The Legend of Flo and Teddy (A Cautionary Tale)
© Norman Smiler Zamcheck 2004
Egg Rock was the most desolate, godforsaken island in the world. It was located equidistant from Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut and Maine, (though claimed by none!) in an icy and unfriendly corner of the Atlantic. Despite its name, Egg Rock was in fact shaped like a large, granite eye-dropper; ballooning at one end in jagged cliffs, and culminating at the other in a long, narrow peninsula. At the midpoint a large bay nearly cut the island in half,. At the far end currents from the several corners of the sea raged and seethed; a competition of tides. Generations were warned to steer clear of the Point, as it was called, since the slightest misstep (or a sudden rise in the wind) could sweep one instantly into the broil, and instant death. As even the youngest children all knew, there was no rescue from the Point.
The residents of Egg Rock were surly and ill-ltempered., partaking in a common contempt for all human company. Their manner of commerce earned them the curses of wayfarers. On exceptionally foggy days (it was always foggy at Egg Rock) they would light bonfires - on the jagged boulders below the cliffs, atop the cliffs, and near the sandy, rock-strewn Point. Glimpsing the lights through mist and storm, a ship's captain would logically assume he spied a helpful beacon . Too late he learned the truth, as his ship shattered with a sickening groan against the harsh rocks, or foundered upon the shoals. Islanders rejoiced on hearing the desperate screams of their victims as they thrashed nearby in the foam. They had no qualms aboutt finishing off the task when boats founderd on the point, entering the vessels and slitting throats.. Nothing remained but to pick the ships dry, as one would extract the meat from a lobster claw; rigging, metalwork, tools and implements, bullion and other precious materiel. The loot would be gathered and brought to Salvage Pasture, where theoretically it was distributed following an ancient formula involving family, island precinct and other arcana.
But even in distributing their plunder there was little honor among the Eggers. Repeatedly booty was stolen or seized. Bloody battles ensued after each "harvest,"resulting in injury and death.
Truth to tell, there was not one pocket of joy, or calm, or love on Egg Rock. At meal-time fathers would cuff their children; at night time, abuse their wives; children bullied and bruised eachother; neighbor robbed neighbor, coveted his house, his wife, the water from his well (fresh water being a scare commidity on this peat-covered isle). The wind carried the wails of beaten wives, whipped sons and daughters, a dirge of pain and rage.
All too often townsfolk would arise from the depths of sleep to the sound of shreiking and the sight of red flames licking at a neigbor's wooden cottage.. Arise they did, and just as promptly returned to bed: "one man's misfortune another's fortune"an oft-repeated island maxim. There was no fire department.. On Egg Rock one fended for oneself.
At the heart of the mayhem was the Island Tavern, a malodorous watering hole. Here the islanders assembled for a bit of rum, some nasty gossip, and a good fight. The Island Tavern was owned by Deadeye Dick, a man with a checkered past and a somber present. Although he adopted a jovial facade, all saw behind the publican's tranquil mask a man who would murder on the slightest provocation, had murdered in several instances. All could attest to his dishonesty; his drinks were always watered, and prices rose when his patrons were exceptionally drunk or thirsty.
The presiding artistic genius of the Island Tavern was Astral Charley, a cadaverous figure; pianist and singer extraordinaire. Through his strange (some might say grotesque) songs Charley exercised a curious power over the islanders. Night after night they flocked to the cold, damp shed, and ordered Dick's overpriced, watery drinks. It surely wasn't his physical beauty or the beauty of his singing (often compared to the screeching of a gull). . Dick recognized that he owed his trade to Charley, and paid him well (by Island standards) in grog, food and cash.
But there was truly something singular to Charlie's mastery of the keyboard
and song form. For one thing, he played a dreadful, water-logged old crate,
dragged from the hull of a frigate sunk off just off the bluffs.. . Yet the
dreadful tub gave off strange and exquisite harmonies. Many islanders swore they
saw marvelously hued lights - a symphony of color - when Charlie played, though
any number of wives could point to a simpler explanation for this and other
wondrous visions encountered after a night at the Island Tavern. The men swore
to the events of Charlie's tinkling. Maybe they were seeing marsh-fire, or maybe
the Aureara Borealis. Be that as it may, on any night of the year, through
storm, calm or fog, Charlie packed 'em in, and Dick hustled drinks.
