“I didn’t know that pizza came from Hawaii,” said my grandmother just before she took a large bite out of the last slice left in the box. I was already miffed at her for swiping it before I had even reached out my hand.

“It’s not from Hawaii, sobo. I heard the pineapple topping started in Canada.”

“They grow pineapples in Canada? Isn’t it cold up there? Even colder than here in New Jersey?”

“They import the pineapples…look, let’s get back to my story.” I was still kind of hungry. So, I went to the kitchen and took the half bottle of soda out of the refrigerator and poured myself a glass. At least I could quench my thirst.

“Fine with me. It’s better than watching television shows I can’t understand. But I must say, koneko, the commercials are hilarious.”

---

I looked at the framed gold records and music industry awards on the walls of their surprisingly small 8th floor office. There was barely enough room for a piano, a roll-top desk, and a few folding chairs. Carole had already sat herself at the piano, turned toward me, while Gerry nervously paced. It was then I realized the room didn’t have any windows.

“Shuggie, huh. That your given name or a nickname?”

“Well, my name is really Itsuki. Itsuki Brennan. Shuggie is a nickname my stupid sister gave me when I was a baby because she has some kind of undiagnosed speech defect.”

“I’m sure you’re kidding. Shuggie’s a cute name—”

“For a girl?” Gerry gave me a sympathetic look and sat down on one of the folding chairs. He re-lit his pipe and took an exaggerated puff. “Johnny Otis’ son is named Shuggie. He’s a 12-year-old boy.”

“So, are you just here for the day?” Carole inquired.

“Oh no, you see, Bobby, that’s my boyfriend, except he doesn’t know we’re…uh…involved. We were supposed to be together for the summer. You know the tour with Hank & Honey. Then he tried to run off without me today after graduation. His graduation, not mine. I’m a senior this Fall…”

Gerry interjected between puffs, “You’re 17? That’s really young, don’t you think? Looks like your Romeo made a smart call.”

“Hey, I was 17 when we got married, mister.”

“That’s different. You were knocked up. I had to make you an honest woman.”

Turning away so they couldn’t see me blush, I said, “Well, there’s not much chance of that happening to me.”

“Shooting blanks, eh? Well, ladies, I’m gonna go over and talk to our fearless leader. He said he wanted us to write songs for some kiddie show the guys in La La Land are cooking up.” He strolled out after one final puff of his pipe.

“Don Kirshner’s the music supervisor for The Monkees TV show. It’s premiering on NBC this Fall.”

“Oh, yeah, they’re on the cover of Tiger Beat this month. Bobby doesn’t like that sort of music. He’s into Miles Davis and John Coltrane…whoever they are.”

“Well, he’s not going to play anything like that if he’s in Hank & Honey’s band. But everyone’s got to start somewhere. I should talk. Gerry and I wrote some treacle early on. Just to get a foot in the door.”

I was barely listening and started to quite unconsciously pace back and forth. Carole followed me with her eyes. I stopped and said to the wall, “Do you think they’ll let me in to see Bobby in the rehearsal studio? I’m afraid he’ll just forget about me and leave me stranded in the middle of Manhattan.”

“I don’t think he’d do that, Shuggie. Look, when Gerry comes back, I’ll walk you over there. It’s just up one block.”

“Thank you, Carole. I’d just die if I can’t spend the summer with him. I’ll lose him forever. He’ll go off to college or worse, he’ll actually play music for a living. There are lots of more…uh…mature girls out there. He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.”

Carole turned around to face the keys of the piano and started playing the opening chords of "Go Away Little Girl": D, G, Em, G. I recognized it as a big hit for Steve Lawrence when I was in Junior High. Carole turned to me whenever the chorus came around, smiling, and winked.

When you're near me like this
You're much too hard to resist
So, go away little girl
Let's call it a day little girl
Please, go away little girl,
Before I beg you to stay.

“Your Bobby’s going to beg you stay. You’ll see.”

At that point, Gerry came back into the room, a scowl on his face. “Effing poohbah isn’t in today. Something about his daughter’s college graduation.”

“So, you had a nice long chat with his secretary instead, right? Let’s go, Shuggie, I’ll get you in to see your precious Bobby.”

---

Bobby was wailing on his saxophone when I walked into the rehearsal studio. The band was playing a soulful up-tempo arrangement of The Beatles’ latest hit, “We Can Work It Out.” Honey Hutch was singing without a microphone but her voice had plenty enough volume not to need one in this cozy studio. Hank’s Honeys, three young women dressed in casual tops and clamdiggers, lounged in folding chairs, singing back-up. The acoustic paneling on the walls didn’t totally suppress the band’s sound. I could hear them, albeit slightly muffled, as I approached down the hallway. Billy Schechter was standing by the doors, puffing away on a Marlboro. He seemed happy. Without a word, he opened the near door and shooed me in. He followed behind me.

When Bobby caught sight of me, he winked. Didn’t miss a beat though. Hank Hutch, a tall thin Black man with a finely trimmed goatee and slick, processed hair, was strumming away on his electric guitar, a gold Gibson Flying-V model that he played left-handed just like Albert King. When the song ended, he noticed me standing next to Billy by the doors.

“Hey, who’s that?” he shouted as everyone turned to look at me. Stupidly, I pointed at myself while swiveling my head to see who Hank was addressing.

“It’s cool, Hank. Just a friend of your new sax player. Don’t mind her.” Billy nodded toward me and dropped his filter tip to the floor, grinding it out with his cuban heel boot.

“Okay, fellas. Break. 10 minutes, tops. We’ll do that new number Chubby brought in.” Hank beckoned Billy over to him and they spoke in hushed tones. Something they didn’t want the rest of the group to overhear, I guess. Honey and the girls walked past me, giving me the side eye, as they went to the powder room en masse. Which reminded me I had to go myself. Maybe later would be better, huh?

“Hey, I was going to come looking for you the next long break we took. But here you are.” Bobby had a big smile on his face. Was it for me? Or for the fact he was fitting right in with Hank’s band?

“Carole walked me over and got me in the building. You look happy enough…to see me?”
“Sure.” He took me aside as a couple of the band members slapped Bobby on the back as they made their way toward the table in the corner of the room set up with a pair of electric coffee urns. “Listen. I called home and talked to my dad. He told me your parents are hot as lava. They think I kidnapped you. Dad knows I never intended you to come with me. It’s all your idea.”

“You think I’d just wait by the phone for you to call from Chicago or wherever? Maybe a couple of those “wish you were here” postcards?”

“Shuggie, you know what I’m saying.” Hank walked by us, pointing at his watch. “After we’re finished today, probably around 8 or 9, I’ll drive you back home. I’m praying your dad doesn’t own a shotgun.”

“Nah, he still has his Colt M1911 from the War…”

“Shit!”

“But I’m sure he’s out of ammo for it.”

“He’ll just pistol whip me to death instead, Shuggie.”

For the next five hours I watched them rehearse their hour-long set. Several times. Hank Hutch was a taskmaster. He screamed, bellowed, cajoled, even threatened with physical violence…and that was just with the women! He even called out Bobby a couple of times for missing a cue. I winced as Hank tore into him. But Bobby was stoic, just nodding and keeping his head down. Some of the other band members, especially Chubby the piano player, would talk back to Hank, sometimes erupting into loud shouting matches filled with expletives I’d never heard before. But, then again, I’m just a shy flower of a girl in whose mouth butter wouldn’t melt. No, really.

Around 7 o’clock, Billy had some food brought in from the diner across the street and we all chowed down. I was ravenously hungry. No solid food since breakfast. Just cups of awful tasting coffee. Honey Hutch plopped herself down in a chair next to Bobby and me. She gave me the once over before opening her mouth.

“Do you sing or dance?” I nodded, not in answer to her question, but impressed by her look. She was wearing huge loop earrings and her wig was wrapped in a colorful floral print silk scarf. She had the longest fake eyelashes I’ve ever seen. “So, when do we hear what you got?”

Bobby interjected, “She doesn’t sing or dance. She’s going back home tonight.”

“Too bad. You know, Hank really goes for young stuff. I was just 16 when we hooked up. He was playing a club where I grew up. In Tennessee. Ever been there?”

I stuttered out, “No, I’ve never been outside of New Jersey really.”

Honey stood up and looked down at me. “Well, nice to meet you anyway. Shuggie, is it? Hmmm. Never heard that name before. Not on a girl.” She walked away.

Alarmed, I whispered to Bobby, “Do you think she knows? About me, I mean.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You’re going home tonight.”

Suddenly I’d lost my appetite. I gave the rest of my meal to Bobby. He quite happily shoveled it onto his paper plate.

---

We walked quickly to where Bobby had parked his car earlier that day. It was dark. For some reason the streetlamps in this area didn’t shed much light on the street. I stumbled a few times trying to keep up with Bobby. He was carrying his sax case and keeping his free hand away from me. My skirt was too tight to increase my stride. I felt like shouting for Bobby to slow down but I didn’t want to draw more attention to us. Some of the pedestrians here gave me the willies.

There was a parking ticket stuck on a windshield wiper. “Oh shit, I got a ticket.”

“You’re lucky it’s not up on blocks and the trunk jimmied open. Where are we staying tonight?”

“You’re going home. This time of night, I can get you there in half an hour.”

I tried pleading, stamping my feet, even shedding a tear or two but Bobby was adamant. Thinking quickly, if not entirely wisely, I ran. Ran in a serpentine manner. Just like in the movies. It tends to confuse whoever is trying to catch you. At least in the movies.

“Shuggie, come back! What the fuck are you doing?”

I zigged and then zagged. I must have lost him when I zagged around a corner. Then, it occurred to me, I was lost myself. Afraid Bobby was just steps away, I dashed into the nearest subway entrance, almost tumbling down the stairs and colliding with a young guy wearing a NY Mets baseball cap.

Out of breath, I said, “Sorry.”

“No problem. It was my pleasure.” He doffed his cap and continued up the stairs.

I knew where I wanted to go. Would this subway take me there? I looked around for a friendly face. An older woman approached me.

“You look lost. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m trying to get to Sheridan Square. Can I take this train?”

“Well, you can take the 1 train to Christopher Street. You can walk to Sheridan Square from there. May I ask what a young girl like you is doing in that part of the city at this time of night?”

“Oh, I’m going to see my sister. She’s here for the summer. I’m from Bergenfield, actually.”

“Surprise visit then? Hmmm. You should’ve called ahead. That part of town is quite dangerous, especially for a dainty little girl like you.”

“I can handle myself. I wrestled in school.”

“They have girls’ wrestling in New Jersey?”

“Oh, no. I wrestled with the boys.”

“Are we talking about the same thing, miss? Oh, look your train is coming. Here, take this token. You won’t have time to buy one at the booth.”

Grabbing the token, I waved to the lady, dropped the token into the slot and went through the turnstile. The doors of the subway car closed just as I stepped in. With a lurch, we moved out of the station. The passengers looked up and gave me a brief glance before going back to what they were doing before I appeared. I could see I was no longer in Bergenfield. That was for sure. They say New York City is the melting pot of the world. Exhibit One would be the subway car I was standing in. Every race, ethnic group, old, young, rich, poor, men, women, children. They were all represented in that car. And, of course, one special girl. Me!

While the subway proceeded through the seven stops to Christopher Street, I sat in a window seat and berated myself for having to do what I was about to do. Seeking my sister’s help. Connie was in the city for the summer, interning in the sales department for a major pharmaceutical corporation. Probably getting coffee and answering phones, ha! And getting paid less than the girls in the typing pool. Big deal. Anyway, she and her friend from Rutgers were both in that internship program and sharing a small apartment in the West Village for the summer. Mom and Dad were very proud of her and had implicit trust in her spending three months by herself in the big bad city. Knowing her, she was hitting the discotheques and sleeping with every Tom and Dick she met. She’d leave the Harrys to her roommate.

When I emerged from the station at Christopher Street, I could see Sheridan Square about three blocks southeast from where I stood. I had been here just two weeks ago as I got dragged along with the whole family (even sobo) in Dad’s car when Connie moved in. It was a furnished apartment. Badly furnished but, hey, who’s complaining? Her roommate didn’t arrive until we had all gone back to Bergenfield so I’d never met her. Well, she’s going to meet me now, up close and personal. That’ll be a hoot.

I pressed the buzzer for Connie’s apartment and waited for someone to speak through the intercom. At the same time, an elderly gentleman with gray hair walked by, replete in a metal studded biker outfit, cap, leather jacket, pants, and boots. He looked like a gone-to-seed Marlon Brando from The Wild One. Strangely, there was no sign of a motorcycle anywhere.

“Yes? Who’s there?” the intercom crackled like a transmission from Gemini 8 to mission control. I suppressed the urge to bark out in a gargled tone, “Roger. This is Gemini 8 to Capcom.” Instead, I decided to play it straight.

“Hello. Is Connie there? It’s Shuggie. Can I come up?”

My sister’s voice broke through the clatter like a banshee. “Shuggie?! Wait till I get my hands on you! Come up. Now!” The door buzzed open. I slipped into the building and took the stairs to the third floor. Before I could even knock, Connie opened the door to their apartment, an angry scowl on her face. “Get in here!” She pulled me in roughly by the arm and I was face to face with her roommate Lauren.

“Lauren, this is my brother Shuggie.” Lauren stood there, her mouth agape. I swear she blinked a couple of times like a character on a TV sitcom.

“Your brother? You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.”

---

“Your sister has such a filthy mouth. It’s shameful for a young woman to speak like that,” my grandma declared, shaking her head disdainfully. “I know she’s my grandchild but it’s hard to like her. I think she doesn’t like me.”

“Well, she takes after Dad. And he’s even told me he’s not too fond of you.”

“Yes, Kanako is very much her father’s daughter. But, you my Itsuki-chan, are definitely your mother’s daughter.” She crossed her arms and smiled at me.

“Yes, Mom, Shuggie’s right here, sitting next to me. He’s fine.”

My sister Connie was on the phone with Mom. She kept making faces at me as she tried to calm my mother, who sounded hysterical. Her roommate Lauren pretended she was reading that trashy novel, Valley of the Dolls. I don’t think she was snickering at the author’s insipid writing.

“No, Mom, he’s dressed …uh… normally.” She shot me an icy glare. “Eloping with Bobby?” she coughed up a laugh. “Where would you get that idea, Mom? Grandma? She’s…listen, she probably made that up to make Dad go nuts.”

I placed my head in my hands and tried to bury myself in the recesses of the couch, but the cushions were as hard as blocks of granite. I kept popping back up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Dad wants to speak to him? Okay, hang on.” Placing her hand over the transmitter, she said to me, “Dad. Be careful what you say.” I took the handset from her, cleared my throat, and then tried to speak in as masculine a voice as I could muster.

“Hello, sir. Yes, I’m okay. No, I’m not dressed like a girl!” Unfortunately, I squealed that last part. Trying to sound like Robert Merrill in the role of Figaro in a production of The Barber of Seville, I continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t apprise you of my plan to accompany Robert to his first day of rehearsal, sir. The time just flew by and, well, a telephone wasn’t available. Yes, I’m aware there are millions of payphones in a city the size of New York. Yes, I know I can get change of a dollar at any store.”

Connie ripped the phone from my hand and maintained a calm, even tone that seemed to slow Dad’s inquisition down. “Daddy, Shuggie’s safe and sound and I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry. He can stay here tonight. Lauren won’t mind.” Lauren looked up from her book and shook her head from side to side. “Get some sleep, Dad. You don’t want to miss work two days in a row. Good night.” She hung up.

“I’m not paying for that long distance call,” Lauren declared as she turned back to her reading.

“Shuggie’s paying for it”

“I’m not the one with a job,” I parried.

“Okay, this is the plan. You’ll sleep on the couch. Go brush your teeth and—god, I can’t believe I’m saying this to my own brother—use some cold cream to take off your makeup—”

“I know how to do that!” I interjected.

“And remember to moisturize,” Lauren cackled from behind her book.

“Can I borrow some pajamas? Please?”

“Please do, Connie. I’ll have to tear my eyes out and throw them away if I see your brother in his knickers or, saints preserve us, I see his willie.”

I got up real early the next morning and decided to make nice with my sister and prepared breakfast for her and Lauren. El Pico coffee and toast. For myself, I had Cheerios in milk and sliced the lone banana I found in the kitchen. Potassium helps regulate fluid balance, muscle contractions and nerve signals. Very important for a growing girl like me.

They trudged in from the bedroom they shared, looking more tired than when they shuffled off to sleep last night. They just grumbled, sat down, and started buttering their toast. Connie didn’t even blink when I poured hot java into her cup. Now I know how Mom feels every morning.

“I’m going to see Bobby today and get my luggage and makeup case.”

“Okay, I can give you money for the bus. Get your stuff from Bobby and go down to Port Authority, take the 177 express to Washington Avenue and call Mom. She’ll pick you up.” I nodded and tried not slurp my milk as I usually do. Connie had no idea what my plan for the day was. I was going to get a job so I could go on the summer tour with Bobby. There must be something I could do. I wasn’t one of only two boys in school to take typing and home economics classes for nothing! And I know I typed faster and baked better than Freddy.

After Connie handed me a crisp ten-dollar bill and waved goodbye as she and Lauren went off to work, I made a beeline to their room. I couldn’t show up today wearing the same shmata I had on the day before. I needed to take a look at what Connie had in her closet. She won’t mind if I borrow some nice things. After all, that’s what sisters do, don’t they?

Their bedroom consisted of twin beds, a set of drawers they shared, a small vanity, two chairs, and an armoire. I opened the armoire and rifled through Connie’s dresses. Good thing we were about the same size. Well, she’s a little bustier than I am. And her hips are a little bigger. Other than that, we’re a perfect match!

My choices came down to a pink floral print knee length dress, a brownish tweed skirt suit set with too many pockets, and a blue rayon mini dress with a jewel neckline, puff sleeves and button front. I thought blue was more my color than brown or pink and the mini dress would show off my nicely shaved legs. Done! Now, lingerie. Well, Connie’s bras wouldn’t fit me at all. She’s a B cup at least. Digging through her lingerie drawer, I found a panty girdle that might be a fit. Maidenform! I can see the full-page ad in Vogue now: “Shuggie Brennan’s dreams begin with a Maidenform girdle.” I found the cutest knee-high lace-up white boots with sensible two-inch heels in the armoire. Mine! My knock-off Hermes bucket bag didn’t quite go with my outfit but nobody’s perfect.

A little blush, mascara, Connie’s peach lipstick and voila! I puckered my lips in the bathroom mirror and blushed. How can they not give me a job when I look like this? Mom would be so proud of her beautiful daughter. Dad would have a seizure.

When I strode into 1650 Broadway, looking and feeling years older than 17, the doorman remembered me from the day before and held up his hand.

“Hey, Miss, going up to the rehearsal studio?” I nodded. “These music people don’t usually get started until after 12 noon. Even that’s kinda early. Come back in a couple of hours.” I thanked him and turned to make a graceful exit, feeling a bit like a greenhorn for not knowing. He tipped his cap and smiled. Or was it a leer?

I wandered about for a few minutes on Broadway before The Woolworth’s on the corner of 47th Street drew me in to buy a pack of gum. Doublemint gum to be exact. However, while I was at the register paying for it, a display of lollipops brought a smile to my lips. I’m kind of old for lollipops and the clerk at the register smirked when I added a lemon lollipop to my purchase. I sauntered over to the houseplants department. Sucking on my lollipop, the sweetly sour taste made my face scrunch up in a funny way while I examined a potted aloe vera plant. It would look nice in Mom’s kitchen window. The price tag read a reasonable $2.50.

“That’ll look nice on your desk.” I looked up at a tall man who looked to be in his 40s, wearing an expensive pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, topped by a dark fedora on his head. I plucked the lollipop out of my mouth. “Pardon?” I blinked at him.

“A little greenery can distract from the gray mundanity of modern office life.”

“Oh, I don’t work in an office. I haven’t even graduated from high school yet.”

“That’s surprising. The way you look. The way you carry yourself. I’d have thought you were a recent college graduate at least.” Blushing, I thanked him. I realized I was holding a rather sticky lollipop in my right hand and a potted aloe vera in my left. My bucket bag was hanging from my right forearm. In short, I looked silly.

“My wife doesn’t understand me.” He stepped closer. I handed the plant to him with a smile. He juggled it for a moment.

“Here, give her this. It’ll brighten up her day. Bye!” I turned and walked very quickly toward the store exit without looking back.

Where could I go to kill a couple of hours? Maybe I could see if Carole and Gerry are in their office. They wouldn’t mind me hanging out with them, would they? I can be very quiet when I want to. It’s just that I rarely if ever want to. My teachers always encourage us to participate in class. I’m just participating in life.

I poked my head through the doorway and saw Carole sitting at the piano, tickling the ivories, and humming some melody. Gerry was on the phone, listening with an annoyed look on his face, puffing on his pipe. Waving to Carole, I quietly sat down on a folding chair, primly keeping my knees together, my bag on my lap.

“Hey, Shuggie, I thought you’d be back in Bergenfield today.”

“I stayed with my sister last night. She and her roommate have an apartment in the Village. Anyway, I’m still planning to go on the tour with Bobby. I think I can get them to hire me.”

“Hire you? To do what?”

“I could be a really good assistant. You know, typing, answering phones, that kind of stuff.”

Carole turned to face me. “They’ve got a road manager for that. Ray Barretto, best road manager in the business. East Coast anyways. He has all the contacts, knows every hotel manager, travel agent, equipment tech, and late-night diner in every city from Boston to Chicago. There are doubts he can actually read and write. Just talks on the phone.” My face fell. Another hope dashed.

“What am I gonna do? My parents won’t let me stay in the city unless I can get a job. They think I’m coming home today. If I could at least spend some time with Bobby before he walks out of my life forever.” I started to tear up.
Gerry had finished his phone call and was re-lighting his pipe. “Tough break, kid. But, you know, these teenage crushes are doomed from the beginning—”

“Why didn’t someone tell me before I met you?” Carole said to the ceiling. She turned to me with a bright expression on her face. “How good is your typing? Are you fast and accurate?”

“I can type 60 words a minute and I’m 93% accurate.”

“That’s better than what I did at James Madison High. Impressive.”

“Especially when you consider I was one of only two…uh…”

“Two what?”

“Juniors. We were juniors. Everyone else in class was a senior.” I would’ve whistled in relief but, thankfully, I can’t whistle. Carole continued.

“Gerry, what do you say we hire Shuggie to be our personal assistant? Jot down lyrics, type them up. You and I both can’t make out my chicken scrawl handwriting sometimes. And she’s a better typist than I am.”

“We could take her salary out of our expense budget. Say $1.50 an hour?”

I jumped out of my chair and hugged Carole. “Thank you! Thank you! I promise I’ll be the best assistant ever!”

“What? No hug for me? You’re working for me too, you know.” I rushed over and hugged Gerry as well. He held onto me a little bit longer than necessary.

“We’ve been working on this song all morning. Take my pad and write down the lyrics as I play. Here’s a pencil. It’s a little rough. I have to sing it in E since it’s written for a guy voice. I’d rather sing it in A. More my range. Gerry’s got a little sore throat. Otherwise, he’d sing it. I’m losing you with all this, aren’t I?” I just nodded, my pencil at the ready. Gerry had come over and stood by the piano, staring at me rather intently. Carole started playing. She told me the title was “Sometime in the Morning.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said when Carole was finished. She smiled.

“How much of that did you get? We’ll run through it a couple more times. I’m still working out the phrasing here and there.”

“Mrs. Winston said I had the best shorthand in our class. But, yeah, I could hear that another time at least.” I giggled. Gerry smiled. You know, he’s a nice-looking man. An older man. But nice-looking all the same. I covered my mouth to stop giggling like a 3-year-old.

“One of the most important duties of a personal assistant is getting coffee. The kitchen’s down the hall to the left.” Gerry pointed with his pipe.

We worked on three songs in all that day, although two of them were incomplete. One, in fact, just had a verse and a chorus. Still, I typed them all up along with carbon copies. Carole only found a handful of typos, so I had to type those over again. But they had plenty of paper and you could reuse the carbons a zillion times. I even suggested they invest in a mimeograph machine. Gerry said they might do that just to sniff the ink that permeated the stencils. “I always volunteered for the ditto squad at school. About 15 minutes in, we’d be weaving around the library office like drunken sailors.”

It was a little after 5 o’clock when Carole and Gerry left for the day, driving back to their house in the well-to-do suburb of West Orange, New Jersey. I sprinted over to 1650 Broadway to see Bobby. I had good news to tell him! Working for Carole and Gerry meant Bobby and I could spend a romantic month together in the Big Apple. There’ll be a teary farewell at the end, but I’ll have these memories forever. Maybe the time together alone can keep me in Bobby’s thoughts while he’s on tour and, hopefully, as long as we may be apart in the future, whatever he decides to do after September.

I was surprised to see the addition of a string section to the band when I quietly snuck into the rehearsal studio. They were in the middle of a duet number between Hank and Honey, with backing vocals by the Honeys, who were doing some coordinated dance moves to one side. Billy Schechter nodded and motioned to me to have a seat next to him on the studio’s old vinyl couch. He mouthed “It Takes Two” and smiled. They were doing a cover of the old Marvin Gaye/Kim Weston song. Bobby spotted me and missed two bars of the song, he was so surprised. Fortunately, no one really noticed, and I looked away quickly. Only to see Billy offering me a Marlboro. I shook my head, putting my hand up. He mouthed “Not your brand?” I nervously smiled in reply as he lit his own smoke.

They rehearsed for another hour or so and then packed up their instruments before scattering. Billy told them they were on their own until tomorrow afternoon. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids.” He laughed, patting people on the back as they shuffled out the doors. Once again, the Honeys gave me the side eye as they undulated past. Hank winked at me before feigning an exchange of punches with Billy. They both laughed as they walked out together. Bobby and I were the last to leave the studio. I reached over to take his hand, and, to my surprise, he wrapped his large hand over my slim fingers. He even noticed my peach-colored nail polish.

Bobby said we needed to sit down and talk so we walked the two blocks to Tad’s Steakhouse where we could have their famous $1.09 steak dinner. It was a great deal: a T-Bone steak, baked potato, garlic bread, and tossed salad.

“What wine do you recommend, Bobby?”

“Just order the iced tea like you usually do. I’ll just have the water. Listen, Shuggie, I was going to bring your luggage to you tomorrow morning. What are you doing still here?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed. Are you disappointed? Like, really?”

“No, of course not. But there’s no way you can stay with me. I’m crashing at the bass player’s apartment and his wife isn’t too happy about it. They’ve got a baby. I must have woke up 2 or 3 times from the crying last night.”

“Well, I got a job! If I’m working, my dad can’t complain. He doesn’t want me around anyway. I think he’s kind of ashamed of me.”

“What kind of job?”

“I’m Carole and Gerry’s personal assistant. They’re paying me $1.50 an hour!”

“That’s minimum wage, Shuggie. Where are you gonna stay? Your sister’s?”

“I guess so. I was hoping to stay with you but…they’re not putting you up in a hotel?”

“I’m lucky to get per diem. They’re not paying me a real salary until the tour starts. Hey, where’d you get all these…clothes? I mean, in all the time we’ve known each other, sure I’ve seen you dressed up a few times. But never in public. And I looked in your suitcase. Sorry but you didn’t lock it. Where’d you get the outfits?”

“Oh, that. What do you think we do in Home Economics? It’s not that hard to make a dress or two. I told Mrs. Rheingold I was making them for Connie. Connie was in her class three years ago. And the other stuff I bought from thrift stores. Grandma gave me a load of cash for my birthday in May.”

“You made what you’re wearing right now?”

“No, this is my stupid sister’s dress. And boots. And makeup. She won’t even know it’s missing.”

“She will now when you show up wearing it all.”

“I guess I’ve got no other choice.”

“Come on. I’ll drive you downtown. Billy got me a space in the parking garage courtesy of his record label. I don’t even have to pay for it.”

I pressed the doorbell while Bobby carried my luggage in both hands. I heard the thud of footsteps getting louder and then the door opened, offering us a sight that made Bobby drop his dual burden.

Before Connie could speak, I practically shouted, “I got a job! I can stay in the city…with you guys!”

“Well, in that case, I’ll want that $10 back right now.”

“Your sister is a real tightwad,” my grandma sighed.

“Well, she is a business major.”

The front door slammed shut. My parents were home from visiting my convalescing Aunt Brenda. As I got up from the kitchen table where we had been sitting after destroying the Hawaiian pizza, I stifled a yawn.

“We’ll continue the story tomorrow night after dinner, sobo.”

“This is like Days of Our Lives except I can understand more of it.”

The next day in AP Math class, our Vice Principal opened the door halfway and silently beckoned to me. Did they know I was wearing panties underneath my corduroy slacks? I kept my head down as I left the room, his hand surprisingly light on my shoulder.

“You father is here. You need to go with him.” I looked at him and felt myself shiver, my mouth agape. Was I in deep do-do? “He’s in the office waiting for you. He’ll tell you what’s happened.” We were in the administrative office now and I could see my father, in his floor manager smock with his name and title stitched above his heart-side pocket, wearing a serious expression on his face.

As we walked quickly to our car, Dad told me Mom had discovered Grandma slumped over in her chair in the garden, unresponsive, her breathing ragged and shallow. Mom was home since she worked Thursday through Monday at the hospital as a pediatric nurse. They think she had a stroke. I started crying and Dad patted me on the knee. “She’ll be alright. She’s a tough cookie. Don’t fall apart on me, okay?”

Even though my mother worked in a hospital, I hated being inside one. I managed to hold the tears and dread in as we met up with Mom and she took us to the Emergency Room. Almost hidden beneath a web of tubes, an IV bag hanging over her right shoulder, and hooked up to a vital signs monitor, was my sobo. She appeared to be asleep, masking the severity of her condition. But the doctor on duty was optimistic. He surmised it was a minor stroke. Of course, once they got her stabilized, they’d have her undergo a phalanx of tests to get a real prognosis. He smiled comfortingly as he spoke to us. Mom nodded and assured us Doctor Ramsey was just the best.

Several hours later, exhausted from worry and uninterested in food (although Mom assured me the cafeteria fare was quite acceptable), I was ecstatic to see Grandma respond to us, even though her voice was raspy and weak. Mom asked Dad to take me home. She said I needed my eight hours of sleep since I had school tomorrow. I argued the point, but Dad just gently pushed me toward the exit. Grandma had fallen asleep again, but I told her I would see her right after school the next day anyway.

After Dad dropped me off at home and drove back to the hospital, I ran up to my room, performed my nightly ablutions, and put on the extra-large Joe Namath uniform jersey I used as a nightgown facsimile. It came down almost to my knees. Dad had seen me in it numerous times. He did ask me once why I didn’t exchange it for something in my proper size. I told him they were out of medium. He just shook his head and turned back to Johnny Carson on the TV.

Unable to fall asleep, I went to my closet and pulled out Harold, my life-sized stuffed Bengal tiger. I’d had him since I was 5 years old despite Dad having waged a never-ending campaign to have him dumped in the garbage. He said it was disappointing to have a son who was so attached to a little girl’s doll. I know he felt that way from the very first moment he and I set eyes on Harold.

It was the summer of 1954. I was 5 years old and my sister was 8. Dad had driven two hours to have us spend a day in Atlantic City. Back then, it was the fabled site of the Miss America pageant, with a boardwalk, the famous Steel Pier, saltwater taffy, grand hotels with Vegas-like floor shows and concerts (Al Martino was the headliner that weekend!), and amusement park rides for the kiddies.

After a long day in the hot July sun, we were ready to embark upon the two-hour drive back to Bergenfield. Mom and Connie had gone off to find the ladies’ room. Dad and I waited for them next to our car parked outside of Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant where we had just had the catch of the day. I was glad I had refrained from puking my dinner although Connie kept goading me with burping noises. I think I’m allergic to fish. Everyone else in the family loves seafood.

A middle-aged couple, dressed in the summer fashions of the leisure class, approached the restaurant and passed in front of Dad and me. The woman was cradling a life-sized stuffed tiger in her arms, laughing and walking arm-in-arm with her gentleman. She stopped when she saw me.

“Oh, what a lovely little girl!” My father almost jumped. He didn’t manage to say anything but just stood behind me. At first, I didn’t realize she was talking about me. But I was dressed in short shorts, an orange striped t-shirt, and I was still wearing one of Connie’s pink plastic headbands that Mom had deployed to keep my short but unruly hair out of my eyes at dinner. And, heck, I was one cute little tyke.

“Bill, would you be awfully put out if I gave the little prize you won for me to this cute little girl?” she asked the man with her. He shrugged and smiled. “Well, our reservation is for two not three so I guess the least we can do is find a new home for him.”

“Would you like tiger, sweetie?” She placed the over-sized doll in my hands and all I could do was stand it next to me, it was so large.

“Lady, it’s real nice of you but I can’t accept it. Thank you all the same. Shuggie, give the nice lady back the tiger.”

Bill shook his head. “Hey, your little girl here really likes it, don’t you?” I nodded enthusiastically. The lady beamed at me. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as my Italian grandfather always said. Have a nice evening.” With that, they walked into the restaurant.

Only seconds later, Mom and Connie finally showed up. Of course, Connie immediately ran to hug the tiger. “Connie, he’s mine. A nice lady gave him to me. Daddy, tell Connie!” My father rubbed his face in exasperation and told Connie to hold off. He turned to Mom. “Some rich dame thought Shuggie was a girl. Gave him the tiger. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.” With arms akimbo, Dad bellowed, “Everyone! In the car. We’re going home.”

On the two-hour trip home, Dad kept trying to pawn the tiger off to Connie or, as a last resort, just toss the thing out the window. But I kept my little arms around Harold, as I had already named him, and swore I’d never give him up. Surprisingly, Connie told Dad she didn’t mind me keeping Harold. She was too old to play with stuffed dolls anyway, she said. Dad finally acquiesced but I could tell he was thinking up a plan as he was driving.

I lay in bed, wide awake, the memory of that day still causing my heart to ache. Even 12 years later. Here I am seeking comfort from a stuffed animal my eight-year-old sister didn’t even think twice about spurning. As I brushed the plush fabric with my hand, I couldn’t help but think I might never get the chance to finish telling sobo about my summer adventure. For my own sake, I started to tell Harold what happened after I returned to Connie’s doorstep that evening with Bobby in tow, carrying my luggage. Maybe the words will reach sobo somehow.

Connie wasn’t too happy about me living with her and Lauren in their tiny apartment but, since I could pay my share of the rent now that I had a job, she decided to tolerate my presence. She even smoothed over our parents’ apprehension about my staying in New York for at least the rest of the month (until Bobby goes on tour with Hank & Honey). Of course, she didn’t mention I was presenting as a girl. I could tell her business classes and internship were shaping her into a crack saleswoman. She could sell ice to Eskimos! Bring coal to Newcastle! Send cheese to the moon!

Connie was happy about one thing: not having to lend me anymore of her clothing now that I had secured my luggage. However, she did tell me I could keep the panty girdle I had borrowed. So, it seems my Maidenform dreams would continue.

With these matters settled, my days were a delightful routine of assisting Carole and Gerry from about 10 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, then rushing over to 1650 Broadway to watch Bobby rehearse until around 7 or 8 in the evening. Bobby and I would catch some dinner in midtown, and he’d drive me back down to the Village afterwards. One night we went to see John Coltrane, Bobby’s favorite sax player, at The Village Vanguard on 7th Avenue and Waverly Place. Although I was sort of bored by what Bobby told me was modal jazz, it suited me fine because I got to spend time with him, and it was a 2-minute drive from Connie’s apartment in Sheridan Square. Bobby only got Sundays off and I suggested we go see a movie but nothing interesting was showing in Manhattan. The only realistic choices were an Elvis movie, The Russians Are Coming, and Khartoum. That was an easy pass. We took a romantic stroll in Central Park instead. Well, I thought of it as romantic. I don’t know what Bobby was thinking. Were we just best buddies? He did hold my hand when the crowd thinned out in certain parts of the park.

That question occupied my mind so much that on Monday morning I hesitantly asked Carole what she would do in my situation. After all, she was a mature and worldly woman who knew enough about the intricacies of love to have written dozens of hit songs chronicling every aspect of the subject. I took the opportunity to broach the topic when Gerry was on the phone waking up someone “on the coast” and Carole was playing back a demo they’d recorded on a Wollensak reel to reel machine.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Bobby and me. Should I just ask him point blank what his feelings are about us? I mean, we’ve been best friends since kindergarten.”

“There’s no doubt about your feelings toward him. Hmm, maybe he just sees you as a little sister. I had crushes on guys in high school and it wasn’t pretty when they acted surprised that I felt that way about them. Gerry and I met in college. Things get more serious when you mature a little.”

“So you think it’s kind of puppy love? But, Carole, he’s my whole world. I think about him day and night. Everyone thinks I ran off with Bobby. Except maybe Bobby.”

“Do you think he’s involved with another girl?”

“He dated this girl Rachel and she’s very pretty. But I didn’t think it was serious. Some of his buddies might have dared him to. Rachel’s very popular.”

Carole switched off the tape machine and sat down at the piano. “Well, my advice is to clear this up with Bobby as soon as possible. It’ll save everyone a lot of grief, especially if he doesn’t feel that way about you. It might hurt real bad for a while but you’ve got your whole life in front of you. Someday you’ll find someone who returns your feelings. I’m sure a beautiful girl like you won’t be lacking for suitors.”

“I’m afraid of what he might say…” I was cut short when Carole started to play. It was a song they’d written for The Shirelles but first released by Maxine Brown, “Oh No Not My Baby.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Shuggie. There’s a whole world of boys out there. If Bobby isn’t the one, he’s a loser, not you.”

“I know…but I really really love him so so much.” At that moment, Gerry slammed the phone down.

“Kirshner wants us in LA in two weeks. The Monkees need some more songs for their album. Apparently, Boyce and Hart are a little slow on coming up with those Beatles sound-alike tunes they promised.”

Tuesday morning started out really well. Connie and Lauren had left for work over an hour before. I had even scrambled some eggs and fried some sausages for breakfast. I’m getting good at this domestic stuff. And Connie gladly lent me the pinafore apron Mom had gifted her (which she never wore). Visions of sitting at the breakfast table with Bobby, smiling as I poured his coffee, filled my head even as I was humming “Oh No Not My Baby.”

Dressed in the floral print summer frock I had made in Home Ec. class, I stepped out of the building and squinted at the bright morning sun. I was about to go back up and retrieve my sunglasses when I saw Mom getting out of her parked car across the street! When she spotted me, she froze in the middle of the street and a car whizzed by, just missing her by inches. Fortunately, I was wearing my ballet flats that day and ran over to her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her onto the sidewalk.

“Shuggie? You’re…you’re—”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry we lied to you. It’s…I’m—”

“Beautiful! Just so beautiful. I can’t believe it.”

“Aren’t you mad, Mom?”

“No, Shuggie. How can I be angry at my beautiful little girl?” She hugged me and kissed my forehead. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. I was crying too. We made quite a scene in the middle of Sheridan Square.

“But how? Does everyone think you’re a girl? Is Bobby in on this? Did he make you do this?”

“We need to sit down and talk, Mom. But, right now, I’ll be late for work if we do that here.”

“I’ll drive you. Just help me with directions. You know I hate driving in the city. It’s so confusing.” We crossed the street again. This time we looked both ways first.

“And I’ll have to speak to this Mrs. King that you’re working for. Does she know? You didn’t tell her?”

“She doesn’t have to know. Mom! She totally thinks I’m a girl. Can’t we just leave well enough alone?”

“No, Shuggie. It’s not right to fool your employer. If she finds out eventually, she won’t be happy you tricked her. You’re legally a boy. And you’re 17.”

What should have been a 15-minute ride turned out to take over half an hour. Uptown traffic even after rush hour is horrible. I would have been better off taking the subway. And immensely better off if my mother weren’t driving me. The whole way up 6th Avenue I tried to dissuade Mom from speaking to Carole. That would end with me getting fired and being forced to return home, my tail between my legs, to endure humiliating recriminations by my father. Dad once threatened to enlist me in the army to make a real man out of me. Can he do that?

“Hi, Carole, Gerry.” My voice was tremulous, betraying the force of emotions behind it. “This is my mother.” She stepped out from behind me and gave them a tiny wave of her hand.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. King.” Carole smiled ruefully and Gerry just nodded.

“Please just call me Carole, Mrs. Brennan. I can see where your daughter gets her looks.”

”Thank you, Carole. I’m Eriko. “ She lowered her voice. “Can I speak to you? In private?” She glanced at Gerry, smiling sweetly. Gerry stood up and approached me.

“Come on, Shuggie. Let’s go downstairs and get an egg cream. Your mother and Carole can get acquainted.”

With a desperate, beseeching look on my face, I touched Mom’s arm. “Mom?” She patted my hand. “Go with Mr. King. It’s alright.” Gerry hooked his arm around my shoulder and gently led me out into the hallway. I shot Mom one last imploring look as Carole closed the door to their office.

We walked south, Gerry whistling a tune that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t identify, and me, barely picking up my feet like a condemned woman being led to the electric chair. I would never have envisioned my own mother pulling the switch. My dad, yes, my mom, never.

