
Intermission came and Irwin and Mandy joined the mob in the foyer, gushing over the performance, the heat and energy of the band even after all the years, and how good Benny looked—how young! There would never be another like him, Irwin enthused to Mandy and everyone within earshot, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar bone structure.
Too soon, it was over. The band segued into “Let’s Dance” and Goodman thanked the crowd for being such a good audience. The length of the ovation made an encore imperative. Benny smiled and turned to his men to call the tune, and the audience began sitting down. Irwin sat with them, but as Goodman turned back to face the audience, Irwin’s heart made a sudden leap. What the hell: he took a deep breath and yelled in his mature baritone, “COME ON, BENNY, SWING IT!”
Mandy shushed him good-naturedly and patted his arm, and several people chuckled. Irwin Linsacker grinned and settled back in his chair. Benny Goodman stepped to the microphone. Those close to the stage noticed a slight frown on his famous face as he grumbled in a deep, wry voice, a voice from the ages: “You again.”