The sun never shone on Egg Rock. Many attributed this to the isle's unique position; subject to the ebbs and flows of many currents, equidistant to four temperamental New England states and smack in the middle of every tempest and brume.. The Egger was cursed in having to inhabit a unique and inhospitable spot of the sea, with its own hostile meteorology,.
But there was another explanation for the island's misery, whispered by mothers to their infants in the earliest months. Centuries before when the first colonists boarded the island they encountered a robust tribe of Indians, living in harmony on their tiny speck of land, drawing sustenance from the generous ocean and the local crops..These colonists, part of the illustrious Puritan tide that settled early New England (and antedating the Massachusetts Bay Colony) decided to settle on Egg Rock. The Squabnockets, under the leadership of Chief Squab, offered them brothership; offered to show them their ancient and effective methods for capturing the plentiful sealife, and making the most of the island's limited farmland. But the colonists soon decided the island offered room for only one race white or red. On a radiant day in early August they turned on the indians, assaulting them with their firearms; herded them to the top of the Cliffs. Then (mothers whispered, and muffled their whispers) the indians were forced over the cliffs and to their doom, commemorated, until relatively recent times, by "Eradication Day," a doleful island holiday. . From that day on the island was shrouded in darkness and doom, so the tale went.. Some felt that Chief Squabb uttered a curse on that day that lingers to the present; indeed, that he still inhabits the cliffs, where he keeps a close watch on the descendants of those first, perfidious invaders, and guarantees that their lives are as foul as possible. Those who believed such things held that Chief Squabb - or his ghost - loathed the Eggers, and had pledged on the grave of his ancestors to bedevil them till the crack of doom, or till hell froze over (whichever came last).
It so happened, a few years or decades ago (time passing so quickly!) that a strange, befuddled couple made their way to Egg Rock. "Ready Teddy and Flo," a singing vaudeville team, en route from Bosotn to New York to make their fortune. Most likely they had confused the Egg Rock Ferry for the.Newport Ferry. Nobody could figure out why or how they had arrived. Once stranded in the center of Old Egg, the main town, they headed straight for the Island Tavern, .
"Excuse me, I think we're lost." said Teddy timidly. "This isn't Newport is it?"
"You bet it ain't Newport you damned fool" a grunted a chorus of surly voices..
Let me describe Flo and Teddy, who were dressed in their performance finery (they actually had been scheduled for a show at the famous Old Theater in Newport. Flo, a robust, dimpled, shapely thing in the full bloom of youth; sported chestnut curls and ruby red lips. She was dressed in a long gown of blackest velvet, with a scarlet boa about her shoulders and red, jeweled pumps. . Teddy, slender, agile, prematurely balding and bearded, wore matching clothes; black velvet pants, a white shirt, and a vest of black velvet embroidered with scarlet hearts. They were severely in the wrong place and time.
The islanders felt no warmth for the wayfarers, and showed no welcome.
"You're on Egg Rock and be damned" growled a voice from the pit.
"What brings ye here and what good are ye?"
"O we're Reddy Teddy and Flo, the famous vaudeville trio. We sing, dance, entertain, lift away the darkness" chirped Flo.
Deadye Dick looked up warily from the bar, where he was preparing drinks. Astral Charley, on break, leaned his lanky frame against the cobwebs in the corner of the Tavern and also watched warily.
There was a moment of uncertain silence. Then: "Well, let's have a song from ye," croaked Deadeye Dick. Y’er takin’ up time and space.
With the word "song" a huge smile broke out on the full lips of the chanteuse. "That would be our pleasure" she answered with a curtsey.
Those who witnessed the first song, and heard Flo's singing, and Teddy's rippling pianism, speak of it in terms almost miraculous. A joy and innocence seemed to spring forth from the young people, and move, palpably, outward through the shadows of the Tavern. Another song was promptly demanded, and then a third. Charley, watching silently from his corner, seemed to applaud vigorously. He seemed intrigued by certain technical aspects of Teddy's playing, as befitted a fellow professional. In an instant an hour had passed, and the couple were strutting, singing, doing a kick here, a little dance there. The crowd at the Island Tavern seemed to be growing by the minute. For the first time in years folks were relaxed - some smiling, and some even laughing.
"Hey Charlie," Deadeye Dick turned to his maestro. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off. The crowd likes these guys."