Four city blocks later, we stopped in front of Howard Johnson’s Restaurant (HoJo to those in the know). “Ever had an egg cream?” Gerry asked me.

“What’s that?”

He laughed. “You really are from Jersey.” Ushering me in, Gerry guided me toward a booth with a window view. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never had one. I’m from Brooklyn, where they invented it. Like ambrosia. Food of the gods. You’ll see.”

After Gerry ordered, we kind of just stared at each other across the table. I would have whistled, but I can’t, so I just sat there. Gerry looked out the window and at one point actually waved to someone walking by outside. The man stopped for a second, looked at me, and gave Gerry a thumbs up. What was that all about?

The waitress placed two tall fountain glasses filled to the rim with a chocolate-colored liquid. Gerry motioned for me to take a sip. I put the straw in my mouth and siphoned the concoction as Gerry grinned.

“This is good but it’s just a chocolate soda.”

“No, no, no. Egg creams are made with milk, seltzer, and chocolate syrup. Way better than chocolate soda.”

He was right. This was much better. So, we sipped and slurped away. Then, mid-slurp, Gerry turned serious.

“What’s the deal with your mom? Have you escaped from some booby hatch? Or worse even some penitentiary? Did you kill your sister for making everyone call you Shuggie?”

“It’s kind of unusual.” Looking around, I lowered my voice and leaned in across the table. “I’m actually a boy.” Gerry guffawed and then realized I wasn’t kidding.

“Jesus H. Christ.” He lowered his voice. “Are you like, and no offense, but…are you a fagela? No offense.”

“No, I’m not a…a fagela. If you mean what I think you mean. I’m a girl. It’s just I have some extra parts that I don’t want.”

“Does Bobby know?”

Of course. We’ve known each other since I was 5 and he was 6.”

“So, he’s a fagela?”

“No!” I said angrily. “He’s only interested in girls. I’m a special girl.”

“That’s why your mother wanted to speak to Carole discreetly. Well, listen, I’m shocked but I’ve got nothing against however people want to live. He, she, it. Makes no difference to me. Of course, other people might have different opinions.”

“Do you think Carole will fire me?”

“I don’t know. She’s a very liberal person. Voted for Johnson last time. But I don’t think she likes being made a fool of.”

“I wasn’t doing it to trick her. I just needed a way to spend the summer with Bobby. I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. When Mom tells Dad about this, I’m toast.”

He looked at his watch, took a final sip of his egg cream, and stood up. “No sense delaying the inevitable, whatever she decides. Let’s head back.”

As we walked back up Broadway to the office, a black Lincoln Continental, headed in the opposite direction, stopped near us and idled six feet from the curb. The rear side window rolled down and a balding man with a graying beard poked his head out.

“Hey, Gerry!”

“Jerry! I thought you were in LA.”

“Headed to the airport right now. Who’s the young lady?”

“Jerry Wexler, Atlantic Records macher. Meet my personal assistant, Shuggie.” I smiled reflexively although my glum mood hadn’t lifted and gave him a tiny finger wave.

“Charmed, I’m sure. Listen, before I get a ticket for double parking, I’m signing Aretha Franklin to Atlantic and working on the right kind of material for her talent. Plan to start recording in October or November down in Muscle Shoals. You know I’m really into like blues, soul, gospel stuff. That’s where Aretha should be. She’s not Sarah Vaughan, you dig?”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

“Well, I’d like Aretha to sing about being a ‘natural woman.’ Down home, grits and pig feet, Black church, all that imagery. Just a hunch it could be perfect for her. She could sing the shit out of that phrase. Excuse my French, Shuggie.”

“We’ll work on it. Do a demo and send it out to you. Okay?”

Wexler waved and rolled up his window. The limo drove off. We continued our trek toward the office. “Don’t be all doom and gloom, Shuggie. Another year and you’ll be 18. You could get a sex change operation like Christine Jorgensen. Your parents can’t stop you then.”

“Yeah, well it takes money I don’t have. And no way of making that kind of money anytime soon.”

“It’s tough, Shuggie. I feel bad for you. You make a really beautiful girl too. Shame you were born a boy instead.”

The office door was wide open when we made it back. Carole and Mom were talking quietly. Mom was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. I was bracing for the bad news.

“We’re back,” Gerry intoned quietly. That left me standing in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid to ask the obvious question. Mom walked over to me after shaking Carole’s hand.

“I have to get to work, Shuggie. I could only take a half-day. Carole and I had a nice chat. She’ll tell you what we decided. And, don’t worry, I won’t tell your father. He doesn’t need to know. Goodbye, sweetie.” She kissed me on the cheek and walked away. I turned toward Carole.

“Sit down, Shuggie. We need to talk.”

I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as I sat down across from Carole and Gerry. The summer of my dreams was about to end in ignominious humiliation. Through wet eyes I looked down at the dress I was so proud of making by myself in Home Economics class. Mrs. Rheingold told me my sister would be ecstatic that I’d made such a lovely dress for her. She’d probably laugh at me now or, worse, sneer at my “perversity.” And Dad will kill me when he finds out. Would Mom tell him? It wasn’t something I’d bet against.

“Don’t cry, Shuggie,” entreated Carole as she handed me some Kleenex. I remembered to dab, not wipe. But a few sniffles escaped as I tried to collect myself.

“I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me very honestly.”

“Uhh…o-o-kay.”

“Are you doing this just to make Bobby fall in love with you or do you really feel like you’re a girl not a boy?” I was taken aback by Carole’s question. In truth, it was both. But I knew the answer she’d probably prefer. So, I offered “I am a girl! I’ve always known I was a girl. From as early as I can remember. My sister even said so. It’s just I don’t look like a girl…you know…my body…”

“Shuggie, your mother told me that when you were born the doctors weren’t sure whether you were a boy or a girl. They recommended that you be raised as a boy because they kind of threw their hands up.”

“Mom told me that Dad wanted me to be a boy in the worst way. But…but Mom always said she thought I was a girl with…with something extra. That’s not a medical opinion though. Doctor Krantz says I’m just a late bloomer. I could develop any day now…”

“Seventeen is more than a little late for “development.” You need to see some specialists. Child welfare should charge your father with child abuse, really.”

“Dad loves me…in his own way.”

“Be that as it may, Shuggie, your mother urged me to let you keep working for us. And I’m inclined to do just that. She knows this is your last best chance to live out your dream of being a girl, if only for a few weeks or months before you have to go back to school and be a boy again. She loves her younger daughter very much.”

“You mean I’m not fired?”

“No, Gerry and I both think you’re a wonderful and—”

“Unique,” Gerry interjected.

“Uh huh, unique personal assistant. And we’re happy to have you.”

I hugged them both and apologized for making their clothes wet with my tears.

“I have to fix my face. I’m sure I look like a raccoon.”

“Well, a very pretty raccoon in this case,” Gerry said, smiling.

“Sometimes people can be nice. Even in this country.”

My grandmother smiled at me, lying in her hospital bed. They had moved her to a semi-private room. There were two other patients curtained off so that a modicum of privacy was afforded. They gave sobo the bed closest to the window and I sat in the cramped space between it and her bed. I thought she’d been asleep while I picked up the story where we’d left off, the night we ordered pizza. Before she suffered a minor stroke. As I had promised, I came by bus directly after school.

“Go on, shojo. I’m listening.”

Later that day, Gerry and Carole worked on lyrics for the song Jerry Wexler wanted for Aretha Franklin, centered on the phrase “a natural woman.” As Gerry tossed out fragments of lines, I jotted them down. Carole would also throw out ideas but mostly hunched over the piano, humming as she developed a vamp with the song’s opening bars. Around 2 PM, a man and a woman who looked to be in their mid-twenties like Gerry and Carole burst into the room. The man was brandishing a clutch of sheet music and the woman hooted and hollered, waving her arms excitedly.

“Gerry! Carole! We need your help!” Carole pivoted on her chair and Gerry took his pipe out of his mouth, startled out of his lyrical ruminations.

“What’s going on?” Carole asked, holding her hands up like a traffic cop.

The couple turned out to be Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann, another husband/wife songwriting team like Gerry and Carole, who were famous for having written that huge hit for The Righteous Brothers 2 years ago, “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.” Barry placed the sheets on the music rack and the three of them huddled around Carole. I silently joined them, keeping myself a foot or two behind.

“Who’s this? I know we’ve been in LA for a while but Louise couldn’t have turned into a teenager overnight,” Barry said, laughing.

“No, Barry, Louise is still only 7. This is our new assistant, Shuggie.” I smiled as Carole ‘formally’ introduced me to Barry and Cynthia. I noticed that Barry winked at Gerry, who quickly turned away and relit his pipe. Cynthia redirected everyone’s attention to the sheet music.

“So, we’re already getting artists who want to cover “(You’re My) Soul and Inspiration” only weeks after it hit the top of the charts. Thing is, we’d like to see it done by a female singer. A medley of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” and “Soul and Inspiration.” Maybe someone like Dusty Springfield or Petula Clark.”

“I thought of reaching out to Peggy Lee,” Barry interjected.

“We changed the lyrics to suit a girl’s point of view and transposed the key from B a half step to C. But neither I nor Cyn can sing in that register,” Barry stated, a smirk on his lips.

“Okay, Barry, we get it. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Carole, will you give it a try? We just want to hear what it could sound like in a higher key.”

“I don’t think that would work for me, Cyn. You’d need a real alto voice for this. Maybe even a pure contralto.” I raised my hand timidly. All four looked at me, puzzled.

“I could give it a try. I’m in the range of F3 to F5.”

“That’s pretty low for a girl. I didn’t know you could read music, Shuggie,” Carole exclaimed in mock surprise.

“You never asked. I was in the band at school. I really just got involved because Bobby was so into music, even when we were in elementary school. I play alto clarinet. Rather badly actually,” I added, blushing a crimson tide across my cheeks. When they didn’t comment, I explained, “I could never get my embouchure right. It’s my lips. Maybe something’s wrong with them.”

“Betcha that’s not what Bobby would say,” Gerry said under his breath as Carole drew me closer to the piano so I could read off the sheet music. I exhaled, tried to find somewhere to place my hands and waited for Carole to complete the intro. Then I sang.

There was something close to stunned silence when Carole played the final chord. The three of them exchanged looks. Barry spoke first.

“Wow! I think you’ve got another Little Eva here, Carole.” Turning to me, he asked with incredulity, “You’re not a professional?” I shook my head no. Cynthia grabbed my shoulders. “Oh, god, girl! You’ve got talent! Gerry, why aren’t you producing this little doll?”

Carole stood up from the piano and rescued me from Barry and Cynthia’s clutches. “She’s still in school. And her parents don’t want her in the business at her age.” Gerry blurted out, “And she’s got sort of a medical condition.”

Concerned, Barry and Cynthia both asked “What condition?” Giving them my most bashful expression, I told them, “It’s kind of really personal. I’d rather not talk about it.”

After a few awkward minutes, Barry and Cynthia left. I didn’t realize it when Barry and Cynthia were still in the room but I was shaking, shivering so hard I could barely sit still. Carole asked in a quiet tone, “Do you want to be a singer? You’ve got a nice voice. We can talk to people, you know.”

“No. I don’t want to be a singer. I just want to be a girl. Just a girl.”

Just before they left for the day, Gerry told me they were going to LA at the end of the month and probably stay out there until the end of the year. I nodded and thanked them for giving me the opportunity to spend at least these few weeks in New York with Bobby. After he left on tour with Hank and Honey, I’d have to return home and go back to being a boy. But I’d have these precious memories. Carole hugged me, whispering “Poor Shuggie. You’re so so brave. I don’t think I could cope in your shoes.”

When I saw Bobby at rehearsal that evening, I told him my good news. My mother had revealed my deep, dark secret to Carole but urged her to keep me on as their assistant. Bobby raised his eyebrows at that. Then, unexpectedly, he hugged me. In front of all the other band members who were packing up to leave for the day. “Hey, get a room you two!” Chubby the pianist hollered as he walked out. Hank winked at me and patted Bobby on the back as he led Honey to the exit, arm in arm. The three Hank’s Honeys stood in a line in front of us and serenaded us with Marcie Blaine’s sappy “Bobby’s Girl” from Christmas 1962. Bobby and I jumped apart, embarrassed by the unwanted attention we were attracting.

Bobby said we should celebrate. A feast! Considering our lack of cash, we ended up taking the subway downtown to Chinatown where you could have family style portions for cents on the dollar. Chinatown is a maze of narrow, winding side streets. Every block featured at least three or four restaurants, bake shops, dim sum houses, and curio shops. Bobby seemed to know where we were headed. He held my hand, leading me ultimately to an impressive looking establishment named The Rice Bowl.

The maître d, dressed in a well-pressed dinner jacket and a clip-on bowtie, eyed Bobby with circumspection. “We prefer gentlemen to wear a jacket and tie in the evening,” he declaimed with a noticeable accent. Bobby was wearing a white button-down shirt, tucked in neatly, and navy dress slacks. The maître d looked me over and, as if reconsidering, waved us in to our table. Surprisingly, for a mid-week evening, the place was packed. He handed us two menus. “Enjoy,” he said and walked imperiously away.

When our waiter appeared, we ordered two $1.25 complete dinners. Bobby had the Shrimp with Lobster Sauce main course. I had the Subgum Chicken Chow Mein. As we ate our sumptuous but frugally priced meal, the irony of me, a half-Asian boy dressed as a girl, having dinner in a Chinatown restaurant with her All-American boyfriend, triggered that earworm of a song from one of my mom’s favorite movie musicals, “Flower Drum Song.” “I Enjoy Being a Girl” played in my head as I watched Bobby devour everything placed in front of him.

“This is really good. You know, I’ve only eaten Chinese food maybe two or three times my whole life.”

“Gee, I was afraid you might be bored by eating here, you probably have this all the time.”

“Bobby! My mother’s Japanese not Chinese. My grandmother hates anything Chinese. And Dad is a meat and potatoes guy all the way. He hardly eats any of the vegetables we grow in our garden.”

“What are you gonna do after I leave to go on tour?”

“I don’t have a choice really. Go home and sit by the phone, waiting for you to call.”

“Shuggie, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. We’ve done everything together, you and me, but there comes a time when…when people grow up. Like, there’s no way that we can be anything more than what we’ve been. Buddies. Best buddies. I mean, you’re a—”

“Do I look like a boy to you! Really, Bobby?”

Everyone turned to look at us. For a good ten seconds, there was total silence except for a busboy trying to quietly clear a table. Bobby lowered his voice.

“Shuggie, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

“No, Bobby. Take me home. I’m really tired. It’s been a long, long day.” I got up and hurried to the ladies’ room, leaving Bobby at the table, signaling the waiter for the check.

When I told my sister what had happened, she yawned and then drawled, “Whatever. This is just crazy is all I can say. Just as long as you give me your third of the rent before you leave.” Lauren was still ensconced in “Valley of the Dolls”, so she didn’t even comment until I picked up the phone to call Mom.

“And don’t forget your share of the phone bill.”

Mom told me Dad was okay with me working for Carole and Gerry, especially when she mentioned I was getting paid $1.50 an hour. She practically whispered the rest of our conversation since Dad was sitting a few feet away watching a rerun of The Fugitive on TV. I could sense she was holding back the tears as she “ordered” me to have the time of my life. Both she and I knew my carriage would turn back into a pumpkin at the end of the month. I hung up the phone and stared into space. Connie surprised me when she tossed me a pair of fire engine red Wrangler jeans.

“Huh?” I said intelligently.

“All you have are dresses and skirts. Thought you should have something casual you can wear. That black and white striped top you have should go well with this. Red’s not really my color.”

Lauren cackled and put her book down. “Yeah, it makes her ass look humongous.”

“Thanks. I love you, sis.”

“Aww. I kinda love you too, squirt.”

The next two days went by uneventfully. Carole and Gerry worked diligently on a trio of new songs: the “natural woman” song for Aretha Franklin and two songs for The Monkees, “Take a Giant Step” and “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” They were going to bring the latter two songs to The Monkees’ first recording sessions in July. In fact, Carole had booked time in RCA Studio A at 44th Street and 6th Avenue the following week to record demos for all three songs. I was excited to actually get to witness a recording session in a legendary studio (Elvis recorded his RCA albums there in the late ‘50s).

On the other front, Bobby tried to discuss our ‘situation’ but I would change the subject. I’d ask him about the itinerary of the tour and what the travel arrangements were. Would they be staying in hotels? Sleeping on the tour buses? What would they do on days when they didn’t have a concert? We held hands a lot. Once or twice, he leaned in, and I thought he was going to kiss me. But something or someone would interrupt. All things considered, I was happy just to spend evenings with him. We were a young couple marveling at all the sights of Manhattan on a warm summer night. At least that’s how I saw it.

I was later than usual to Bobby’s rehearsal with the band on Thursday evening. Bobby wanted to go see “Stagecoach” at The Rivoli Theater just a block south of 1650 Broadway. He liked Westerns but I suspected he really wanted to see one of the leads, Ann-Margret. I had to suffer through that stupid Elvis film, “Viva Las Vegas,” a couple of summers ago because Bobby thought Ann-Margret was ‘very talented.’ I decided to change into a casual outfit before leaving the Brill Building. I had brought with me the red Wrangler jeans Connie had given me and my own black and white striped top. I even ‘borrowed’ Connie’s tennis shoes. After all, when was she going to play tennis anyway?

I walked into the rehearsal room just as Honey Hutch and the three Honeys were leaving. I guess rehearsal was over for the day. In the far corner, Hank and Billy Schechter were deep in an animated conversation. The band members were noodling around on their instruments. Bobby didn’t even see me when I waved to him. Then Chubby counted down and the band, string section included, played an instrumental rendition of The Four Tops’ “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” Oooh, I love that song! Turning my back to the band because I felt a little embarrassed about singing in front of real professionals (not like Carole and the gang, who were closer to colleagues), I couldn’t help myself from dancing and wiggling to the beat as I sang. All the good feelings of the last three days took over my voice and my hips. Yeah, I kind of lost it. In a good way.

The music ended and I became acutely aware of all the eyes in the room focused on me. I turned to see Hank and Billy standing two feet away from me, vigorously applauding. Hank grabbed my arm.

“So is Shuggie short for Sugar Pie, honey bunch?” He laughed. “Billy, I think we’ve got ourselves another Hank’s Honey. Sign her up.”

“Uh, Hank, we don’t need another girl. And don’t you think she’d look a little, how you say, out of place on stage with the other girls?”

“Billy, I want her in the group. Just make it happen.” Billy glanced up at the ceiling, whistled, and then took a long look at me. I saw Bobby in the background, shaking his head no. He even drew his index finger across his throat. All the other band members were nodding yes. It was really funny. Finally, Billy spoke.

“Hank wants you to join the Honeys. Is it something you’d like to do?” For some reason, he seemed to want me to turn it down.

“Well, I already have a job. I’m assisting Carole and Gerry. They’re paying me $1.50 an hour! It’s really tempting, though. I don’t know…” Bobby was coughing rather loudly now. I could see his point. What if they found me out? I’d be in really deep do-do. On the other hand, I’d get to spend the whole summer with Bobby. And live as a girl! Hank leaned in and nudged Billy backwards.

“Billy can pay you $100 a week,” Hank said, emphasizing the impressive amount.

Wow! That’s more than Dad made a week at the paper plant and he’s a floor manager.

“You got a deal!”

Bobby dropped his saxophone. The clang as it hit the floor punctuated Hank’s ear-to-ear smile and Billy’s sputtering incoherence.as I shook their hands.

“It’s bad enough you lied to your dad about how you ended up here working as a ‘personal assistant’ to a couple of songwriters. I barely escaped being shot by him for ‘abducting’ you. Now, how the hell are you gonna explain being a Hank’s Honey, wearing a dress and prancing around on stage in front of thousands? At the very least, we could all be arrested for transporting a minor across state lines for immoral purposes!”

Everyone in the subway car whipped their heads around to look at us. I couldn’t shrink myself small enough to evade their stares. And I was sitting next to Bobby, hanging onto his arm, so I couldn’t act like he wasn’t talking to me. In a very low tone, I tried to reason with him.

“There’s nothing immoral about singing backup and dancing on stage. Even if I do it badly. Which I won’t, I promise! This is so exciting. And I’m getting paid a hundred smackers a week! I’m making more than Dad makes. How can he complain?”

“Well, I don’t think he ever envisioned you wearing a dress in front of an audience…”

“Would he rather I be naked instead?” At that, an older woman sitting across from us clucked her tongue. Bobby got out of his seat and leaned against one of the exit doors, his face turned away from me. I dramatically rolled my eyes and mouthed to the clucking woman, “Men!” She shook her head and smiled in return.

Bobby had originally wanted to see “Stagecoach” at the Rivoli tonight but his whole mood soured after Billy and Hank offered me the job as the newest Hank’s Honey. He decided to just take me home and then wander off into the night, I supposed. But I had developed a ravenous hunger and was not looking forward to spooning out cottage cheese from a solitary carton in my sister’s refrigerator.

As we walked out of the Christopher Street station, I grabbed his arm and he turned to me with a hangdog look on his face. “I’m really hungry. Let’s find a place close by to eat.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll walk you to your building and say goodnight.” I pulled him in the opposite direction.

“There’s loads of spots down this way. Connie and Lauren told me about this place called Caffe Reggio on McDougal and West 3rd.” Bobby didn’t budge, a petulant frown his only reply. “Listen, it’s my treat. I’ve still got the ten bucks Connie gave me for the bus home. And I’m getting paid tomorrow. They make really great burgers…” That got Bobby moving. He put my hand in his and we walked briskly downtown toward McDougal Street.

We were able to get a table next to the window. The café was not a large space, so it was fortunate for us that the early dinner crowd was sparse that night. I remarked to Bobby that the place wasn’t anything like any Italian restaurant I’d ever been in, with its walls filled with paintings by Renaissance artists (the menu provided a historical blurb about the café), pride of place being occupied by a canvas from the school of Caravaggio. Against the back wall sat what is claimed to be the first espresso machine to be used in New York City when the café opened in 1927. The menu blurb also claimed Caffe Reggio introduced cappuccino to the city as well. When I told Bobby I might want to try that after dinner, he shrugged and said he’d never had it himself.

The waitress perfunctorily took Bobby’s order of a burger and fries but was chatty when I asked her what she would recommend. While Bobby stared out the window listlessly, I finally decided on the Orecchiette alla Pugliese, which the waitress told me was the most famous dish from the owner’s home region of Puglia, located in the heel of Italy’s boot. It had lots of broccoli in it, which is a vegetable I like. I was under the legal drinking age of 18 so Bobby and I just had water. When she walked away from our table, I took full notice of how she was dressed: black capri pants, a black and white striped Breton T-shirt, and black ballet flats. Beatnik fashion from another decade. The only thing missing was a beret, but she did have her hair up in a high ponytail. That old song, “Sugar Shack,” spun on the turntable in my head.

We were served in less time than it took for me to coax Bobby into some dinner conversation.

“I thought you’d be happy for me. I mean how much more validation do you need when they pick you to be a Honey? They obviously are convinced I’m what I am. Which is a girl.”

“Two months on the road as a girl? Shuggie, you’re not going to get away with it. We’ll all be in trouble if you’re found out. Maybe even legally. I don’t know. And your father will disown you and shoot me. Whichever comes first.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I know he’s got that 30-06 Springfield he goes deer-hunting with. My dad went and bought the same rifle.”

“No, I mean he wouldn’t disown me.”

“Well, that’s nice for you, I guess. Listen, it’s a bad idea, Shuggie. Just turn it down and go back home after Gerry and Carole go to LA at the end of the month.”

My eyes started to well up with tears and my voice got scratchy. “You really don’t want me around? We’ve always done everything together. I thought you…you and I were best friends. Like forever.” Bobby handed me his napkin to dab away my tears.

“We are. We are. It’s complicated. Everyone isn’t as understanding of your ‘situation’ as I am. They wouldn’t be accepting of…of—”

“Who I really am? But I can’t help it. It’s how I am, Bobby. I told you when I was 6 and you were 7.”

The waitress stopped at our table, concern in her voice. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Can we see a dessert menu?” Bobby nodded and the waitress went to retrieve the menus.

“I think we should try the espresso and the tiramisu. It’s ladyfingers soaked in coffee.”

“Kind of redundant, no? Anyway, you’re paying. Have a field day. I’ll just have a regular coffee. No dessert for me.”

When we emerged from the café onto McDougal Street, Bobby looked down the block and saw people coming in and out of the coffee house on the corner. The sign on the awning above the doors read Café Wha. Music leaked out from inside whenever the doors swung open.

“Hey, I’ve heard the guys talking about that place. A couple of them dropped in over the weekend and said the group playing there was really good. I’ll walk you home and circle back, catch the show. I’m too keyed up to go to sleep this early.”

“Let’s go in now. I’m not sleepy either and there’s nothing on TV.”

“Okay, but there’s a cover charge and a two-drink minimum. I can get you in since I’m the adult accompanying you, little girl. You can order a Shirley Temple.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s non-alcoholic. Ginger ale with a splash of grenadine.”

“Does it taste good?”

“You’ll tell me. I’ve never had it.” Again, he took my hand and we walked quickly to our new destination.

Inside, we found a small table against the back wall and Bobby ordered a beer and I ordered my Shirley Temple. As I was sipping my drink—it wasn’t that bad—the band that was on stage finished their last number and shuffled off. An emcee of sorts came out to introduce a group named Jimmy James and The Blue Flames. Bobby turned to me and said these were the guys he’d heard about. They looked kind of nondescript to me. One of them looked like he was 15. Not even peach fuzz on his cheeks. The leader was a tall, lean black man with a bushy head of hair. Rather intense looking. He carried his guitar with a loose confidence that bespoke the audience was in for quite a show. He would introduce each song with a terse but joking sentence or two. They were quite good. But they didn’t really sound like anything on Top 40 radio. Bobby mentioned the leader’s real name was Jimi Hendrix, spelled strangely that way. I nodded indifferently and sat back to take in the rest of their set. I didn’t notice when Bobby left the table. I assumed he’d gone to the men’s room. When he returned, he gave me a Cheshire Cat smile. I leaned in to ask him why he was smiling when Jimmy James announced they were playing a request from the audience. It was “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch.”

We were in the doorway of Connie’s building when I turned to say good night. Bobby bent down and, steadying myself, I closed my eyes, anticipating his kiss. It would be tender. It might last longer than a few seconds. I would melt with the touch of his supple lips upon mine. On the walk home from Café Wha, Bobby had capitulated. He finally acknowledged that he’d be more than okay with me going on tour, spending two months together, seeing the USA in a Chevrolet…well, a tour bus. I don’t know if Chevrolet makes buses.

Instead, Bobby gave me a quick brotherly hug and tousled my hair. Which I didn’t appreciate since I’d spent a lot of time getting my wig to sit on my head just right. I really should go with Connie to the salon she frequents and see if they can give me something like a pixie cut or a page boy do like Jean Seberg.

“Good night, Shuggie. I’ve got to catch the crosstown bus to St. Mark’s Place. They don’t run as often as they do during the day.” He turned quickly and started to trot to the bus stop two blocks away. I would’ve whistled all the way up the stairs to Connie’s apartment but, as you know, I can’t. So, I didn’t.

Friday morning, I stood outside Gerry and Carole’s office, waiting for them to show up at their usual time of 10AM. I don’t know why but I ‘borrowed’ Connie’s Jackie Kennedy Chanel knock-off jacket and skirt combo. I guess a pillbox hat would’ve been too much. They were surprised to see me. Gerry looked at his $200 Rolex Submariner watch (worn by James Bond in all the movies), unlocked the door, and ushered Carole and me into the office.

“You look dressed to kill, Shuggie. Is there something going on?” Gerry asked.

I was halfway through explaining how I had been selected to be the fourth Honey by Hank and Billy when Billy Schechter himself entered the office.

“I assume Shuggie has told you the good news?”

“Billy, there’s something important you should know—”

“Carole—,” I pleaded before Billy held his hand up and shook his head.

“That Shuggie’s actually a boy?” We were all shocked by his matter-of-fact tone. Especially me.

“Who…who told you? Was it Bobby? I’ll kill him!”

“Bobby? No, he left the studio with you and didn’t say a word. I knew from the first time I met you here in the lobby.”

“So, am I fired before I’m even hired?”

“Nah, Hank would rip me a new one if I didn’t go through with hiring you. He…ah…has taken a keen interest in you. Your musical career, that is.” Billy smiled at me. Gerry placed his hand on Billy’s shoulder.

“Look, Billy, this could be very dangerous for Shuggie. If Hank finds out she’s really a he, who knows what he might do. Shuggie, have you really thought this through? If Billy could see through you…”

“Did you and Carole?”

“Well, no, but she is very convincing. We didn’t know until her mother paid us a visit and explained the whole thing,” Carole said.

“Right now, she looks like a teenage Jackie Kennedy. She’s the best drag act I’ve seen in all my years in this business—”

“I’m not a drag…a drag act! I’m a girl! Why can’t everyone see that?” Carole put her arm around me and we sat down on the piano bench together.

“Shuggie, if you want to go with Billy, I’m sure he’ll look after you. He’s a mensch. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. But are you sure you can carry this off for two months on the road, in front of hundreds and thousands of people?”

“And your father. How are you going to hide this from him for the whole summer?” Gerry asked.

I looked at the three of them. Gathering myself, I tried to explain why I felt I needed to do this, in spite of all the inherent danger. I would risk everything to do it.

“You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be someone like me. To not have your outside match what your inside is. To know you’re a girl through and through and have everyone, even your own father, insist that you’re a boy. That you always were and always will be a boy. I have a chance to be a girl, to be seen and accepted as a girl for a whole summer. To go everywhere, be everywhere, with everyone and just be seen as a girl. If I have to go back to being a boy after this, so be it. I’ll at least have had these two months of living as who I really am inside.”

Billy took my hand, stood me up and led me to the door. He turned to address Carole and Gerry. “Let me know what you owe her for these two weeks and I’ll pay her myself. Least I can do for inconveniencing you two. Taking your assistant away. Shuggie, we need to get you fitted for your snazzy Honeys costumes.”

How am I going to keep the wardrobe mistress from discovering I’m a boy?

We walked over to 1650 Broadway and took the elevator up to the floor where the band would be rehearsing in a couple of hours. Billy led me into a cubbyhole of a room that had been converted into a temporary office. Bare walls, a desk, a couple of chairs, a telephone, and a Dansette Bermuda portable record player that stood on its four slender wooden legs.

“Our wardrobe girl won’t be in for another half-hour or so. Have a seat. Want some coffee. I always bring my own thermos. The coffee around here is awful. There used to be a Chock’s on 48th and Broadway. Closed last year.” After he poured some coffee into a cup with a slightly chipped rim and handed it to me, he used the thermos cup himself. “I like my coffee strong and black. Okay for you?” I nodded and sipped the hot liquid. It tasted like battery acid. Of course, I’ve never drunk battery acid.

“So how did you know I was really a boy? Nobody else seemed to catch on.”

“Well, like I said, I’ve seen my share of drag…er…cross-dressers in and out of the music industry over the years. Although, I have to say, you do look very natural. You’re lucky. You’re too pretty to be taken for a boy.”

“I’m not either of those things. I really believe I should be a girl. It was some kind of cosmic mistake that I was born a boy. My mother says that all the time.”

“Hey, that’s what they all say. They’re really women. We’ve all got things we’d rather be. Even me.”

“You…you want to be a girl?”

“No, no. I mean doing other things. Things I’m really interested in. I like the stuff I’m producing okay, and Hank’s got a really good sound. Real commercial. It’ll get lots of radio airplay. But I’m kinda bored making what Phil Spector calls ‘opera for kiddies’.”

“What would you rather be producing?” I decided not to drink any more of the coffee. Was there a potted plant I could pour the rest of this into? He walked over to the record player and took a 45 out of its sleeve. After blowing some dust off its grooves, he placed it on the turntable and dropped the needle.

“Musical theater. Rodgers & Hammerstein, Jerome Kern, Lerner & Lowe, the classic stuff. Listen to this. It’s from “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” Act 2. “Come Back to Me.” Goulet hits all the notes!”

“Impressive. So do you write like songs for musicals?”

“I’ve been working on a book for a musical with a writer friend. I’ve got maybe a dozen songs already written for it. I can’t see myself doing what I’m doing right now for much longer. The business is changing. Less call for the boy genius producer these days. Groups are writing their own songs, wanting to produce their own records.” He laughed. “They think they’re Lennon & McCartney all of a sudden.”

To make conversation, I told him about all the movie musicals Mom and I would watch together on TV. Her favorites were “Oklahoma,” “Singin’ in the Rain,” “The King and I,” and “West Side Story.” My favorite was “The Wizard of Oz.” At that point, we heard music coming from down the hall.

“Oh, that’s Bailey, our wardrobe mistress. Let’s get you fitted.”

After Billy introduced me to Bailey Tate, the wardrobe mistress for the tour, he left, saying he had a meeting across town before rehearsals started that afternoon. Bailey Tate was a petite black woman in her early twenties who told me right off she was from Jamaica (the island not the section of Queens). She had moved to New York with her parents when she was 15 and had recently graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology, aka F.I.T. Sitting at her sewing machine, her glasses perched almost on the tip of her nose, she was dwarfed by the racks of suits, dresses, and other apparel surrounding her in this small room. She lowered the volume on the portable record player she had placed on a folding chair. She told me she was playing a record by someone named Hopeton Lewis, a ‘rock steady’ song entitled “Take It Easy” that was all the rage in Jamaica at the moment. Standing close by, dancing to the languid beat of the song, was Bailey’s 18-year-old cousin Brianna.

“Before we start, I guess I should tell you something about me.”

“You mean that you’re really a boy?” she asked, her voice showing only a trace of a Jamaican accent.

“Does everyone know?”

“No, don’t worry. Billy told me last night. He thought it was kind of important that I know, eh? Only Billy, me and Brianna know.”

“Mi wouldn't wa fi be yuh wen Hank finds out believe mi gyal” Brianna said in a thick Jamaican patois, laughing.

“What did she say? I only understood every other word, if that.”

“Well, that’s just as well, isn’t it? Even if she blurted out your secret, who’d know what she was saying.” We all laughed at that.

“So, you aren’t taken aback by me? I’m sure you don’t deal with people like me very often.”

“On the contrary. I’ve a lot of experience with men who dress up as women. One of my first jobs, even before I graduated F.I.T., was wardrobe assistant at The Apollo Theater in Harlem. They had these regular shows called The Jewel Box Revue. “25 Men and 1 Girl” was the slogan. Best drag queens in the country. They even toured internationally.”

“I’m not a drag queen! I’m not doing this as an act. I’m just born in the wrong body.”

“Just mek sure Hank nuh get too close tuh yuh bady or yuh inna nuff chrent,” Brianna warned in her impenetrable patois.

“Don’t ask. Just steer clear of Hank and some of them other horn dogs. Now, let’s get your measurements, such as they are. You’ve only got 10 days to learn all them songs and dance steps. Meanwhile I’ve got to make sure your dress is perfect for your appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show.”

“Ed Sullivan Show?”

“Oh, Billy hasn’t told the band yet. But you guys are on Sullivan the Sunday after next. Last show of the season. And it’s live. Aren’t you the lucky girl? First week in the business and you’re on TV!”

“I stayed home that night, Itsuki-chan. Nobody told me you were on TV. Your parents went over to Bobby’s parents’ house to watch TV that night. They didn’t mention anything about seeing you.” My grandmother yawned. She had barely touched the hospital’s notion of a delicious dinner and I could tell she was tired. I should go home and let her rest. I got up and kissed her cheek. She smiled.

“I’ll tell you what happened tomorrow when I come after school.”

“I’ll be here, koneko. And bring me some rice balls. Have your mother make them the way I taught her.”

“But won’t I be late for rehearsal?” I asked Bailey as we emerged from the 14th Street subway station into the late morning sun.

“Oh, no, they don’t start until 2 o’clock at least. And Billy and Hank will be telling them all about the Ed Sullivan guest spot next Sunday. They’ll be so excited, it’ll be 3 o’clock before any rehearsing gets done. And by then it’ll be time for late lunch!” She laughed as we walked south toward Christopher Street.

“I’ve never been to a beauty parlor just for myself. When I was really young, Mom would take my sister and me to Mindy’s Glamorama in New Milford near the ShopRite on Saturday mornings. I just sat there while they got their hair done. But I did get to read Mademoiselle magazine while I waited.” I stopped dead in my tracks and shivered. “Could I get into trouble? Bailey, they’ll know I’m…you know…not what I seem. They’ll call the cops!”

“Well, not the place we’re going to. You’re the clientele they cater to, if you get my meaning. Pretty much everyone in there will be in drag like you—”

“Stop saying that! I’m really a girl!” Passersby momentarily glanced in our direction but mostly shrugged and resumed their forward progress.

“Okay, I believe you.” She laughed. “The cops can enforce an unwritten rule that can have you arrested if you’re not wearing at least three articles of clothing appropriate to the sex you were officially born as.” A sinking feeling of panic swept over me, and I tried to obscure myself from view by following closely behind Bailey as we walked. “Of course, they only do that to hookers dressed in drag. You’re not planning to do anything like that, are you?”

“No, of course not. I’m a nice girl from the suburbs.”

“Shuggie, you’re a riot.” As we crossed onto Christopher Street, I recalled the time Mom and I watched that production of Wonderful Town on TV (Dad was tinkering in the garage and Connie was playing gin rummy with Grandma). There was a musical number all about Christopher Street that painted a picture of bohemian charm and colorful inhabitants. Of course, this was in the 1950s. And Mom and I had never been to Greenwich Village.

What I saw now was just another dingy New York City street, much like the rest of Manhattan that was outside of the cosmopolitan central region of the island featuring high rise office buildings, posh residential blocks, commercial high streets, and Central Park. The street before my eyes was a stretch of seedy bars and dilapidated shops. In the distance, close by the Hudson River docks, stood the marquee of the Theatre de Lys, where Peter Cook and Dudley Moore were starring in a production of Serjeant Musgrave's Dance. Connie said some guy at work had taken her to the play just two weeks ago. She loved the play, hated her date.

We walked past a bar called the Stonewall Inn, and two doors down, Bailey ushered me into Buffy’s World of Beauty. A bell on the door clinked and summoned Buffy herself. A tall, blowsy blonde of indeterminate age in a beautician’s smock, wearing an excess of makeup that made her face look like a watercolor painting. Now here was someone in drag, I thought. I was just about to bolt when Bailey gently pushed me into view.

“Hey, Buffy, this is Shuggie. Billy’s new discovery.”

Buffy leaned back as if far-sighted and gave me the once over. She clucked her tongue and addressed Bailey.

“Wait a minute, you know our clientele. Why didn’t Billy just take her to Mr. Kenneth or Michel Kazan? He can afford them. I try not to do women’s hair. You know, the business can get really competitive. I’m trying to stay under the radar.”

“Buffy, Shuggie’s a boy.” I smiled sweetly. Which probably confused Buffy even more. “No, really.” At this point, I noticed the other women in the salon. They all seemed a bit on the draggy side.

“Well, slap me with a wet noodle! Oh, honey, you are the sweetest looking girlyboy I’ve ever seen. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I murmured, not knowing what my age had to do with anything.

“All righty, then. Hmm. Doesn’t look like you’ll need epilating. You’re so lucky. Ahh, ears need piercing. Eyebrows need a little threading. Nails! Oh, they’re a mess, girl! Want a little wave in your wig, sweetie? And just a little makeup. Not too heavy. After all, you’re just an ingenue, fresh as the morning dew. Come, come with me. The private room is just about free.” Buffy took me by the arm, and I looked back at Bailey, waving and smiling.

“See you in a bit, Shuggie. I’m going to visit a friend who lives around here. We went to F.I.T. together. Bye!” I didn’t know if I was headed to a pampering session or an ordeal akin to torture. The door to the private room swung open and a middle-aged, portly woman dressed in a severe looking skirt suit stepped out, adjusting her bow half-hat and veil. As she walked past me, I turned to Buffy and whispered “Is that Vivian Vance? You know, from I Love Lucy?”

The woman turned around and addressed me in an incongruously deep voice. “Yes, Miss. Just call me Vivian. So good to know I have fans among the younger generation.” She extended her gloved hand. I shook it enthusiastically.

“I’ll leave you my autograph with Buffy here. I just know you’ll treasure it as a memento of our chance encounter. I must go now. Toodle-loo.” She walked out of the salon. Breathless, I turned to Buffy. “Was that really Vivian Vance?”

“I try to keep the identity of my clients confidential. Why, aren’t you sure?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy but she kinda looks like J. Edgar Hoover up close.”

“So right under our very noses, Billy and I discovered we had a young filly with a shitload of untapped talent, excuse my French. Shuggie, come on out here and meet the band,” Hank urged in the bourbon-soaked voice he favored in his role as the Francisco Franco of rhythm and blues. Flanked by Bailey and Brianna, I skittered to where Billy and Hank were standing, facing the assembled band, Honey and the three Honeys off to one side, arms akimbo, their expressions ranging from boredom to scowling annoyance.