"Sure thing Dick," said Charlie. "I'll see you back tomorrow at my usual time." "Nice to hear some new tunes huh?" Some nearby thought they detected a surfeit of courtesy and utter absence of malice in Charlie's demeanor.
"Yeah, yeah, usual time . . . " Dick didn't seem to be paying much attention at all to Astral Charlie. He slunk out of the tavern into his little shack near the bluffs, where he kept his own waterlogged upright piano. He departed silent as fog.
It is probably foolish to attribute too much to a song or a singer, or a song, a singer and a pianist, but those who can remember that far back recall a wondrous, giddy transformation on Egg Rock. It started at the Island Tavern. Deadeye Dick prompty invited the two lost souls to stay on another night, where they encountered a packed house. (Indeed, several wives appeared on at the Tavern, a milieu usually regarded as too dangerous or too stupid for any female to linger in. Teddy and Flo - "Ready" Teddy and Flo - put on a jolly show, with hilarity, heart-warming ballads, even a few kicks and pratfalls thrown in. Deadeve Dick had offered them his finest accommodation - a dank hold above the Tavern. Now, in return for a week's commitment, he moved the couple to the Tavern's "honeymoon suite," a habitable room with real curtains reserved for the very occasional tourist- a real bed and mattress, a real night table with tiffany lamp. In addition, he promised to feed them one meal per day and pay them the sum of $75 cash per week. Each night the crowd grew - everybody returned, and new folks arrived, even total recluses. Toothless Ralph, the hermit who lived in a shack near the Point Light House limped in with his foul smelling terrier. Ralph was barely seen twice a year in town! Tony Terpin, a fisherman who lived down near the beach and avoided all human contact also arrived and staked out a position by the bar. By the time the show started - 9:15 each night, with three long, rollicking sets to go - the Tavern was packed with sweating, fish-smelling, good-natured patrons. The nightly liquor take might have been better, mused Deadeye Dick, given the tremendous traffic. But this was more than offset by the complete absence of bloody brawls, or, miraculously, the many nasty remarks that inevitably led to a chain reaction.
You would have thought that it was Halley's Comet every night but Sunday. You might have thought that the islanders had all been secretly drugged by some secret elixir of harmony . People were all :"did you hear that?" or "I so love the way she kicks and struts." They gazed like love-sick pups. They collected the scarlet feathers shed by Flo’s vast boa and affixed them to the walls of their shacks and cottages. What was it that caused such wonder? Many admired Teddy's strong, solid beat. He sure had one strong left hand, and his solid eight-to-the-bar made that sullen tub of a piano sound like a whole band, from bass to trumpets. Her singing was something! She had a strong, sweet, powerful tone, somewhere between the cry of a newborn babe, the serenity of angel choirs and the bellow of a hurricane wind. She was something to look at (thought the men) - nicely put together, nice legs, firm plump arms and all the other stuff. Just turned 18 they said! And how she showed it all off, kicking those legs high! Yet the wives sensed no threat; indeed, the freewheeling chestnut-tressed beauty made them feel young too, and beautiful. Most of all it was the way they looked at each other, eyes always locking; his hands tied to the phrase and cadence of her voice as though by invisible thread. It was the way she'd sing a song about love and gaze at him with - well, love. And it turns out he wrote that song about love (for her) that she was singing to him, as she always seemed to be singing to them but always to him. Folks seemed to be gazing on the very Miracle of Love Itself , rising and swelling like a luminescent fountain.
"Nice to see everybody havin' a good time at nobody's particlular expense" grunted Bled Grundy, First Selectman, Chief Police Officer and Superintendent of Schools. "Woudn't it be something if they started actin' this way in real life?"
But it seemed as though the islanders were acting a little different. Maybe they were happy to actually have something fun to do for a change. Anybody might become bored and/or surly from 365 days and nights of fog, treachery and bloodshed.
Now in the morning it was "hey there Flo." "Hi Teddy, how you folks feelin' today?" as the two ambled along the harborside, hand in hand. And then it was "good morning" and '” how nice to see you" to eachother, or " have you solved that problem with the septic tank or could you use a little help?" or "I heard tell your boat was pretty damned damaged other night. How 'bout a hand? I'll bring a few of the Learys by after supper. You Bruggers ain’t actually so bad."