“Hi, everyone,” I said in as cheery a tone as I could muster. The band and especially Bobby were wearing wide smiles. The drummer even gave me a drum roll as I bowed or curtseyed…it was a little of both. I was pleasantly surprised when Honey Hutch congratulated and hugged me. Viola, the lead Honey, was also quite welcoming, telling me that Hank and Billy had great noses for talent. The other Honeys were a bit stand-offish. I hope I wouldn’t figuratively as well as literally step on their toes.

Having changed into the white capri pants and grey crew neck sweater Bailey had found in the depths of her endless racks of wardrobe, I practically skipped out into rehearsal, I was so excited. Did kitten heel pumps go well with capri pants? No one remarked upon it, so I guess it’s okay. As I lined up with the other three Honeys, Viola moved everyone so that we were evenly spaced. There were more arm movements involved than actual dance moves as we sang. And Billy told me I would be singing the lower notes of each chord, as I had a pure contralto range. The other girls were mostly mezzo-soprano in range. In fact, I later discovered they had all had voice training in church choirs. When I told them I had played alto clarinet in my high school band, they were really impressed. They were even more impressed that I could actually read music. Bobby hovered over us. I think he was trying to be protective of me, knowing that a careless word would spell disaster.

Billy told me, as he handed me a pile of sheet music, I had more than enough time to learn the entire setlist of 12 songs (including 2 encore numbers) the band would play every night on tour. And Hank might add some new songs to our repertoire along the way although rehearsal time would be few and far between. After about 15 minutes of instruction from Viola and Honey, the band vamped into “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” the record that was currently climbing the charts. Although I did come within inches of smacking one of the Honeys square in the jaw as I tried to execute a jazz pirouette in unison with my three line mates, everyone said I did very well! Shadowing Connie as she practiced her ballet moves in her bedroom paid off after all. Even though Dad refused to buy me my own dance togs. That would be tutu much. (Sorry, I had to go there) Anyway, the rest of rehearsal that day proceeded without incident.

Billy stopped Bobby and me as we walked toward the elevators, rehearsals finished for the day. He waited for everyone else to disappear into the twin elevators before reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve a money clip pregnant with cash. Peeling off three hundred-dollar bills, he handed them to me.

“I’m sure you’ll want to dress nice for the public. You won’t be on stage or the bus all the time. Buy yourself a starter trousseau. Go to Saks. They’ve got some high-class stuff.”

“But, Billy, I’ve got clothes. Between what I brought with me and stuff my sister can lend me…”

“Consider it an advance on your salary plus what Carole and Gerry owe you. Besides, you’re a starlet now. You can’t wear hand-me-downs from your sister.”

“Don’t argue with the man, Shuggie,” Bobby complained as if I was looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Thanks a lot, Billy. Come on, Shuggie, I’ve got a gig tonight at The Village Vanguard.”

“Say hello to Nina for me.” The elevator doors closed.

“Who’s Nina?”

“Nina Simone. A bunch of the guys are backing her tonight and tomorrow night at The Vanguard. They couldn’t get their usual sax player. He’s on tour with Bill Evans in Europe right now. So, they asked me to fill in. You know, Nina told them she thinks she remembers me from when I sat in with Archie Shepp that time.”

“So, when were you gonna tell me?”

“Why, you’ve got plans for tonight?”

“Well…no. Say, can we pick up my sister on the way? I haven’t told her about my new gig. She’ll be over the moon.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she never thought you’d appear on The Ed Sullivan Show before you even graduated high school.”

“Or do it wearing a dress…”

It was a five-minute walk from Connie’s apartment to the corner of Waverly & 7th Avenue, where The Village Vanguard, one of the most famous jazz clubs in the known universe, stood, its marquee announcing, “Nina Simone Tonight.” Connie insisted that Lauren come with us, even though Lauren loudly declaimed that she found jazz boring. Which is why she was carrying the new Harold Robbins novel in her over-sized purse. After Bobby left to go backstage, we settled into our table off to the side of the room, behind the prime seating. Lauren happily confirmed that she would be able to read by candlelight when she started to lose interest in the music.

We sipped our drinks (yes, I had my non-alcoholic Shirley Temple again) and chatted randomly, waiting for the early show to begin at around 7PM. That was when Connie told me she was spending the weekend back home in Bergenfield. Mom was going to be home alone with Grandma since Dad was going bear hunting in Wildcat Ridge with Bobby’s father. They would be away until late Sunday night.

“Speaking of Dad, what are you going to tell him about why you’re going to be on national television, singing in a dress?”

“Dad can’t know! Make sure Mom doesn’t plan to tell him either. I’ll tell him…I’ll tell him I’m getting paid $100 a week to…to assist the road manager on tour. You know, answer telephones, take dictation, secretarial stuff.”

“Shuggie, Dad’s a little dense but even he won’t buy that story. $100 a week is what he makes at the paper plant. Besides, since when does a road manager need a secretary?”

“Look, have Mom tell him I’m doing just that. He knows Mom wouldn’t lie.”

At that moment, the band shuffled onto the stage and started tuning up. An emcee came out and introduced Nina Simone to a nice round of applause. She settled herself behind the piano and the concert began. I waved to Bobby but he pretended to ignore me. I guess jazz musicians have to always appear cool and detached on stage. Nina opened with her well-known version of the Screamin’ Jay Hawkins song, “I Put a Spell on You,” and grabbed her audience straightaway. From there, she segued into two of her most popular songs, “Little Girl Blue” and “My Baby Just Cares for Me.”

About 40 minutes into her set, Nina stopped to introduce the next number. I glanced at Lauren. She was reading her novel. I think her lips were moving.

“At this time, I’d like to play a request. Not from the audience but from our tenor man, Mr. Bobby Messina. It’s dedicated to a special girl he knows. And it’s a song originally done by the great Bessie Smith. It’s called “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl.”

We couldn’t stay for the late show so, after saying good night to Bobby (and meeting Nina Simone!), the three of us walked back to Connie’s apartment. My feet barely touched the ground. I was floating on air. Leave it to Connie to burst my pretty balloon.

“Dad’s not gonna like it when he sees you on television. I just hope, for Bobby’s sake, he’s out of ammo after this weekend.”

When I arrived at the hospital after school, my grandma was fast asleep. Which was unusual. Just the day before, she had listened in rapt attention to the latest installment in my summer saga. She had even asked me to bring her some rice balls because she couldn’t stomach the hospital food. The nurse on duty said she’d had a bad day, so fatigued that she kept lapsing into sleep. I left the rice balls by her bedside, alerting the nurse to offer them to her when she woke up. I hoped she’d feel better tomorrow when I came by after school. On the bus ride home, I thought back on what happened that Sunday after I became a Hank’s Honey.

I was lounging in Connie’s pink terrycloth bathrobe, sipping my second cup of coffee, when the phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was Connie.

“Shuggie, it’s me.”

“Who?”

“Cut the comedy, Shuggie. Mom and I are about to leave the house. We’ll be there in 45 minutes. We’re taking you shopping for clothes. Mom insisted.”

“I can shop for clothes by myself. Actually, Bobby’s coming over in a bit. We’re gonna have lunch and then take a stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue, just like Billy suggested.”

“Bobby? Oh, come on, Shuggie. What would a man know about fashion? You need a woman’s point of view. Besides, Mom says she’s dying to shop at Saks. We’ve never been! Gotta go. See you in 45.”

She hung up. Oh well, off to the salt mines. Jeez, it’s hard work getting all gussied up to face the public. At least Lauren isn’t here to hog the bathroom. She left already to attend Sunday service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Strange, I thought she was Jewish.

Once Mom and Connie arrived, the four of us headed uptown to do our own big game hunting at Saks. Connie was at the wheel since Mom gets too nervous driving in New York City. Mom went through her mental list of all the kinds of things I needed to buy: dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, lingerie…

“Mom, how much can I buy with $300?”

“I’ve got your father’s Diner’s Card with me. He’ll never know. I take care of all the finances. He doesn’t even bother.” She smiled broadly behind her Foster Grant sunglasses as Connie rolled down her window to scream at a car that almost side-swiped us as it cut in front to make a right turn at 42nd Street.

“New Yorkers are savages! And they’re awful drivers,” Connie complained as she waited for the light to change.

“That car had New Jersey plates, Connie.”

“Whatever. Say, Mom, do you think Dad would let loose some change to get me a car this Fall when I go back to school? Nothing fancy. Like a VW Bug. With my savings from this summer and if I get a part-time job, I could easily swing the monthly payments.”

“Mr. B would have to come up with at least two, three hundred for the down payment,” Bobby said after doing the math in his head.

“Well, Shuggie could lend me $300…”

“No way, José.”

After spending half an hour finding a parking space, the expedition marched into Saks Fifth Avenue, the ultimate upmarket department store on the ultimate high street in Manhattan. This was way more pricey than Bonwit Teller or Lord & Taylor. Even Macy’s! The Ladies’ Wear department looked more like a salon than a clothes shop.

Bobby stayed a safe distant from us as we descended upon the racks of dresses like a pack of hyenas spotting a fresh carcass in the tall grass of the noonday veldt. Connie and Mom pulled dresses and held them against me, one after the other. They shook their heads and resumed picking through the racks. Alarmed by our behavior, a short, thin man in a three-piece suit rushed over to us. He reminded me of Don Knotts, albeit better dressed.

“Ladies, ladies! Can I help you? I’m Jeffrey, manager of the Ladies’ Wear department?” he seemed to ask instead of declaring. Connie stepped forward and waved her hand the length of my person.

“May I present my sister, Shuggie Brennan. She is a singer in Hank and Honey Hutch’s band, who will appear on The Ed Sullivan Show next Sunday night.”

“Oh my! We have a star in our midst! This is so exciting. But you’re so young. And this must be Mater. Or are you another sister?” My mother blushed and smiled sweetly, waving at Jeffrey. “What a lovely family. And who is this strapping young buck…er…man?”

“Oh, that’s just Bobby. He’s in the band. Plays saxophone. Just tagging along with us.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It wasn’t my idea for him to come along. But you might show him some nice suits in the Men’s Wear department? He’s clueless about fashion.”

“Well, in that case, perhaps I could help him out. Come, come, young Robert. Let me show you some of our Pierre Cardin double-breasted suits. They’re all the rage now among the entertainment set. This way.” He took Bobby by the arm and literally pulled him away. “Ladies, Gloria here will give you assistance should you require it.”

“Looks like you’ve got some competition there for Bobby, sis.”

“Oh, Connie, Bobby doesn’t swing that way. He’s not interested in guys.”

“She said.” Connie had five dresses draped over her arm. “Come on, Mom. Fitting rooms are over there. Let’s get this show on the road. Lingerie, shoes, earrings, jewelry to go. Chop chop.”

“Mom, these dresses are all $50 at least. Will we have enough to get everything on your list?”

“Stop fidgeting, Shuggie. Don’t worry. I told you I brought the Diner’s Club card. You know, your hips are getting very…womanly.”

“Does this dress make me look fat?”

Connie snorted out a laugh. “I feel like we’re in a sitcom on TV. I just hope Dad believes you Mom when you tell him that little white lie about Shuggie doing secretarial work on the tour.”

“I’ve thought about it and the best way to present this to your father is to say you’re the Assistant Road Manager. He’ll accept that. Sounds like a more manly job, you know.”

“Mom, you’re a genius! I bet you he’ll even be proud of me. Assistant Road Manager. Has a nice ring to it. Mom, it really is a little tight around the hips.”

“I think it looks just fine. There’s a mirror right out there. See for yourself.”

Mom was right. I especially liked the three dresses we all agreed upon. I couldn’t stop posing in them with “Wild Thing” by The Troggs playing in my head.

“Shuggie? Where are you?”

When we heard Bobby’s voice, we came out of the fitting room into the salon area. I was wearing the Mondrian print dress. Bobby stood there in a Cardin double-breasted suit.

“Hey, Shuggie, you look wild. Absolutely wild.”

“Uh huh, so do you.”

I could have melted into the floor right then and there. Fortunately, I remained intact. The cleaning bill for an Yves St. Laurent dress is probably more than Dad would even consider.

After our safari of shopping at Saks, Mom, Connie, Bobby and I rumbled our way crosstown to have lunch at the ‘world famous’ Brass Rail Restaurant, located on an entire city block at Seventh Avenue and 49th Street, catty-corner to the Brill Building. In the ‘40s and ‘50s, showbiz luminaries would meet up for drinks at The Brass Rail, most notably Frank Sinatra and Jimmy Van Heusen surely discussed songs like “Come Fly with Me,” “Call Me Irresponsible,” and “Only the Lonely” there. But now, in 1966, the restaurant was in decline, still popular but no longer a sightseer’s destination.

Regardless, the four of us had their famous hot roast beef sandwiches. My stomach growled (in a dainty way, mind you) as we watched meat cooking in front of burning coals on an English Roasting Jack, then sliced piping hot and gently placed on sourdough bread. We washed it all down with iced tea. Connie wanted to order a Long Island Iced Tea, but Mom reminded her she was driving them back to Bergenfield.

Bobby and I bid a fond farewell to Connie and Mom after lunch. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Bobby gave both Mom and Connie a peck on the cheek. Connie winked at me as they slid into Mom’s car. They drove off and I transferred my shopping bags to Bobby, who now had both hands full, including the box containing his new Pierre Cardin suit (which Mom put on Dad’s Diners Card). Pack mule in tow, we walked over to the Rivoli Theater to catch an afternoon showing of Stagecoach. All in all, Bobby was having a great day. A new suit and a movie starring his favorite actress, Ann-Margret!

Rehearsals ramped up as we approached the band’s appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday night. We concentrated on the three songs Billy and Hank had decided we would perform: “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do),” and “Somebody Somewhere Needs You.” When we rehearsed these songs, we did them in our stage costumes. The guys wore tuxedos that made them look a little like hip dinner party guests. Bobby looked cute in his navy blue tux, powder blue ruffle shirt and skinny black tie. We girls had to change in Bailey’s wardrobe room. I was nervous about undressing in front of the others, but the only remark made was about my being a member in good standing of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. I blushed and giggled, hoping it was just good-natured teasing. Hank let out a long wolf whistle as we marched into the rehearsal studio.

“Billy, I don’t think the audience is going to be paying any attention to our tuxes. We could all be wearing overalls, ain’t nobody gonna notice.”

Because Honey changed some of our synchronized moves and dance steps, the afternoon dress rehearsal was a bit of a slog. Hank’s temper flared several times as he chastised Honey for over-thinking everything. She reminded Hank that they were going to be on national television on Sunday. Everything had to be perfect.

“We’ve been on TV before, babe.”

“This is Ed Sullivan! We’re not talking about some boo-gee local TV dance show like Swingin’ Time in Chicago. This is CBS! Prime time.”

Billy, who had only dropped in 15 minutes earlier, intervened. “We’ve got the whole week to get it perfect. It’s been a long day. I see Bobby back there yawning between choruses…” Bobby shook his head vigorously. “Yeah, a couple of others look like they’re about to doze off. Okay, let’s run through “Somebody Somewhere” once more and call it a day. Let’s get it together, people.”

The four Honeys including me lined up behind Honey and Hank as our drummer counted down. I quickly turned around and winked at Bobby. He smiled into his mouthpiece. Then we played “Somebody Somewhere Needs You.”

It was a few minutes later, around 5:30, when the dreaded event happened. The doors to the studio opened and there stood Dad with Connie trying to hide behind him. His mouth was agape for a long moment before he shouted, “Shuggie, what the hell?”

I covered my face with both hands and ran for the exit. Bursting into tears, I brushed past Dad and Connie and sprinted down the hallway. Bobby followed me into the wardrobe room, taking Bailey and Brianna by surprise. Shaking, I burbled something about Daddy, Daddy as Bailey embraced me and tried to keep from becoming hysterical. Bobby explained to them that my father had made a surprise visit to the studio.

“Oh gyal yuh inna deep chrent now ow cud yuh expect tuh kip dis from yuh father?”

I looked at Brianna and then at Bailey. “What did she say?”

“Never mind. Billy will talk to him. He’ll know how to handle your father. He had to talk his own father through a similar situation.”

“Huh? You mean…”

Connie appeared at the doorway. “Shuggie, Billy wants to talk to all of us in his office.” Bobby and I followed Connie to Billy’s office. Dad was pacing back and forth, rubbing his face and muttering. Billy stood impassively by the door, waving us in and then shut the door behind us.

“Some of you will have to stand. I’ve only got the two chairs. Temporary office, you know. Okay, let’s start…”

“No, I want Shuggie to stop this nonsense.” Turning to me, he said, ”You’re a boy, damn it! Stop this trying to be a girl thing. “

“Daddy, I’m a girl! The doctors messed up. Mom told me they let you decide. How could they do that?”

“They…we…thought, given the physical facts, that you should be raised as a boy. Which is what you are!”

“Noooooooooooo…” Billy stepped in between us. “Mr. Brennan, do you love your child?”

“Of course I do. I want him to live in the real world, not in some fantasy that he’s dreamed up. This isn’t real. This is just crazy.”

“Have you ever listened to Shuggie? Really listened? She’s not crazy. She’s trying to tell you, to show you her true self. It’s not just some silly game to her.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Schechter, but you’re not a doctor, are you? How can you pretend to know more about my child than me, his father?”

“My sister, Mr. Brennan. My sister no longer has any contact with our father. For almost 10 years now. She lives in Germany. Married. Runs a small business with her husband. They’ve adopted two children…”

“What does this have to do with Shuggie and me?”

“Possibly everything. You see, my sister wasn’t always my sister. She was my older brother.” We all inhaled in surprise. Dad fidgeted as he stopped pacing. He stared at Billy as he continued. “I knew from my earliest days that my brother was really and truly my sister. It was something we kept secret because our father would have literally abandoned her. He would’ve looked upon her as a monster, not a human being. It was the way he was raised to see the world. And our mother was too afraid of him to even broach the issue. My brother tried really hard to become a man like our father wanted. He even joined the army when he graduated high school. To prove his manhood.”

“Shuggie is in the ROTC. With Bobby. I didn’t push him to do it. I’ve had enough of war. I don’t want him to be a soldier.”

“They sent him to Germany. They say Europeans have different views on transsexual individuals. I think being away from our father made him realize that he was psychologically, mentally, spiritually…however you want to characterize it…female. The only impediment was his physical self. And that’s when he decided to stay overseas after his military commitment and undergo transitioning. Hormone therapy and final surgery. It took almost ten years but she’s my sister now. And happy. Finally happy.”

“Shuggie, is that how you feel? Have I completely failed you as a parent? I want the best for you but…but I can’t accept that trying to be a girl is in your best interests. People will look at you as a freak.”

“But it’s who I am, Daddy. It’s who I am.” I tried not to cry but tears were welling up. Bobby gripped my hand and gave me a soulful look. Daddy noticed all of that and almost jumped at Bobby.

“It’s you, Bobby! I knew it all along. Stop turning my son into a deviant!”

“Mr. Brennan! No one can turn someone into a transsexual. No one can wish themselves into being the gender they weren’t born as. My sister went through half her life unable to be her true self because no one would listen. No one. Especially her father. You say you love your child. That gives me hope that you and Shuggie won’t end up like my sister and our father. Let her live her true life, Mr. Brennan. Before you lose each other. Is that what you want? Misery?”

There was a knock on the door. More like a pounding. It was Hank. Billy opened the door.

“Hey, chief, what’s up? Is there some misunderstanding between Shuggie and her dad?”

“Hank, I’ve got things under control. Don’t worry about it. Look, tell everyone rehearsal’s over for the day. See you tomorrow, okay? We’re talking things out. Don’t worry.” Hank winked at me and turned to go. Billy closed the door.

“Everyone here has no doubt Shuggie’s a girl. Only me, Bobby, and the wardrobe ladies know otherwise, okay? I’ll make you a proposition, Mr. Brennan. Now, Shuggie has talent, but this isn’t really about that. It’s about her realizing her deepest desire…to be accepted as the girl she really is. Inside where it really counts. This summer, on tour, on stage, on TV next Sunday, her outside gets to reflect her inside. Give her this summer, Mr. Brennan. I pledge to you, we’ll take care of her, make sure she’s safe. I admire your daughter. She’s got spunk.”

“I don’t know.” Dad fell silent for a long moment. “Shuggie, I don’t know Mr. Schechter from a hole in the wall but I’m thinking he’s a good man. And I know Bobby would never hurt you…” He looked at Bobby with a meaningful glare. “Your mother wants me to give you this summer to live out your dream. So, I’m going to agree to let you. But things will go back to normal for your senior year. I guess when you turn 18, I can’t stop you. Shuggie, just be careful. It’s a tough world out there for a girl.”

I threw myself at Dad and hugged him fiercely, my voice choked by tears. “Thank you, Daddy! I’ll be a good girl. I will.” He took my face in his big, strong hands.

“Don’t think I don’t love you, Shuggie. I thought I was doing what’s best.”

I was bereft of words. I just looked at Dad the way I looked at him when I was six years old, sitting next to him in the car as he carefully buckled my seatbelt while making silly faces at me, trying to make me giggle. The thought of that made me cry. Connie joined the hugathon as she broke down in tears herself.

“Now if everyone has reached a meeting of minds on this matter, I suggest we all go out for a bit of a nosh. Have you ever been to Jilly’s?”

Everyone shook their heads, no. Billy smiled and said, “Well, well. Then it’ll be another New York rite of passage for you out-of-towners. My treat. Let me make a call.” He dialed the telephone on his desk and someone on the other end picked up quickly. “Hey, it’s Billy Schechter. Yeah, how’s it hanging? I’m in mixed company, jadrool. Listen, is Howie in tonight? Great. Table for five? Yeah, 10 minutes is fine. Ciao, baby.”

I turned to Bobby. “This Jilly’s place sounds Italian. Maybe we can get a Margherita pizza, my favorite.” Billy opened the office door and ushered us out.

“Jilly’s is a fine Italian restaurant that serves great Chinese cuisine. Cantonese to be exact. It’s Frank Sinatra’s favorite place to eat when he’s in town. Maybe we’ll be in luck and he gets a hankering for egg roll tonight.”

It took us 5 minutes to walk over to West 52nd Street and 8th Avenue. It was a relatively small space, but the ambiance spoke of the heyday of Sinatra’s Rat Pack East. Reliable sources tell us that Sinatra would eat there three or four times a week when staying in New York. But Sinatra rarely spent much time in the city these days, favoring Vegas and California instead. Still, we were on the lookout for the Chairman of the Board and other celebrities. Even on a Monday night in June. The irony again struck me that of the few times I had ever eaten Chinese food, two of those times had occurred in the last five days. Well, it must not have been the food that drew Frank to this place. Although Billy had a high opinion of the offerings, I personally thought the dishes were pretty bland.

Billy was in his element, favoring us with inside stories about showbiz people he had mingled with in his brief but meteoric career as a record producer. Some of the stories were of the less than savory kind. Dad was keenly interested in Billy’s tales of famous names mixed up with the Mob. I whispered to Bobby that some of these stories had to be made up to impress rubes like us. Billy must have overheard me because he winked my way as he continued to hold Dad’s undivided attention. I turned to Connie, who was deep into her egg foo young.

“Dad didn’t want Mom to come?”

“No, Mom’s working the lobster shift this week. Won’t get home until midnight.”

“Did she tell Dad about everything after saying she’d give him our cover story?”

“She didn’t. He caught her putting the Diners Card back in his wallet. You know Mom. She melts under pressure. Especially from Dad.” I nodded and went back to picking at the mushrooms in my moo goo gai pan.

While Connie, Bobby and I enjoyed a selection of sherbets for dessert, Billy and Dad indulged in a caffè corretto, shots of espresso with a small amount of sambuca. We walked out of Jilly’s literally in good spirits. Dad had his arm around Billy’s shoulders and was at least one sheet to the wind. I hoped Dad wouldn’t start singing his favorite Tony Bennett song, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” Then he did.

We unloaded Dad into his car and Connie was elected to drive him home. Bobby took the subway to our bass player’s apartment in the Lower East Side and Billy offered to drive me home to Sheridan Square. He parked the car across the street from Connie’s building and asked me to be honest with him.

“Tell me you’re really certain about this. You’re not just doing this for a lark or to get back at your dad. Or because you and Bobby are really gay…”

“How many times do I have to tell people I’m a girl before they’ll believe me? Don’t you?”

“Yes, Shuggie. As long as you know how serious this is. If you’re like my sister, it won’t happen overnight. She spent the better part of two decades struggling to make everything right. And she lost her family.”

“I don’t want to lose me, Billy. Before I’ve even found myself.”

Billy sighed and leaned over to kiss me on the forehead. He shooed me out of the car with a smirk. As I walked over to the entrance of the building, I looked down at myself and realized I was still wearing my stage costume gown. Oh my.

On the Wednesday before our scheduled appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, the band was told to assemble at Dick Charles Recording Studios, just two blocks east of The Brill Building, to lay down instrumental tracks for the three songs we were going to perform Sunday evening. The show’s producers opted for a hybrid presentation of the Hank & Honey Hutch sound. They usually preferred live performances or lip-syncing but, for aesthetic reasons, they wanted musical acts like ours to be visually compelling on the screen. Unlike your average rock band, we dressed to kill while we performed. Tuxedos for the men, gowns for the women (including me, hee hee). They were going to play the pre-recorded instrumental track over the sound system in the theater. This meant bandmembers would be miming playing their instruments while we singers would be picked up by live microphones suspended just a few feet out of camera range.

Since Honey Hutch and Hank’s Honeys weren’t needed for this session, they were given the day off. I, on the other hand, was new to this whole recording thing and wanted to observe how a real pro like Billy Schechter conducted a recording date. And I wanted to be there for Bobby. I’m sure he might be a little nervous. My being there would be reassuring. Don’t you think?

I arrived about a half hour before the session was slated to begin and found Billy in the control booth, talking to Carole and Gerry. When Billy saw me, he waved me into the room. I greeted and hugged all three in succession.

“Are you guys here to watch us record the tracks for Sunday?” I asked.

“No, we had no idea Billy was doing this session today. We just finished our demo for that Aretha Franklin song that Jerry Wexler wanted. In fact, it’s kind of kismet that you show up right when we were about to have Billy listen to it. He’s got million-dollar ears, you know.”

“Lot of good it does me. You write your best stuff for Jerry Wexler and Don Kirshner nowadays. I don’t get invited to the dance anymore.”

“We thought of you when we wrote this, Shuggie,” Gerry said as he turned to me. He pushed play on the tape machine, and we heard Carole singing “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”

When the song ended, I hid my face in Billy’s shoulder. I’m afraid I got his nice pinstripe vest a little wet. He gently patted my back. Carole placed her hand on my shoulder. “Billy told us about the other day with your dad. You should be happy he’s not standing in your way.”

“It’s just for the summer. He wants me to go back to school in September. As a boy!” The tears cascaded down my cheeks as I choked back whimpers, trying to speak. “My life is over if I have to do that!”

“Billy told us he knows some doctors who could help you sort this out.”

“Well, I don’t know them personally. I’ve had to learn about what doctors are saying about…about girls like Shuggie. Because of what my sister went through. But there are some places that are sympathetic to your situation. It might involve some therapy…”

“I’m not crazy. I don’t need a shrink. Anyway, Dad would never pay for it. Even if he had the money.”

“I really think you’d benefit from some professional care. I don’t need to tell you this is a decision that will affect you as long as you live. You need to be certain, absolutely certain this is your path—”

“I am. I’m sure of it. I don’t care what anyone says. I should’ve been raised as a girl. Stupid doctors were wrong in the first place!”

“Shuggie, if you trust me, I’ll help you get the guidance you need. I wasn’t there to help my sister, but I’ll be there for you. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, Billy. I trust you. But where will my Dad get the money?”

“If you’re as talented as I think you are, the money will not be a problem. But let’s talk about this some more later this summer. Right now, you need to prepare for an appearance on national television and a two-month concert tour with the hottest musical act on the charts!” I hugged Billy even tighter, I was so happy someone believed in me so much that they would go so far to help me realize my dream of becoming the woman I’ve always felt I am.

I heard the shuffling of feet. The band was entering the studio. As they set about finding a chair and opening their instrument cases, I saw Bobby standing stockstill staring into the control booth…at Billy and me embracing. The look on his face was a mixture of confusion and disappointment. I quickly moved away from Billy, who turned, saw Bobby, and just waved nonchalantly.

They took a break after recording several takes of the first number, “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” I caught up to Bobby at the windows overlooking Seventh Avenue. I handed him a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the hall outside the studio.

“This is awful!”

“I got it from the vending machine. Mine tastes okay,” I said, holding up my cup.

“No, not the coffee. Throwing yourself at Billy like that. In front of everyone too.”

“I wasn’t ‘throwing’ myself at Billy. I was just grateful that he’s willing to help me get professional help for my situation. You know, he totally believes in me. More than I can say for a lot of people.”

“You think he’s just being altruistic? Seems to me he’s got a thing for you. If you know what I mean.”

“No, silly…wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

“Shuggie, don’t get carried away with this. You’re in no position to be objective about other people’s motives. For all we know, Billy’s a…a deviant,” he whispered.

“Who’s a deviant?” asked Hank Hutch as he walked by us. It was time to go back into the studio.

“Nobody you’d know, Hank. We were talking about a kid we knew in school.”

“Well, as long as it’s not somebody in this band…bad enough we’ll be a black group playing in mostly white venues on this tour. Had a drummer get busted for weed last year. And then there was a trumpet player did a year in the pen for solicitation in St. Louis. Musicians. Man! I trust Billy. He’s put me onto some straight arrows. Like you, Bobby. And you too, Shuggie. Ha ha. Let’s go. Get this session over with.”

On Friday afternoon, we had a walk-through rehearsal at CBS’ Studio 50 located on the corner of 53rd Street and Broadway. It had been The Hammerstein Theater until the fifties when CBS converted it into a television studio. The production crew worked out the blocking for our two segments of the show: we would perform two songs in the first half hour and return for a final song in the second half hour. They had us in and out of there within 20 minutes. We would return for the dress rehearsal on Sunday afternoon before a live audience. We never saw the other guest performers for Sunday’s show: Petula Clark, Stiller & Meara, Topo Gigio, The Berasino Chimps, and Richard Pryor. Still, to stand on that stage where everyone from Elvis Presley to The Beatles had made their national TV debuts was a humbling experience. Not wanting to waste the whole afternoon, Billy shepherded us back to 1650 Broadway where we put in another couple of hours of rehearsal.

Bobby and I were standing on the corner of 50th Street and Broadway, deciding where to have dinner before catching a movie, when Billy ambled toward us.

“Kids, go home and put on some nice duds. You’re my plus two tonight at the Café Carlyle. Barbra Streisand’s doing a private concert for friends in the business. Warm up for her tour next month.”

“You know Barbra?” I asked, in awe.

“We’re buds. Went to Erasmus High in Brooklyn together. Me, Barbra, and Neil Diamond.”

“Do we have time to go home and change?” Bobby asked.

“Show up at 9. Just give the maître d my name. He’ll show you to my table. By the way, take a cab…on me.” He handed Bobby a crisp hundred dollar bill and walked off toward the parking lot.

It was 10 of 9 when we saw Billy waving to us from his corner table in the Café Carlyle. Bobby was wearing his new Pierre Cardin double-breasted suit and I had chosen to wear Connie’s Jackie Kennedy faux Chanel skirt suit. Technically, Connie rented the outfit to me, according to her. Good luck her ever collecting the rental charge, ha ha. Billy chivalrously pulled my chair out as I swept my skirt under me in the most ladylike manner. Bobby just sat down like a sack of cement mix.

“Hey, look! Isn’t that Nancy Sinatra? And there’s Wayne Newton! And…”

“Bobby, pipe down. Let’s not act like rubes, okay? Show doesn’t start until 10. Order yourself some grub. Today’s catch is swordfish.” The mention of seafood caused me to dry heave. “Are you alright, Shuggie?”

“She’s kind of allergic to seafood, Billy.”

“Really? Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I’m okay. They don’t serve pizza here, do they?”

Looking at the menu, Bobby excitedly pointed out, “Hey, they’ve got burgers here. Prime beef, shallot confit, crispy onions, lettuce, tomato, smoked remoulade sauce, and shoestring fries. With house-made brioche. $20?!”

“This is high-class shit, Bobby. You’ll want to get used to it if your career takes off. You too Shuggie. I mean, look at me. A poor Jewish kid from Flatbush. My parents didn’t buy a TV until my junior year in high school. 1959 already.”

Bobby and I rather enjoyed our expensive burgers. Billy had the Filet Mignon. Dessert was New York Cheesecake and cappuccino. Billy ordered a bottle of Hennessy XO cognac which he shared with Bobby. I sneaked a taste from Bobby’s glass. I didn’t like it. I guess I’ll never be an alcoholic at this rate.

Barbra Streisand came out promptly at 10, accompanied by a quartet comprised of piano, acoustic bass, alto sax, and drums. I couldn’t believe she was 3 months pregnant but that’s what all the papers said. Her voice was magnificent as she stormed through an abbreviated setlist of her most popular songs. Her 4-city tour starting in July at Newport was entitled “An Evening with Barbra Streisand” and was purported to be two solid hours with a brief intermission after the first hour. Of course, it was totally sold out. Of all the wonderful tunes that night, the one whose lyrics had the most impact for me was "If You Were the Only Girl In the World.”

As the song wafted through my thoughts and emotions, I looked toward Bobby. But he was nodding off, the cognac having its way with him. Then I realized Billy was staring at me. I nervously smiled and he smiled back. It occurred to me maybe Bobby had a point about Billy’s interest in me. Or maybe I was proxy for the sister he hadn’t been present to support a decade ago. Whatever it was, his smile lingered even after I broke off eye contact.

Afterwards, Billy introduced us to Barbara and her husband Elliot Gould, the actor. She was very warm to Billy and they exchanged music business gossip while her husband looked me over, almost leeringly. I was occupied with keeping Bobby standing up as he tended to slump over when I didn’t pinch his arm through his suit sleeve. Neither Bobby nor I had much to say to whomever Billy introduced us to. I was too starstruck and Bobby was too blotto. Finally, as we were leaving, Elliot took Billy aside for a moment. I could hear them since they had to almost shout above the din.

“Billy boy, I like your latest jailbait…”

“She’s 17 and I’m mentoring her. There’s no hanky panky going on, buddy.”

“Okay, okay. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it. I get it. She looks like she’s glued to that young schmuck though. Get him a gig in the Catskills. Eh?”

Billy helped me drag Bobby out of the café. As he tried to hail a cab heading downtown, he turned to me. “You heard that? He’s a comedian. Don’t take him seriously. We’re not friends. He’s married to Barbra, that’s how we know each other. He’s a flake.”

“You wouldn’t send Bobby away, would you?”

“What? Why would I do that? I love Bobby. Kid’s got a lot of talent. I see big things for him. And you.”

We dropped Bobby off at his Lower East Side crash pad and had to practically haul him up 3 floors between the two of us. This was as close to being a pallbearer as I’d ever care to be. We handed him off to our bass player whose wife didn’t appear to be too happy to be disturbed at that late hour. Back in the cab, we made it to my sister’s building in five minutes. Before I turned the handle to open the car door, Billy planted a kiss on my cheek and said good night. I don’t really know why but I quickly returned his kiss, again on the cheek. Blushing, I ran to the entrance and didn’t look back.

Dress Rehearsal on Sunday afternoon went smoothly, although we discovered the producers had cut one of our numbers. Instead of doing two songs in the second half-hour of the program, we were now asked to just do the one finale, “Do I Love (Indeed I Do).” Some young comic named Richard Pryor was added to the guest list at the last minute. Apparently, Ed himself really wanted him on the show. In fact, his comedy bit would include Ed as a straight man. Since Pryor’s plane flight wouldn’t arrive in New York until 6PM, he and Ed would just have to do their bit without any rehearsal.

Otherwise, Bobby and I spent the hours before we went on the air live at 8PM just walking around midtown. I was as excited I had ever been in my short life so far, growing up in the bosom of suburbia. Singing with a chart-topping musical act on a nationally televised, even legendary program would be the highlight of most performers’ careers”. Here I was, doing that in my first month in the music business, just a mere girl of 17. I giggled, to myself I thought.

“What’s so funny?” Bobby asked as we both looked over the railing at the ice-less rink of Rockefeller Center.

“Just thinking how incredible this all is. Three weeks ago, I was a junior in high school. Tonight, I’m going to sing on national television. Me, a 17-year-old girl from Bergenfield, New Jersey!”

“Yeah, well, incredible isn’t the only word for it. Can I ask you a question about Friday night?”

“What? You were so drunk Billy and I had to almost carry you up three flights to Larry’s apartment…”

“No, I mean, afterwards. Did you and Billy go back to his place?”

“We went straight to Connie’s place. Like five minutes later. Why?”

“I think Billy really likes you. And…and maybe you’re starting to really like him too.”

“Well, he’s been really nice to me. And he is my boss, basically.” Bobby slipped his hand into mine and gave me a puppy dog look with his limpid brown eyes searching my face for signs of deception.

“We’ve been best friends since we were in first grade—”

“I was in kindergarten. You’re a year older than me—”

“Whatever. You’ve known Billy for—what? –a week? He’s a grown man. He’s got a wife or something somewhere. Maybe even a kid…or two—”

“Slow down, Bobby. You’re getting silly thoughts about me and Billy. Nothing’s going on, okay? Although, he’s a really good kisser—”

“You kissed him?!!!” The Sunday crowd of rubberneckers in Rockefeller Center turned towards us. Bobby was really loud.

“On the cheek. To thank him for the cab ride home. And…and he did kiss me on the cheek. Just a friendly…boss-like peck. It’s nothing, Bobby. Don’t make a scene here. Everyone’s looking at us.” Bobby turned away from me, staring across the rink, his face sullen, his lips in a tight frown. “Don’t be such a child. Let’s talk about something else. It’s too bad they wouldn’t give us tickets for our moms. I know my mother would’ve been stoked to see me, I mean both of us, on the show. I guess my mom will just go over to your house and watch it on your color TV. Our dads couldn’t be bothered. They went bear-hunting again. You’d think they’d want to see their children on TV.”

“Unlike Billy, my dad thinks you’re a boy. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t see the show.”

“I hope Mom didn’t spill the beans to your mother about me. That would be a real problem. She might forbid you to ever see me again.”

“I didn’t know you cared at this point, Shuggie.” I punched his shoulder in reply.

“It’s getting late. Let’s find a place to eat something light before we head back to the theater.” I took Bobby’s hand and dragged him away from the railing.

We were slated to perform first. As Ed Sullivan read his introductory monologue off the teleprompter in his usual wooden monotone, the band took their places on stage off-camera. Bobby looked so handsome in his tuxedo jacket. I lined myself up with the other Honeys and looked into the audience, but the lights were too blinding to make out individual faces in the dark expanse of the theater. Finally, Ed introduced us: “And now, making their first appearance on this show, performing their current Top 10 hit, “Heaven Must Have Sent You,” Hank & Honey Hutch with Hank’s Honeys!”

While the rest of the band just had to mime their parts convincingly, Honey and The Honeys had to actually sing into live microphones. It was an adrenaline rush to do our well-practiced gestures and dance steps for an audience of 700 people and the television cameras. We were flawless. The thunderous sound of 700 pairs of hands clapping was gratifying as we took our bows. As was scripted, Ed called Hank, Honey, and The Honeys over to him and we smiled for the camera as he shouted above the applause, “Hank and Honey Hutch with The Honeys! Give them a big hand. Just wonderful. They’ll be back to sing another song for us later in the show.”

The rest of the band sought the refuge of their dressing rooms but I convinced Bobby to watch the show with me from the wings of the stage, making sure we weren’t in anyone’s way. The next act was The Berosino Chimps, six monkeys who did all sorts of acrobatics on a trampoline and modified gymnastics rig dressed in Native American outfits. I always wondered if trained animals really enjoyed performing or were just captive automatons. They were cute though.

The audience ate it up and they went off to a nice ovation. As they passed by Bobby and me offstage, one of the chimps jumped into my arms. Surprised, I just held him, looking around for someone to take him off my hands. Viola, who had just walked out of the dressing room to light up a cigarette, was amused. “The chimp recognized your maternal instinct right off, Shuggie. How many kids you and Bobby gonna have?” she teased. Just then, one of the Berosinos rescued me. As he carried the chimp off, he winked at me and said, ”Dondi is always looking for a mommy since we lost her mother. Maybe if the singing doesn’t work out…”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Bobby was about to make a wisecrack when Ed Sullivan introduced the next act, Stiller & Meara, a husband-and-wife comedy duo who did little clever skits, mostly on the incongruity of their relationship: a tall, red-headed Irish Catholic woman married to a short, dark-haired Jew. Tonight, they riffed on the relatively new phenomenon of computer dating.

“It must be difficult for people from different cultures or religions to have a successful relationship.”

“People of different genders seem to do alright” Bobby remarked. I glared at him.