The change was slow for just an instant, and then fast, as though a catalyst were added to a solution, a drop of chemical in titration and the clear liquid suddenly transformed to deepest violet. Indeed, it was precisely two weeks from the night that Eddy and Flo had first played that the islanders beheld a splendid and moving sight - the deep violet and scarlet bands of a perfect sunset, chasing the descending, resplendent orb like cavalry marching after the sovereign, this miracle revealed in a totally clear, fog-free summer night! Nobody could recall such a sunset, or even much of a sunset at all, as fog always set in before sundown, close on the heels of the fog that moved in after luch, following the late-morning fog and of course, the sunrise fog.
And the islanders laughed and hummed like children as they saw the first sunset, running to the harborfront where the vivid color-bands flashed behind the staid gray dories bobbing in the coal black water. But better was yet to come. Plainly the weather had taken a turn for the better, as the next day announced itself sparkling clear, with a bold, bright sun breaking above the horizon, accompanied by nothing more than a few majestic scarlet and golden cloudlets, streaming behind it like knightly ensigns.
Within the throng at the Tavern there are those who claimed to have seen the ghost of old Chief Squabb - an elderly though virile Indian tapping his fingers in time with the music at the bar while he nursed a beer. (It must be noted that the same witnesses have also been known to see a multiplicity of strange creatures after a night at the bar) They claimed he was grinning happily - unseen by the crowd. When finally he finished his beer he put it down and quietly left the tavern, humming under his breath.
It seemed a curse had been lifted from Egg Rock.
And now a month had passed since Flo and Teddy had arrived at Egg Rock. Greece had its golden age; the Hebrews their Davidic era; Rome her proud Republic; the Muslims the Caliphate; there was the splendor of medieval Spain, the age of the troubadours.. And now Egg Rock basked in the light of a generous sun, unmarred by fog or squall, and her citizens walked in harmony and brotherhoodI. In place of the sound of curses and the smashing of glass came the tapping of hammer and the singing of saw. Everybody was building up, sprucing up, painting. Even the Island Tavern gained a splendid coat of yellow paint, and a new green and white striped awning; and a glorious marquee proclaiming, in huge gilt circus letters: “**TONIGHT AND EVERY NIGHT. ENTERTAINMENT. LIVE ON STAGE FROM BOSTON AND NYC READY TEDDY AND FLO***
And soon came the first tourists, stepping gingerly off the island ferry onto the gangplank and then onto the freshly painted Egg Rock Dock, blinking in the newly resplendent island sunshine. Tourists from Boston and Newport, strolling down along the harbor, hiking over the ferny hills and moors of the island, stopping for a drink at the Island Tavern (which now served as the Island Café, Restaurant ,Inn and Curio Shoppe). And that first trickle of curious mainlanders soon swelled into a steady stream. Seemed some writer in New York City had written something about Egg Rock’s “Unspoiled Charm.” That did it! In a week’s time you could barely walk down Harbor Road, through the swarms of New Yorkers in their flashy get-ups gawking at their first seagull.
And where once it had been sleet and ice, now it was money that rained on Egg Rock. Seemed all you had to do was hold your hat upside down at Harbor Road, and it would be filled with silver and gold. What had been the most decrepit and pitiful of shacks became “Breakfast Nook” or “Island Souvenirs” or “ Ye Olde Salt’s Rest and Lounge.”
In the “Island Souvenir” shop you could buy a book of “Island Legends. “Some claim,” it read, “that the islanders once practiced ungentlemanly and disreputable means of commerce, verging on piracy. In fact, this evil myth sullies the kindness and generosity always shown by the Egg Rocker to his fellow man. Who could be anything but kind in this gentle paradise?”
And presiding over the Gentle Paradise, sounding its rollicking anthem night after night, packing in jolly throngs of islanders and tourists, were Reddy Teddyand Flo. Now the old piano had been sanded and shellacked to an amber glow, and received the ministrations of a tuner who came all the way from Providence. Behind them had been constructed a scrim; of blue sky and fleecy clouds. And by 11 at night every single resident of the island, native or sojourner, could be found at the Island Tavern.
Or every one minus one. From his perch a mile away, high on the bluff, Astral Charlie could catch a peal of laughter or an occasional note from Flo’s powerful voice. Yet he chose to stay at his old shack. Unlike the other island dwellings, it had not been re-modeled, gaily re-painted, tarted up to welcome wealthy strangers. It was the same dingy, fish-smelling tarpaper splinter board dump it had always been; lit by kerosene lantern, and containing his prized Boston piano, a pile of old sheet music and little more. For a month he had stayed here, waiting for Deadeye Dick to summon him back to his gig, and appearing in town only to purchase a few necessities at Therman’s store. From time to time folks saw Butch the Bartender head up towards the bluffs - he’d always been tight with Charlie - probably to keep him abreast of happenings in and around the Tavern and the town. Probably Charlie heard more tales about the festive happenings at the tavern. Mostly he heard Butch talk about Flo. Butch might ramble on about Flo’s thick chestnut locks, or her ripe sweet lips, or the amazingly high note she held last night - for so long! - till the smoky gang at the tavern burst forth in lusty applause. And perhaps he might mention Teddy, that strange little man . He certainly did have amazing hands - hell, those fingers must have amazing powers to make Flo his! Because when you got down to it, how did such that scrawny bald bearded guy end up with such a beauty? Charlie doubtless learned that Butch worshipped the ground Flo walked on. “What a lucky guy he is, is Ready Teddy” Butch would say over and over again. But many folks adored Flo. It was well known that even the most cynical, brine-covered, moon-cussing islanders (the type who hung out on their boats when they weren't drinking on land) collected the tiny crimson feathers shed from her boa and pinned them to the cabins of those boats for good luck.
Butch was a simple, bluff guy; stocky, packed with muscle; enormous biceps that had hauled nets and chopped ice into a hold before he worked the beer pump and hustled the drinks for Dick. He had eyes of the purest blue, a thatch of curly flaxen hair, and an anchor and harpoon tattooed on his left bicep. He was calm and goodnatured, and had prevented bloodshed on many occasions at the Tavern.
And when folks asked Butch what was up with Charlie, Butch would tell them he was doing fine, playing his piano and watching the sun rise.
Fact was, with all the merriment, prosperity, sunshine and laughter nobody missed Astral Charlie too much, except in a passive sort of way - as in - “ain’t it strange we ain’t seen Charlie much over the pasts few days..” or “ what could Charlie be up to?” The obvious retort would be “guess Dick ain’t been needing him much at the Tavern.” To which the response would be “nope,not so much. Not much cause for Charlie to be hanging round.”
Let’s pause and take a quick peak at our Abelard and Eloise. This morning they rose from the soft bed Dick had fixed for them in the cupola of the Island Tavern. Bright sun streamed in off the ocean, and a delicious sea breeze ruffled their bedclothes. Around the bed were bright sprays of wildflowers in broken vases and pots Flo collected in the island’s moors and valleys. Flo always awoke with joy; as she rose from the bed she was already humming a song. Eddie stayed under the patchwork quilt and reflected, as was his wont.. Sometimes he told himself he was living in heaven; with the blue sky above, this sweet girl nearby, and a world (albeit a world tiny and circumscribed!) waiting to hear his music. What else could he possibly want? Soon they would be strolling arm in arm down the harbor road towards Grendels Breakfast nook, where they;d enjoy their eggs and toast overlooking the Bay, with tourists and Eggers close around. And then, after a refreshing walk along the beach (possibly to collect tiny shells, which Flo loved to keep in antique weathered bottles that she also found on the shore) they would return to the beery darkness of the Island Tavern,,where they’d rehearse a new song and a new routine for the night’s show. And later in the blazing sunlight Flo would turn to him and exclaim (with that explosion of passion that commanded such respect when projected from a song) “I totally love this lilfe! Teddy I could stay here forever - there’s nothing I don’t have right now! I have you, I have Music, I have this beautiful island, and so many people who love us! “
And Eddie had to agree. Despite a few misgivings (he had once dreamed of New York, and Recognition as a Composer, and an engagement at Carnegie Hall) things were ridiculously perfect.