Once again, Ed Sullivan interrupted our repartee. The stage darkened as they wheeled a chest-high platform into central view. I love Topo Gigio! He’s so cute. From our vantage point in the wings, I could see Maria Perego and an assistant puppeteer seated on low stools behind the platform, unseen by the audience or the camera. On top of the platform was a miniature bed, small enough for a puppet-sized mouse. Ed came into view and the skit began.

Bobby decided to go back into the guys’ dressing room but I wanted to watch Petula Clark, the next performer, from the wings instead of on a tiny monitor. She was so gracious earlier in the day when I asked her for an autograph. Taking my pen, she confided that the grapevine says I was Billy Schechter’s newest discovery. I blushed and just thanked her for signing my call sheet.

Petula was scheduled to sing two songs in her segment. The first required a bit of production. Dancers and several new model sporty cars surrounded her in a colorful mod outfit as she rode in on the hood of a Jaguar singing “Sign of the Times.” They took advantage of a commercial break to clear the stage and allow Petula to make a costume change. When she re-emerged after the break, she was alone on stage, singing “Who Am I.”

The buildings reach up to the sky
The traffic thunders on the busy street
Pavement slips beneath my feet
I walk alone and wonder who am I?
I close my eyes and I can fly
And I escape from all this worldly strife
Restricted by routine of life
But still, I can't discover who am I?

Good question. Who am I? My father wants me to be his only son. Bobby wants me to be his best buddy. Billy wants me to be his ‘next discovery.’ But I just want to be me – a girl. Can I be? My musing was interrupted by Bobby’s tap on my shoulder.

“Shuggie, they want you in makeup. There’s just one more segment before we do our final number. Hurry!” We both walked quickly backstage, Bobby to his dressing room, me to the makeup room.

I sat with the other Honeys as the makeup staff worked their wonders on us. On the small monitor above the bank of mirrors, we watched as Richard Pryor and Ed Sullivan performed their unrehearsed comedy routine.

Ed Sullivan looked into the camera and seemed actually delighted to announce we had returned to perform in the final segment of tonight’s show. This was an important moment for the group for we were giving the national audience an advance listen to our forthcoming single. A song that would end every one of our concerts, hopefully keeping it front of mind when the single was released in September. The red lights of the TV cameras came on and we began to sing “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do).” Hank and Honey traded verses and the band was great on the pre-recorded track. The brass section, including Bobby, even added some synchronized dance steps in the background. The audience gave us an overwhelming ovation. As we bowed, Ed Sullivan quickly wrapped up the show and bade farewell to the teeming millions out in TV land. We were a smash! I could imagine Billy swelling with pride at our achievement on the great Ed Sullivan Show. But I hadn’t seen Billy since an hour before the show started. Where was he?

Bobby was standing outside of the ladies’ dressing room when I emerged, dressed in my civilian outfit, a bouncy floral print frock and low heel sandals.

“You’re the last one here. Everyone’s gone to Sardi’s for the after-party.”

“I’m sorry. I waited until all the other girls finished getting their makeup sorted out. Anyway, I knew you’d wait for me.”

“You know that, do you?” I was about to remark on his sarcasm when Mom and Connie appeared as if out of thin air, followed by Bobby’s mom Gloria and Billy Schechter. Mom rushed over to me and hugged me fiercely, almost sobbing.

“Sweetie, you look so beautiful and you were the best singer on stage! I’m so proud of you.”

“Mom, you guys were in the audience?”

“Oh, Shuggie, you didn’t know Mr. Schechter got us seats? Connie, Gloria, and me? He even sent a car to pick us up. He’s such a nice young man!”

“I didn’t want you two to be nervous, knowing your mothers were in the audience,” Billy interjected. Bobby and I exchanged looks as it fully dawned on us that Bobby’s mother Gloria must know.

“Mrs. Messina. I don’t know what to say. All these years—”

“Oh, you looked beautiful in that gown on stage. And what a voice! I’m so glad you finally decided to dress like a girl instead of a tomboy. Bobby even tried to convince me you were really a boy. But I knew better. I remember when you and Connie would parade around like little catalog models in your pink shorts and sailor shirts. Then you started wearing boys’ clothes. Such a cute girl dressing like that. They even thought you were a boy in school!”

“Good thing she was in band. Got her out of gym class,” my sister glibly added. My mother just shrugged her shoulders.

“You know, Harry, Bobby’s dad, would urge your dad to just let you be you. But he wouldn’t listen to reason. It’s a sickness. Sorry, Eriko, but Jerry should be ashamed of forcing his daughter to be raised as his son. That’s child abuse. I’m so glad you and Bobby are together now. I’m looking forward to grandchildren!” She hugged me. I was in shock. All these years! They thought I was a girl. But, of course, I am a girl! Bobby’s mouth hung open. Connie was patting him on the back, a devilish grin on her face.

“But, Mom, Shuggie’s only 17. We’re getting way, way ahead of ourselves here. She’s not even—” Connie covered his mouth as Bobby’s mom took me aside. She slipped what looked like birth control pill dispensers in my purse.

“Here, they’re mine. I’m not using them right now.” She giggled. “Harry and I are trying for another baby. You know, before the change of life. It’ll satisfy my maternal needs until you and Bobby start a family.” She winked at me, and we rejoined the group as Billy waved to us to hurry up and follow.

“What did my mom have to say? She was giggling,” Bobby asked. I just shook my head and locked arms with him. Billy had a cab waiting to take us to Sardi’s. We could’ve walked. It was only 10 blocks away. And frankly I needed some fresh air after that scene.

We boarded a plane for Los Angeles Monday morning. The tour would start in San Francisco on Saturday, July 2nd. Actually, the venue was the San Jose Civic Auditorium, an hour’s drive south of San Francisco. Meanwhile, Billy had a tight schedule set up for the 5 days before that concert. While in Los Angeles, we had a day of recording studio time reserved at Billy’s favorite place, Sunset Sound. Billy told me he had a song for me to sing lead vocal on—something I’m sure won’t go down well with Honey. Also, we were making lip-sync appearances on two Dick Clark vehicles: American Bandstand and Where the Action Is.

With Bobby sitting next to me (I gave him the window seat – he’s such a child), I closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept much after Sunday night’s excitement and revelations from Bobby’s mom. I felt I could use the five-hour flight to catch up on my beauty sleep. As I drifted off, I could hear one of my favorite songs from Bobby’s record collection spinning on the turntable of my mind: Aretha Franklin’s version of the Billie Holiday classic, “God Bless the Child.”

Grandmother was released from the hospital the week of Thanksgiving. They brought her home in one of those Ford vans you see on TV cop shows. Only she wasn’t on a stretcher. They gave her a gleaming new wheelchair and when the paramedics opened the rear doors, there she was, smiling wanly at her reception committee: Mom, Dad, me and Connie. With minimal grumbling, Dad wheeled her into the house and into her new bedroom on the first floor, convenient to her two favorite places—our kitchen and the backyard where she could supervise Mom’s gardening chores.

Black Friday had become a bacchanale of shopping since they expanded the Bergen Mall in Paramus. It was only a 15-minute drive west on Route 4 and Mom, Dad, and Connie left right after breakfast, leaving me and grandma at home. I had volunteered to stay behind with her because, practically speaking, I had nothing to shop for. My father had restricted me to boys’ clothes until I graduated from school and turned 18. He said he couldn’t stop me from robbing him of his only born son when the law recognized me as an adult able to make my own decisions, however ill-advised. It was a situation he tried to avoid confronting. In fact, he met with my therapists in New York once and then swore off the whole affair, leaving Mom to liaise with them.

Since we were home alone, Grandma asked me to put on one of the gowns I had worn on stage during the summer. She said she had fought so hard to recover from her stroke just to have the pleasure of seeing me in it. I wiped away tears and ran off to change. I put on the silver lamé dress I had worn for our final concert at Murray the K’s Brooklyn Fox Show on Labor Day. Quickly, I made up my face and fitted my Hank’s Honeys wig on my head, hoping it didn’t look askew.

She clapped like a boisterous child presented with an ice cream cone when I executed a glissade into the room and struck a glamorous pose. Dad didn’t allow me to take ballet lessons with Connie but I shadowed her every move when she practiced at home.

“Now, koneko, let me hear you sing. Your mother says you sing like an angel. Is she just boasting because she is proud of her youngest daughter or are you really the next Dinosaur?”

“You mean Dinah Shore?”

“Yes, that’s what I said, no?”

I sat down at the piano Mom insisted Dad buy for Connie’s music lessons, although, of course, it was really because she knew I was inseparable from Bobby. If he spent 20 hours a week practicing, she knew I’d want to be there accompanying him on piano or, later, clarinet. Connie abandoned her music lessons after less than a year, but I persisted. Maybe because I wanted to spend time with Bobby or maybe I really do have talent. What a thought!

I played the chords underlying the first two lines of the first verse: A, E, G, and D to recall the melody of the song I had only ever played before or after sound checks when I was alone or just with Bobby. I tried to sing it the way Carole had on that demo she recorded. It was “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”

“I do not understand most of the words in the song, koneko, but it must be a love song. You were thinking about Bobby, no?”

“Yes, sobo. I’m so scared I’ll never see him again. He’s in basic training right now and then they’ll ship him overseas for two years!”

“He will return to you, Itsuki. I believe in fate. You are his. He is yours. Forever.”

There was silence between us for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. I put on a smile and said to sobo, “I never did get to tell you what happened when we started the tour after Bobby and I appeared on television.”

“I’m all ears. Is that the right thing to say? In Japan, we would just say you have my undivided attention. But ‘all ears’ is such a strange image…”

Bobby and I were waiting for our bags to come around at the luggage carousel in LAX when Ray, our road manager, told me there was a limo waiting to take Hank, Honey and the Honeys (which included me!) to Billy Schechter’s house in Laurel Canyon, north of the city in the Hollywood Hills. Bobby and the rest of the band and crew would be staying at the Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood. My bags popped into view and Bobby grabbed them as they came around, handed them to me, and, with his usual puppy dog eyes, said he’d see me tomorrow at the recording studio.

Hank, Honey, the three other Honeys and I squeezed our way into the Cadillac Fleetwood that they say comfortably seats six (not including the driver). The truth is fitting seven people in that limousine made it feel like we were riding in a clown car. An image of us all spilling out onto the sawdust of a circus floor when the door opened made me giggle and Honey reflexively giggled too. Why she did, I have no idea.

Billy had taken a later flight since he had business to tend to in New York that morning. Hank told me he’d arrive sometime this evening.

“Have you ever been to Cali, Shuggie?” Hank asked.

“No, this is my first time. I’ve never been farther west than Philadelphia, really. Of course, you guys are used to traveling and performing all over the country, even England. I read where you toured there with Motown last year. You were on the same bill with The Supremes and Stevie Wonder!”

“Yeah, that was a lot of fun. A lot of ‘ello gov’na and fancy a cuppa? And we didn’t have to consult no Green Book to see where we could sleep or eat. Hell, two years ago, before Billy bought that house in Laurel Canyon, the band had to stay in the fuckin’ Dunbar Hotel on Central because the better hotels were still segregated. In Los Angeles! I suppose you’ve never had that problem, being half white and everything.”

“Is Bobby going to be alright staying at the Sunset Marquis? He’ll stick out like a sore thumb, won’t he?”

“Nah, the Marquis is integrated. All the music types stay there. Black, white, what have you. I heard The Rolling Stones stayed there last year. Miles Davis and his crew is supposed to stay there sometime in August.”

“Oh, wow, Bobby like really digs Miles. And Coltrane. He’ll be disappointed to miss them. So, Billy’s house must be really big. Are there enough rooms for all of us?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. We’ll double up, two to a room. Maybe you and me could share—”

“Hank, she’s 17. Jailbait in most states,” Honey interjected. Under her breath, Viola muttered, “Never stopped him before.”

“We’ll discuss this later. It’s gonna be a while between now and bedtime. Right, Shuggie?”

I’d forgotten the time difference! My body was still on Eastern Standard time. But it was barely a quarter of an hour after 12 noon here in the Hollywood Hills. We were packed so tightly in that car that when Viola’s stomach rumbled, I could not only hear it, I felt it. Other than that sound, we rode in silence for the rest of the hour long drive up La Cienega Boulevard. When we finally pulled up the driveway of Billy’s house, I prepared myself for the inevitable clown avalanche onto the pavement. But I leaned on the driver’s arm when he opened the door and managed to maintain my balance as I took a panoramic view of Billy’s estate-sized property. I really don’t know much about architecture, but it was sort of futuristic looking, all metal and glass, right angles and razor-sharp lines. Like Frank Lloyd Wright. Am I wrong?

Marisol, Billy’s surprisingly young and attractive Chicana housekeeper, showed us our rooms. I was shocked to find that Billy had arranged a separate bedroom for me, while the others shared theirs. On the bed in my room was laid out a one-piece bathing suit, presumably in my size.

“Mr. Schechter said you would not have packed a bathing suit so he picked out something that you might find acceptable to wear? After you shower, you can go for a swim in the pool. I’ll bring out a light lunch for everyone in about an hour. Is there anything else you need?”

Ten minutes later, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the en suite bathroom. I had been apprehensive about exposing myself to this extent but, as I turned from side to side and peered over my shoulder to appraise my backside, I concluded that the swimsuit was actually quite flattering—if you like slim girls with bubble butts and tiny breasts. When I came outside, Hank was swimming laps while the girls were taking in the sun on loungers, chatting and laughing.

When Hank saw me, he swam to the edge of the pool and laughed, “Hey girl, that suit looks like something your grandma would wear. I was expecting something a bit more, how you say, sexxxyyyy.”

“Leave her alone, Hank. She’s very modest. Her momma raised her right. Not like them showgirls and prosties you fooled with before I met you.”

Hank winked at me and replied to Honey, “who says I don’t trifle with the like even now? You got a private dick following me?”

“That’s one thing I wish you’d keep private, sweetheart. Look, you got Shuggie blushing, talking that kind of shit. Bet you Bobby never talks like that. Right? Come over here, Shuggie, us girls want to know all about you and Bobby. When’s the wedding?” She laughed uproariously, joined by the other girls. Hank splashed the water loudly with his right hand, turned his body and swam to the far side of the pool. Just then, Marisol appeared, pushing a cart filled with covered dishes. Lunch was served!

Billy finally showed up around 7PM, looking a bit haggard from the plane ride and maybe whatever business he had to tend to earlier in the day in New York. Marisol served up a delicious dinner of beef enchiladas, Mexican salad with cilantro lime dressing, and the American version of Mexican cerveza, several bottles of Corona beer. Billy winked at me from across the table and had Marisol fill my glass with beer. “No one snitches on Shuggie, okay?” Everyone laughed and we clinked glasses in a toast.

After dinner, we reconvened in Billy’s “bachelor pad”-styled living room and began listening to records on his expensive looking high-end stereo system. We all danced to a cavalcade of 45s ranging from Martha & The Vandellas to Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye to Etta James, Otis Redding to The Animals, and on and on. Honey and the other girls knew all the most popular dances: the Frug, the Monkey, the Jerk, the Watusi, the Boogaloo. I couldn’t keep up. I sank into an easy chair as I watched everyone else gyrate to Smokey Robinson & The Miracles. In a sudden break from the danceathon, Billy placed an LP on his Garrard turntable. After dropping the needle onto the run-in groove, Billy lifted me out of my chair and swept me into a slow dance posture. The music started: Tony Bennett singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”

We glided across the room, the sweet string arrangement conducted by Don Costa and Tony’s velvety baritone transporting us to a realm of romantic longing I had never experienced. Billy’s gentle eyes stared into mine and we moved as if we were alone in the room, in that house, on a hill above the city of angels. Someone picked up the needle. There was silence. Billy and I stood still.

“Hey, man, don’t monopolize the dance floor. Let me show Shuggie what real slow dancing is all about. Now, let’s re-start the record and let a man jump in and shake ‘em on down.” He took me in his arms and the music resumed. Billy turned toward the bookshelf-lined wall and leaned against it, his face a mask of calm resignation. Honey and the girls looked on with disdain. Honey, especially, couldn’t decide whether to get up and leave the room or just sit there and stew.

Hank was surprisingly light on his feet and quite gentle as he moved me around the room, executing something like waltz steps. He smiled at me. At one point, he began to nuzzle my neck. Honey sprang up from her seat and walked brusquely out of the room. After another few seconds, the song ended and Hank released me from his grip.

“It must be the time change. I’m really tired. I think I’ll just go to my room and hit the hay. Thanks to both of you for the dance, gentlemen.” I hurried up the stairs, my shoes clomping on the steps.

“Hey, Shuggie, it’s only 9:30. Well, the night is still young. Ladies, who’s up for more boogaloo?”

My body felt it was really past midnight, so I was out like a light when my head hit the pillow. Loud voices woke me up around the actual midnight hour. I couldn’t tell what they were shouting about but it was clearly a trio of voices: Hank, Honey and Billy. It sounded like they were still in the living room downstairs. Honey and Hank shook the walls with angry expletives and Billy shouted for them to calm down to no avail. I couldn’t go back to sleep with all that commotion, so I picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed the Sunset Marquis to speak to Bobby. The switchboard operator patched me into Bobby’s room, but it was Willie our trumpet player who picked up.

“This is Willie. Who’s calling?”

“Oh, hi, Willie. This is Shuggie. Can I talk to Bobby?”

“Bobby? He’s dead to the world. Here, you can hear him snoring. Really loud too.”

“Could you go wake him up. It’s kinda important. Thanks, Willie.” I heard Willie trying to rouse Bobby from his deep sleep. The snoring was interrupted by grunts and moans. Finally, Willie told him I was on the phone. A few seconds later, in a raspy, yawning voice Bobby half-whispered, “Hey, Shuggie, what’s up?”

“Hank, Honey and Billy are having a hell of a screaming match right now in the living room. Can’t you hear it?” I held the phone out with my extended right arm.

“Yeah, so just wrap the pillow around your head and cover your ears. I’m going back to bed, Shuggie. It’s like 3AM New York time.”

“Bobby! Do you know why they’d be at each other’s throats like that?”

“Well, okay, but don’t tell anyone I told you. Honey wants out. Out of the marriage, out of the band. She wants to go solo, personally and professionally. She’s gonna finish this tour and then leave for CBS Records. John Hammond thinks she could be the next Aretha Franklin.”

“Wow. I thought they were happily married.”

“Well, you’ve never been known to be too observant.”

“Bobby, I wish I was there with you instead of Billy’s house.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re just peons, Willie and me. You’re a star, Shuggie.”

“Remember when we used to sleep in your car? When we couldn’t find a place to crash?”

“My aching back remembers too well. I always let you sleep on the back seat. Me, I had to keep the steering wheel from deviating my septum whenever I turned my head.”

“Not always. There were times when it was cold at night, and we didn’t have a blanket—”

“Shuggie, I’d really like to go back to sleep. We’re supposed to be at the recording studio at 9AM.”

“Okay, Bobby. Good night. Sweet dreams, my sweet.” He had already hung up. They were still going at it downstairs. I took my pillow and wrapped it around my head, covering my ears. Remarkably, I drifted off in a few minutes.

The next morning, everyone was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Sunset Sound. Well, not really. Billy had coffee ordered in and we must have drunk several gallons among us. The pair of recording engineers for our session declined our coffee. They had their own thermoses that they brought to work every day. I guess engineers don’t make a heck of a lot. I watched Hank and Honey intently for signs that last night’s verbal fisticuffs had been left behind and that a productive day of recording wouldn’t be derailed by another outburst. So far, they seemed wary enough of each other to be civil and concentrated on the tracks Billy had us lay down.

The first song we worked on was a showpiece for Hank called “Let One Hurt Do.” It reminded us all what a really good singer Hank was. He had the pipes and stage presence to be a solo act but I think he preferred to be the leader of an ensemble, a variety show unto itself, with male singers, female singers, a crack band, dance moves and theatrical flourishes. For certain, he liked being the final authority in all things musical and otherwise.

After the band managed to satisfy Billy’s critical ears with umpteen takes of the instrumental backing for the track, Hank and the four Honeys put on headphones and positioned ourselves before our microphones to sing over it. After two practice runs, Billy started rolling tape. It was a one take success.

As the morning flowed into the afternoon, it was becoming obvious that Honey had very little to contribute to the session. There was only one track that she sang lead on. And she was superfluous as a backup vocalist since the Honeys nailed down our harmonies pretty efficiently. She and Hank exploded at each other during a coffee break. Billy just closed the studio door on them and sat at the control panel, moving the potentiometers up and down absentmindedly, waiting for Hank to return. When Hank came back in, he was alone.

“Uh, Honey’s done for the day. She’s gone back to the house. Said she’d rather sit by the pool than twiddle her thumbs here.”

“No sweat. We didn’t have anything for her to do anyway. Okay, everyone, let’s go over that chart again. I want the brass to come in a little brighter, maybe up half a step. And Chubby, keep the arpeggios in the pre-chorus. I like them.”

It was past 5PM and Billy had released everyone for the day. “Shuggie, can you stay for a bit. I have one more track I’d like you to sing on.”

I nodded to Bobby as he packed up his saxophone and walked out of the studio. “Sure, Billy, what do you have for me?”

“I took a later flight yesterday because I did a session with an orchestra at the RCA studios. I wanted to give you a solo number. At least see how you sound, just by yourself. You’re a quick study so we’ll probably get this done in a minimum number of takes. Afterwards, we can have dinner at Tony’s on the Pier in Redondo Beach. Half-hour drive from here. They’ve got great seafood—”

“Oh, no, seafood kinda makes me nauseous.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Well, we’ll go somewhere else then. Let’s go through the lyrics, okay?”

It took longer than Billy expected. He wanted me to sing in a style that was really different than anything I’d done with Hank’s Honeys. After about ten takes, I felt my voice starting to get hoarse but it was the eleventh take that got it right…at least to Billy’s satisfaction. The song was “Smile.”

As Billy ushered me into his candy apple red Mustang convertible, I asked, “how are you going to use that track? I mean, no one else in the band is on it. It’s just me, singing.”

“We’ll release it under your name.”

“Oh, no, Dad will kill me. I can’t use my real name. Dad’ll never hear the end of it in Bergenfield. He might even lose his job!”

“I thought of that. We’ll give you a stage name.”

“What is it?”

“No hurry. I don’t plan to do anything with that record until we’ve got you buttoned up with an exclusive contract.”

“Bobby says people in this business need to have a lawyer look at anything before signing.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course, I do. It’s just…don’t you think it would be advisable to have all the legal stuff checked out?”

“No, you’re right. Smart girl. Now, let’s find a place that doesn’t serve seafood.”

We finished up recording at Sunset Sound the next morning and Honey was rather subdued but present in body if not in spirit. After Billy and I returned to his house at around 11PM, the three of them had a relatively calm discussion of their situation. At least there wasn’t any shouting or name calling that I could hear as I trundled off to bed.

In the early afternoon, Billy loaded us into a Greyhound bus, and we drove to the Santa Monica Pier where we were scheduled to appear on a taping of Dick Clark’s Where the Action Is. The show aired daily at 4:30PM in glorious black & white immediately following the cult soap opera Dark Shadows. We pretty much just got to stand around and lip-sync to our current single, “Heaven Must Have Sent You” while a bunch of clean-cut teenagers encircled us, clapping hands and dancing in place. Honey Hutch was at her telegenic best as she charmed her way through the song, her arms stretching toward the sky to express her gratitude to the gods for sending her beloved down to her on earth. Steve Alaimo, one of the co-hosts, jumped in at the final note to chat for a minute with Honey.

“Honey! Great to have you on the show for the first time. Could you introduce your wonderful backup singers to everyone?”

“Well, Steve, it’s a pleasure to be here, you know, where the action really is!” The crowd of teenagers hooped and hollered. “To my right, we have Viola, Cissy, Thelma, and Shuggie, our newest Honey.” There was scattered applause. “And, of course, behind me is Hank, our fearless leader.” Hank bowed to more scattered applause.

“Hank, want to tell the audience out there in TV land across the country about the summer concert tour you’re just about to embark on?”

“Yeah, Steve, thank you. The tour starts Saturday in San Jose and goes for two months until Labor Day. We’ll be in Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, Philly, D.C., among other cities, and end up back East in New York City. So, we hope to see all of you out there this summer!”

The next morning, again like middle school students on a field trip, we boarded a Greyhound bus and were driven to the Los Feliz enclave of Los Angeles, at the foot of the famous Hollywood Hills. This was where the ABC Television Center sat, at the corner of Prospect and Talmadge, and where Dick Clark’s legendary American Bandstand was taped. By the summer of 1966, American Bandstand had been relocated from Philadelphia for two years already, now a pre-recorded weekly show on Saturdays rather than a live Monday to Friday affair. As on Where the Action Is, the band lip-synced “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” This time before an indoor audience of clean-cut teenagers who were suitably enthusiastic for the cameras.

Both Hank and Billy were more than chagrined that after their segment, Dick Clark chose to interview Honey Hutch alone and apart from the rest of the band.

What really irked Billy was that Honey never mentioned the band’s summer tour. Instead, she engaged in a discussion of her future plans and the possibility of recording as a solo artist. Clark seemed genuinely surprised by the tenor of the conversation but followed up with questions about her professional and personal relationship with Hank. To her credit, Honey tactfully evaded Clark’s questions, saying “I believe everything is in God’s hand. He has a plan for me, for all of us. Even for you, Dick Clark.” Then she laughed. Hank and Billy stood in the wings. They weren’t laughing. Nor smiling.

On the bus after the taping, Hank started to go off on Honey but she turned away from him, her hand held up like a stop sign. “I don’t want to talk about it. Now, go to the other end of the bus and sit down with your girl Shuggie. And Billy! Just cool it. This has nothing to do with you.”

“What do you mean? You’re half of this act. You’re the star attraction. Hell, you’ve got Dick Clark thinking you’ve already left the band. And we’ve got a 40-date tour starting Saturday for god’s sake.”

“Talk to the hand, Billy. I’m tired of riding stankin’ buses. I’m tired of the chitlins circuit—”

“Chitlins?! You’re calling Ed Sullivan and Bandstand the chitlins circuit? I had to talk my ass off to get you guys booked on these shows. We’ve got a record with a bullet on the charts!” Billy almost screamed as Honey just stared out the window.

“Most of all, I’m tired of Hank. Of all his bullshit. All the girls and the verbal abuse. Billy, you more than anyone know we’ve gone through six, no make it seven, Honeys in the last year.” Hank stood up and exclaimed, “I didn’t have nothing to do with them leaving. They were fooling with guys in Stevie Wonder’s band. That drummer. Joe something. Right, Billy?”

“You see, Billy, you see? I’ve had it. After this tour, I’m quitting. The band, Hank, everything.”

They went back and forth, even after the bus started its downhill journey back to the Sunset Marquis. Sitting with Bobby near the front, I squeezed his arm, concern on my face. This could really blow up the whole tour. I couldn’t imagine Hank and Honey co-existing much less performing together night after night on an eight-week concert march across the country.

Billy Schechter was already a legend in the music business at the tender age of 25. His office in the Brill Building had a score of gold records proudly hanging on the wall. His desk displayed the two Grammy Awards and an Oscar he had already won in only half a dozen years producing, arranging, and recording chart-topping music. He’d gone far, as far as Brooklyn to Malibu, not only in geographic distance but in professional acclaim. But, above all, Billy Schechter was really good at promotion, of his artists as well as himself. Wanting to start off the tour with a splash, Billy had convinced the program director at KFRC, San Francisco’s leading Top 40 radio station, to hold a contest for the privilege of opening for Hank and Honey Hutch at their Saturday, July 2nd concert in the San Jose Civic Auditorium, a 3,300 seat venue, 50 miles south of San Francisco on the southern shore of the Bay. The clever gimmick was that the contestants would be local amateur or semi-pro bands from the Bay Area, preferably teenage high school students from the target demographic.

So it was that on Friday afternoon, the day before the concert, our band and the two contest-winning bands went through a sound check at the Civic Auditorium. We were scheduled to do our sound check last, so the band scattered, most of them wandering around the shops of Downtown or taking a brief walking tour of the San Jose State University campus nearby. Bobby wanted to go back to the bus and take a nap. He said he couldn’t sleep because of Willie’s loud snoring. I giggled and he shot me a quizzical look. So, left to my own devices, I decided to sit and watch the contest winners go through their sound checks. Who knows? Maybe they have some talent.

There were some tables backstage where I could sit and just read the local newspaper or daydream. At a table to my right sat a petite blonde girl, 17 or 18 years old I assumed, strumming on an acoustic guitar and singing sotto voce. It sounded like a folk-rock song. Something Bob Dylan or Donovan would sing.

She saw me staring at her and stopped strumming. “Sorry, am I disturbing you? I thought I could just hang out here backstage until they call us.”

“Oh, no. I was enjoying listening to you. Is that a Dylan song? Sounds like one of his.”

“I wish. It’s something I wrote. Not finished yet. Working out the chords. I’m not a great guitarist,” she giggled. “I’m Stevie Nicks. Our band is opening for Hank and Honey Hutch tomorrow.”

“I’m Shuggie Brennan. I’m a Honey.”

“Well, really, you’re cute and everything—”

“No, no,” I laughed. “I mean I’m a Honey, one of the backup singers.”

“Wow. How old are you? You look so young to be a professional singer.”

“I’m 17. I’m a senior this Fall. This is really just like a summer job.”

“Nice summer job. I just graduated last month. Me and the rest of my band all went to Cubberley High in Palo Alto.” A tall young man with curly brown hair walked by carrying an electric guitar and waved to Stevie. He pointed to the stage. “That’s Lindsey, our lead guitarist. He writes songs too and sings.”

“He’s cute. Is he your boyfriend?”

“Maybe. Depends on my mood. You know guys. So, are you dating that cutie with the saxophone? I saw you two holding hands when we walked in a half hour ago.”

“Maybe. Depends.” We both giggled. Stevie got up from her chair and turned in the direction of the stage.

“Gotta go. We’re doing our sound check first. Nice meeting you. See you tomorrow night for sure.”

“What’s the name of your band?”

“Fritz. Actually, the full name was originally the Fritz Rabyne Memorial Band. It’s a long story. Bye!”

I looked on from the wings of the stage as Stevie and her band ran through the four songs they were allotted for their 20-minute set. I really liked their final song. I don’t know what the future held for them, but Stevie and Lindsey were quite impressive. For a high school band, they seemed rather advanced. Of course, that’s only my opinion, from the vantage point of less than a month as a wizened veteran of the industry. It was entitled “Take Advantage of Me.”

It was after 9PM when the emcee introduced us to the sold-out house that had restlessly endured two amateur local bands for over an hour and then watched as our assemblage of musicians set up in anonymity. Hank, Honey, and The Honeys strolled out on stage as the blinding lights centered on us, placing the band in partial shadow. We were the singers, the center of attention.

We opened the show with “Somebody Somewhere Loves You,” an energetic up-tempo showcase for our ensemble singing. Hank and Honey were in good voice and seemed to have palpable chemistry on stage. The crowd of over 3,000 stomped their feet and some were even heard singing along. I looked back in the shadows and Bobby was blowing up a storm on his sax. These were the first four minutes of my professional career, and they were brilliant! The crowd gave us an ovation as Hank took centerstage to sing “Soul Galore.”

That threatened to blow the roof off the place. The audience went wild, and it took a minute or two for things to settle down. A red spotlight shone down on Honey as she stepped forward and Hank laid down a bluesy A minor riff. This was a showstopper for Honey, the kind of song Hank and Honey had made popular on the chitlins circuit, what they would ruefully call ‘grown folks’ music. Honey unleashed “That’s What My Man is For” on their innocent teenage ears.

Honey took several bows and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. Hank came over to comfort her. The audience must have thought this was some theatrics on their part. But Honey brushed aside Hank’s hands and cried out, “I can’t! I can’t do it! Let me go!” She ran offstage, past Billy in the wings. The crowd was still under the impression that this was Hank and Honey doing Shakespeare in the auditorium. But when Honey didn’t return to the stage after several minutes, a buzz went up in the house.

Billy ran out on stage and huddled with Hank. The audience began to get a little restless. It had been almost ten minutes since Honey took her last bow. I walked over to overhear Billy instruct Hank to continue the concert. He saw me standing close by and pulled me into their huddle.

“I’m making an executive decision. This concert resumes with Shuggie taking Honey’s parts—”

“But, Billy, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You know all the parts. All the lyrics. You’ve watched Honey sing these songs over and over again. You can do this.” Bobby was suddenly by my side. “You know the set better than Honey did, Shuggie. If Billy and Hank think you can do it…” Hank nodded and gave me a thumbs up. “Girl, you got this.”

Billy took a microphone and addressed the impatient audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems Honey has experienced an unfortunate costume malfunction at a rather untimely point in the proceedings. But, not to worry. The show must go on. Hank and the band are ready, willing and able to give San Jose a show you won’t soon forget.” He took my hand and led me to the front of the stage. To me, he whispered, “Show ‘em what you got, kiddo.” Then he walked offstage. The spotlight hit me, and our drummer counted down. It took a Herculean effort to even open my mouth but something resembling a lyric wrapped in melody eventually emerged.

The 8 days that followed our first concert in San Jose and Honey’s sudden, epochal departure from the stage were a whirlwind of performing, sleeping on a tour bus, and dizzying personal reflection. It was Sunday evening when our two buses filled with tired and hungry musical fellow travelers settled into the parking garage of The Palmer House Hilton, located in the Loop section of Chicago. After a week of riding hundreds of miles on a bus, playing one-night stands, and sleeping uncomfortably on the same bus parked overnight at rest stops, all we wanted was a quick bite of dinner and a comfortable bed to lose consciousness in.

We scattered to various eateries. Billy, Hank, and Ray, our road manager, decided to try Gibson’s Steakhouse on Rush Street, a 15-minute walk from our hotel on East Monroe. Others went for less pricey places in the immediate neighborhood. Bobby went with the greater contingent of the band to have some famous Chicago deep-dish pizza. He asked me and Bailey our wardrobe mistress to tag along but I demurred. I went straight up to the room I was to share with Bailey for the 5 nights we were in town and picked up the phone, dialing home to speak to Mom.

“Hello…”

“Mom, it’s me, Shuggie! I’m calling from Chicago—”

“It’s good to hear from you, sweetie. But how did you end up in Chicago? Did something go wrong with the band? Did you quit or get fired—”

“No, Mom, it’s on our tour itinerary. We’re in Chicago for concerts Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we’re off to Detroit and Milwaukee—”

“Oh, that’s okay then. It’s just I’m worried about you. You’ve never been away from home or your dad and I for more than a weekend. At least you’ve got Bobby there to look after you.”

“Yes, Mom, he’s been a very good babysitter. Listen, Mom, is Dad watching TV? I don’t want him to know too much about what’s going on. He’s not really on board with everything. I’m telling you stuff because, well, you’re on my side, you know.”

“Your dad went bear hunting with Bobby’s dad again this weekend. He won’t be home until late. So, what’s so secretive about what’s going on with you? He agreed to let you go on tour with the band. Reluctantly, but he did.”

“Well, things have taken a turn—”

“For the worse? Oh, Shuggie, no! What happened?”

“For the better, Mom. I’m taking over for Honey Hutch. I’m the lead vocalist now, not a backup singer!”

“Oh my god, Shuggie. How did this happen?”

“She left the band! Just walked off the stage at our first concert in San Jose. Billy made an executive decision and said we had to continue the concert…with me singing all of Honey’s parts!”

“Okay, let me sit down. This sounds like it could be a long story.”

So, I began to recount the events of the past 8 days, although there were parts of the story I didn’t tell her. After all, there are some things you just don’t tell your mother. For their own protection, of course.

I looked out into the audience and I froze. My lips trembled but no sounds escaped, and my eyes widened with panic. Both hands tightly gripped the microphone stand as I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of my gown. It seemed like an eternity but mere seconds into my catatonia, Hank stepped behind me and whispered, “Sing “I Can’t Help Myself.” Do it like we’ve rehearsed it.” He squeezed my shoulder and then quickly went around to the other bandmembers, giving them the change in song order. A downbeat initiated the opening bars, the familiar notes reviving me. I started to sway with the music and sang out the first line.

When our drummer hit the final stroke on what is legendarily called The Motown Shuffle, there was a second or two of complete silence in the house. On stage, we held our breaths, waiting for the audience’s response. Would they find my performance acceptable in replacing Honey? Would they jeer?

Suddenly, an ovation erupted from the crowd. Relieved, we bowed as one, soaking in the applause and shouted praise. Then, like the professionals we were, we performed the rest of the concert in fine form. I only flubbed two lines! I covered over the flubs by doing my hasty impression of scat singing. Some of the bandmembers even giggled at my faux pas. I wonder if that’s how Ella Fitzgerald started scat singing.

The question of what to do as an encore was at the center of another hushed conversation backstage. Billy and Hank traded ideas. Billy preferred we perform “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)” again as a reminder of its prospective release in September. Hank wanted to try something we’d fooled around with during soundchecks. It was just Hank at the piano and me duetting on the old Inez and Charlie Foxx tune, “Mockingbird.” Before Billy could marshal an argument against it, Hank pulled me out on stage, sat me down next to him on the piano bench, and announced the song title to the applauding crowd. Bobby gave me a thumbs up from the wings. Billy looked unsure this was a good idea. The crowd quieted down as Hank played. We began to sing.

Billy declared the night a huge success as we boarded the bus after the concert. Hank had half-expected to see Honey sitting in the lounge section, pouring herself an after-concert cup of black coffee as usual. But she was nowhere to be seen. She had probably taken a taxi to the airport and flown who knows where. Maybe to her parents in Detroit. When her absence finally sank in, Hank just slumped into a seat, a sad look on his face.

“I thought she was just having another of her tantrums. She left the band once in St. Louis. Right after the first song, just like tonight. I found her playing solitaire in our hotel room.”

Billy was oblivious to Hank’s mood. “I really don’t care if she stays away. Shuggie here is a great replacement. The crowd loved her! That Four Tops cover put us on another level. The only problem is changing all the marquees, the posters, listings in the papers. We’ll just call it the Hank Hutch Band for now.”

I raised my hand as if I were in History class. “Excuse me, Billy, but remember, I can’t go by my real name. My dad would be apoplectic.”

“I already planned for that. We’ll call you Sugar Pie.”

“Just Sugar Pie? Like a cartoon character or a pet?”

“Yeah, it’s perfect. The audience will connect you to the song. We’ll record it first chance we get and release it as a single under the name Sugar Pie. Maybe I can get some studio time in Chicago or Detroit.”

Hank’s face brightened and he said, “We need you, Shuggie, until Honey comes to her senses. We got 8 weeks of concert dates to fulfill. And this’ll really jump start your career. I’m sure Billy could get you a contract as a solo artist.”

“It’s just weird having to use a stage name. I’m sure Honey preferred using her real name not something like Sugar Pie.”

Hank laughed, “Honey’s not her real name either.” Billy nodded.

“Was her father against her being in show business, using her real name, like me?”

“Nah, her real name’s Tunesha. Now, you tell me, don’t you think Hank and Honey rolls off the tongue better than Hank and Tunesha?”

The next day we took part in an afternoon concert in San Francisco at Daly City’s Cow Palace, a hangar-like indoor arena a few minutes from downtown. The Hank Hutch Band, as we were now called, was second billed behind The Beau Brummels, a local San Francisco group that had two national Top 10 hits the year before. Contrary to their top billing here, they were already in decline as a best-selling band. Their third album, released that month, would bomb.

Behind us on the bill were two other local bands: Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother & The Holding Company. They each played half-hour sets before we came on stage, immediately preceding the headlining Beau Brummels. While the girl singer for Big Brother was kind of interesting in a blues-rock vein, I didn’t think they had much of a future. Janis Joplin, I think, was her name.

Jefferson Airplane, on the other hand, really sounded good. With a pair of vocalists, Marty Balin and Signe Anderson, I could see them having some chart success. They played the sort of electric folk-rock that Dylan had started to popularize. Their version of “High Flying Bird” was a highlight of their set.

Marty approached me after the concert as we were boarding the ever-present tour bus and invited me to perform at this club in town called The Matrix that he owned part of. When I asked if he meant the band not just me, he smiled and said, “Either way.” Bobby, who was standing behind me, watched Marty walk away, turned to me, and laughed. “Owning a club must be a real help in picking up girls.”

“Maybe he thought I was a really good singer. Is that so unbelievable?”

“No, of course not. But I don’t think he was interested in your vocal cords.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be back in San Francisco anytime soon.”

“His loss.” Bobby took my hand and we boarded the bus for the 6-hour drive back to Los Angeles. We would spend Monday, July 4th, ‘resting’ before a concert at The Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday. Then we would board the bus to arrive in Phoenix for a concert on Wednesday night and Denver for a one-nighter on Friday. Finally, to conclude a rather hectic week, we would end up in a Chicago hotel room on Sunday evening. Oh, the life of a pop star!

We were back in Billy’s Laurel Canyon house on Monday, the 4th. Hank and the girls left after brunch, taking one of Billy’s cars, and planned to spend the day checking out the 4th of July parade and fireworks in Santa Monica and go club-hopping in the evening. No one had heard from Honey. But Billy assured us she could very capably take care of herself, wherever she was.