And then suddenly Charlie appeared at the Island Tavern- just walked in, middle of the second set., and took up a position by the waitress’s station where Butch could easily hand him drinks. In the packed, smoky room he was scarcely noticed. Flo was belting a lovely ballad about how much she loved well, Teddy had written it to Flo, and she was singing it to him, with here a tear and there a saucy cancan that exposed quite a good deal of everything underneath her black velvet skirts, her own scrambled souffle of earnest weepy love, humor and sex . Teddy was keeping a steady rolling beat, colored by changing chords, happy and sad mixed. . . Those who noticed could see that Charlie appeared quite absorbed in the music, tapping one hand on the bar, Occasionally the trace of a smile crossed his sallow features or a nod of recognition - one artist acknowledging the craftmanship of a colleague. Now Eggers turned to him: “hey Charlie where ya been?” and “so long away Charlile, we all missed ya/” He nodded remotely, his eyes fixed on Teddy and Flo.
When Teddy announced the break Charlie strode up to the little bandstand and offered his gnarled paw.
“That’s some mighty great stuff you’re doing,” he said. “Hey I sure wish I could do some of the stuff you do.”
Had anybody been watching they would have been intrigued; the island’s two pianists conversing intently. Charlie professed great admiration for Teddy’s chops - he couldn’t remember ever coming across a stronger left hand - and by the way, were those songs originals? Teddy was honored - flattered actually, that the island’s presiding master Truth to tell, he’d felt a little strange about displacing Charlie all those weeks.
Then came an unexpected invitation. Would Teddy like to check up on some stuff.? Over the years Charlie had learned some tricks of his own - special island musical techniques that Teddy might enjoy picking up. Would Teddy like to come up to the shack on the bluffs and play “the Astral piano,” “keys to the stars?”
In point of fact, Teddy wasn’t all that interested. But he was happy to be connecting with the older musician. There had been something not right in the air and he'd wanted to sort things out.. He agreed to bring Flo up with him after lunch.
“No, it’s best we meet just us two. Two old piano players doing their thing.”
And then the strangest thing of all occurred - Astral Charlie and Reddy Teddy became good friends. Every afternoon Teddy would head out to Charlie’s cottage on the bluffs, a cottage that reeked of fish and mold. People said that Charlie was swapping some piano tricks with him. Teddy had put in his time at conservatory , had done some serious listening to the masters of blues, boogie woogie and jazz, but Charlie had some stuff that you couldn’t get out of a book, conservatory, or hear on anybody’s record album. Not that Charlie wasn’t trained. Indeed, he was master of the deepest and darkest schools of musical science; Schillinger was nothing to him, and he could run extensions, ,inversions, voicings, modes. harmonics and enharmonics in his sleep. But the magic part - that’s what fascinated Teddy. Charlie showed him how each key, when played correctly, was attached to a color; how careful and conscious application and combination of these colors could produce music haunting, addictive and irresistible. A middle C, for instance, when played in the proper manner, could produce an instant scarlet. D (played in the right manner!) was yellow; F green, G indigo; and a D and C together - this took mastery - could be a brilliant orange, though if done wrong could collapse into a nasty blackish-brown . And the best yet - each key and color invoked a sign of the zodiac. “You’re great already” Charlie would purr, as the breakers crashed far below and the gulls shrieked, “but imagine how great you could be!"
It took little reflection to see that the master of this technique would command fearsome musical powers. Every aspiring artist dreams of performing before kings and multitudes, but despairs of ever being heard beyond his own doorway. Teddy had always suspected that he bore a unique gift. Now, in a flash, he saw cities and nations humming his songs - his wildest dreams realized! This vision seemed to transform him. Islanders swore that he clambered down from the bluffs with an eerie glimmer to his eyes. Instead of joining Flo for a stroll in the sunshine, picking flowers in the fragrant meadows or finding bright stones near the sea-spray, he headed immediately to the darkness of the Island Tavern, where he spent hours fidgeting with complexly- voiced modal progressions in every conceivable key.
And what about Flo? All she knew was the Teddy was becoming distant. No more walks in the sun. No more idling in the cool, windswept moors, strolling by the harbor at noon-time, leisurely coffee at Breakfast Nook or Olde Salte Lounge, chatting with the islanders and posing for the tourists. The Teddy she knew and loved was a dreamer, yes, but a good-natured, disorganized and fuzzy type of dreamer who created great beauty without the slightest idea of how or why. Now with every perfect day he seemed more obsessed with the future.
"Gee, what's going on with you" she would ask. "I mean, I'm always wanting to rehearse and such, but c'mon already."
"I've gotta practice Flo. I'm really getting somewhere!"
"Sweetheart, we are somewhere. This is heaven and we're here."
Poor, gentle Flo could not understand what was bugging her Teddy. He seemed to have little interest in anything save his practicing and doodling at the piano. Sometimes as she tried to urge him to enjoy the fine days, he flared up in a rage.
"Yes, I know it's pretty in this little nowhere. But we never planned to spend a lifetime here - it was just a mistake. I never wanted to be the star of Egg Rock. We were headed for New York - and that's where we need to go!" And then: "Frankly I'm sick of this creepy little place!" And then: "It makes me sick to see you singing your heart out to those stinking drunks - the smelly islanders, the stupid tourists. Talk about pearls before swine!"
And even though the sun kept shining and the mainland ferries kept arriving at the town dock, folks could pick up a chill in the wind. Just a bit at first. Teddy and Flo were never seen strolling down Harbor Boulevard together anymore, Abelard and Heloise, lost in a bubble of pleasure. Even though the shows did continue each night, and were generally held to be at the same high professional standard.
But what about Flo? She was growing lonely and melancholy. Even during the shows - and they were always good! - she felt him slipping away. It started with the eyes. During their shows their eyes had always locked - a type of visual kiss that all could perceive. They were singing to eachother, of their love for each other. Now Teddy played the notes, and she hit the notes, but his eyes were averted. And come to think of it, the notes had changed too. Where before had been stout, simple blues and boogie chords with elegant chromatic sequences and powerful rhythms, now increasingly a clutter of flatted and sharped somethings. And the rhythm -not the loping, gentle beats of before, but super-charged, always pulling away from her. And somethng else - a baneful change in tonality - something a little grim and ominous. Indeed, she could almost swear on occasion she was seeing a swatch of purple mixed with brown or black ripple across the room like a misplaced theater curtain.
But worst of all was the lack of love. In previous times he had gazed on her soft ochre flesh with amazement and ecstasy. "You are more beautiful than any girl I have ever dreamed of knowing" he had said. When they met she was barely 17 and he was 25 -so he'd certainly known his share of girls. But he had adored her, every inch of her, and she rejoiced in the glow of his rapture. Now it was always disinterest and distance, as he hummed distant, uninteresting melodies with abstract lyrics. All his thoughts were on the future. Teddy barely looked at Flo.
But Butch the Bartender was always looking at Flo. He too had never seen a more beautiful girl than Flo, “beautiful inside and outside” he would tell any and all. At night during the performances he took pains to do special favors for her; prepare the drinks she liked and keep them atop the piano; escort her to the basement changing room and guard the door while she put on her black velvet gown and make-up. He dreamed of serving her in any way. One night she found a cup full of wild flowers and piece of note paper with lopsided heart and primitive scrawl: “from a fan who luvs your grate tallent.” After that there was always something waiting for her before the show; a bouquet of meadow flowers, some chocolates, a bracelet of tiny shells or beads. Somehow, despite the chaos at the bar, the waitresses coming and going with their trays of drinks, he was always there for her; and just as Teddy’s eyes were less and less on her, Butch somehow managed to be always searching for her eyes, and smiling his great, broad goofy blue-eyed sailor smile. Truth to tell, she found Butch a little plain. There was none of the brilliance she’d come to expect from Teddy - he could still dazzle her with a witty observation, or better, with a line of music. But Flo was a girl who needed lots of love, and flower-like, was destined to always move in the direction of the sunlight.
And where was Teddy? The undertow was pulling his beloved away, most precious person in his life. Townspeople could see it - and there were murmurings. Teddy was exultant, ambitious, creative; he was in New York, now Los Angeles, now London, born aloft on pinions of mighty song. Or high on the bluffs with the sallow Astral Charley, sharing riffs in the shack that smelled of fish.
It was at this time that Deadeye Dick decided to present a costume dance at the Island Tavern - something new and jolly to mark the almost-end of summer. Music would be played from an old Victrola and piped through Dick’s simple but adequate PA system. The idea was that tourists could mix with islanders could mix with waitresses and bartenders (who would be fairly easy to identify, since they were all to wear pirate costumes), dance and have a rollicking time. What Dick did not tell Teddy and Flo - when announcing they could take a Saturday off, and come and enjoy themselves -“drinks for free of course!” - was that business had actually been dropping sharply. The Island Tavern was in need of some type of gimmick to pull the crowds back. Dick hired Tony Terpin to play his collection of 45’s and act as MC.