Bobby arrived at the house just in time to have lunch with Billy and me. He had to take two buses to get from the Sunset Marquis to Laurel Canyon. He almost absentmindedly got off in Studio City and the entire journey took over an hour, including 15 minutes climbing the hills of Laurel Canyon to reach Billy’s house.

After lunch, I put on the one-piece swimsuit Billy had picked out for me and Bobby borrowed a pair of Billy’s swim trunks so we could lounge by the pool. Billy disappeared to his office to make phone calls. Even on the 4th of July, Billy was working the phones, plotting, planning, kibitzing he called it. He didn’t tell us but I’m sure some of the kibitzing had to do with Honey’s desertion from the band. There were legal issues to ponder.

About mid-afternoon, with barbecue smoke wafting overhead from Billy’s neighbors and the sound of occasional rounds of fireworks in the distance, a group of shaggy-haired young men appeared before us, accompanied by Billy. Even though I was wearing a conservative one-piece suit, I was self-conscious enough to grab a towel and try to cover myself as they looked on. Seeing my plight, Bobby stood up and placed himself in their line of sight, partially obscuring me in my lounge chair.

Billy introduced them as a band called The Doors. Apparently, they had just started a residency at a club called The Whisky a Go Go on The Sunset Strip. They had dropped by to visit with Billy because they were opening for us at the Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday and Jac Holzman at Elektra Records was looking for a producer for their first album. Billy ushered them back into the house, saying he’d be off the phone in fifteen minutes, and asked Marisol to get them beers or soda, whatever they preferred. Bobby put on a shirt and followed them into the living room. I excused myself to change out of my bathing suit and into a t-shirt and jeans.

When I made my re-entrance, they were chugging bottles of beer with Bobby while listening to a tape of a song we had recorded at Sunset Sound last week. I was singing lead on “Everything is Good About You.”

When the song ended, they all applauded. Jim Morrison, their vocalist Billy had said, saluted me with his beer bottle. “That’s really good. I like your voice. So, Bobby tells me you’re both from New Jersey. Did you work there locally?”

“Oh, no, we’ve only been doing this for three weeks. Me, personally, even a week less than that. I never thought I’d be singing professionally.”

Bobby interjected, “We were both in band in high school. Shuggie plays clarinet. I’ve done some sort-of amateur stuff in New York, sitting in with jazz combos and such. I played with Nina Simone last month at The Village Gate.”

Ray Manzarek, the one with glasses and sandy-colored hair, was impressed. “Nina Simone? That’s real top tier. Hey, here’s Billy.” Billy walked in. “Bobby, playing with the tapes again? That’s just a rough take. I’m not happy with the backing track on that. The sax player was way off-key.”

Ray smiled. “Bobby, isn’t that you on sax?” Bobby turned red. Billy patted him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Bobby. Just teasing.”

“Shuggie’s pretty impressive, though” Jim declared.

“I think Jim means you’re impressively pretty, Shuggie” Ray smirked.

Bobby looked out the window at the Ford Econoline Van in the driveway. “Guys, is that van what you use to travel to gigs?”

Robby, the guitarist in the band, stood by Bobby at the window. “We’ve been driving that for a few months now. It’s used but it’s a ’65 model. Jim got a sweet deal on it from an old college buddy.”

John, the drummer, took a swig from his bottle and hooked his thumb toward the front door of the house. “You wanna take a closer look at it? You can take it for a drive if you want. We’ll even let you honk the horn. C’mon Robby, let’s give Bobby the guided tour of Econoline heaven.” The three of them left.

“So, Jim, Ray, I thought you guys were going to work with Rothschild. After all, he’s Jac’s house producer at Elektra. I’m a big admirer of his work. He did the Butterfield album and I hear the second one is even better. He lives down the road, a hop, skip and a jump from here.”

“We know him by reputation,” Jim said. “But we’re not sure he’s the right producer for us, stylistically. Anyway, Holzman told us he’d consider an outside producer if we could find someone we’d prefer. Ray likes your stuff—”

“Yeah, it’s more…uh…commercial than the stuff Elektra releases. I know Jim agrees with me. We’re not interested in doing pop arrangements of folk songs or white suburban versions of Delta blues.”

“What Ray is trying to say is we want someone who can produce a record that’ll get us on Ed Sullivan. You dig?”

“Well, that’s a noble ambition. And pays the bills a lot easier. Nothing wrong with being “commercial.” The business of America is business. Capisce?”

Jim reached into his jeans pocket and took out a sandwich baggie filled with what looked like oregano. It didn’t smell like oregano when he opened it.

“If we’re going to talk business, I think we need to be in the right frame of mind. We need to mellow out. I hate high-pressured discussions. Let’s partake.” He took out small squares of paper and cleared some space on the coffee table. “I prefer to use the whole plant, stems, seeds, everything. Any objections? Billy? Shuggie?”

It dawned on me that I was about to smoke grass for the first time ever. Bobby said he’d smoked some with his jazz friends on occasion and that some guys in school had tried it too. I sat there and watched Jim expertly roll two joints with the skill of an Old West cowboy. One handed. He passed one to Billy and lit it for him. The other one he gave to Ray, also lighting that one. Billy took a deep drag and then handed it to me. I took a deep drag and almost coughed up my lungs. My eyes began to water.

“Whoa, is that your first time? Yeah, you’ve got to go easy on it. Slow and deep. Don’t try to suck the smoke out of it in one. A couple of tokes and you’ll feel real mellow.”

We passed the joints around for about ten minutes. I didn’t really feel any different, which surprised me since I thought I’d be affected by it within a couple of puffs. Finally, Ray stood up and asked Billy if they could go somewhere to talk business. Billy led him into his office, leaving me alone with Jim.

“Yeah, Ray’s got a better grip on business matters than I do. I’m more of the carefree artist type. I’m mainly into my art. I guess, you’re like that too?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I haven’t ever really thought of myself as any kind of artist. Even the singing just comes naturally.”

“So, are you and Billy…”

“No, he’s like my boss, that’s all. But he’s been very kind to me. He convinced my father to let me go on tour with Hank’s band this summer. My Dad had strong objections against it. He’s still not completely alright with it.”

“Because you’re…too young?”

“That’s part of it. I’m only 17. I’m still in high school.”

“I can see why your dad would object. You do know about Billy’s reputation, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s America’s youngest millionaire record producer. That’s what the New York Times called him.”

“No, I mean his reputation as a horndog. Especially with underage girls. He’s been rumored to fool around with 15 and 16-year-olds. Of course, I don’t believe every rumor I hear. From what I’ve seen, he seems okay.”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman.” All of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The grass was having its advertised effect, some 20 minutes later. Jim noticed I’d gone silent.

“I hope I haven’t offended you. It’s just you’re still a minor in most states. And it’d be a shame if you got taken advantage of by someone like Billy—I’m not saying Billy specifically. I mean, you know, older guys. In general.”

Feeling a little light-headed, I giggled and said, “I know all about guys.”

“Oh, a worldly woman of experience, eh?”

“No, I know all about guys because…” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m a guy myself. Yes, I am. I’m a guy.”

“You’re kidding. Can’t be.”

“Would I joke about something like that?” I giggled.

Just then, Billy and Ray walked into the living room. They found me, giggling, my head practically in Jim’s lap. He looked up at Billy and Ray, shrugging his shoulders and trying to get me to sit up straight. “That Acapulco Gold is some strong shit. She’s like hallucinating. She’s saying she’s really a guy.” Billy looked into my bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, delayed effect. She’ll be alright.”

As if on cue, the van returned, and whoever was driving started honking the horn. This made me giggle some more. Jim and Ray shook hands with Billy and moved to the front door, where they almost ran into Bobby coming in just as they exited.

“Billy, what’s the matter with Shuggie?”

“She’s okay. A little too much weed for a first time.”

“What? You let them give her some grass to smoke?”

“Come on, Bobby, grass is harmless. It’s not like they had her shooting horse. Marisol, can you pour a glass of orange juice for Shuggie? Vitamin C tends to lessen the high. Should do the trick.”

When Marisol handed me the glass of orange juice, I chugged it down greedily. I don’t know if it really lessened my high but thinking that it might calmed me down rather quickly. Bobby looked at me and scolded, “I can’t let you out of my sight for 5 minutes.”

“They sound like a nice group of young men. And you say that Morrison boy comes from a military family?”

“Yes, Mom. His father is an Admiral in the navy.”

“Is he good looking, this boy Jim?”

“Mom! They just dropped by Billy’s house to talk business with him. We…uh…we…Bobby and me entertained them while Billy had some phone calls to make.”

“Did they bring any baked goods with them? It’s polite for guests to offer their hosts a cake, a pie, even donuts—”

“Mom, they brought some grass with them.”

“Is Billy into gardening?”

“Can I continue, Mom? This phone call is gonna cost Billy a mint.”

“Are they going to make a federal case out of a long-distance call from a child to their mother? How much could it cost? These people make millions—”

“Mom!!!”

Tuesday night, about an hour before The Doors were to open for us, Hank and I were sitting backstage at The Hollywood Bowl, shooting the breeze. He was telling me he was looking forward to arriving in Chicago on Sunday.

“I grew up on the North Side of Chicago. My parents and younger brother and sister still live there. Ain’t been home in more than a year. Of course, they’ll be curious about why Honey’s not with me. It’ll be fine with Mama. She never did like Honey and vice versa. Do Bobby’s parents like you?”

“Oh, yeah, we get along really well. We’re neighbors. Our houses are on the same block. Mrs. Messina thinks I’m a girl—”

“Well, that ain’t peculiar. You are,” he laughed.

“Right, of course. Well, I went through a tomboy phase and everyone kinda assumed I was a boy.”

“Shuggie, I can’t believe anyone would think you were a boy, even if you dressed in coveralls and a ball cap.”

“Shuggie! We heard about what happened. We just had to come see you!” It was Carole and Gerry. I was shocked to see them, but I guess news travels fast in music circles. She rushed over to me and hugged me. Gerry waved.

“Hey, Hank, sorry to hear about Honey. Have you heard from her since Saturday night?”

“No, Gerry, Billy’s been trying to track her down. We think she might have gone home to her mother’s in Detroit. The tour goes through there in a week or so. Maybe we’ll meet up then.” He shrugged.

“So, Shuggie, is showbiz all you thought it would be, now that you’re a star?”

“Carole, I’m not a star. I’m just a singer in Hank’s band. Hank’s the star.”

“That’s a pretty dress, Shuggie. Love the earrings too—”

The Doors walked into the backstage lounge. Jim Morrison came right over to me and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.

“Sorry.” He tried to wipe my cheek with his thumb. “My mouth waters when I see a beautiful girl.”

“Any beautiful girl. Any girl at all,” laughed Ray as he, Robby, and John sat down on the couch.

“We’re The Doors.” Jim waved his hand with a flourish. “And you…you must be Hank Hutch if I’m not mistaken.” Hank nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know you two.”

“Gerry Goffin. My wife, Carole King. We’re songwriters—”

“Oh, yeah!” He started singing “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.”

“That’s Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. People often mistake us for them and vice versa. We both work out of the Brill Building.”

“Forgive me. I’m not too up on the pop charts. Ray, you know anything by them?”

Ray shook his head and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He coaxed the last one out into his mouth and asked Robby for a light.

“So, Shuggie or Sugar Pie as you’ve chosen for a stage name, have you told Hank your secret?”

Hank looked at me. “What secret? Shuggie’s an open book, the crazy kid.”

“Not what she told me. Right, Sugar Pie?”

“I was just joking.” I turned to Carole and Gerry. “He made me smoke some grass and I got really high. I don’t know what I was saying.”

“What you told me was: you’re really a guy. I’ve heard of people hallucinating on acid or ‘shrooms but not on grass.”

“Hey, she’s an innocent kid from the suburbs. I’m sure she’s never smoked before. Just leave her alone.” Gerry took a step toward Jim.

“We’re a long way from the suburbs, little girl. Or boy. Hank, you should straighten this out with Billy. He or she is his protégée. I heard Billy’s very familiar with she-males. His brother’s one.”

Bobby walked into the room, having overheard some of the conversation.

“Guys, Shuggie’s a girl. Come on. She was super high on that Acapulco Gold you pushed on her.”

“Maybe she’s got you fooled too. Look, I’ve got nothing against boys who want to be girls or girls who want to be boys. Trying to get one over on the teeming millions out there is gonna be one rough ride. If anyone finds out—”

“She’s a girl. I’ve known her since we were in elementary school.” Bobby put his arm around me. “We grew up together. We’re…we’re in love.” Bobby kissed me lightly right on the lips. “See? Now, shouldn’t you guys start setting up? You’ve got less than a half hour before showtime.” Ray took a last drag of his cigarette and stood up.

“Come on, Jim. You’ve had your fun. Let’s set up. Let me apologize for Jim’s boorish behavior. His analyst says he’s anti-social because he fucking hates his father. Excuse my French.” The four of them left the room.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” asked Gerry with a smirk. “Shuggie, stay away from characters like that. They’re bad news. Even when they’re holding good shit.”

“I guess you really are “Bobby’s Girl,” Hank mused.

“I figured if I didn’t do something like that, he wouldn’t stop teasing Shuggie. Billy said he’s a real flake. Said he wouldn’t work with him even if Jac Holzman offered a cool million. They do a 12-minute song about him killing his father and committing incest with his mother. A weirdo, man.”

“He’s kind of cute though. We girls think so. Right, Carole?”

I watched from the wings as The Doors performed their opening set. Apparently, they were well-known enough to have pockets of fans cheering wildly in the audience. I’m sure Billy was a little disappointed in the turnout for our concert. The Bowl was at half-capacity. Still, that meant we were playing before a crowd of over 8,000. I wonder how many in the audience knew about Honey’s absence. Was that why walk-up ticket sales were sluggish?

I must say Jim was an impressive performer. His bluesy vocals and self-assured stage presence provided the evidence for Elektra Records offering them a recording contract. I think Billy’s wrong about the group. I could sense the connection they made with the audience, especially in their final number, “Break On Through to the Other Side.” They received the kind of ovation that made me unsure we’d produce the same results when we followed as the headliners.

My fears were unfounded as we played two encores to thunderous applause. Billy was happy despite the half-full house. Early reports from Phoenix and Denver, our next two stops on the tour, were encouraging. It seems Hank Hutch was more popular the further east we traveled. So popular that Billy had a third night added to our Chicago concerts next week.

True to his word, our concert in Phoenix at The Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum sold out the 14,000-seat facility. It was broadcast over the air on KRUX-AM radio. One of the local DJs introduced us. After the concert, we took advantage of the extensive showers in the Coliseum (the place had opened the year before to host professional sports teams as well as music concerts). Of course, I showered with Brianna and Bailey, who were really quite nice and understanding throughout the tour that summer.

Then, it was back to the tour buses and a 20-hour trek to Denver for our next one-night stand. The actual road time was 12 hours, but we parked overnight at some rest stop in New Mexico. We arrived just two hours before showtime at The Denver Coliseum. A rushed soundcheck was cut even shorter when our opening act appeared, Bob Lind. Lind was the toast of Denver. A local artist whose original composition “Elusive Butterfly” had peaked at number 5 on the national charts just 3 months before. While everyone else in the band wandered about the grounds of the Coliseum, I stayed behind to listen to Lind go through his soundcheck. He was only scheduled to sing 3 or 4 songs. Billy had used his innumerable industry contacts to get Lind to be a “special guest” and open for us. Billy was proven right that having Lind open for us would clinch a sell-out. The 10,000 seat Coliseum would be packed to the rafters tonight.

Lind performed solo with just an acoustic guitar. I watched and listened as he sang the lovely “Elusive Butterfly” to an empty house that echoed his round-toned voice and rhythmic strumming as clear as a bell.

Somewhere in Nebraska, in the midst of a 24-hour bus journey from Denver to Chicago, Billy and I were chatting about being away from home. I confessed to Billy that I was a little homesick. I was going to definitely call my mom when we reached Chicago on Sunday.

“You’ve only been away for two weeks. I left home at 18 and never looked back.”

“You never went to college, Billy? You’re smart. You must have had good grades in school.”

“The only thing I was interested in was music. Writing songs, playing piano and guitar, singing. You know, I never thought I’d end up producing records for other artists. I thought it’d be me making those records, singing my own songs.”

“I didn’t know you wrote songs and sang. I’d like to hear you sing one someday.”

Hank walked over to our part of the bus, holding an acoustic guitar. He handed it to Billy. “Here you go. I haven’t heard you sing in a long time myself. Give Shuggie a taste of your musical genius.” He chuckled as he sat down across from us. “I’ll play the bus seat bongos to accompany you.”

“Okay. I wrote a song about returning home after a long time on the road. It’s about what you leave behind and what might not be there when you finally come back. It goes something like this…” He strummed and laughed before turning serious. He seemed to be looking at something faraway in the distance. “It’s called “Rolling Home.”

Billy’s song made me think about home. About the road. Made me think about the road as a metaphor for life’s journey. And my head hurt from trying too hard to make sense of it all. Where is home? Is home wherever you find yourself on the road of life? Everyone grows up and leaves home to find…what? Themselves? It’s too much to ponder. I’m just a kid.

Just a girl. On the road.

I looked at my watch after finishing my phone call with Mom. Oh my, I’ve been on the phone for over an hour. It was almost 8 PM and, frankly, my stomach was grumbling. I had a choice to make. Go out and have dinner for one at some pizza place nearby or order room service. After a full 2 seconds of thought, I decided to do further damage to Billy’s tour budget. I ordered the Palmer House Burger, french fries, and a mixed green salad. Even with the air conditioner turned on full blast, enough of that day’s 95-degree heat remained that I ordered a pitcher of iced tea as well.

I was in mid-bite on my juicy Palmer House burger when there was a knock on the door. Did Bailey forget her room key? I opened the door and saw Bobby, his fist in mid-air, about to rap on the door.

“Oh, it’s you. How was the pizza?” Bobby walked in and his eyes locked onto the feast on the trolley parked near the window.

“Not as good as that burger looks.”

“Sit down on the bed. You can watch TV while I finish my dinner.”

“What’s on?”

“There’s a movie based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, “Tender is the Night.” First time on TV. It only came out 4 years ago. Jason Robards and Jennifer Jones.”

Bobby spread himself across the bed, propping his head up with both pillows. “Never heard of it or them. Not a western, I presume.”

“No, silly. Didn’t you read “The Great Gatsby” in English class? That was Fitzgerald.”

“Maybe I did. Must have forgotten it, like immediately afterwards. Say, that’s a pretty huge burger. Sure you can eat all of that?” His eyes were pleading on behalf of his stomach.

“Didn’t you just eat? Your usual half a pizza?” I could never resist those pleading eyes. As far back as I could remember I was always sharing food with Bobby. He ate twice as much as I did. I cut my burger in half and wrapped a napkin around it, handing it to him.

“A lot of fries you got there too.” He picked a few fries off my plate and lay back on the bed.

“Bobby, sit up while you’re eating. You’ll get an upset stomach like that.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Want some of my salad?” He shook his head and started chomping on the burger.

After we finished eating, we sat side by side on the bed, watching the movie, sipping glasses of iced tea.
“Bobby? Do you think you could ever love someone so much that, like Jason Robards, you’d quit your job and just cater to their whims, traveling and spending all your money?”

“Well, up to a point, maybe. His wife’s looney though. If I’m a shrink, I’d avoid getting involved with a patient. Crazy is as crazy does.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?” There was an uneasy silence between us before Bobby turned to me.

“I’m the one who’s crazy.”

“Crazy, you? Why?”

“Because I don’t know why I feel this way about you.”

“We’re best friends. Practically since we were babies.” Bobby leaped off the bed and looked out the window, searching the well-lit streets of a Chicago evening in early summer.

“I realize what you want from me. I’m not a complete idiot. And…and I feel really close to you. More than best friends.”

“Like brothers?”

“Shuggie. This…this is just not possible. You can’t just wish yourself into being a girl. After this summer, you’ll go back home. And I don’t know where I’ll be.”

“I’ll go wherever you go, Bobby. People don’t have to know I wasn’t born a girl. Look at me. If you’d never met me before, would you think I was a guy? I don’t have to go back home. Our lives are our own. You can start your own band. I’ll be the girl singer! It’ll be great. Billy can help us get started.”

“Aren’t you scared people will find out? You can’t just assume no one will ever find out. For god’s sake, you told Jim Morrison!”

“He made me get high. I didn’t know what I was saying or doing. I’ll be more careful. No booze or pot for me. I swear.” I pledged with my right hand. Bobby grabbed it and kissed me full on the lips. We kissed for a long minute. And then Bobby just held me in his arms. I saw blurry cars crawl by on the streets below as tears rolled down my cheeks. “I love you, Bobby,” I murmured over and over again.

“Well, well, it looks like I’ve returned at an inopportune moment.”

Bobby and I separated in a split second and turned around to see Bailey in the doorway. I turned back to the window and hurriedly wiped my tears. Clearing my throat, I said, “Bailey! No, come in. Bobby and I were just looking out at the city lights. It’s really well-lit. I guess most big cities are—”

Bobby moved quickly toward the door, mumbling to Bailey, “I was just leaving. See you guys tomorrow morning. We get a continental breakfast, Billy said.”

“Good night, Bobby.” Turning to me, she asked, “Everything okay? You look like a raccoon. Come here, let’s give you a proper clean up.” I sat on the bed while Bailey wiped the smeared mascara from my face. “Did Bobby hurt you? I’ll kill him, the insensitive lug.”

“No, he…he kissed me and held me. It was wonderful.”

“Then I really am sorry I interrupted you two.”

“No, he was going to go in a few minutes anyway. It’s so complicated, Bailey. Maybe I am insane for wanting to be a girl.”

“It’s not insane to want to be what you actually are. Just enjoy the present moment, Shuggie. No one knows what the future holds. Like Honey said, it’s not in our hands. I believe in destiny, don’t you?”

“You’re a real friend, Bailey. A real friend.”

“A real friend would’ve just turned right around and left the two of you alone.” She laughed and dabbed at the runny mess on my cheeks.

After breakfast at the hotel on Monday morning, we boarded our bus and were driven south of The Loop to Chess Records’ studios at South Michigan Avenue. Chess Records was famous for its stable of rhythm & blues artists like Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Otis Rush, Little Walter, and many other legendary figures. The Rolling Stones had recorded an album there in 1964 on their first tour of the U.S. By midday, the cramped quarters of the small studio resembled a sauna. I walked around the hallways whenever I wasn’t involved in the recording. There were open windows with a slight breeze wafting in. Luckily, I had chosen to wear a t-shirt and a denim jacket and jeans. The best outfit short of a bathing suit. The guys would’ve enjoyed that.

Billy had changed our set-list due to Honey’s absence. There were more solo numbers for Hank. I had maybe half a dozen lead vocals, most of it hand-picked for me by Billy. Instead of a duo act like Hank and Honey Hutch was, I was more truthfully a featured performer of The Hank Hutch Band, which was just fine with me. Despite this, Billy did add a duet number for Hank and me: “It’s Got to Be a Miracle (This Thing Called Love).”

A major kerfuffle occurred in the afternoon close to the end of our day-long session. Hank had become more than a little annoyed at Billy’s choice of material to record. Where Hank wanted to sing his own compositions, Billy pushed him to record more mainstream songs with chart-making potential. The word that triggered Hank’s anger was “commercial.” Billy made a crack about Hank trying to be the black Bob Dylan that really set him off. They argued for 30 minutes, including loud phone calls to record company executives in New York AND Los Angeles. Finally, Hank was persuaded to record Billy’s selection, an old Bacharach-David tune that Richard Chamberlain (TV’s Dr. Kildare) had released in 1963. However, Hank added a soliloquy of sorts to explain his reluctance to sing it. Perhaps someone else someday will do a version that’ll be a hit. I wouldn’t bet on it. Here’s Hank’s unique take on “(They Long to Be) Close to You.”

As Bobby and I walked out into the late afternoon heat to board our bus back to the hotel, Hank called me aside. I waved Bobby onto the bus and stood on the curb as Hank walked up to me.

“Hey Sugar Pie. I need you to help me get to my folks’ house right now. Mama’s cooking up a feast tonight. You’re invited.”

“But I’m not dressed to be a dinner guest.”

“That’s alright. They ain’t gonna be dressed to be dinner hosts. It’s just a family dinner. I haven’t been home in over a year. Come on, you’re driving.” He took my arm and led me to a powder blue Ford Thunderbird convertible. “You got a license, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Get behind the wheel. We’ll get onto the I-90 West to Cleveland Street. Cabrini-Green. My folks live in one of the towers. Shouldn’t take us more than 15 minutes even with the traffic—”

“But why me? Didn’t you drive here in this car this morning?”

“Nah, Billy rented this car. We came here together this morning. My license’s been suspended.” He peered at me through his sunglasses. “I like to drive fast. One of my many bad habits.” He laughed. “Let’s hit the road!”

I considered myself a decent driver although I had only driven my dad’s car a dozen times since getting my license. What worried me was not navigating busy city streets but the fact that my license plainly declared I was male. I wasn’t going to give any cops a reason to pull me over.

Cabrini-Green was a public housing development comprised of 23 high-rise apartment towers in the North Side of Chicago. In decay and decline almost since the day they were built in the late 1950s, this city-within-a-city was notorious for crime, poverty and gang violence. Hank’s parents had moved there almost a decade ago and Hank was lucky enough to escape that high-rise ghetto within a year when he had turned 18. But his younger brother and sister had grown up in that bleak environment, made even bleaker by his father’s inability to get steady work in construction as the Teamsters dominated all the new development in the city. It was now all union work, and he was never going to be allowed to join the union.

We parked the car a block away from his parents’ apartment tower. I asked him if he was concerned about the car being vandalized or stolen. He smiled and said they knew him in the neighborhood. It was like having valet parking. He’d throw the boys a sawbuck or two to keep an eye on the car.

His parents lived on the 14th floor. When his mother opened the door to greet us, I could see that the apartment was smaller than what a normal two-bedroom flat was back east. It was a cluttered but homey space and the smell of food cooking in the small kitchen was piquant. His father stood up from his easy chair and smiled broadly. Hank hugged his mother.

“Mama, pops, this is Shuggie. She’s singing with the band now. Taking Honey’s place.”

They shook my hand. Hank’s mother gave me the once over and then spoke. “Well, good riddance to that girl. Don’t say nothing, Hank, but you know I never, ever liked Honey. She was using you.”

“Don’t speak poorly of the dead, Minnie.”

“Pops, she ain’t dead. She just ran off. Expect she might come to her senses in a while. She’ll be back. She’s done this before.”

“She’s dead to me, son. I hope she’s gone away for good. Now, come in and sit down. Tell me how the music business been treating you.”

Minnie took my arm and nudged me toward the kitchen. “Shuggie? Is that your given name or a pet name? Won’t you help me finish cooking supper for the men? Peel some potatoes, please.” She handed me a bowl of new potatoes.

“My mom just roasts these with the skin on. She says nobody has time to peel potatoes.”

“Well, that ain’t the way I do my potatoes. And Hank’s father never complained so peel away, dear. You’re so cute. How old are you, Shuggie?”

“17, ma’am.” She stopped to wipe her hands on a kitchen towel and stared at me for a minute.

“Child, you oughta be finishing school, not gallavantin’ around the country singing and dancing. Your mama and daddy let you do this? You know, Honey ran away from home when she was 17 just like you. I rue the day she met up with Hank. Ain’t nothing good come of that marriage. I thought I’d be a grandma by now, but Honey don’t want no family. No, she wants to be Diana Ross or Gladys Knight. With or without my son. Looks like it’s without.”

“My parents know and approve. My best friend plays saxophone in the band. He’s watching out for me.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“I guess so. I think he is.”

“You better make sure of that. A young girl alone in this world is a scary thing. At least my son’s taken an interest in you. He’s a good man.”

Pops said grace and we all dug in. This was my first taste of soul food or traditional Southern recipes. There were smothered pork chops, collard greens, roast new potatoes, and corn bread to sop up the gravy. A tall glass of sweet tea washed it all down. When Minnie told Hank and Pops that I had peeled the potatoes and placed them in the oven to roast, Pops grumbled that he didn’t think Honey ever set foot in the kitchen. Minnie was about to serve us a dessert of her special banana pudding when the phone rang. Pops answered it and called Hank over, handing the phone to him. A pained look came over Hank’s face as he listened. Slamming the phone down, Hank hesitated a moment and then picked it up again, dialing furiously. A minute later, he told his parents he’d back as soon as he could. I followed Hank as he rushed out of the apartment.

When we arrived at where the Thunderbird was parked, a group of teenage boys snapped to attention. One of them took a rag and wiped the windshield clean. Hank handed out some bills and we hopped into the car.

“Where are we going?”

“Take the next left and you’re on West Division Street. We’ve got a situation here. That was my sister. She’s at nursing school and she heard on the radio that all hell’s broke loose near Humboldt Park on West Division. The police was trying to stop kids from opening the fire hydrants when tempers flared, and it’s turned into a riot—”

“And you want us to drive right into that?”

“My brother’s in that area. He’s a hothead. I got to bring him home. The police will crack skulls sooner than look at us. Just give ‘em an excuse.”

“How do we find him in the middle of all that?”

“He hangs out at a pool hall on Division and Rockwell. Hopefully, he’s still inside. He’s a hothead but he’s not suicidal.” He turned on the radio, hoping to hear more news about the incident. What blared out instead was The Lovin’ Spoonful’s just released single, “Summer in the City.”

“Oh, shit! The cops are stopping cars. They’re looking at licenses.”

“So what? They’ll let you through. Now, if I were driving—”

“I can’t show them my license, Hank.”

“So it’s a Jersey license. It’s good in all 50 states—”

I hit the brakes and hid my face in my hands, my panic rising. “Hank, I’m not a girl! I’m a boy! Don’t you understand?”

“What? The fuck? You’re a guy?!!” He pulled his arm back and, for a second, I thought he was going to slug me. I recoiled in fear. “Tell me this is a joke. Billy’s in on this, right? He always wanted Honey out. He hates her. He planned this, didn’t he? Didn’t he?!!” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me until my hands fell to my side.

“No, Hank. It’s nothing to do with Billy. He didn’t know I was a guy at first. I got mixed up in all of this because of Bobby. I had no idea you guys would hire me to sing. I never even thought of it.”

“Okay, we’ll resolve this matter at a later date. Right now, we gotta find my brother. Get out of the car. We’ll walk it to Rockwell. Come on.” He pulled me out of the car, still shaking, and pushed me forward. As we approached Rockwell Street, we could see groups of cops chasing after young men breaking shop windows and looting. Some warning shots were fired into the air. It was mayhem.

The pool hall was across the street. Hank grabbed my arm. “On 3, run as fast as you can across the street. If we’re lucky, we won’t get shot.” I just nodded. Trembling, I kicked off my low heels, ready to sprint for my life. “3!” We ran. Halfway across the street, amidst scattering looters and agitators, a tear-gas can exploded, almost enveloping me in choking fumes. Hank’s arm reached out and pulled me onto the sidewalk in front of the pool hall. The place was dark and empty. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Hank! I’m over here.” The voice came from behind a dumpster in the driveway halfway down the block.

“Jesse? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. You better get behind this dumpster. There’s no way clear to walk out of this area. The police have been chasing people for an hour or more. They got guns out.” We ran over to the dumpster and hunkered down next to Jesse.

“Jesse, Shuggie.” We nodded at each other. The sound of bullets ripping the air and tear-gas cans impacting the street punctuated the night.

“How’d you know I was down here?”

“Linda called. Said she heard on the radio there was shit going down on the West Side. I know you hang out at the pool hall every night these days. Mama told me.”

“I got my draft letter last week. Supposed to show up for my physical on Friday. I’m never going to see my friends again, Hank. I won’t make it back. I know it.”

“Jesse, I know it looks like you’re shit outta luck but you gotta have faith. The Lord won’t let you die out there. Just like we’re getting the hell out of here tonight, if I can help it.”

Jesse turned to me. “Just who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“I’m with the band. Hank invited me to dinner with your parents tonight. His license is suspended so I had to drive.”

“Okay! So, where’s your car? Let’s make a run for it.”

“We can’t. We ditched the car a few blocks east of here.”

“Why’d you do that? I’ve seen cars go through. If the driver’s not black, they let ‘em pass.”

“It’s because—”

“Look, we just couldn’t get through. Okay? Right now, we’re better off just staying down, out of sight. Maybe things will settle down soon.”

We waited behind the dumpster for what must have been an hour. Waves of looters and agitators kept coming through and the police were combing the area all the way west to Humboldt Park. I was beginning to lose hope that we’d ever get out of this hellish trap when a dark Chevy Impala stopped some yards up the block and two men stepped out of the car. When one of them walked under a streetlamp, the light revealed his face. It was Bobby!

“Bobby!” I shouted. Reflexively, Jesse grabbed me and pushed me down out of sight, afraid I had given away our position to the police.

“Shuggie? Where are you?”

“Bobby! We’re over here. By the dumpster!” Billy emerged from the shadows and followed Bobby as he ran over to us.

“Let’s get in the car. Quick!” Billy shouted. As the three of us hurried to the Impala, Jesse and Hank stopped short, seeing a Chicago cop in riot gear, shouldering a rifle, standing by the hood of the car. A streetlamp’s light danced on the cop’s helmet and his rifle. Billy held up his hands.

“It’s okay. This officer is escorting us out of the danger zone. He understands you had nothing to do with the events tonight.” Hank and Jesse sighed in relief, and we all slid into the car. Bobby saluted the officer as Billy hit the accelerator. We left the mayhem behind as we headed back to Cabrini-Green.

Two hours later, Bobby, Hank and I were sitting in Billy’s hotel suite. Hank and Billy had barely exchanged two words all night, just suspicious glares. Bobby was explaining to me how they had managed to rescue us.

“I just happened to come back to the hotel from dinner when I bumped into Billy in the lobby. He picked up his messages at the front desk, one of which was, of course, from Hank, saying where you two had gone to find Jesse. The guy at the front desk said there was a riot on the West Side. Billy borrowed the guy’s Impala and he drove out there like Jackie Stewart in a Grand Prix race. It’s a good thing you guys stayed behind that dumpster. If you’d wandered off, we’d probably still be looking for you.”

Hank stood up and angrily confronted Billy. “Why you scamming me, Billy? Why didn’t you tell me Shuggie was a guy?”

“I wasn’t ‘scamming’ you. I had no idea about Shuggie until after YOU hired her. You scammed yourself, partner.”

“It’s just too convenient that Honey ran off and you had Shuggie here ready to replace her at the drop of a hat.”

“Well, Hank, let me ask you. Can Shuggie sing?”

“Yeah, of course. That’s why I hired her.”

“Have any complaints so far about how she’s performing on the tour?”

“No, yeah, the audience seems to really like her. But, Billy, she’s a he! When that dude Morrison claimed she was a guy, I thought he was just angry because she’d rejected his advances. Now, I find out he was right!”

“Hank, you, me, Bobby and the wardrobe girls are the only ones who know Shuggie’s a boy. We can do this. She’s very convincing. Goddamit, she walks, talks, and sings exactly like a girl. You can’t deny that.” Hank sat back down and knocked back the remainder of his scotch and soda.

“Do you want me to quit, guys? If it’ll stop you guys from fighting over me, I will. I don’t want to cause trouble.” I stood up and turned toward the door. “I could go back to New Jersey. I guess this was too good to be true anyway.”

“Hank? It’s up to you. Do you want Shuggie to leave?” Hank looked at the three of us, sighed, and took my hand.

“Forget it, Shuggie. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, it don’t matter to me. Just keep singing up a storm, okay? I’m a businessman too. And, so far, you’re very good for business. Stay?”

“Well, a girl can’t turn down an offer like that, can she?”

---

Friday morning, we were lounging on the bus, an hour out of Chicago, where we had just completed three nights of concerts amidst a city torn by race riots and the mass murder of eight nursing students by some psycho named Richard Speck. I was trying to show Bobby how much easier it was to play his alto sax than what I played in the school band, the clarinet. The fingerings were almost exactly the same except you had to cover holes rather than press keys. They differ in that the saxophone overblows the octave while the clarinet overblows a perfect 12th or an octave plus a 5th. So, when the saxophone or clarinet plays a D on the fourth line of the staff the same fingering is used. But when I tried to play Bach’s “Minuet in G Major,” (nowadays credited correctly to Christian Petzold) the basis of The Toys’ hit, “A Lover’s Concerto,” it was less than good.

“It’s my embouchure. I can never get it right. Even on clarinet.” I handed the saxophone back to Bobby and blushed before my attentive audience of bandmates.

“I guess your lips are only shaped perfectly for singing…and kissing,” laughed Chubby, our pianist. Bobby looked down at the floor as my face grew even redder.

“Guys! Hank and I have a little announcement. An addition to our tour itinerary. We’re playing the Newport Folk Festival the Saturday after next!” Billy stepped aside to reveal Hank standing behind him.

“I had nothing to do with it. It’s all Billy. Billy, want to tell us why a soul music band is playing a folk music festival?”

“When I first realized we were scheduled to play Boston that very same weekend, a genius idea came to me.” The guys all groaned in mock derision. “Newport’s only a 90-minute drive from Boston. Our Cleveland date’s on Thursday. We play Boston on Sunday and Monday. If we get in a day earlier, we can hit Newport. Expand our audience. Get some good press.”

“I don’t care about good press, Billy. How does playing a folk festival help us sell more records? “Kumbaya” ain’t topping the charts these days. Anyways, that audience doesn’t want to hear pop songs. They’ll boo us off the stage once they see we got electric instruments and drums.”

“Times they are a-changing, Hank. The Lovin’ Spoonful – a rock band – is on the same night we are. And Dylan went electric a year ago—”

“Didn’t they boo him off the stage?” asked Bobby.

“That was overblown by the press. A small minority of the audience booed. But they clapped up a storm, begging him to come back out for two encores. I think Dylan was more upset than the audience.”

“But we ain’t got nothing in our set-list that you’d call folk music,” Hank pointed out.

“I thought of that and I’m going to work with Shuggie to add a couple of folk-inflected numbers to the set. I’ll back her up on acoustic guitar.”

“Good. For a moment there I was afraid the band would have to do a few choruses of “We Shall Overcome” or “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“Hank, you’re a genius!” Billy slapped Hank on the back and rushed up the stairs to the upper deck of the bus, where, for most of the five-hour drive to Detroit, you could hear him strumming away on his guitar and singing in a low voice.

Since we had concerts on consecutive nights in Detroit, Billy had us booked into the famous Holiday Inn where The Rolling Stones had stayed in ’64 and ’65 on their American tours. The hotel was located in the heart of Corktown, the oldest neighborhood in the city, just blocks away from Tiger Stadium. In fact, Bobby was excited to learn The Tigers were home, playing a doubleheader on Sunday against The Cleveland Indians. He dragged me to the first game, which started at 2 in the afternoon, although I couldn’t care less about baseball (or any other sports for that matter). We bought Tigers caps to keep the searing sunshine from blinding us as we sat in the bleachers. Bobby said I looked really cute in the cap. I guess I looked a little too cute because some beer-splattered bleacher bum started to paw me when we all stood up for the obligatory seventh-inning stretch. Bobby almost decked the guy before two of his buddies pulled him back and into his seat. He left us alone for the rest of the game, but his snoring was rather annoying. Unfortunately for the home team fans, the Tigers lost 7 to 3. We rode a city bus from the stadium to The Olympia, where the band was scheduled to play that evening. The ride took 15 minutes. Waiting for the bus took a half an hour.

We had just come off stage to a standing ovation from the capacity crowd of 13,000 in The Red Barn, as the locals called The Olympia because of its red brick edifice, after a stirring performance of our encore number, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” done in the special concert-length arrangement Billy had written. An excited Billy corralled us backstage and was almost hyper-ventilating before he spoke to us.

“Great news, guys! Just spoke to Bryce Reynolds. He was here tonight and he was overwhelmed by your performance tonight—”

“Who the hell is Bryce Reynolds?” Hank asked.

“He’s the music columnist for the Amalgamated Press Syndicate. His column appears in 300 newspapers across the country. And he’s gonna write us up in his next column. This could mean real national exposure—”

“Yeah, but, teenage record buyers don’t read newspaper columnists,” Hank countered.

“Network executives read them. They book hot bands on network TV shows. That’ll push record sales. Record sales push concert tours. We could be in Europe next summer!”

“I’m just tired right now. Let’s get back to the hotel.” He gently moved Billy out of his way and walked toward the exit to the parking lot where the buses were readying to leave. Everyone in the band shrugged their shoulders at Hank’s moody behavior.

I sat down next to Hank on the bus ride to the Holiday Inn. He was uncharacteristically quiet, just peering out the window at the dark Detroit streets.

“What’s wrong, Hank? Everyone’s really excited by what Billy told us. Maybe we could get booked on The Hollywood Palace or Shivaree. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“It won’t be the same if Honey doesn’t come back.”

“What did her mother say? You went to see her today, right?”

“She hasn’t heard from Honey either. The only thing she thinks is that Honey’s in New York maybe signing a solo recording deal. Could be with Atlantic. I know Jerry Wexler’s been after her for a while. He thinks he could be another Aretha.”

“But you’re not just concerned about her going solo, are you?”

“Nah, Shuggie, a lot of people wouldn’t believe me, including Billy, but I really do love Honey. She’s a load to handle. Got a temper like a volcano erupting. And she thinks I’m making time with every girl I see—”

“She didn’t think you and me…”

“Probably. That’s her. Green-eyed monster, you know. But, more power to her if she wants her own career, separate from me. I just want her back in my life. I’m not sure she wants that.” He turned back to the window as the bus turned right off Michigan Avenue onto 12th Street. The Holiday Inn loomed in the near distance.

---

For the rest of the week until we set foot on the stage at The Newport Folk Festival, our soundchecks were mostly Billy taking the band through the songs he had added to our set-list, songs customized for the Newport audience. Which meant I had to learn the lyrics to them as well as memorize all the musical cues. Bobby and I were great helps to Billy since we were the only bandmembers other than Chubby who could read a music sheet. Hank had the best line: “Now I know more than three chords. I can write me a symphony!”

The long, hot Midwest summer of 1966 continued as we played single dates in Milwaukee and Cleveland during the following week. It was a good thing we simply hopped off the bus in Cleveland, played a two-hour concert in The Cleveland Arena (10,000 capacity), and hopped back onto the bus to leave town. Beginning on Sunday, the 17th, the predominantly African American Hough section of the city had ignited into six long days and nights of looting and rioting following a racial incident in a white-owned bar in the neighborhood. Four young black men were killed, another 50 injured in the melee. For a teenager raised in the relatively sequestered environs of suburban New Jersey, these glimpses into the burning pyre of racial and social unrest in America’s heartland were shocking and deeply disturbing. My head was spinning. But I had my own issues to deal with. Somehow it was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one who found life a harrowing journey and had chosen a hard road to go down.

One of the benefits of adding The Newport Folk Festival to our tour was Billy’s decision to have us stay at The Hotel Madison in Boston instead of sleeping on the bus. Since we would be in the area for four nights, it made sense to spend the extra coin. The Hotel Madison was next door to The Boston Garden where we were scheduled to perform on Sunday and Monday nights. We could almost literally hop out of bed and land on stage.

When Bobby told me he had somewhere in mind to spend Friday evening, I was afraid he wanted to see The Boston Red Sox play at Fenway Park. They were at home this weekend. Fortunately, he was anxious to go see Duke Ellington and his orchestra perform the complete “A Concert of Sacred Music,” his latest album, at The United Methodist Church, a 10-minute drive from the North End of Boston. This was Ellington’s collection of songs and tone poems, an attempt to create a jazz mass or liturgy. It had been critically well-received as a noble concretion of jazz, spirituals, and religion. Bobby was most interested in hearing one of his alto sax heroes Johnny Hodges play live. My own favorite from the concert was “Come Sunday,” a musical prayer to a caring God.

The next morning at breakfast, instead of an ebullient Bobby full of enthusiasm over seeing the Ellington concert the night before, I sat across from an expressionless mannequin who hardly spoke two words to me.

“Are you going to be like this all day? Tired of me already?”

“No, I got some bad news from home last night after we got back to our rooms.”

“Oh no, it’s not your parents or your sisters, I hope.”

“It’s…it’s nothing to do with them. They’re fine.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“We weren’t talking about anything else. At least you weren’t saying a word about anything. We could go back to just staring at each other. I wouldn’t mind that too much.” I laughed, trying to lighten his mood. But he just receded farther from view, becoming mute again. “Well, we’re not due on the bus until noon. Why don’t we walk around The North End? See the sights. There’s the Paul Revere House, the Old North Church, Little Italy…”

It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning but taking a walking tour of The North End with Bobby was tantamount to sightseeing by myself. He was occupied by whatever mysterious thoughts had crept into his head after his phone call from home. For a connoisseur of street food, he was remarkably unaffected by the Italian ices and cannoli we picked up in Little Italy. Whatever was bothering him, I squeezed his hand to let him know I was there for him. But he didn’t offer any explanation for his zombie impersonation, even after we boarded the bus to take us out to Newport.

A 90-minute drive from Boston, The Newport Folk Festival is held on a site in Fort Adams State Park on the southern tip of Rhode Island. A four-day presentation of musical genres loosely grouped together by tradition and the use of acoustic, mostly stringed instruments: gospel, bluegrass, folk music of the British Isles, Americana, and some modern folk-pop. The headliners for Saturday night’s bill included Phil Ochs, Judy Collins, Howlin’ Wolf, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, The Lovin’ Spoonful, and, of course, The Hank Hutch Band (featuring me!).

Backstage, waiting around to go through our perfunctory soundcheck, Bobby and I were listening to Phil Ochs perform his lovely update on the traditional sea chanty, “Pleasures of the Harbor,” when John Sebastian and Zal Yanovsky of The Lovin’ Spoonful wandered into view.

“Hey, Sugar Pie! Jim Morrison says hello,” Yanovsky shouted as he approached. I winced at the mention of Morrison and subtly moved behind Bobby, hoping to hide from view.

“He said you pushed Honey Hutch out of the band. I can see why. Jim said you can even sing a little,” Yanovsky laughed, holding his hand out to Bobby. “Zal Yanovsky, guitar man, Lovin’ Spoonful. My partner, the immortal John Sebastian, singer and poet.” Bobby shook Zal’s hand in silence, as I stayed behind his wide shoulders.

“We were just in L.A. and caught The Doors at The Whisky. Jim couldn’t stop talking about you,” Sebastian noted, shifting his stance to get a look at me.

“Wha…what did he say about me?”

“Not much really. Just that he thought you were going to be “the next thing.” He said you aced it at The Bowl. They were late getting back to The Whisky because they stayed to watch your set. Elmer was really pissed when they finally showed up for the late show. He almost clocked Jim when he argued with him. Ex-cops are the wrong guys to have words with, ya dig?” Zal smiled knowingly. Bobby perked up and inched closer to Yanovsky.

“Hey, I read about you getting arrested in L.A. a couple of months ago. For grass, right?”

“Yeah, the fuzz out there are real fascists about smoking a little tea. They almost had me deported back to Canada. Bob, our manager, got me some Perry Mason-type legal counsel and the whole thing’s pretty much blown over. Ironic, but a lot of American kids are dying to be sent to Canada. Better dead in Saskatoon than dead in ‘Nam, eh?”

“You’re talking about draft dodgers?” Bobby quickly asked.

“We Canadians aren’t for the War. Kids who cross the border aren’t shunned. Maybe not downright welcomed but you can have a good life in Canada if you’re a straight arrow. I know some dudes in Toronto who made the “great escape.”

“Do you have to apply for citizenship?”

“We call them landed immigrants. But, hey, there’s no turning back. It’s not as bad as being a deserter but you can kiss returning here goodbye. Like I said, the fuzz will be on your ass if you ever show your face again. Why, you know someone who’s been drafted and wants to run?”

“Uh, no, just curious—”

“We’re next, Zal. Come on. See you guys around. I think you’re closing the bill tonight. Right after our set. It’ll be tough to follow our act.” John laughed and grabbed Zal to walk onto the stage. I shot Bobby a long look as his eyes followed John and Zal. Something was definitely up with him. I just didn’t know what.

10,000 lovers of folk music sat in rapt attention as the warm New England summer evening settled in, peaking in enthusiasm when Judy Collins introduced Pete Seeger in the middle of her set to sing a duet of Seeger’s famous transcription of Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, “Turn, Turn, Turn.”

It was 11PM when The Lovin’ Spoonful trundled onto the stage. Surprisingly, a loud roar erupted from the audience when John Sebastian cradled his autoharp to strum it and winked at some girl in the front row. It was like a wave of teenage spirit had suddenly and shockingly washed over the seemingly geriatric crowd. They launched into “Do You Believe in Magic?” their first hit song from the previous year. The song had an infectious bounce to it but it was the lyrics that hit me where I lived. Was the girl John singing about…me?

Do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart?
How the music can free her whenever it starts
And it's magic if the music is groovy
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie
I'll tell you about the magic, and it'll free your soul

It had been the summer of Shuggie’s freedom, and music was the magic potion. I wanted to drink more of it. Keep on drinking it. I rushed onto the stage after The Lovin’ Spoonful finished their set to a raucous ovation and gripped the microphone in a state of rapture. We were barely announced when the band pierced the silence with the opening bars of “Oh No Not My Baby.” I sang my heart out, emotions on point as the feeling of impending doom in my relationship with Bobby grew with every baleful expression clouding his face.

The crowd warmed to us as we progressed through our usual setlist. Even Hank seemed to enjoy playing to the kind of audience he had never envisioned appealing to. For an encore, the band had cleared off and left me alone, standing at centerstage. Billy strolled out, carrying an acoustic guitar and a stool. Seated comfortably, he began to pick out the notes to a song I’m sure with which everyone in the crowd was familiar: “The House of the Rising Sun.”

The audience shouted and stomped their feet, pleading for another encore. Hank slapped Billy on the back. “Do it, man. Here’s your chance.” To rhythmic clapping, the band reassembled as Billy strapped on his guitar at centerstage. The string section and Bobby on flute played the intro to “Glory, Glory Hallelujah,” Billy’s arrangement of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

In the parking lot, as we climbed onto the bus to take us back to the Hotel Madison in Boston, I saw Bobby and Zal Yanovsky engaged in an animated conversation as they stood by The Spoonful’s Ford Econoline van. I shouted to Bobby, motioning for him to board our bus before we left without him. He shook hands with Zal and ran to the bus, hopping on just as the driver closed the doors.

“What was so interesting that you almost missed the bus?”

“He told me where to score some great weed in Boston,” Bobby shrugged as he slumped into the seat next to me.

“Something’s going on with you. Just tell me already.”

“Not just yet. I’ve got some things to work out.” He kissed my forehead and turned to look out the window. Meanwhile, Hank was telling Billy he ought to revive his performing career. Billy just smiled.

It was Sunday night, after the first of our two dates at The Boston Garden, and, dead tired, I collapsed on the bed in my hotel room. As I said, the Garden was virtually next door to our hotel, so ten minutes after our last bow, I was already sinking into the arms of Morpheus, still dressed in my stage clothes. Bailey was nowhere to be found. My roommate had gone off with some guy she knew from her childhood in Jamaica who had emigrated to Boston. I wasn’t likely to see her again until the next afternoon. The phone rang loudly and insistently, shaking me awake at the stroke of midnight.

“Shuggie, it’s me.”

“Who’s me?” I asked groggily.

“Your big sister, squirt. I can’t believe I woke you up. I thought show people stay up till dawn and sleep into the afternoon.”

“Connie, why are you calling me?”

“Not much for small talk, are you?”

“I was asleep. I intend to go back to sleep as soon as possible.”

“I just wanted to check in with you. I do care about you…sort of. I just got back from Mom and Dad’s, and they told me something that I’m sure was devastating news to you—”

“What are you talking about?”

“About Bobby getting his draft letter. I thought you’d be in tears—”

“Can’t be. He would’ve told me. Are you sure Mom and Dad were talking about my Bobby?”

“They found out from Bobby’s mom. The letter came Thursday. He’s got to report to the induction center in Newark on August 1st. That’s a Monday, I think. Why wouldn’t he have told you?” I started sobbing. “Shuggie? You’ve got to talk to him. I think it’s cruel for him to keep this from you. So, he was going to just up and disappear next week? You’ve got to rethink your relationship with that dude—”

“I’ve got to go, Connie,” I said between sobs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Hey, let me know what—”

I hung up and ran out into hallway. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I was in front of Bobby’s room, banging loudly on the door, and shouting his name. Someone from across the hall popped his head out and was about to say something when Bobby opened the door.

“Shuggie, what’s going on? Why are you crying?” I wiped my tears with my sleeve.

“Bobby, we have to talk.” I pulled him out of the room into the hallway. “Let’s go to my room. Now!”

After shutting the door to my room, I motioned for Bobby to sit on the bed.

“Where’s Bailey?” he asked.

“She probably won’t be back tonight.” I sat down on the bed next to Bobby and hugged him. The tears started to flow again. “Weren’t you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“I know, Bobby. Connie just called and told me. Your draft letter came Thursday.”

“I didn’t want to bring you down. I mean, you’re a star now. What happens to me can’t affect you and your future. It shouldn’t. You’re going to make it big. I know it!”

“Forget about my future, Bobby. What about your future? They could send you to Vietnam. And…and you could end up…oh, Bobby, I can’t lose you. I love you. I’ve always loved you—” Bobby held me in his arms as I completely lost it. After a few minutes, Bobby wiped my cheeks with his thumb.

“I’m going to go to Canada. Zal told me there are hundreds of Americans in Toronto and they’re accepted. They can work, even go to school. They can live their lives.”

“But you’ll never be able to come back. They’d put you in prison if they caught you. Are you really serious about doing that?”

“We’re in Toronto next weekend. All I have to do is stay behind when you guys leave for Buffalo on that Monday. I could get a gig within the week. There’s lots of jazz clubs in Toronto.”

“Have you told Billy?”

“Yeah, I told him on Saturday at Newport.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to keep mum about it to you.”

“What?”

“I could see his point. It’s a distraction you don’t need right now. You’re becoming the star attraction of the band. Everybody’s depending on you to keep this tour afloat.”

“How could you think so little of what we are to each other that you’d listen to Billy? That’s bullshit. I’m a nobody. When Honey comes back—”

“Regardless, I was thinking of you, Shuggie. You’re going places. You have talent. You’ll find someone a whole lot better than me. Smarter, more successful, better looking...okay, not better looking.” He laughed and made me snort and hiccup.

“I’ll go with you, Bobby. I’ll stay behind in Toronto with you. We’ll do this together. I’m your woman…forever.”

“No, you’re not, Shuggie. Billy loves you. He’ll make sure you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t help you anymore.”

“I’ve made up my mind, Robert Eugene Messina. And you can’t make me change it.”

The buses were parked overnight at a rest area parking lot somewhere in Maryland, three hours drive west of our next concert venue in Washington, D.C. Filled with the nutritious offerings of the rest area’s Perkins Restaurant, we trudged back to our sleeping berths, Bobby and I climbed onto separate buses.

I lay awake well past midnight, my mind filled with our surreptitious plans to remain north of the border in Toronto after the tour moved on Monday, August 1st. Bailey, in the berth directly across from me, peered at me in the semi-darkness the moonlight allowed.

“Can’t sleep? Too excited about seeing the nation’s capital for the first time?”

I guess I needed to tell someone, and I trusted Bailey more than anyone except Bobby in the entire troupe, so I lowered my voice, hoping everyone else was safely asleep. “Bobby got his draft letter last week. He’s supposed to report next Monday.”

“Oh my lord, no wonder you seem so preoccupied the last few days. So, is he leaving after the concert Thursday?”

“No, we’re going to Toronto this weekend.”

“But we have a concert on that Monday evening. He’s got to report on Monday, you said.”

“We’re staying in Toronto. He’s not going to report.”

“We? You’re staying too?”

“He’s my life, Bailey. I’m not going to be a widow before I’ve even graduated from high school—”

Bailey laughed out loud but stopped when she realized her guffaws could wake up the others. “Nonsense, Shuggie. You’re not married. And not everyone who’s drafted is even sent overseas. Think this through, girl.”

“We’ve decided. We can have a good life in Canada. At least we’ll both be alive.”

“Like I said, Shuggie, really think this through. Not only what’s best for Bobby but what’s best and sensible for you, your future, your…uh…situation.”

“I have thought it through. Anyway, sorry for keeping you awake. Let’s both get some sleep. It’s going to be a long week.” I turned toward the window and closed my eyes. Sleep came, not quickly but soon enough.

We played The Washington Coliseum, selling out two concerts at the 6,500-seat capacity venue. There had been some buzz in the papers and on radio about our appearance at the Newport Folk Festival and our recent concerts in Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and Boston. “Heaven Must Have Sent You” was climbing the charts and it must have been a surprise to concertgoers when they heard me singing it live rather than Honey. Hopefully, it was a pleasant surprise. Billy kept adding to and subtracting songs from our set-list, almost on a daily basis, which made soundchecks more intense than they were meant to be.

The last 15 minutes of our shows in Washington were the debuts for three of Billy’s newest arrangements. It was his vision of the future of The Hank Hutch Band. The audience response was thrilling as it rose to a crescendo along with our performance. It was Bailey’s idea for me and the Honeys to change outfits for the final leg of the concert. After Hank and the band rocked the crowd with “Soul Galore,” the girls and I returned to the stage in balloon sleeve silver sequin mini-dresses and white go-go boots.

We lined up like a classic Motown girl group and I followed Billy’s instructions explicitly in doing a rendition of “Yes, I’m Ready” to an expectant, hushed crowd.

The lights came back up full blast as Hank and the band brought most of the audience to their feet to shake and two-step to the beat of “S.O.S. (Stop Her On Sight).” Bobby threw me a tambourine as I shimmied to the half-time groove laid down by our drummer. I’m sure Billy chose this number to mirror Hank’s anxious feelings about Honey’s absence. Whatever the case, the crowd exploded in applause and cheers at the end of the song. Then, the spotlight centered on me as I sang the finale to our concert, “As Tears Go By.” Another instance of Billy reading our minds and monitoring our moods?

After two rousing encores, we would scatter to various late-night spots in the D.C. area, mostly in the Georgetown neighborhood. Bobby and I wandered into The Shamrock, a country music bar on M Street in the northwest corner of the city. We picked at our orders of burgers and fries as we waited for the house band, a bluegrass outfit called The Country Gentlemen, to start the late show. Someone was dropping coins into the jukebox, and we were serenaded by artists like Jimmy Dean, Roy Clark, Ernest Tubb and Patsy Cline. The conservative nature of the bar’s clientele and their favorite music was underlined by someone in a Cummins Diesel cap plunking down a quarter to play Dave Dudley’s “Vietnam Blues.”

After listening to Dudley’s talk-song about draft protestors and resisters, Bobby’s mood changed from placid, after-show decompression to restlessness and distance. We hardly exchanged two words as we finished our meals and Bobby pretty much zoned out during The Country Gentlemen’s set. We hailed a cab back to where our tour buses were parked and silently parted. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking but, in the end, just kissed him good night.

Bright and early on Friday morning, we embarked for Toronto, girding our loins for the nine-hour bus ride. We would be checking into our hotel rooms by dinner time if all goes smoothly. We passed time in the morning by doing what musicians do when facing a stretch of downtime. We jammed. Playing favorites, swapping new songs one of us had recently discovered, or just riffing on our instruments. The girls and I even made up song lyrics off the cuff. Most of it was rank gibberish but, every once in a while, I saw Billy jotting something down in a composition book he always seemed to carry around.

But it was Hank who came up with a complete new song. He had been working on the lyrics for weeks and had gotten some help from Billy on the music. Predictably, given his situation with Honey being A.W.O.L., it was a song about lost love. As Billy would say though, those types of songs are ‘commercial.’ By noon, we could’ve gone straight into the studio and recorded it. Hank titled it “I’ve Gotta Find Her.”

We were so absorbed in our workshopping that I didn’t notice we were in New Jersey, heading toward New Milford, which is a 6-minute drive from my house in Bergenfield. To make the best time, we should’ve stayed west of New Jersey and taken the direct northern route through Pennsylvania and Western New York. This detour through New Jersey will cost us up to two hours in travel time. I asked Billy why we were driving through New Jersey. He said we were stopping for lunch, which didn’t exactly answer my question. I turned toward Bobby to share my confusion about the matter when I noticed he was climbing the steps to the upper berth. Hank asked me, “You’re from around here, Shuggie, what’s good to eat in New Milford?”

“Oh, it’s got everything from soup to nuts…except for soup or nuts.”

Bobby asked me to wait for him in the Subway Sandwich Shop. He stayed on the bus after everyone left for Roman’s Pizza next door to Subway. It was kind of odd, but I found a booth in the back of the shop with a direct sightline to where our buses were parked. Bobby was standing by the side of the bus as our driver handed his saxophone case and suitcase to him. Circling them were Billy, Hank and Ray, our road manager. Bobby shook hands with each of them and then turned to walk toward the Subway Shop. I knew it was bad news. I watched with tearing eyes as he ambled toward our booth.

“So that’s why we detoured through New Jersey? You’re not going to Toronto?”

Sitting down, he averted my eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m going to report on Monday.”

“You can’t, Bobby. You and I, we decided to stay in Toronto. Start a whole new life in Canada. I want you alive, Bobby. Don’t do this to me!” The dam broke and I covered my face with my hands so the rest of what I said was probably unintelligible. He reached out to cover my hands with his.

“I went back and forth in my mind about this and I can’t do this to you or myself. You need to see where your career can go. With Billy and Hank behind you, you could be a superstar. And…and your other dream could come true. You’d have the money to…”

“Bobby, I can’t do it without you. It makes no sense without you—”

“Come on, Shuggie. I’ll be back in 2 years. I promise I won’t get killed. Okay?”

“Don’t joke about this! Thousands of soldiers have already been killed this year in Vietnam and we’re only in August. What about your mom and dad? They’ll lose their only son…”

“Look, they’ll end up putting me in some kind of military band. I’ll probably never see combat. I might never even go overseas. Stop crying. Don’t worry about me. Think about your own future. The sky’s the limit for you.” He leaned over the table and kissed my forehead, the only part of my face he could see.

“Just promise you won’t die. Promise!”

Holding his right hand up with three fingers pointing to the sky, he pledged, “Scout’s honor. I promise. Now let’s eat. My bus leaves in 15 minutes.”

We held each other the entire time we waited for Bobby’s NJ Transit bus to arrive. When it finally came, I cried into his chest uncontrollably. He kissed my wet lips, nose and eyes and mumbled “Goodbye” before he climbed the steps onto the bus.

I had a shouting match with Billy on the bus after we resumed our trek to Toronto. I was angry he had acquiesced to Bobby’s request to drop him off in New Milford without bothering to let me know. So angry, in fact, I swung at him, but my attempted punch was blocked easily by Hank, who is so much stronger than me. Billy retreated a couple of steps and tried to reason with me. “He did the right thing, Shuggie. And he did it mostly for you. The audience loves you. If you go to Canada, you’ll throw away potentially a tremendous career.”

“What? They don’t have entertainment in Canada?”

“You know what I mean! It’s two years. He might not even be sent overseas. Meanwhile, you could be hitting the top of the charts, getting on TV, touring Europe—”

“You’re a real sentimentalist, Billy.” I went toward the back of the bus and found a seat. I didn’t want to keep talking about it. Hank and Billy didn’t have a clue what Bobby and I had between us. Practically our whole lives we were together. That’s why I came with Bobby this summer in the first place. Not to become the next Diana Ross or Petula Clark but to be with Bobby. And now, I won’t see him for two years…or maybe ever again. I thought about jumping off the bus. But the bus was moving too fast. It would have really hurt if I jumped.

In order to cross the border, Billy had Bailey pick out the smallest size men’s clothes from her wardrobe for me to wear. Sans wig, without makeup, and splashing some aftershave lotion on my peach fuzz-less cheeks, I passed muster when they looked at my driver’s license photo and choked on my aftershave. The rest of the band just thought I was deeply depressed by Bobby’s sudden exit. It was Chubby who sidled up to me afterwards and remarked, “I don’t think you could pass for a boy if you tried. Not with that face and that booty. Pardon my French.”

With all that had happened that day, I wanted only to sleep until noon the next day and not allow my conscious mind to play ping pong with all the depressing thoughts. However, Bailey had other plans for me and practically dragged me to see some singer named Jackie Shane who was in residence at The Holiday Tavern, a jazz club in the heart of Toronto’s black neighborhood at the corner of Queen and Bathurst.

The manager obviously knew Bailey because we were immediately shown to a ringside table close to the stage. We arrived after the early show had just finished so we had time to order drinks and some food before Jackie would return for the late show. I looked at the fairly crowded room and noted that most of the patrons were black. There were some white women with black dates. And then there were me and Bailey, an unlikely pair, if only they knew.

“So, tell me about Jackie Shane. Who is she and why was it necessary to pull me out of an air-conditioned hotel room to traipse through a hot, muggy Toronto summer night to hear her?”

“When I told her about you, Shuggie, she was quite anxious to meet you.”

“Really? Why me?”

“To compare notes. You see, she’s a he.”

“I’m not a drag queen, Bailey. I thought you could tell the difference—”

“Jackie’s not a drag queen either. Like you, she was born with the wrong equipment, so to speak. She was born in Nashville and grew up poor, black, and the wrong sex. A pretty awful start to life, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that would suck, no doubt.”

“Anyway, as soon as she could, she ran off with the circus, kind of. Ended up in Montreal and Frank Motley discovered her and made her the singer for his group, The Motley Crew. A couple of years later, they moved to Toronto and established themselves as a popular act here and in the clubs on Yonge Street. They even got scouted by some New York record label and put out a couple of singles. Billy met Jackie back then. He was just a studio gofer basically back then, but he really liked Jackie’s style and even tried to get Jerry Wexler to audition her. But—”

“They found out she wasn’t a real girl?”

“Ed Sullivan wanted her to appear on his show but insisted she come on as a guy. Strictly a guy. They thought she could be accepted by audiences as a latter-day Little Richard. But she wouldn’t give in. So, she’s here in Toronto mostly. They tour around the chitlins circuit and Canadian TV actually has her on pretty often.”

“She’s probably going to tell me to drop the whole thing. I mean, they wouldn’t accept her for who she really is. They won’t accept me either.”

“No, she’s not a bitter person. Disappointed in life so far but…look, you’ve got advantages she doesn’t have. First off, you’re completely convincing as a girl. Look at you, for chrissake. And secondly, you’ve got boy genius producer Billy Schechter backing you. He’s already recorded more sides of you than Jackie ever got to do when she was officially signed to a label. You know, Billy’s got half a dozen tracks by you in the can. He didn’t put you on tape just for shits and grins, girl.”

I was about to marshal an argument to refute Bailey’s sunny take on my future singing career when a gentleman in a threadbare but freshly pressed dinner jacket and tie grabbed the microphone on stage to introduce The Motley Crew featuring Jackie Shane.

As the band was settling in on stage, Jackie saw us in the front table and winked at Bailey. When she caught sight of me, her eyes got large, and she shook her head. She smiled and gave me a thumb’s up. I felt silly but I responded with a little finger wave. The band went full volume and Jackie jumped right into their first number, “Walk the Dog.”

Afterwards, Jackie invited us into her tiny dressing room. She was freshening up her makeup. She took my hand and bade me sit down next to her on the only other chair in the room. Poor Bailey had to stand, leaning her back against the dressing room door, puffing away on her usual L&M Super Slim cigarette.

“Child, tell me, are you a girly boy or a boyish girl?”

“I was born a boy but I’m really a girl. My mother says she knew I should have been born a girl when I was just three years old. I was always playing with my older sister’s dolls and wearing her clothes.”

“Hmmm. Sounds familiar. When I was your age, I left town on the first thing smokin’. Came up here to Canada and people here let me live my life the way I want to. So far, it’s been a day in the park. But, south of the border, they’re not ready for me. I assume that’s true for you too.”

“Well, I’m not really after a career in showbiz. I only joined Hank’s band so I could be with my boyfriend. He plays alto sax—”

“Be careful with them musicians, girl. They’ll use you and break your heart at the drop of a hat.”

“He just got drafted. He went home earlier today. We’re from New Jersey.”

“That’s too sad. But, I hear from Bailey that you’re the apple of Billy Schechter’s eye. And you scared off Honey Hutch. You’re someone to be reckoned with, alright. My advice? Watch that Billy. He’s a smooth operator. He thinks he’s all that and you know? He just might be.” She laughed and asked Bailey to toss her a cigarette. “You got a light?”

“No, I don’t smoke. Sorry.”

“Anyways, I gotta go meet someone in about 15 minutes. It’s been a real pleasure to meet you, Shuggie. Best of luck to you. If we meet on the road again sometime, I’d love to hear you sing. Bailey says you’ve got some pipes.” She stood up and that was our cue to leave. Bailey exchanged pecks on the cheek with her and I shook her hand. She was singing “Send Me Some Lovin’” as we left her dressing room.

Despite being down in the dumps because of Bobby’s absence, appropriately I soldiered on, conducting myself as a true professional, giving our audiences their money’s worth. Even Billy and Hank were pleasantly surprised that I seemed to keep my spirits up as we meandered around the eastern United States, 12 tour dates in the next 3 weeks after Toronto. Of course, only Bailey knew I would go back to our bus or hotel after each concert and cry myself to sleep. But, on stage, I was a dynamo. I never missed a cue, flubbed a line, or took a misstep for those 90 minutes under the lights. When the audience gave me an ovation, the dark clouds in my life seemed to part for a brief moment. The smile I returned to the crowd was genuine.

August rolled on through Buffalo, Hartford, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Dayton, and Memphis. We played to mostly full houses, and we could hear “Heaven Must Have Sent You” being played on the radio along the way, climbing the charts, threatening the Top 10.
Our penultimate tour stop was Atlantic City, where we were booked for three concerts on the 23rd through the 25th of the month at The Steel Pier, a 1,000 foot long promontory jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean. I had just settled into my hotel room at The Claridge Hotel when the front desk phoned to tell me a letter had arrived for me the day before. When I returned to my room with the letter in hand, I found a letter opener in the desk drawer and quickly sliced through the envelope, shaking out the paper inside. It was from Bobby, sent from Fort Dix in New Jersey where he was undergoing basic training.

Dear Shuggie,

I’m writing you from boot camp here at Fort Dix. They say I’ve got another 6 weeks of basic training and then 8 more weeks of what they call AIT or Advanced Individual Training where they prepare you for your specific roles within your unit. To make a long story short, after about 4 months of this training, they tell you where you’re assigned. More than likely it’ll be overseas. Now, don’t get hysterical, Shuggie. Even if I do get sent over there, it might be a support role not as a grunt in combat. We’ll have to see what they decide.

The good news is that they give you 30 days liberty before they ship you out, So, I’ll be back home in December probably until the New Year. We’ll get to spend some time together. That is, if you still want to spend time with me. I mean, you’ll be a big star by Christmas, the way you’re going. But, seriously, Shuggie, don’t forget me, okay?

I guess that’s all I got to say. They’re going to call lights out in a few minutes so take care, Shuggie. I’ll write again when I can.

Sincerely,
Bobby

P.S. I love you, baby. Don’t forget me.

I threw my head back against the headboard of the bed and burst into tears, the letter still in my limp hands. There was a knock on the door. I quickly wiped my eyes and, straightening out my clothes, opened the door.

There, standing with Billy and Hank behind her, was Honey Hutch, the last person I’d ever expected to see again, at least until the summer tour ended.

“Hey, Shuggie, I’m back!”

I think I must have fainted. What I remember is that I opened my eyes and saw three faces looming over me. I was lying on the hotel room bed and made some squeaking noises when I tried to speak.

“Good thing Honey caught you before you hit the floor,” the face that belonged to Billy explained to me.

“I’ve been told I have the kind of face that makes men swoon not the kind that makes girls faint,” Honey laughed. She patted my cheek.

“I…I was just…like…”

“Shocked? I guess neither Billy nor Hank bothered to tell you when you guys left Memphis that I was hooking up with the tour again.” They both shook their heads. “Yeah, well, it’s a long story. Billy’s going to take us out to dinner to explain the whole deal.”

“I am feeling a bit peckish—” The three of them gave me confused looks. “That’s British for hungry? Oh, forget it. Where are you taking us, Billy?”

“The largest seafood restaurant in the world. Hackney’s. Heard of it?”

“Look, Billy, she’s turning a shade of green,” Hank pointed out as they helped me off the bed.

Despite my going into sickening detail about my aversion to seafood and my childhood familiarity with Hackney’s Seafood Restaurant (although Billy pointed out I did get an oversized plush tiger which I named Harold out of that misadventure), they shanghaied me to the restaurant anyway. The 8-minute drive to the northeastern part of the Boardwalk was filled with silence. Hank kept looking back at Honey and me in the back seat, concerned at the kaleidoscope sweeping across my face.

“You really don’t like seafood, do you? Billy says they got other things on the menu you can order. Have a salad.”

“You’re so slim, Shuggie. I’m surprised Bobby hasn’t been trying to fatten you up a bit. I know Hank likes women with a little meat on their bones. How ‘bout you, Billy?” Billy just grunted. “Yeah, Billy likes ‘em skinny and young.”

“Honey, just stifle, okay? You’re making Shuggie sicker than she already looks.”

I ended up ordering the Chicken a la King dinner and nibbled on the french fries that came with it. Billy had the Lobster Thermidor and Hank and Honey shared a double order of Hackney’s famous Clambake Dinner. Clams, lobster, and deviled crab in an unappetizing (to me) combo. They fed each other like young lovers. Billy rolled his eyes while I just looked down at my plate and avoided the sight of all that bounty of the sea.

“You’re wonderin’ how I decided to come back to y’all—”

“I think it was your agent and your lawyer that decided that,” Billy interjected. “The label was going to sue you and Atlantic for breach of contract unless Wexler’s bosses forked over six figures in ransom.”

“That was a part of it, sure, but I realized how much I missed Hank all the time I was away. We had a good thing going. Even if there were some bumps in the road. Right, Hank, baby?” She took Hank’s seafood-sodden hand in hers and squeezed, smiling broadly.

“It wasn’t no fun without you, Honey. Billy knows that. I was going to quit the act if you’d stayed away. Going solo doesn’t appeal to me too much.”

“I reserve the right to see the whole affair differently but it’s a moot point. The thing we need to discuss is how Shuggie fits into the picture now that Honey’s back. We can divide up the set—”

Honey jumped in. “No offense, Shuggie, but it says Hank and Honey on the marquee not ‘with Shuggie’. People are buying tickets to our shows and the record’s climbing the charts because of me…and Hank, of course. And nobody consulted me about making you a Honey neither—”

“The audiences seem to really like Shuggie, Honey,” Hank cut her short.

“I’ve heard good things about you on the tour, Shuggie. I’m sure Billy can get you started on a solo career. But there’s really no need for you in the band now that I’m back. Even as a Honey. Three back up singers is more than enough.”

“How’s about this?” Billy asked in an authoritative tone. “We’ve only got two more weeks on tour. I’m not going to send Shuggie home. She really has helped us out a great deal and, Honey, those reports about Shuggie are absolutely correct. You should hear the ovations. They want multiple encores. Encores for her! Why don’t we do this? Shuggie does a short set to open for you and Hank. 20 minutes, 4 or 5 songs. It’ll give you an extra half-hour before you go out on stage.”

“Yeah, you can take more time with your make-up, babe.”

“Hank, you saying I need more make-up?”

“No, baby, you can be more leisure-like putting it on.” He shrugged his shoulders in Billy’s direction.

“Okay, Billy, you take care of the details.” Honey took her napkin and wiped some pieces of lobster and crab off Hank’s cheek, ignoring Billy and me in her royal demeanor.

“I guess I don’t have a say in any of this? I might as well as go home. I mean, Bobby’s the only reason I’m with you guys in the first place and now he’s gone.”

“It’s just two more weeks, Shuggie.” Billy offered “This may even be for the best. You’ll have the spotlight all to yourself.”

Billy walked me back to my hotel room. Before I turned the key to open the door, he mentioned that we’d been extended through the end of the week at The Steel Pier. “Just think of the exposure you’ll be getting. People in the industry pay attention to the acts that play The Steel Pier. The Stones and The Beach Boys were in here already this summer. Give it your best effort, Shuggie. You never know who’s in the audience.” He gently hooked his index finger under my chin and lifted my face, looking into my eyes. “You have the talent to be bigger than Honey will ever be. Believe me. Trust me.” He planted a short but sweet kiss on my lips and walked off down the hall. I shivered before turning the room key.

Walking along the Boardwalk the next day, I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, jumbled as they were. I wanted to be with Bobby but that was not possible. I wanted to continue my summer of girlhood but that was coming to an end soon, one way or another. I wanted to believe Billy that I had a bright future as a singer but could I really trust him? Was he motivated by greed or genuine respect for my talent? Was he just trying to seduce me? Everyone says he’s a lothario, especially with young girls like me. Like me? But he knows I’m not really a--.

“Hey, are you Sugar Pie?” I turned around and was face to face with a short, swarthy young man with a few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. He had spoken with a rough British accent. I wasn’t sure if he was faking it.

“That’s me. Who’s asking?”

“I thought it was you. The picture of you in the paper doesn’t do you justice. I’m Eric Burdon. I’m with The Animals. Heard of us?”

“Sure. What are you doing in Atlantic City? Aren’t you on tour or something?”

“Yeah, we follow you into The Marine Ballroom at The Pier. Monday. We got here early for a sort of busman’s holiday. Just hanging out for a few days. How about you? Walking around by your lonesome rather aimlessly?”

“I’m doing some thinking. About my future.”

“From what I’ve been told, you have quite a future ahead of you. We were in California a few weeks ago and this guy Jim Morrison—”

“Oh, him again! Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut about me? That creep!”

“No, no, he told me you can really sing. He thought you’d replace Honey Hutch before long or go solo. That good, he said. And these guys who opened for us in San Jose, The Jefferson Airplane, they were raving about you too. One of them took me aside and confessed they’d replace the current girl with you if given half a chance. But the other guys in the band wanted someone named Gracie or Grace, I’m not sure. Anyways, they all think Billy Schechter’s got you under exclusive contract.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know. I thought they just wanted to pick me up. Guys are like that.”

“Well, a bird like you…I can see why you’d think that. Say, have you had lunch yet?”

“I am a bit peckish.” I paused but he didn’t react. I guess it isn’t funny to someone who actually is British. “Anything as long as it’s not seafood. What do you suggest?”

“We can get some hotdogs and sit on one of the benches overlooking the ocean. Sound alright?”

We were talking about Eric’s plans after his tour ended in September. Apparently, he and his band were at a crossroads as well. He had lost his keyboard player, Alan Price, earlier in the year when he departed for a solo career, and his bass player Chas Chandler was thinking of becoming a manager for this young guitarist he had “discovered” in New York in June. He wanted to bring him over to England.

“I was in New York in June. What’s the guy’s name?”

“Well, he was going by Jimmy James but Chas wants him to use his real name Jimi Hendrix—”

“Hey, I saw him at the Café Wha!”

“That’s the dude. So, I’m probably gonna have to form a whole new band after September.”

“Going back home? Where are you from in England? Liverpool? London?”

“Guess you can’t suss out my Geordie accent. I’m from Newcastle. Known for coal and long-haired gnomes who sing rock and roll like me.” He laughed and threw a piece of his hotdog bun to one of the seagulls circling the benches for tidbits from people. There was one particular seagull who was squawking at us for not being quick enough with the free food. I swear he was staring us down.

“But I’m not heading back there when we get off this tour. I’m tired of dodging rain that comes at you sideways. I’m going to spend some downtime in San Francisco. I love the area. It’s so scenic and the kids are really groovy there. You might want to move there yourself.”

“I’m probably going back to finish school in September. I’m only 17.”

“Really? You didn’t run away from home, did you?”

“Oh, no, well, sort of. But my dad gave his approval. Just for the summer. Then he wants me back in school and back in…uh…my schoolbooks.” I giggled to smooth over what could have been an embarrassing moment.

“That’s too bad. Say, if you’re not under Billy’s thumb, you should think about moving out west or even across the pond. After you’ve finished school of course. If you’re good as everyone says, there’d be work for you in either place.”

“I’ll think about it. It’s really complicated though. When I’m 18, I’ll be free to do what I want. That’s almost a year away. May to be exact.”

“Hey, it’s almost 1 o’clock. I’m supposed to do a soundcheck in the Ballroom right about now. You guys have the Ballroom after us. So, maybe I’ll see you later. I’d like to meet this Billy Schechter character myself. I hear he produces gold records like a hen lays eggs. Daily.” He threw the last bit of his hotdog bun to the angry seagull and walked off in the direction of The Steel Pier.

Still in a mope, I strolled into the hangar-like Marine Ballroom at five of three that afternoon, expecting to see the band already running through Honey’s numbers. Now that she was back, my part of the setlist was down to four songs. They’d probably run through my numbers last in the soundcheck. But on the stage, still playing, were Eric and The Animals. Hank, Billy, and Honey were in front row seats in the otherwise empty Ballroom while the rest of the band was scattered throughout the 5,000-seat capacity room.

In mid-song, Eric stopped and pointed at me as I walked down the center aisle toward the front row.

“Hey, it’s Sugar Pie! Look, fellas, it’s that girl I told you about. The one who did that version of “House” at Newport last month.” I smiled and waved. Finding a seat across the aisle from Hank, Billy, and Honey, I sat down.

“One more number and the place is all yours, Hank. Okay, hit it!”

It was the familiar sound of The Animals’ current single, “See See Rider.”

There was applause from our band members when Eric and his group climbed down from the stage and their roadies started to clear their equipment away.