Teddy was glad to be free from his musical chores that Saturday - he’d grown to loathe the Island Tavern - its bellowing drunks, the thick paste of sour beer that clung to every chair and table, the acrid, choking smoke. Beethoven-like he’d paced the Harbor Boulevard, caught in the throes of a majestic melody that expressed the rage and impatience he felt towards his lot, letting the sea-wind cool his bald head. He’d visited the cadaverous Charlie, and played to the gulls on the high bluffs. About 9, the sun having set, he headed back down towards the Tavern. The tinny music of Terry’s 45 collection could be heard in the distance. He put on a pair of wrap-around sunglasses and clapped a fedora to his head, looking only moderately inconspicuous. As he approached the Island Tavern the gaiety grew louder and louder in volume. Indeed, absolutely everyone was at Deadeye Dick’s Pirate Costume Party. Pirates, old tars, witches, and ghosts thronged the front yard. He made his way through ghouls, harlots and queens. A waitress pirate - recognizing him instantly - offered him one drink and then others. Now Tony was playing slow-dance music, “Earth Angel,” “Bobby’s Girl,” “Only Love Can Break a Heart,” “Wayward Wind.” Through the smoke he made out a red-wigged little bo-peep had her arms around a gallant young sailor, dressed in a 19th century costume fashion. Now the two began to kiss deeply and passionately before him. The room was swaying in a threatening manner. Suddenly the red wig fell off to reveal chestnut curls.
Doubtless it was the liquor, or his recent, strange mood. Teddy screamed at the two lovers: “what the hell is this!: Instantly the music stopped and the costumed figures froze. “What to you think you’re doing!” he bellowed at Butch, who was shaken and confused. But Flo, breaking from the embrace, was not confused. “It’s over Teddy. You had your chance and you lost me. All over now.” Rage blinded him like a blood-red curtain. He seized a chair and flung it savagely at Flo and Butch. Butch plunged at him, pummeling Teddy’s head with his heavy fists. In a flash the partygoers saw a blade glinting in Teddy’s hand. There was a gasp. The small pianist lunged at the stocky sailor, aiming for his chest with the blade, but instead plunging the knife into his arm. A hundred arms reached out to pull him back. “Quick, get towels” voiced shouted.” In the commotion no one noticed that Teddy Then hran out the door, and trudged briskly into the starless night, heading towards the Point.
They say that all rejoicing ceased at that instant on Egg Rock. In the immediate sense the party ended, sure as if someone had flicked off a light switch - the celebrants turned tail and departed. The next day a cold front moved in, followed by a week of storms. True, there were a few warm days, and even a flash of Indian Summer, but the dark weather moved in rapidly. And again it was fogs and storms, day and night, summer, winter, spring and fall.
Some mention a strange old Indian seemed to be hanging out by the bar - or was it somebody in an Indian costume? And at the moment Teddy hurled that chair at Butch he murmured “ah shit,” Crashed his mug down on the counter and stomped out of the Tavern.
Things began to revert to the old ways. The brightly painted tourist shops were shuttered, the Gangly vistors from Westerly or Providence or New London or Boston all went home. Astral Charlie appeared again at the Island Tavern, took his place at the piano stool and started playing his grotesque songs. The Island Tavern regained its old style, with bloodied heads and black eyes a common feature. Out on the island things were back to normal. Soon the sounds of wailing wives, cursing husbands and wailing kids could be heard on the screetching wind.
They say that Teddy had headed straight for the Point. At least that seemed to be the general direction he was heading, and nobody in their right mind heads towards the Point in the middle of the night - or any time for that matter. Whatever happened, he was never seen again, and most doubted that he ever made it to New York. Flo and Butch (whose wound proved superficial) took the island ferry to Old Mystic, where they kept house for a few months. Butch was back at the Island Tavern by springtime - he said it had been great, but she’d proven tougher to handle than she’d appeared to be.
In the long, dark years that followed islanders spoke of that brief period of
sunshine and song, and a strange couple that wandered ashore to serenade them at
the Island Tavern. And with the telling and retelling the thing became distant,
remote and ambiguous - like Chief Squabb and Eradication Day; something that may
or may not have happened, or more realistically, happened in a dream.
© Norman Smiler Zamcheck 2004
more to follow...
written words