“I hope we pass the audition!” Eric laughed as he headed straight over to Billy and Hank. They engaged in some glad-handing and back-patting. Eric’s head nodded toward me a few times as they conversed. Billy frowned and looked at me before responding to whatever Eric had asked. Honey and the girls had already positioned themselves on stage.

“Hey, Hank. Can we do the run through now? It’s already three-fifteen. I’ve got a spa appointment at 4. I don’t want to miss it.” She placed her hands on her hips and pouted. Hank excused himself and climbed up on stage.

Billy and Eric walked out of The Ballroom, loudly discussing something about recording studios in LA and San Francisco. I assumed Eric wanted to persuade Billy to produce The Animals’ next album. I sat there, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs, watching the band run through its set…without me. I closed my eyes and almost fell asleep but opened them wide when I heard the first song Honey performed. It was a song Carole King had played for me in her office it now seems ages ago but was really less than two months in the past. She, of course, hadn’t written it for me but I liked to think I had a special connection to it. That thought was shattered as Honey sang “Oh No Not My Baby.” Was it my imagination or was she looking right at me as she sang? I had been singing that since we installed it in our set-list at Newport. Now Honey had swiped it back. And it was one of my favorite numbers to sing. I leaped out of my seat and hurried out of The Ballroom, afraid to let Honey and the others see the tears that were poised to roll down my cheeks.

I ran a fair distance down the Boardwalk, but I had no idea where I was going. Finally, out of breath, I sat down on one of the benches overlooking the ocean. I heard the familiar squawk of an angry sounding seagull and just burst out laughing. My laughter must have frightened the seagull because he did an abrupt about face and stomped over to harass some other pedestrian. I looked up and Billy was standing in front of me, smiling.

“You have a way with animals, I see. Want to come back to The Ballroom? I want to go over your new set-list with you. Then we’ll run through it together. Some of the guys in the band said they’d play behind you. No, actually all of them did.” He offered his hand. “Let’s go back. I think we better walk this time.”

Billy had decided to be the leader of my band on stage during my 20-minute set opening for Hank and Honey. So, he had me learn a new song and he would perform a song himself. All along, I had suspected that Billy was just itching to take off his producer uniform and resume his own performing career. Taking charge of my opening set served both purposes. I was happy to see his enthusiasm as we tackled the first rehearsal.

Hank and Honey had left The Ballroom, Honey to go to her spa appointment and Hank to take a siesta by the hotel pool. The rest of the band, including The Honeys, were anxious to run through my segment of the concert. Billy had us do several takes of “Love is Enough” before he pronounced it just right. It was a lovely slow tempo ballad and it resonated emotionally with me as I sang.

Of course, the whole set couldn’t be slow-paced ballads, so the number that Billy chose to perform was a rocker called “She Touched Me.” I didn’t do much except bang away at a tambourine, but I enjoyed the fact that Billy kept his eyes on me as he sang.

I smiled from ear to ear when Chubby, our keyboard player, stood up from his piano and announced to everyone, “Good jam session, boys and girls. I’m going to enjoy working an extra half-hour every night.”

We played 8 concerts in 6 days at The Steel Pier’s Marine Ballroom (two a day on Saturday and Sunday) and the place was packed every time. Apparently, Billy had spread the word to every radio station in the region that Honey Hutch was making her much bally-hooed return to the band. It seemed like all of New Jersey was coming through the turnstiles of The Ballroom that week. I had a passing thought about seeing someone who knew me, maybe even from school in Bergenfield, in the crowds. That would be mortifying. But would anyone except my closest friends even recognize Shuggie Brennan in the guise of Sugar Pie, up and coming soul diva?

The highlight of the weekend for me was Sunday matinee when Eric Burdon joined me and Billy on stage for a cameo appearance. The crowd went wild! We had worked on this special number every time we crossed paths at our daily soundchecks. At first, we just viewed it as a cool little jam among friendly musicians but when I told Eric about Bobby being drafted, he insisted we dedicate the song to Bobby and play it live at least once before our gig was finished on Sunday. And so, I took the microphone and introduced Eric to the audience. Cheers went up from the crowd as I continued. “This is an oldie but goodie from Eric and The Animals. “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.” I’d like to dedicate this to my best friend in the whole world, Bobby, and all the boys fighting overseas.” More cheers erupted and we launched into the song.

We left the stage to thunderous applause from the sweaty, overheated capacity crowd shoe-horned into this auditorium that resembled an airplane hangar with seats. Still waving to the crowd, Eric and Billy had arms around my waist as we headed backstage. We passed Honey Hutch standing there, arms crossed, an annoyed look on her face. I do believe she had a little extra make-up on.

I was sitting on my “designated” bench overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, throwing breadcrumbs to thankfully placid seagulls, contemplating my future. It was late Sunday afternoon, hours before our final concert in the Marine Ballroom. There was heavy tourist traffic on the Boardwalk as we were just over a week away from Labor Day and the unofficial end of summer. Suddenly, I felt two large hands grasp my shoulders from behind.

“Shuggie?” I whipped my head around to see my father standing above me, an enigmatic smile on his face.

“Daddy! What are you doing here? Where’s Mom?”

“We came down for the day. Bobby’s parents are here with us. We’re going to take in the Al Martino concert at The Convention Hall tonight. Your mom and them are shopping for taffy or something. I’d rather just take a walk along the Boardwalk instead. You know I hate shopping.”

“Sit down, Daddy. Are you mad at me for looking like this?”

“Well, sweetie, I’m sort of confused and disappointed seeing my son in a dress. But I have to admit you look beautiful. Too beautiful for words. You look just like your mother did when we first met.”

“I thought you and Mom came down to see me sing.”

“No, honey, we thought you’d already finished your dates here. Yes, your sister kept us apprised of your tour schedule.”

“Billy got us extended for the whole week. Because of Honey coming back.”

“She came back? I didn’t know. Anyway, it’s the last week of the tour. You’ll be home come Labor Day.”

“Yeah, Daddy, don’t remind me.”

“Look, Shuggie, we made a deal. You get to do this…this girl thing all summer and then you come back and finish school. As a boy. Which is what you were born as and how we tried to raise you. Though I guess I didn’t do that good a job of it, did I?”

“No, Daddy, you’ve been a great father. Even if you won’t accept me as a girl. When I’m 18, I’ll live my life the way I want. You can’t stop me.”

Dad stood up and took my face in his large, strong hands. He looked in to my eyes for a long minute. “Sweetheart, I love you. We’ll work this out somehow. Just come home next week and we’ll talk. You mother wants to get you some counseling and doctors who are specialists in your…uh…condition. We’ll find the money somehow. Just come home. We…I miss you.” We hugged and I got a little weepy. I think Dad was tearing up too, but he turned away quickly to walk off.

“Daddy, how are Bobby’s parents holding up?”

“As well as expected, I guess. Do you want me to tell them you’re here?”

“No, I don’t think I’m up to seeing them right now. And Mom too. Don’t tell her you saw me. You’re all coming to see me in Brooklyn next week, right?”

He nodded and waved. I watched my father blend into the crowd on The Boardwalk and resumed tossing breadcrumbs to the pesky seagulls clamoring for their afternoon snack.

I heard the click clack of my white lace-up go-go boot heels as I walked hurriedly toward my first period Calculus class. Cradling my schoolbooks in my arms like a baby against my budding breasts, I was paying the least attention I could to Rachel Hanley’s blather as she tried to keep up with my pace.

“I mean how did we all convince ourselves that you’re a boy instead of a girl? Although I knew all along! You’re much too pretty to be a boy…”

Suddenly, Vice Principal Masterson jumped into our path, a broad smile on his face. “Hold it right there, Miss Brennan!” Rachel slammed into me as I stopped in mid-stride, and I almost dropped my books.

“But, Mr. Masterson, I’ll be late for class.”

“Not today, Miss Brennan…or should I call you Sugar Pie?”

As if having emerged from the borders of a comic strip panel, dozens of my fellow Bergenfield High students started chanting “Sugar Pie! Sugar Pie!” I blushed deeply, deeper than the rouge I had over-applied to my cheeks this morning.

“Today is Shuggie Brennan Day at Bergenfield High School and you, Miss Brennan, are our Special Guest of Honor! Hooray! Hurrah!” The throng of students joined in the cheers. Rachel took the books from my arms and gestured for me to bow to the crowd. When I looked up, I saw a figure in Army dress uniform carrying a huge bouquet of roses walking down the hall toward us. It was Bobby!

“Hey, babe. Guess what? I didn’t get killed. Here’s some roses for my sweet Sugar Pie.” I took the bouquet and inhaled deeply. Then Bobby crushed me in his brawny, boot camp toned arms, kissing me within an inch of my life. Rachel cooed beside us, “What a lovely couple.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother patting my head. “I hope they serve Hawaiian pizza for lunch today in the cafeteria.”

“Shuggie? Shuggie? Earth to Shuggie…”

Why is Billy Schechter in my high school? Oh, yeah, he must be here to induct me into the Bergenfield High Alumni Hall of Fame.

“Earth to Shuggie!” Groggily, I opened my eyes to see a blurry Billy Schechter standing above me, an electric guitar strapped across his shoulder. I was slumped in one of the 3,600 seats of an empty Asbury Park Convention Hall, having apparently fallen asleep while waiting for our afternoon soundcheck. And dreaming. A lovely little dream. I was momentarily angry at Billy for cutting my dream short.

“Get yourself a cup of coffee. You need it. Listen, I’ve got a new song for you to do. Just got off the phone to Carole and Gerry. It’s perfect for you. We can learn it in time for Murray the K on Friday.”

“Oh? Yeah, sounds great. You know, Billy, I’ve been thinking about after Friday. After the tour’s over—”

“I’ve been doing some thinking about that too. I’ve got big plans for you, girl. I want to talk to your parents. Maybe after the concert Friday. They’ll be there, right?”

“I’m going back to school, Billy. I promised my Dad. I really ought to honor my promise. They…they love me. Daddy told me he missed me—”

“Your father’s a real problem. Kind of like my Dad was with my sister. Well, he still is.”

We were interrupted by the band on stage finishing their soundcheck. Some local group of teenage boys calling themselves The Castiles and wearing what looked like waiters’ outfits from an Italian restaurant like Paulie’s on Washington Avenue back home in Bergenfield.

They were enthusiastic, loud, and not that good…to my ears. Billy said he saw something in the lead guitarist, a 16-year-old named Bruce Springstein, who wrote their songs but wasn’t the singer. Their last number was “Baby I.” Though his guitar wasn’t plugged in, Billy was playing along, improvising an E minor pentatonic riff.

As they shuffled off the stage, Billy motioned Bruce over to us. In his outfit, he looked like he was about to take our dinner order. The only things missing were an apron, a server notepad, and a stubby pencil behind his right ear. Shyly, he shook Billy’s hand and waved to me when we exchanged introductions.

“Here’s my card, Bruce. Give me a call when you’ve got a demo for me to hear. Make sure it’s an original song not a cover. I like your energy on stage…” As Billy droned on, Bruce kept staring at me, occasionally nodding to whatever Billy was saying.

“Do you sing, miss?” Bruce asked me abruptly in the middle of Billy’s extemporaneous speech about the record industry.

“A little. Do you?” I returned his serve.

“I’m concentratin’ on my guitar playing right now but, yeah, I guess if Dylan can sing, I can too.” He laughed as Billy patted his shoulder, wanting to dismiss him before he and I got into a long conversation.

“See you tonight, Bruce. Right now, Shuggie and the band have some rehearsing to do. Remember to call when you’ve got that demo.” Billy turned to me as Bruce caught up with his bandmates near the exit to the Hall.

“Get that coffee and let’s start putting your set together.”

On Thursday morning, the last day of our three-night run at the Asbury Park Convention Hall, Billy joined Bailey and me for a late breakfast in the coffee shop of The Asbury Hotel, where our whole contingent was staying. Since my part of the concerts were now over before Hank and Honey did their full hour and a half set, it was a lot easier for me to just collapse onto my hotel bed and get my full share of beauty sleep. Even so, I kept yawning in Billy’s face as he discussed the band’s final date—The Murray the K Labor Day Show at The Brooklyn Fox Theater Friday night. We were on a bill with a dozen other acts, many of them bigger than we were, like The Miracles, The Drifters, The Young Rascals, The Moody Blues, Jay & The Americans…you get the idea. Billy was confident but nervous. Bailey put her arm around my shoulders.

“Shuggie’s your secret weapon, Billy. When the audience hears her sing—”

“She’s only doing one number. Everyone on the bill gets 20 minutes, 30 tops. Otherwise, the show would actually go on until Labor Day on Monday.”

“Are you sure Carole won’t mind me singing that song? I mean it was written for Aretha Franklin and she hasn’t even recorded it yet. Won’t Atlantic Records be awful mad?”

“Until Aretha records and releases it, it’s fair game. Besides, Carole was ecstatic about you performing it in Brooklyn, her old stomping grounds.”

Bailey excused herself from the table and said she was going back to our room to get more sleep. She hadn’t slipped into bed last night until 3 in the morning. Apparently, she’d hooked up with one of The Castiles, our opening act. She swears it wasn’t the guitar player, Bruce. Ha ha.

“And why would I care if it was him?”

“Oh, come on, girl. You’ve been looking at him with stars in your eyes for two days. He is kind of cute. A little too young for me though.”

“Oh, so it was the drummer, eh? How old is he? Drinking age at least?”

“He’s all of 21, my dear girl. And I mean all of it.” With a laugh, she turned and walked out of the coffee shop.

“You like Bruce? He’s even younger than you.”

“No, Bailey’s just teasing. Anyway, what’s it to you?”

“Nothing. Just being protective, that’s all. I mean Bobby was someone you knew your whole life. You can’t trust any of the guys you meet in this business.”

“I trust you, Billy.” I drained my coffee cup and dabbed my mouth with my napkin. Good thing I decided not to wear lipstick this morning. My hair could use another pass or two of a brush though.

“What’s your plan for this morning? Lounging around the pool with Hank and Honey? Everyone else is still in bed.”

“Don’t laugh, Billy, but Asbury Park is world-famous for its pinball arcades. I’m thinking of walking over to Ocean Avenue and finding me a Batman machine to play.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Bobby and I used to play pinball all the time when we weren’t in school or practicing.”

“I keep forgetting you’re 17 years old.”

“You can come along. You must have played some pinball in your day.”

“Uh, that’s a definite no. It was all music and baseball in high school. I was either going to be Sandy Koufax or Bobby Darin. So far, I guess, I’m neither.”

“You’re a huge success, Billy. I read in the Daily News that you’re the youngest millionaire record producer in the history of the business. That’s a lot better than throwing baseballs for a living.”

“Sometimes I don’t feel that young anymore. The parade’s catching up to me and getting ready to pass me by. But, enough self-pity, let’s go play some pinball.”

“Really? You wanna come? They’ve got a Beatles pinball game that’s pretty cool.”

“I think I’ll just watch you play.” We ambled out into the warm September 1st morning. Ocean Avenue was just a 5-minute walk from the hotel.

Along the length of Ocean Avenue there were half a dozen pinball arcades, the largest being the Silverball Arcade, which is where I was headed.

Right outside the entrance to Silverball, that kid from The Castiles, Bruce, was leaning a bike against a telephone pole. When he turned around, he saw us and waved.

“Hey, Sugar Pie, Mr. Schechter. Top of the morning to ya. Funny meeting you here.”

“Say, aren’t you afraid someone’ll swipe your bike? Don’t you have a chain or lock or something?”

“What? Steal this piece of crap? They’re welcome to it. It’s worthless. Actually, I swiped it off some dude while he was dozing on the beach.”

“Really?”

“I’m only half-kidding. So, what’s your game? Are you playing one of the two-man machines?”

Billy snickered. “I’m just here to watch Sugar. Don’t play pinball myself.”

“Mind if I watch too? Aren’t too many girls I know that good at pinball. It’s all in the wrists, you know. Let’s see your hands.” He took my hands in his, turned them over and whistled. “Are your wrists strong enough?”

“They’re built up from all the sweaters I’ve been knitting for Christmas. And brushing my hair a hundred strokes twice a day—”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. No offense. Can I watch anyway?”

“Sure, if I can find a free Batman machine.”

“It’s pretty early in the day. Both of their Batman machines are probably available. After you.” He opened the door for me and I stepped in. “Oh, age before beauty, Mr. Schechter. After you.”

“Very funny, Bruce. You can cut the Mr. crap. Call me Billy. And it’s youth before wisdom. Go ahead.”

Bruce was right. The machines stood there in the huge room shiny and mostly silent with a handful of boys hunched over their games oblivious to us when we walked in. I spotted one of the two Batman machines in the far corner and reached into my purse to grab a handful of quarters. Billy stopped me.

“I’ll get change for a twenty. Will that be enough?”

“More than enough for the way I play. I get lots of replays—”

“A girl with braggadocio. I like that.” Bruce smiled as Billy went to the cashier in the front of the shop. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a quarter for you to start. Who knows how long it’ll take Billy to get change. When’s the last time some 15-year-old kid had to break a twenty?”

I was debating whether to go straight for the Commissioner Gordon target or go through the various major villain modes.

“Start with The Penguin. Or maybe Catwoman since she’s the weaker sex…” Bruce teased.

“Hey, don’t backseat driver me, will ya? By the way, how come you’re riding a bike. You’re 16, don’t you drive?”

“Can’t afford a car. And my Dad won’t let me drive his since I sort of dropped out of school—”

“Sort of?”

“Well, I’m not planning to go back for my junior year next week. Me and Dad had a big fight about it, and I have to sleep in the surfboard factory on Cookman Avenue. My cousin works there, and he gave me the key to the backdoor. I just have to make sure I’m up and out before the boss man comes in to open the place.”

“That’s tough. Oh shit, I overshot. These flippers need to be looked at.”

“It’s your wrists, girly.”

“No, it’s not, manly boy-man.”

“One of the backup singers told me you’re only 17. Is that right? How come you’re out on the road without parental supervision? Isn’t that verboten?”

“My father gave his approval. Anyway, I started this tour with my boyfriend.”

“Billy’s your boyfriend? Man, talk about robbing the cradle.”

“No, silly, my boyfriend was the sax player in the band. But he’s not with us now. He got drafted. He’s in boot camp at Fort Dix.”
“So, you’re single?”

I ignored his question, trying to concentrate on the game.

“You guys from the area then?”

“Bergenfield.”

“That’s cool. If you’re going back to school, maybe we can see each other sometimes. My band plays around the shore mostly but, hey, it’s only an hour up The Parkway from here to Bergenfield—”

“How long does it take by bicycle?”

“Good one. Maybe I can afford a car in a couple of months if our bookings trend up. Opening for you guys should give us some more visibility.”

“Fuck! Game over. You’re distracting me!”

“It’s the wrists. Here, I’ve got another quarter somewhere.” Bruce reached into both pockets of his jeans and came up with a set of keys and a beat-up looking wallet but no coins.

“Here you go, Sugar.” Billy appeared out of nowhere and handed me a clutch of quarters. “Is he bothering you?”

“No, he’s just being a jerk. He thinks just because I’m a girl I can’t be good at pinball.”

“Bruce, don’t you guys have soundcheck at one?”

“Yeah, Billy, but it’s not even noon.”

“You’re riding a bike. It might take a while to get to the Hall from here.”

“It’s like a minute ride. Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone. See you later, Sugar.” He replaced his keys and wallet and shuffled out of the arcade, his metaphorical tail between his legs.

“He’s just a kid, Billy. He was attempting to flirt with me, that’s all. But he was distracting me from my game.”

“Good thing I got back when I did. I won’t distract you. Let’s see if you can beat the top score on this thing.”

Our third and final concert at The Convention Hall was before a third straight sell-out crowd. Bruce sidled up to Billy backstage and needled him with the claim that The Castiles were the reason for the overwhelming turnouts. “We’re local legends,” Bruce said. Billy crossed his arms and stared at him. “You’re getting on my nerves, kid. Do me a favor and lose that card I gave you.” One of the other Castiles became alarmed and tried to smooth things over. I turned back to the stage and watched Hank sing his newest addition to their setlist, a musical attempt at appeasement with Honey, “Everybody’s Gotta Pay Some Dues.”

But as soon as the applause subsided for Hank’s song, Honey launched into her own musical response. A flinty and somewhat ambivalent view of the pitfalls of relationships, namely theirs. Honey saw the continuation of their professional and personal partnership as an open-ended question: “Too Many Roads.”

Since the drive from Asbury Park to Brooklyn was little more than an hour, Billy had us stay in our hotel Thursday night. We would board our buses after lunch in plenty of time to check in at The Brooklyn Fox Theater around 2 PM. Thus, I found myself sitting with Billy in the hotel lounge at midnight, nursing my ginger ale while he downed at least three whiskey sours.

“Are you nervous about the Murray the K show? You shouldn’t be. Hank and Honey look like they’ve got it together musically if not personally.”

“I’m not worried about them. They’ll work it out between them or not. If I had to bet money, I’d say they’re splitsville by next Spring. But they’ll be alright. They both have enough talent to make it solo.”

“So, then what?”

“I’m at a crossroads in my career, Shuggie. And in my life.”

“You’re what? 25, 26? You’re hardly going through a mid-life crisis. Look at me. 17 years old and I have no idea what you’re talking about. I couldn’t imagine myself achieving half of what you’ve accomplished already in the next 8 years.”

“I’m also worried about you, Shuggie. Are you sure about going back to school and back to being a boy?”

“I made a deal with Dad. But I think he’s starting to bend my way. He sees now I’m not really a boy and never was. I’ll finish school, get some counseling, hopefully get prescribed the right hormones. I hear you can get sex change surgery in Europe.” I winked at Billy but in the shadows of the lounge he probably couldn’t see it. “It’ll take money I don’t have and neither does my father. I’ll work and save enough. In two years, Bobby will be back from the army. Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. We love each other. I know that for certain.” There was silence between us for a long time before Billy spoke.

“You really don’t care about your singing career?”

“It’s been a gas, really, more than I could ever imagine, this summer. But it’s not my dream. It never was. My dream is to be a woman.”

“I can make both dreams come true for you, Shuggie. If you’ll let me. I can get you a recording contract on my word alone. And that’ll pay for your surgery down the road.”

“And what’s in it for you, Billy? You could be throwing good money after bad. Who says anyone would buy my records? And what if they found out about me? You know Jackie Shane. She could’ve been on Ed Sullivan, but they wouldn’t accept her for what she is. How would it be different for me?”

“I’ve got enough connections in the industry that what happened with Jackie would never happen with you. People respect and fear me in the business. But what I’m trying to say is I care about you. I want you to find your happiness. Not like my sister who had to endure so much.”

“Are you saying you’re in love with me, Billy? No, you can’t. I’m…I’m 17.”

“When I look at you, I don’t see your age. I see a young woman on the cusp of real greatness, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon—”

“I’m a boy!” I said, making sure no one overheard me.

“I see the real you, Shuggie.”

“I’m going to wait for Bobby.”

“Bobby can’t help you realize your true identity and make you a star. I can.”

“Yes, but I love him…forever. Excuse me, Billy, I don’t want to have this discussion.” I stood up, turned, and ran out of the lounge, choking back tears.

I called Connie from my hotel room. Bailey wasn’t back yet. The drummer again, I suppose.

“Connie, it’s Shuggie. Sorry to call you so late.”

“It’s alright, Shuggie, I was watching TV anyway. Remember those chimps that were on Ed Sullivan with you? Yeah, they were on Johnny Carson tonight. I think the one who jumped into your arms is still pining for you.”

“That’s funny, Connie. Look, is it all set for tomorrow night? You’re going to make sure Mom and Dad come with you to the show, right?”

“Of course. You sound weird. Something wrong?”

“I just wanted to make sure you three were all there tomorrow. It’s going to be the last time I ever sing in public.”

“As a girl?”

“No, as anything. Boy, girl, anything. I’m going to just pursue my one and only dream.”

“And that would be?”

“To be Mrs. Bobby Messina.”

“Oh, Shuggie, we need to talk.”

“Whatever you have to say, make it quick, Connie. These long-distance calls are adding up. I’ve called you from L.A., Denver, Chicago, Detroit, Toronto—”

“Shuggie, shut up a minute! Listen, there are two things you’re not clear on right now. First of all, you’re still a boy, legally and medically. You can’t marry Bobby—”

“Well, not right now. He’s in the army but when he gets out in two years, I’ll have saved enough to get a sex change operation by then. He wrote to me from boot camp and he basically proposed to me. You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

“Secondly, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to marry Bobby, regardless of whether you get the surgery or not. Don’t start crying, Shuggie! Listen to me—”

“How can you say that? Bobby and I have been best friends since we were 4 and 5 years old. If you don’t want to be my maid of honor because you’re ashamed of me, just say so. You’ve never acted like a real sister to me anyway. You don’t want me to be happy, do you?”

“He’s a loser, Shuggie. Plain and simple. He dated Rachel Hanley all through senior year and didn’t give your feelings a single thought, did he? You hid it from mom and dad, but I saw you crying your eyes out in your room when I came home on weekends. Very quietly I could hear you saying his name over and over again.”

“What a great big sister you are! You never came in and asked me what was wrong. You just went on your merry way like I didn’t exist.”

“What did you want me to do? Beat up Bobby? Talk to Dad about your broken heart? Yeah, he would’ve been real sympathetic. Not.”

“You don’t know that. Daddy loves me. He told me last week that he does and…and he misses me. He wants me to come home. He said we’ll talk it over, find a solution to my…problem. You’re just jealous! Betcha he never said those things to you.”

“We’re getting off the subject here, Shuggie. If you’re so set on becoming a real woman, then stop acting like a dumb boy and start acting like a smart girl.”

“Like you? Miss Alberta Einstein?”

“You don’t marry your best friend just because he’s your best friend. Now, let me ask you. This Billy guy, hasn’t he been really nice to you? Like looking out for your career, teaching you about the music business, even arranging special material for you to sing—”

“Duh, that’s his job.”

“Paying you 200 freakin’ dollars a week, rescuing you from a race riot—”

“Bobby was with him—”

“The guy’s obviously head over heels in love with you, Shuggie. It goes beyond being your producer or employer. He can make you a big star and he really cares for you. He knows about your special circumstances and because of his sister, he’s fine with it. What more can a girl ask from a man?”

“Stop it! Stop it, Connie! I’m in love with Bobby, not Billy. I didn’t ask Billy to fall in love with me. And how can you be sure he doesn’t just see me as a gift horse or something?”

“We’re not talking about your looks, Shuggie.”

“Huh?”

“Gift horse? Oh, forget it. It’s your life, Shuggie. You can take my advice or not. I’m looking out for your future well-being even if you think I hate you, which I don’t. I’ll admit I’ve always felt mom and dad liked you best. There, I’ve said it. And with that, I’ll say good night. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said.”

Regardless of what I thought about Connie’s stupid advice, I guess the fact that Billy had just come as close to saying he was in love with me without actually saying those three little words set my mind on fire. I didn’t fall asleep for the longest time after I slipped between the sheets, tossing and turning, alternately crying and laughing over my topsy-turvy life. Then I had the funniest dream. I’d been having a lot of weird dreams lately. Maybe it was the rest area and hotel food? This one was a doozy. When I got my wake-up call from the front desk, there was an image from my dream etched onto the viewscreen of my brain.

I was sitting on a couch in some nondescript room, petting a dog that looked a lot like that collie who plays Lassie on TV. I had a big smile on my face and Billy was sitting next to me on the couch, a big smile on his face as well. He had real long hair, like those hippies we saw in Haight-Ashbury. It was almost as long as mine! But the weirdest thing was my sister Connie sitting on the same couch, a shit-eating grin on her aging face. Yeah, she looked older, like 30 at least. We all looked older. Is that my future? Married to Billy? And I hope Connie’s just visiting and not living with us. Oh, that’s just silly. Even to think about it. Although, I must say, I’ve always liked collies. They shed a lot, don’t they?

When Bailey and I came downstairs to have some breakfast, hoping to avoid Billy after our rather heated discussion last night, we were surprised to see Billy and Ray, our road manager, having a loud conversation with the manager of the Asbury Park Convention Hall at a table on the opposite side of the room from us. Ray was shouting and flailing his arms. Billy was trying to restrain him while also barking at the guy. It must be about the concert receipts. Apparently, their numbers didn’t jibe. Bailey and I ate quickly and escaped the escalating dispute.

After we went off in separate directions, I headed to the Silverball Arcade so I could get my last licks at that Batman machine. Our buses weren’t leaving for Brooklyn until after 1 PM. I could spend a solid two hours or more setting a new top score on that machine. I hope it wasn’t already taken by some zit-faced boy. Or worse yet, both machines were being played. A roll of quarters sat comfortably in my purse as I patted its leather exterior. I turned to cross the street and standing next to his bike, arms crossed, staring back at me, was Bruce. He must have been waiting for me all morning.

“Hey, girly, it’s about time you got here. I didn’t think you’d be sleeping in today of all days. Murray the K, right? Man, you’re gonna be on stage with so many cool acts. I’d ask you to get me some autographs, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass you like that…”

“I’ll give you mine if you’re nice and promise not to distract me while I’m playing.”

“That’s a start. Need to break a twenty?”

I took the roll of quarters out of my purse and waved it in the air. “No, I’ve come ready for battle.”

“Lead the charge, Major General Sugar Pie.” He saluted me as I stepped through the arcade’s entrance. “You’re in luck, your personal Batman machine is waiting for you. I told everyone who went in, nix nix on the Batman games. Gave ‘em my best Steve McQueen glare.”

“Real tough guy. Scaring a bunch of junior high boys.”

“They’re small but some of them are real wiry.”

When we reached the Batman machine, I gave him a quick nod of my head as if to say, “you can go off and play your own machine now.” Bruce got the message and wandered off in the direction of a Casanova pinball machine. You can guess how you score points in that game.

Becoming engrossed in the game, my mind was clear of Connie’s nagging advice and unsettling thoughts about my future, and I cut a swath through all the major villain modes. I took down The Penguin, The Joker, Catwoman, Mr. Freeze, The Riddler, and secured the Commissioner Gordon target in short order. The clang of bells accompanied by cheers (my own) signaled a new top score for that machine. A couple of the boys nearby gaped in surprise at a girl playing like a champion. One of them shyly shook my hand and asked when I was breaking for lunch. I said, not in an aloof way, that I had prior plans. The kid was about to ask what plans when Bruce appeared at his side and showed him a grimace worthy of Steve McQueen in Nevada Smith. He moved away quickly.

“Looks like you’ve had better luck than me this morning.”

“It’s skill not luck. Speaking of skill, what makes you think you could handle that Casanova machine?”

“My reputation as a ladies’ man is well-known. They call me Kid Casanova back in Freehold. I’m told I can be very charming.” He smiled a smile that turned into a leer.

“Are you serious about dropping out?”

“Yeah, school’s not for me. All I want to do is play music. You don’t have to go to college to be a rock star.”

“Sometimes I feel the same way about school. But I’m going back next week for my senior year.”

“But you’re already a featured performer. It says so on your posters. Man, you must be living the life. Getting paid well, staying in hotels…I saw you on Ed Sullivan! You were the best thing on the show. You and the chimps.” I swatted him on the arm as he laughed raucously. “You’re cuter though. Owww!”

“They were cuter than you, stupid.” I think I hit him harder than I intended because he kept rubbing his arm. “Sorry. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you hit harder than a guy. But that ain’t possible. You’re all girl. Prettiest girl in New Jersey, I bet.”

“Save the charm for that Casanova machine, mister. Anyway, if I were you, I’d go back to school and graduate. The music business is shit. This summer’s been eye-opening. Get a diploma and some skills you can fall back on. My dad works in a paper plant but it’s steady and dependable. He raised me and my sister with that job. My mom’s a nurse. If things don’t fall perfectly in this music thing, you’ll be sleeping in the back of a surfboard factory for a long time.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“I’m sure your dad loves you just like my dad loves me. He wants the best for you, that’s all.”

“Aww, come on. I’m sure Billy can take you away from all of this. This death trap. Smalltown New Jersey is not where I want to spend my salad days. Being his girlfriend—”

“I’m not his girlfriend! I told you that. It’s totally professional. My boyfriend is at Fort Dix right now…” We were silent for a minute, and I turned back to the Batman machine. I didn’t want Bruce to see my eyes welling up with tears at the thought of being apart from Bobby for two long years and the chance that he might not ever come back.

“Hey, you never told me your real name. It can’t be Sugar Pie. Nobody’s named that.”

I don’t know how it came out, but I whispered “Bobby Gene.” It wasn’t in answer to his question, yet he took it that way.

“Bobbie Jean? Bobbie Jean! Yeah, that fits you. I’m going to write a song about you. I’ll make you famous. Or…more famous than you’ll already be.”

“Fine. Great. Can you…uh…just leave me alone so I can play this machine again?”

“Oh…okay. Can I…uh…can I—”

“What? Can you what?” He grabbed my shoulders, turned me around and planted a lingering kiss on my lips. I struggled and finally pushed him off me.

“Kiss you. Can I kiss you.” He stepped backward toward the front of the arcade. “I won’t forget you, Bobbie Jean. Look for my song. You’ll hear it on the radio and remember me too.” He ran out onto Ocean Avenue, picked up his bike ad rode off.

I couldn’t help but laugh. A kid playing a machine nearby shrugged his shoulders, looked out the window at Bruce’s receding figure and clucked, “What a jerk.”

Billy and I had managed to avoid speaking to each other all day. We even sat half a bus length apart on the one-hour ride to Brooklyn. Honey tried to act sincere when she congratulated me on being Billy’s next ‘big’ discovery. I told her I was going back to school after tonight, the last date on our tour. She almost spit out her coffee.

“You’re kidding, right? He’s already got your European tour next summer planned out. Hank tells me Billy’s already recorded two surefire Top 40 hits that he’s got warming in the can, just waiting for the label to ink you to a 3-album deal. That’s crazy money for a teenager. I never finished school myself. Do I look like I needed a diploma?”

“I promised my folks I’d graduate. And Billy’s just talking shit. He’s got like five other projects he’s working on. I’m just a summer fling—”

“Oh, girl, I heard he wants to talk to your father after the concert tonight. That sound serious. I’ve known Billy for a couple of years and this is the most serious I’ve ever seen him about a girl…”

“There’s nothing going on between us. A least not on my part. You know how I feel about Bobby and now that he’s in the army…well, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I cheated on him—”

“A smart one? Look, sweetie, Bobby’s a nice boy but that’s what he is…a boy. Billy’s a grown man with the money and power to give a girl everything she could possibly dream of. Fame, fortune, furs, diamonds…and shoes! Billy’s not bad looking neither.” She looked at me with the expression of a prosecuting attorney who’s never lost a case.

“You don’t understand, Honey. Me and Bobby have something that’s…forever.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I thought Hank and I had.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

The first words that Billy spoke to me were at the Brooklyn Fox soundcheck. With so many acts on the bill, time was limited for the afternoon session and most of the groups decided to forego it. Hank and Honey preferred sitting on the air-conditioned bus while Billy wanted to run through my solitary number two or three times to get it perfect. Billy was explaining to me that he’d enlisted two extra musicians to fill out the arrangement he’d written. They were from Bob Dylan’s backing band that had just finished a European tour in the Spring. With Bob’s recent motorcycle accident canceling his concert dates for the foreseeable future, they were searching for work. Their most recent gig were playing behind Tiny Tim (“Tiptoe Through The Tulips”) in small clubs and bars along the Eastern Seaboard. Billy got in touch with them while we were in Atlantic City. They had just played some dates at a lounge in a hotel on the Boardwalk.

“Hey, Billy! Billy! We’re here.” Two guys who looked to be in their early twenties came rushing toward us, instrument cases in hand. One of them almost clobbered Smokey Robinson with his guitar case. He quickly apologized and then lifted his head to see who he had hit. He stood stunned for a moment before the other guy dragged him away.

“Just in time too. If you’d been five more minutes, I think Smokey there would’ve jumped the line and made us wait another hour to do our run-through.” Billy introduced them: Robbie Robertson, a guitarist, and Garth Hudson, who was going to play saxophone. There was some mention of them being Canadians, so I told them I’d been in Toronto recently and gone to see Jackie Shane.

“Oh, yeah,” Robbie said. “He’s a solid sender. We even crossed paths with him on the chitlins circuit when we were with Ronnie Hawkins—”

“You mean she. Jackie’s a woman.”

“You know, we were never really sure what he or she was, right, Garth?” Garth just nodded. Billy interrupted our chat and told us to assemble on stage with the rest of the band.

“So, this is something Wexler’s gonna have Aretha record?” asked Robbie.

“Carole and Gerry wrote it for them, but I got permission from Carole to let Sugar Pie sing it this one time for Murray’s show. Let us go through it once. I’ll call out the chords. I’m sure you guys can pick it up pretty quickly.” Billy and I stood by the microphone while everyone plugged in their instruments. I asked Garth if he wanted a stool to sit on, what with that heavy looking baritone saxophone strapped to his chest. A man of few words, he just shook his head.

Billy turned to me. “Right after we come off stage tonight, I want to speak to your parents. I know a nice Italian place close by where we can sit down, have a bite to eat and talk things through.” I felt like turning Billy down but it would be polite to accept and I’m sure Dad was itching to talk to Billy anyway. I’m just hoping it doesn’t get really embarrassing. I just nodded affirmatively.

“Okay, this is in the key of C Major…”

Murray the K was a big deal in New York City. A popular DJ on Top 40 AM radio, he rocketed to fame by attaching himself to The Beatles, unannounced and probably unwanted, when they arrived in the U.S. for the first time to appear on Ed Sullivan in January 1964. His breathless around-the-clock live reports on The Fab Four’s every step while in New York City made his career. For most of the ‘60s, he parlayed his notoriety into promotion of sold-out holiday shows at Brooklyn’s Fox Theater. Three times a year, around Easter, Labor Day, and Christmas, he presented a dozen or so hitmakers in marathon evenings of youth-oriented live music. It was as much a celebration of his “hipster” persona as it was of the artists on stage.

It was about three hours into the show when Murray the K introduced me to the packed house. Mitch Ryder and The Detroit Wheels had just finished their 4-song set with a rousing rendition of their hit, “Sock It To Me Baby.” The applause was just petering out when Murray trotted out on stage. I was surprised when he announced me as a solo act, just Sugar Pie. I was expecting to come out with Hank and Honey, sing my one number, and leave the stage. But Billy winked at me and gently pushed me out ahead of the rest of the band. The audience murmured, obviously not sure who I was. Then, a smattering of applause surged forward from the back of the house. I almost laughed out loud when I recognized Connie giving me a one-person standing ovation. I don’t know why others were applauding. Maybe they’d seen me on tour?

As I peered into the dark recesses of the back of the theater, I saw a shadowy figure standing by an open door that led into the lobby. He was wearing an Army dress uniform, a garrison cap on his head. I couldn’t make out the features on his face but my imagination ran wild, thinking about Bobby. Did Bobby get a weekend pass from Fort Dix? My heart skipped a beat. Then, Billy counted down and I had to concentrate on my performance. I sang this song, “(You Make Me Feel Just Like) A Natural Woman” to Bobby, wherever he was that night.

The crowd jumped up and gave us a loud, wild ovation. I cried both from the overwhelming approval of the audience and relief that the tour was over. I could go back to being plain old Shuggie from Bergenfield. Was it what I really wanted? Well, no, but Dad had said enough to make me think they’d begin to accept the fact was really a girl, not the boy my superfluous body parts seemed to signify. I would get counseling, start a hormone regimen, save up to get surgery, and wait for Bobby to come back from The War and marry me. As I ran off stage, I looked back to see if that shadowy figure was still there. He was not. I crashed into Hank in the wings of the stage. He and Honey were waiting to be announced by Murray.

“Whoa, Shuggie, where’s the fire? Are you okay? Honey, she’s crying.”

“Why the tears, sweetie?” I couldn’t speak so I just shook my head and ran to the dressing room.

My father leaned over the table and, in a stern but proud tone, declared to Billy, “I don’t take charity, Mr. Schechter. Jerry Brennan takes care of his own. Eriko and I might have to take out a second mortgage, but we’ll figure it out.”

“Daddy, Billy’s not trying to insult you—”

“Mr. Brennan, I’m not treating this like a charity case. In fact, I won’t be spending a dollar of my own money to get Shuggie the counseling and medical support she needs.”

“She’s…I mean he’s a senior in high school. How the hell is she...uh…he going to pay for that if it’s not her…his parents? Damn, this is so confusing.”

“Your daughter is a major talent, Mr. Brennan. She’s already recorded a handful of tracks that could be released tomorrow and be Top 40 hits. I’ll see to it that she signs a 3-album deal that would more than pay for her medical needs as well as pay off the note on your house to boot. She’s a goldmine!”

“Has it occurred to you, Mr. Schechter, that, sooner than later, people will find out Shuggie’s not a girl—”

“Jerry! Not so loud. There are people looking at us.” Mom sank into her chair.

“Sorry, honey.” He continued in a softer voice. “Look, she’ll be the object of ridicule if that ever comes out. They’ll kick her out of school. Bergenfield’s not the cosmopolitan melting pot that New York City is. They prefer their boys to stay boys and girls to stay girls.”

Our waitress placed our food on the table. We were eating family style as was customary in traditional Italian restaurants. Mom frowned when Connie and I jousted with our spoons trying to shovel the veal cutlets onto our plates. “Children! Behave! Don’t shame us in public!” Connie kicked my shin under the table, and I winced, dropping my spoon noisily onto the dish of veal parmigiana.

“Care to have some Sambuca, Jerry? Remember the fine Sambuca we drank at Jilly’s? I take that as a yes.” Billy signaled the waitress and ordered a bottle of Sambuca for the table. “Mrs. Brennan, you should give it a try. It’s a sweet, fruity liqueur from Sicily. Goes down very smooth.”

“Should I, Jerry?”

“Just a nip. I have a feeling you’ll be driving us home tonight.”

“Oh, Dad, just a half a glass, okay?” Connie implored. “You know Mom hates driving in the city.”

“Back to the matter at hand, Jerry. The records will be released under her stage name Sugar Pie. No one will connect a high school senior in New Jersey to Sugar Pie. We’ll control all information about her. The press will be fed a back story that my publicity people can cook up. I’ll be protecting her identity every step of the way. I give you my word.”

“I’m beginning to think you could pull this off but I want you to know I’m not going to let you try to seduce Shuggie with promises of money and fame. She’s 17 and she already has a boyfriend. Bobby Messina.”

“Daddy!” I kicked Connie’s shin under the table reflexively. She groaned into her napkin. “My relationship with Billy is strictly professional. Right, Billy?”

“Of course.” Billy winked at me, thinking I was the only one who saw. But Mom caught the wink. She frowned. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Brennan. I see the potential for, dare I say, millions. Shuggie will tell you. She’s seen me up close these past eight weeks. I have a one-track mind. You’re a hunter, Jerry. You understand. When you’re on the trail of a bear…”

“Dad, you didn’t run out of ammo this summer, did you?” asked Connie, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know, Billy, Dad’s a good shot. A really good shot.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Pun intended. So, it’s a business proposition. Quid pro quo. Shuggie gets her counseling and medical care; I get to produce another string of million-sellers. It’s a square deal, capisce?”

“I’ll drink to that…uh…should I call you Billy?”

“Please do, Jerry. We’re all on the same page here. Let’s make a toast to your daughter’s future happiness.”

Dad turned to me and read the frown on my face. “Something the matter, sweetie?”

“Yeah, Connie ate up all the veal.”

Winter came early to Northern New Jersey in 1966. There had been a squall of snow all day Thanksgiving Day, piling up at least eight inches on the ground of hard-packed white tundra. At least it seemed like tundra when I had to get up early the next morning and shovel our driveway clear so that Mom, Dad, and Connie could go shopping at The Bergen Mall in Paramus. Like mailmen, neither rain nor sleet nor snow can keep shoppers away from Black Friday bargains! It’s an unwritten law that a male child of sufficient age shall shovel snow from driveways and since I was a male…Wait a minute! Well, Dad still thinks of me as a boy, so I had to work up a good sweat before breakfast.

After I performed a set of songs for grandmother, wearing the silver lame dress I had worn onstage at The Brooklyn Fox, I looked out our living room window and noticed for the first time that another blanket of snow had fallen on the ground since that morning. Quickly, I ran to my bedroom and changed into my boy clothes, took off my wig, wiped off my makeup as well as I could, grabbed my duffle coat, and left the house. I found the shovel in the garage and set to work clearing the driveway only minutes before Dad drove up our street.

Fifteen minutes later, as Dad settled into his easy chair to watch the remainder of ABC-TV’s Day After Thanksgiving Cartoon Festival, he tousled my hair and remarked, “You’re a good son, Shuggie.” I shook my head, turned away and walked off toward Connie’s bedroom where she was displaying what she and Mom had bought, trying to smooth my hair back in place. “I’ll miss my boy,” he said with sad resignation. A moment later I heard him laughing at his favorite cartoon show, Beany and Cecil.

A dinner of leftover turkey that Mom adroitly turned into turkey casserole and turkey soup put Dad into a stupor on the living room couch. We all watched TV until around 9:30 when I decided to turn in early, leaving Mom and Connie to enjoy the rest of Barabbas, starring Anthony Quinn and the always lovely Jack Palance. I wheeled sobo to her bedroom and then climbed the stairs to my own mini fortress of solitude, where I threw myself onto the bed and tried to fall asleep posthaste.

I had just managed to close my eyelids when Connie knocked none too softly on my door.

“Hey squirt, are you asleep?”

“Not anymore. Is Barabbas finished already?” Connie stepped into my room as I raised myself up and leaned against the headboard. I turned my bedside lamp on. She deposited herself on my bed with a soft thud.

“Nah, Mom decided to turn in and I helped her drag Dad into their bedroom. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you, but I thought you’d tell me on your own. I had to wheedle it out of Mom this morning, but Dad didn’t want to talk about it, so I zipped my lips. Spill. You got suspended from school?”

“Technically, Dad pulled me out of school. It happened on Wednesday—”

“The day before Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, Mom and Dad had to meet with Principal Sloan in his office. They called me in from home room. I wasn’t surprised. It’s been building up for weeks.”

“What’s been building up?”

“It’s Rachel Hanley.”

“Bobby’s ex?”

“Yeah, well, it started the first day of school, right after Labor Day. I’d gotten so used to using the Ladies’ Room over the summer that I kinda went into the girls’ bathroom by mistake—”

“You’re such a dolt—”

“Anyway, Rachel was in there fixing her makeup or something. Like that would ever make her look any better. She practically attacked me and started screaming that I was queer. Luckily, no one else came in while she was shouting at me.”

“So, no harm, no foul. You got a little embarrassed, that’s all.”

“I wish. She told everyone she could that I was a homo. Even some of the teachers we had in common. Mostly she was ignored or got confused looks. I mean I’m kinda well-liked in school, I think. I guess bottom-line, the other kids didn’t really care. Then she told Mrs. Rheingold, our home economics teacher, that I was a homo. In front of me, after class! Mrs. Rheingold shrieked with laughter and said, “Nonsense, Rachel. Shuggie’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever had in almost twenty years of classes here at BHS. Don’t be silly and don’t spread vicious rumors.” A couple of my other teachers said the same thing.”

“It must be the cafeteria food. How could they think you were a girl? I mean, they’ve seen you dressed like a boy for years.”

“Don’t be jealous, Connie. I got the better genes in the family.” I stuck my tongue out at her.

“So, what happened then if everybody thought you were a girl anyway?”

“She wouldn’t stop harassing me in school. Just a lot of nasty comments and evil looks. I tried my best to just ignore her. And that seemed to work…for a while. Then Mrs. Messina—you know, Bobby’s mom—”

“Duh, of course I know—”

“--told me that Rachel had written to Bobby, but Bobby never answered her letters. So, Rachel cornered Mrs. Messina in Shoprite one day and asked her point blank what’s with me and Bobby. Bobby’s mom told her all about how I had gone on the tour with Bobby over the summer and how she expected we’d eventually get married when Bobby finished his service time. Of course, Rachel exploded at Mrs. Messina, swearing that I was queer and that I had turned Bobby into a homo as well. Mrs. Messina laughed at her and said we would name our first child Rachel just to remind her how stupid she was to claim I was a boy.”

“Hoo, boy, this is crazy.”

“Rachel was so mad she told her parents all about it and they filed a formal complaint about me with Principal Sloan. They said I was some kind of deviant who should be thrown out of school. That’s how we ended up in the Principal’s office on Wednesday morning.”
“They didn’t even have the decency to have your accusers face you?”

“Well, that turned out to be fortunate. Otherwise, Dad would be spending time in the county lock-up.”

“He didn’t take it well, I assume.”

“No, no he didn’t. Anyway, Principal Sloan told us I’d been suspended pending a complete investigation of my gender status. He did tell us that the teachers he interviewed swore I was a girl. The problem was I’m officially registered as a boy. So, either my parents have been committing a heinous fraud on the school system or I’m a sick deviant who’s turning other students into homosexuals.”

“There’s logic in what he’s saying—”

“Thanks for your support, Connie.”

“I guess Dad wasn’t too happy with Sloan?”

“I’ve never seen Dad so angry. He stood up and leaned into Principal Sloan, telling him the whole affair was ridiculous and that he’d be seeing a lawyer about suing the Bergenfield Board of Education. “My daughter’s not queer! How dare that Hanley girl spread lies like that and you people oughta know better than to believe irresponsible gossip from someone with an axe to grind. I’ll save you the money and time, Sloan, I’m pulling Shuggie from this sad excuse for a school and enroll her in a private school. I’ve told Eriko for years we should’ve sent Shuggie to a Catholic girls’ school. A nun would have better sense than you, Sloan.” So, I’m technically not suspended. I quit.”

“Dad’s really going to send you to a Catholic girls’ school?”

“No, of course not.” Then I thought about it and revised my answer. “Well, it’s too late in the school year to be admitted, isn’t it?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t care if Dad doesn’t like it but if I’m not going to school, I’m going to wear girls’ clothes all day, seven days a week. And this frees me up to do more recording for Billy. I mean we need another half a dozen tracks if the label opts to release an LP. Billy thinks my first single will shoot up the charts and trigger the option in my contract.”

“What contract, koneko?” Connie and I turned to the doorway where our grandmother was standing, having just asked that question.

“Sobo! How did you get upstairs? You can’t walk!”

“Obviously I can.” She shambled into the room and slowly lay down on my bed, on the opposite side from Connie. So, there we were. All three of us lying on my bed. From left to right: Connie, me, and grandmother.

“But how, sobo?”

“I’m a little slower than normal but I can walk. I just like being pushed around in the wheelchair. Your father has been much nicer to me since I came back this week. Don’t tell them, okay?”

“You are something else, sobo,” Connie said.

“What does she mean, something else, Itsuki?”

“Never mind, sobo. You wanted to know about my contract? Well, it’s like this…”

Billy Schechter had promised my father two things: to find therapy and medical care for my desired transition to the female gender, which would be paid for by the second thing, securing a recording contract for me under the stage name, Sugar Pie. My father was pleasantly surprised when Billy followed through on both promises. In fact, he accompanied me and Mom to our first meeting with Dr. Benjamin Harrison, an endocrinologist affiliated with Manhattan University, who was a leading practitioner in the emergent field of transgender treatment. He was a tall, thin bespectacled man in his early sixties with a genial manner and a firm handshake. I think Dad took an immediate liking to him. And he made points with me when he asked why a pretty girl like me would want to become a boy. It’s true my parents had insisted I dress androgynously to my first meeting (I’d joked about wearing my silver lame dress) so Dr. Harrison making with the sly humor showed me he was on my side.

It was a busy day. Dr. Harrison interviewed me for almost an hour and made it seem like a chat between newly introduced friends. My parents went for a walk in Central Park to pass the time before returning to Dr. Harrison’s office. When they returned, Dr. Harrison had a nurse take some blood samples and then gathered us all back in his office to give us a prospectus on what my treatment might be, pending the results of the blood analysis.

He talked to us about feminizing hormone therapy and threw out such unpronounceable names for drugs such as estradiol valerate, estradiol cypionate, bicalutamide, and others. Mom and Dad were shocked to learn I’d been taking birth control pills (Connie’s and Mrs. Messina’s) and Dr. Harrison told me to stop taking them immediately. An appointment was made for the following week to see if and how we would proceed.

I was confident my long hoped-for journey to womanhood would officially begin after our next meeting and dressed as en femme as possible given my sparse wardrobe as Mom accompanied me to Dr. Harrison’s office. Although my hair had grown some during the summer, it was still rather short for any kind of truly feminine hairdo. So, I sported an Audrey Hepburn headscarf look. Complete with sunglasses on a breezy September morning!

Dr. Harrison was suitably impressed by my appearance and joked that I didn’t need to take any hormones. I think I shrieked, and he calmed me down, saying I needed to get used to his droll sense of humor. I asked my mother what droll meant. She just shrugged. Ultimately, after telling us that my blood analysis showed low testosterone levels but nothing alarming, we walked out of his office with prescriptions for a three-month supply of hormone pills. Mom treated me to some ice cream and then we went shopping at Bloomingdales. What a day!

One day in late September, Billy swung by our house in his baby blue Pontiac GTO convertible and drove my parents and me to the offices of Hudson Records, where we would sign my first recording contract. On the 40-minute ride to midtown Manhattan, Billy explained that my Dad and I would be signing a contract for two 45 singles with an option for an LP if either single achieves a certain level of sales. When Dad reminded Billy that he had trumpeted a 3 album deal just three weeks ago, Billy swore this was the best deal he could negotiate.

“I have some pull in the business but not enough to get that kind of deal for a new artist with essentially 8 weeks experience. Believe me, there’s enough shekels in this contract to pay for Shuggie’s doctors and a little nest egg for her future.”

“I was hoping we could pay off the mortgage with the proceeds—”

“Hey, there’s no such thing as a free lunch but, there is that option for an LP. If Shuggie sells as well as I think she can, they’ll be talking an extension at multiples of the figures in that deal.”

“Dad, it’s not nice to profit off child labor.” Dad shot me a withering glance but let the matter drop. We rode the rest of the way in pleasant silence.

Due to Billy’s busy schedule (he commuted back and forth to the West Coast to produce recording sessions for a number of different bands on several labels), I recorded with him just once in October and again in November. I was able to synchronize these recording sessions with my bi-weekly appointments with Dr. Harrison and his staff. Mom and I would make a full day of it in Manhattan: recording with Billy in the morning, lunch at Howard Johnson’s, doctor’s appointment in the afternoon and clothes shopping just before driving back home to help Mom make dinner.

In October, Billy was ebullient about the latest record he’d produced for Hank and Honey (yes, they were still together! Who da thunk it?). In the control room of Bell Sound’s Studio B, he threaded the ½ inch 4-track tape into the playback machine and pressed play. We sat back and listened to “Hello Stranger.”

“Whaddya think?” Billy asked.

“Another Billy Schechter masterpiece. #1 with a bullet for sure.”

“Yeah, Hank and Honey are really good together. But we’re not here to talk about them. I’ve got a surefire hit for you all lined up. I already had The Wrecking Crew in L.A. lay down the basic track. We just need to hit your vocal out of the park today. I’m sure you can.”

We spent the next 2 and a half hours doing take after take until Billy finally got the one he wanted. Between takes, Billy would turn off the mike in the control room and, more often than not, have animated conversations with Mom. Once, she came into the studio and handed me a tall glass of water.

“Your throat’s getting a little hoarse, dear. Drink some water.”

“Mom, what are you and Billy so busy talking about while I’m getting ready for the next take?”

“Oh, Shuggie, just small talk. The weather, why The Mets are so bad, how your grandmother’s doing…stuff like that.”

“I don’t know. You guys are laughing too much. I can’t hear you, but I see your mouths gaping and one time you bent over like Billy had just told you the funniest joke.”

“Billy’s quite a witty fellow. Would make a perfect match for some lucky gal.”

“Okay, Mom, back in your cage. I think Billy wants to move on to the next take.”

Just in time for lunch, Billy called an end to the session, satisfied with 2 or 3 of the takes. He’d listen to them carefully, probably in L.A., before selecting the take he’d use in the final mix. We sat in the control room as Billy and our engineer tried a first pass at a mix. It was a re-make of Sylvia Tyson’s song, “You Were On My Mind.”

---

Almost four weeks later to the day, Mom and I showed up at Bell Sound Studios to record another track with Billy. This time I convinced her to not waste her time hanging around while we went through the tedious process of trying to satisfy Billy’s perfectionist standards. So, she decided to go see the new Japanese Painting and Sculpture Exhibit at The Museum of Modern Art that had just opened in October. It was conveniently only a block away from the studio on West 53rd Street. I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, I could just concentrate on singing.

When I strolled into Studio B, I saw two familiar faces: Robbie Robertson and Garth Hudson. They had played behind me at The Brooklyn Fox. They smiled and waved. This time, Garth was going to play accordion. And this time, he was comfortably seated. Robbie was tuning an acoustic guitar. I dropped my bag onto one of the chairs and took off my coat. Turning toward the control room, I saw Billy and a tall, attractive woman who appeared to be around 35, embracing. I asked Robbie who the woman with Billy was. He shook his head. “Search me. Billy didn’t introduce her to us.” I knocked on the door to the control room and Billy looked over to me.

“Shuggie! Great! You’re here. I need a few minutes with the session guys before we begin. Come in. Say hello to my sister, Gwen.” I openly stared at this tall, very pretty woman as she came forward, offering her hand to shake.

“Hello, Shuggie. Billy has told me so much about you. You’re even prettier than he described you.”

Shaking her hand, I gawked at her a long second before I was able to speak. “Thank you. And you’re very pretty yourself.”

“I’m not how you imagined me, right?”

“Well…” Billy slipped out of the control room and started going over the charts with the musicians in the studio. “Well, I’m not sure what I imagined. Except that I expected there’d be a strong family resemblance. And there is.” We sat down facing each other and away from the studio.

“It’s the Schechter curse. We do look alike.” She laughed. It took me a second to react and then I laughed as well.

“Unfortunately, the Brennan clan has the same curse. My sister and I look alike too. Maybe as we grow older, I’ll look more like my mother. I’ve got my fingers crossed.”

“Billy played some tapes of you singing before you came in. Very impressive. You have a classic contralto voice. He thinks you’re going to be a big star.”

“That remains to be seen but what brings you to New York? Billy told me you live in Germany now.”

“My husband Dieter has a sister who lives in Chicago, and it’s been years since they’ve seen each other so they agreed to spend Thanksgiving together this year. We’re staying in Billy’s apartment for a couple of days and then moving on to Chicago. He and the kids are there right now. They’d love to meet you. The kids are crazy about American music.”

“I’ve got some plans for the afternoon and my Mom and I have to get back home by five or six. Otherwise, I’d love to meet your family too.”

She took my hand in hers and lowered her voice. “Don’t let anyone or anything keep you from realizing your dreams, Shuggie. You’ve started your journey a lot younger than I did. And Billy is a good man. The best. He’ll help you any way he can. Trust me. I know.”

“Shuggie? We’re ready for you.” Billy was in the doorway of the control room, charts in hand. Gwen stood up and pressed her cheek against mine.

“So nice to meet you, Shuggie. Maybe when Billy has you touring Europe in the near future you can visit Dieter and me in Munich. Dieter makes a sauerbraten to die for. See you later, Billy.” She kissed his forehead and walked out.

“Let’s do it!” Billy clapped his hands and we stepped into the studio.

We played the best take for Mom when she came to pick me up for lunch. I suppose she doesn’t have the most critical ear when listening to me sing but this version of Burt Bacharach’s “I Say a Little Prayer” was a bit of a nice change of pace for me, with Garth on accordion and Robbie on acoustic guitar. Billy said my voice dominated the track rather than the instrumentation. It was, he said, a good showcase for my versatility. I nodded as the tape played.

All in all, as November turned to December, I was in a good place in my life. My hormone therapy was already starting to bear results: my skin was smoother, my body shape was becoming more feminine, my hair seemed more lustrous, and my breasts appeared to be growing (although I still needed padding in my bra). My singing career was about to enter its second stage as Billy planned to release my first single, “You Were On My Mind,” in early 1967. I would have preferred to release “Natural Woman” as my maiden voyage, but Carole had promised it to Aretha first.

Of course, I was no longer in school and there was no solution to that situation in sight. Dad wasn’t about to pay for an expensive private school. Connie thinks I could get into a Catholic girls’ school if I declare my intention to become a nun. I frowned, Mom shook her head and, I’m not sure, but it looked like Dad was about to burst into tears. Grandmother just looked confused.

Cryptically, Billy called on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving and said he had an idea about school. He wouldn’t go into detail until he made all the arrangements. Of course, he didn’t say what the arrangements were either. But I wasn’t preoccupied by the possibility of being a drop-out. After all, on Thursday, the first day of December, Bobby was coming home. Only for a month before he would be shipped off overseas on New Year’s Day 1967. We would have a month together. Maybe the last month we will ever have. It’s hard to keep dark thoughts out of your mind when faced with the specter of war looming before us all.

One o’clock in the afternoon. The corner of Washington Avenue and West Church Street. It was a brisk day, and I was tempted to pull my hood up over my head but I wanted Bobby to see my face clearly as I stood by the bus stop sign. I saw the NJ Transit bus appear on the horizon, moving deliberately downhill toward me. I waved and almost jumped out of my shoes. The bus stopped five feet from me, and its doors opened. Bobby’s smiling face emerged into the sunshine. He was home. To me.

December 1966. I was determined to make this the best month of my life so far. My new life, which began that summer. The first summer of my girlhood.

These thirty-one days with Bobby would be our honeymoon. Of course, this was Connie, my sister, being her usual sarcastic self. Although, the emotional weight of this interregnum in our complicated lives really hit me when Mrs. Messina joked with me as I was helping her wash dishes after dinner the first night Bobby was home.

“You know, I wish I hadn’t given you those birth control pills. If you were pregnant right now with my grandchild, Bobby would’ve gotten a deferment from the draft.”

I broke down in tears and Mrs. Messina hugged me, apologizing for her careless quip. But I wasn’t crying for the reason she thought. She didn’t know I could never have Bobby’s babies. Or anyone’s, ever. And there was nothing I wanted more than to be the mother of Bobby’s children.

That night, in my own bed at home, I slept fitfully, only to wake up with my arms tightly wrapped around Harold my life-size plush Bengal tiger. I was wearing the pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set Bailey had given me as a farewell gift after the Brooklyn Fox show. I smiled when it occurred to me that Bobby had never seen me wearing an outfit like this. Well, it was a better than even bet he’d get to see it before the month was out.

Friday was the first day of our farewell tour of the small circle of friends we had in Bergenfield. After a full day of ice skating on Cooper’s Pond in the morning and shopping at The Bergen Mall in Paramus in the afternoon (Bobby loved the former, hated the latter), we drove fifteen minutes north of Bergenfield to Emerson High School in Bobby’s newly reclaimed Cherry Red Chevrolet Corvair Corsa. Bergenfield High was opening its basketball season on the road and all our friends in the band would be there.

“I heard your dad’s sending you to a Catholic girl’s school, Immaculate Heart in Washington Township,” Trudy, our first French Horn, said to me as everyone gathered around Bobby, guys slapping him on the back, girls pecking him on the cheek, wishing him luck as he shipped off to Nam.

“Well…Dad’s thinking about it. It’s pretty expensive though. I don’t know where we’re going to find the money…”

“You’ve got the grades for it, I’m sure.” She took me aside. “Rachel’s been telling everyone that they kicked you out of school because they found out you’re really a boy.” I sputtered and blushed.

“That’s…that’s ridiculous. She’s psycho. Just because Bobby chose me over her.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody figured. By the way, you look really cute in that outfit. You should have dropped that tomboy phase a lot sooner. You’d be surprised how many people thought you really were a boy.” She laughed in a voice that eerily mimicked the French Horn she played.

Bobby finally extricated himself from his adoring fans and gave me a quick glissando of a kiss on the lips. “Want a soda, babe? 7 Up, right?” I nodded and waved my little fingers as he walked over to the refreshment stand. When Trudy went off to join the rest of the band in their warm-up, I overheard a couple of girls I didn’t know, probably juniors, stealing furtive glances at me while talking a blue streak.

“I’d bet anything she left school because she’s preggers. With Bobby’s baby.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t send Bobby to Nam if he’s an expectant dad.”

“They won’t admit that. Imagine the scandal. They’ll send her off to a relative until she pops that baby out. And who knows if he ever gets back from the war. I feel sorry for her being a single teen mom high school dropout.” Taking a breath. “Rachel told my sister Bobby was a jerk.”

Mortified, I turned and ran toward the refreshment stand. I barely avoided crashing into Bobby as he was carrying two cups of soda in his hands.

“Whoa! What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did someone say something?”

“No, it’s…it’s nothing. I don’t feel that well. Can we get out of here? Let’s go back to your house. I’ll cook dinner for you and your family…”

“Trying to poison us? Oh, no, let’s eat out. Chinese? Italian? Burgers? You choose.”

“No, Bobby, I’m a good cook. Really. Let’s go to Shoprite and pick up some stuff. I’m sure your mom will love having someone else make dinner for once.”

“Okay, but I warn you. My sisters are really picky eaters. Of course, my dad’ll eat anything put in front of him. And I’ll try anything you cook…”

The Messinas loved the eggplant lasagna I made, especially Bobby’s ravenous little twin sisters (they inhaled it in record time and asked for seconds AND thirds). Bobby’s dad burped rather loudly so I guess he approved of my cooking. Mrs. Messina, Gloria, kept saying she looked forward to eating more of my cooking in the future, winking at me as she chortled. Everyone seemed to assume I’d be part of the family eventually if not sooner. Bobby just looked embarrassed as the talk went around the table.

After dinner, Bobby and his dad sat down to watch the Knicks game. I’m bored by sports, but I nestled into Bobby’s side on the couch and tried not to fall asleep before the first half ended. Actually, Bobby’s dad fell asleep before the 4th quarter started, his can of Schlitz beer precariously held in his right hand. The Knicks lost to the St; Louis Hawks…again. Bobby walked me the 50 feet back home. We kissed on the doorstep just as my father opened the screen door.

“It’s cold, kids. And late. Good night, Bobby. Come in, Shuggie.” I stepped inside, blowing a kiss to Bobby as he turned to walk away.
“Billy called. A couple of times. He said he’d call back around 11.” He looked at his watch. “Just in time. Another 10 minutes. You want a 7 Up while you wait?” Without waiting for an answer, he strolled into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of 7 Up out of the fridge. “Want a glass?”

“Do you expect me to chug it down from the bottle—”

“Like you used to? No, I guess not. Here, princess, a glass for your beverage.”

We were talking about the Knicks game (well, Dad was) when the phone rang. We both got up, but Dad beat me to the phone. He confirmed it was Billy and handed the receiver to me.

“Hey, Billy. What’s up?”

“Shuggie, I’ve got 2 tickets for you and Bobby to see Simon & Garfunkel at Fordham University tomorrow night.”

“Gee, thanks, Billy. Bobby and I were wondering what we were going to do tomorrow. And we planned to spend a lot of time in the city over the next few weeks before…before…you know, he has to leave.”

“Just show up at the box office. They’re holding your tickets for you. And after the concert, I need to speak to you about something I’ve put together for you—”

“More recording?”

“No, it’s about school.”

“Has Dad been speaking to you? I really don’t see myself attending a Catholic girls’ school.”

“I can just imagine what you’d look like in a school uniform.”

“Billy? Are you still there?”

“Right, listen, Shuggie. We’re talking about a real educational opportunity for you. Something that’ll be in line with what I assume you want to do with your life. But we can talk at length about this after the concert. See you tomorrow night. Good night, Shuggie.”

I looked at Dad and, after telling him about Billy’s mysterious call, he shrugged his shoulders. Mom came into the room and told me to go to bed. It was late.

The only college campus I had ever set foot on before Bobby and I arrived at Fordham University’s Rose Hill Gymnasium in the Bronx on Saturday night was Rutgers in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where Connie matriculated (I think I caught her once doing that in the laundry room). But I digress.

The first thing that I noticed after we retrieved our tickets and found our seats was how overdressed Bobby and I were. The audience was packed with college age fans, many of them looking as if they’d just rolled out of bed. There were a few in the crowd in suits and ties or proper dresses but we still felt out of place: two Jersey kids sitting among highly educated New York young adults. Billy had met us at the box office and told us he’d be backstage until the end of the concert, promising to introduce us to Paul and Artie afterwards.

The concert started at 8:30PM with The Cyrkle, a group that had a hit with a song Paul Simon had written and offered to them, “Red Rubber Ball.” They had backed Simon & Garfunkel in recent years before breaking out on their own and even opening for The Beatles on their American tour that summer. Tom Dawes, the lead singer, sported a crew cut he had from just recently joining the Coast Guard (to avoid being drafted). I think Bobby and I had the same thought because we turned to each other at the same moment. They saved “Red Rubber Ball” for their final number.

There was a fairly long interval between The Cyrkle’s last song and Simon & Garfunkel finally appearing on stage. Born and raised in New York City, they were local heroes. Few people realized they’d been in the music business since high school. But “Sound of Silence” was a #1 hit in January 1966. In the years between, Paul had spent time in England and Ireland pursuing a solo career as a folksinger and Art had earned a master’s degree in Mathematics from Columbia University, planning to be a math teacher. Their careers skyrocketed when their producer Tom Wilson, inspired by Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” which he had also produced, added electric guitar, bass and drums to “Sound of Silence,” turning a rather contemplative folk song into a folk-rock landmark. Paul hushed the crowd and introduced their signature hit song.

Backstage, in the cramped dressing room Fordham had improvised out of an athletic equipment room, Billy introduced Bobby and me to Paul and Art as they packed up to leave. Art, Bobby and Billy were trading stories about the business while, to one side, Paul was trying to chat it up with me.

“So, you’re the infamous Sugar Pie we’ve all heard about?”

“Oh, do tell. What’ve you heard and who from?”

“Touring musicians, as you well know, often cross paths as they trek across the continent. And, when we’re in the same geographical locus, we enjoy discussing new faces and new voices we’ve encountered. You, my young lady, are one such as we’ve discussed.”

“May I ask why you speak with a vaguely British accent? It says in your bio that you’re from Queens.”

“Strange. I hardly think it’s that noticeable. I spent two years in the British Isles and it, shall we say, rubbed off on me. Some find it charming. Do you?”

“Oh, of course, I do. But you were saying you heard about me. From who…er…whom particularly?”

“Artie and I were in L.A.—”

“Not that jerk Jim Morrison!”

“Who? No, it was Zal Yanofsky and John Sebastian from The Lovin’ Spoonful. You know them?”

“We were at Newport on the same night.”

“Yes. Well, they both were quite enamored of your…voice. Among other things.” He looked up at me. I’m close to six feet tall when I wear three-inch heels. Paul was 5-5 at best. I resisted the urge to crouch when speaking to him. “But who’s this Morrison guy? You seem to have a distinct dislike for him.”

“He’s the lead singer for a band called The Doors—”

“Oh, Jim Morrison! He’s all the buzz in the business. Just recorded an album for Elektra. Billy was telling us Jac Holzman tried to get him to produce.”

“How do you know Billy?”

“Everyone knows Billy. But specifically, I labored in the Brill Building salt mines for a brief moment and Billy had the cubicle across from me on the 7th floor. Very talented guy, Billy. I keep telling him he should go back to performing. I guess there’s just too much money in producing. And he gets to work with some very interesting talent. Like you—”

“Shuggie, ready to go? Hey, Artie, Paul, catch you later.” Billy and Bobby shook their hands. I extended my hand to Paul. He took it and leaned in, getting on his tippy-toes, and kissed my cheek. Art just waved.

“I forgot to mention,” Billy said to me as the three of us bundled into a yellow cab. “Paul can be a little forward with pretty women.”

“Little man syndrome, right?” Bobby surmised.

“Be kind, Bobby. Not everyone’s Adonis. Anyway, Paul’s still depressed about the girl he left behind in Ireland. When he got called back home because “Silence” was climbing the charts, she wouldn’t leave with him. Said her life was there in Ireland.”

“I kind of understand what she’s thinking,” I said.

“But you would have stayed with me in Canada—” Bobby interjected.

I entwined my right arm with his left and leaned into his shoulder. “But you’re my life, Bobby. You know that, don’t you?” Bobby smiled in reply. Billy looked at me through the rearview mirror, his expression indecipherable.

We sat around the island in Billy’s spacious kitchen as he poured out glasses of Madeira wine which we sipped while munching on delicious brownies from Orwashers Bakery on East 78th Street.

“Best way to eat brownies. A little Madeira, my dear.”

“Ohhh, you charmer you,” cooed Bobby in a high-pitched voice.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ve given your educational crisis some thought. A lot of thought. You’re too smart a girl to be a drop-out. So, I’ve been searching for a solution. And I’ve found it.”

“Like I said on the phone. I’m not going to some Catholic school. That’s Dad’s loony idea in the first place. He was just angry at Principal Sloan.”

“Actually, I want you to go to a public high school…in New York City.”

“Don’t you have to be a city resident?” asked Bobby.

“We’ll get to that. I’m looking to get you placed in The High School of Music and Art. You’ll need to pass an audition to get in but that should be easy for you. You’ll knock their socks off when they hear you—”

“But what about…you know…”

“You wouldn’t be the first ‘unusual’ student they’ve had. It’s the arts. Half of their faculty probably cross-dresses on weekends.” Bobby spit out his wine. “Okay, I’m exaggerating. But they’re very understanding. As long as you don’t cause any trouble like try to date half the student body or seek out local politicians for sugar daddies.”

I blushed. “I’d never do anything like that, Billy.”

“I know. Your dad impressed upon me that you’re a good girl when he was showing me pictures of his 30-06 hunting rifle.” Bobby laughed as he wiped his mouth with two paper napkins.

“Time is short with Christmas coming up in 3 weeks. Their audition period ends on the 16th. Pass the audition and you could re-start your senior year in January.”

“Re-start?”

“They’re not going to give you credit for the three months at Bergenfield High. Which is fine. You can finish your senior year by attending summer semester. You’ll have to double up on credits, but you’ll graduate in August. Just in time to start college in September.”

“I gather you’ve gotten me an audition?”

“Not quite. You’ll have to pre-audition for one of the professional advisors that the school sometimes relies on to screen prospective candidates. Good thing for you I know one such advisor. And we’re going to see her next Thursday, the eighth.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“My good friend and former schoolmate, Barbra Streisand.” Bobby choked on a brownie. I slapped him on the back.

“I…I have to audition in front of Barbra?”

“Easy peasy. You’ve sung in front of thousands. I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colors. Now, the issue is what to sing for her and the Music & Arts panel. I’ve picked out two songs you can do just accompanying yourself on piano.” I winced. “I’ve heard you tickle the ivories, Shuggie. You play well enough to do this.”

“That’s right, babe. All those years when we practiced, you played piano for us…I mean me.”

“So, we’ll rehearse Monday through Wednesday at 1650 Broadway—”

“Bobby and I wanted to spend two solid weeks seeing all the sights in New York City. I mean, Bobby won’t get a chance to do that for the next two years—”

“Or ever,” Bobby noted.

“We’ll rehearse a couple of hours in the morning. The rest of the day is all yours.”

“In that case, I guess that’s alright. Okay, Bobby?”

“Of course it’s alright. Go for it, Shuggie.” He squeezed my hand and I nodded to Billy.

I didn’t see Bobby on Sunday. He went to visit his maternal grandparents in Camden, a small city just outside of Philadelphia. To say goodbye before he shipped out for two years, hopefully to return intact and alive. Mom took the opportunity to take me shopping for school clothes at a couple of the nearby malls. After all, I couldn’t wear my silver lame dress or Connie’s hand me downs to school, assuming I actually got admitted to The High School of Music and Art in January.

While I was trying out a cute pair of red patent leather Mary Jane shoes at Adore Footwear in The Bergen Mall, Mrs. Rheingold, my erstwhile Home Economics teacher, came into the store and immediately spotted me.

“Shuggie, what luck! I was hoping to see you before you left town to attend Immaculate Heart. I do believe a religious school like that would be perfect for you. Public schools are so…so…”

“Public, Mrs. Rheingold? Good to see you too but I’m not going to Immaculate Heart. That’s just a rumor started by some underclass girls.”

“Is that your mother sitting there?” She waved to Mom who was inspecting a pair of pumps for herself.

“Yes, we’re shopping for clothes to wear at my new school…wherever that might end up being.”

“I always thought it was a real shame that a girl with your looks and nice figure dressed like a boy all the time. It’s good to see you’re embracing the girly side of you. Speaking of which…” She whispered “you’re not in trouble, are you? It’s not my business but such a sweet young thing having a baby and the father away in the war—”

“Mrs. Rheingold! I’m not pregnant!” Everyone in the store turned to look at us. Mom jumped up from her seat, dropping the pumps onto the floor. I lowered my voice as I drew Mrs. Rheingold into a corner. “How do these rumors start? I’m just changing schools. There’s no scandalous reason for it. My parents just feel I should find a school that better develops my talent…my…uh…various talents. Various and sundry talents. As it were.”

“I’m sorry, Shuggie. I shouldn’t listen to malicious gossip. How could I believe such a thing about you? Well, good luck with finding the right school. And, please, keep in touch. I just know you’re going places, young lady! Bye!” She left the store just as Mom appeared by my side. She twirled her finger against her temple as if to say, “what a maroon.” I could only nod in agreement.

The view from Barbra Streisand’s Central Park West duplex penthouse was spectacular. Standing on her terrace you could see the Central Park Reservoir and, farther out, the East Side of Manhattan. It was Thursday afternoon and we (Billy, Bobby, and me) were sitting across from a coffee table from a very pregnant but glowingly beautiful Barbra Streisand, drinking tea and munching on chocolate-tipped biscotti. She was telling us that her baby was due at the end of the month. She was hoping for a New Year’s Day baby.

After some more conversational niceties, she pointed to the piano in the corner of the room and invited me to display my talents. Billy nodded confidently and Bobby gave me a thumbs up as I crossed the room.

I took a deep breath and made myself comfortable on the piano bench. I was wearing a blue floral print dress that I had purchased at the mall just that Sunday. Just as a change of pace, Mom had broken out the curlers and given my hair, which was now past my shoulders, some gentle undulations.

Billy selected songs that could be sung with minimal accompaniment and we both agreed that this John Lennon composition would be perfect for my vocal range. Looking at Bobby, I sang these beautiful words.

I didn’t expect what I heard when I finished. Barbra shouted “Brava! Brava!” Billy and Bobby followed suit and clapped loudly. I smiled, rose from the bench and bowed in Barbra’s direction, mouthing the words, “Thank you.” I had received ovations even more thunderous during the summer, but the enthusiastic reception of my performance here was galvanizing. I felt light-headed.

“Shuggie has another number that we’ve prepared, Barbra. Something seasonal that the M&A panel might find charmingly appropriate.”

“Please, Shuggie, let us hear it. We’re all ears, sweetie.”

I laughed, remembering my grandmother’s bewilderment by that English idiom, “all ears.” Re-setting my affect, I sat back down at the piano, my face exhibiting confidence and concentration. Then a laugh escaped my lips as I realized the song I was about to sing was a happy tribute to the upcoming holidays. It was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Another ovation from my three “auditors” immediately followed the last chords of the song and I was bowing like crazy. I think I even tried a curtsey. Barbra waved me over to her. She took my hands in hers and shook them excitedly.

“You are very talented, young lady. Of course you are. Billy’s got a great ear. I will definitely ask the M&A panel to give you an audition as soon as possible. Are you available all week next week?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Streisand! Any day next week is fine.”

As Billy walked with us to where Bobby had parked, he could see the wide smile creasing my face.

“Don’t celebrate yet, Shuggie. Barbra can get you an audition with the school, but you still have to pass their audition.”

“I know, Billy. But I’m so happy Barbra really liked me! No one’s ever shouted brava at me before.”

“Okay, okay. You and Bobby have fun exploring New York City the next few days. Just keep your powder dry for your audition next week.”

“What powder?”

Billy called the very next day and told me that Music and Art had scheduled my audition for Wednesday, the 14th, at 10:30 in the morning. So, Barbra really did have a lot of clout with the school administration. Billy told me to celebrate in moderation until then and said he’d find some time to talk to my parents about some details that needed to be ironed out when not if I get admitted to the school. When I asked what details, he just said not to worry my pretty little head about it and the call ended. Maybe it wasn’t the prudent thing to do but I decided not to worry my pretty little head about it. So there.

Bobby and I ran around the city like out-of-towners, taking in all the sights, looking at art exhibits in museums, seeing movies like the new Man from U.N.C.L.E. film, One Spy Too Many, going to jazz clubs to hear some of Bobby’s favorites like Nina Simone (who waved to us between songs) and Sonny Rollins, romping through the snow in Central Park, skating on the rink in Rockefeller Center, and returning to the Café Wha? to catch Richie Havens sing “Handsome Johnny.”

The High School of Music and Art was located in West Harlem, a couple of blocks from the campus of City College. It was a public high school dedicated to the instruction of young musicians and vocalists and established by colorful New York Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia in 1936. Billy told me some famous alumni included Diahann Carroll, songwriter Cy Coleman, Eartha Kitt and minor actors like Billy Dee Williams and Robert DeNiro. Oh, and someone named Janis Ian, who had just released a single entitled “Society’s Child,” was currently a student there.

There was a panel of four auditors seated at a long table facing the back of the stage where a Steinway B Grand Piano stood, similar to the one in Barbra’s apartment. The head auditor was an odd-looking man wearing an enormous fuzzy mohair sweater that threatened to swallow the upper part of his body.

The pinched look on his face seemed to say he wasn’t a happy camper today (or any day). Billy told me his name was Mr. Spinetti. I asked why his sweater was so over-sized. One of the other auditors, a pleasant looking woman who looked to be about 60, leaned over and told us Spinetti’s wife hated to waste the extra yarn she’d bought so she used it all. She cackled but stopped when Spinetti looked over at her. I was the third prospective student to audition and when my name was called, I walked quickly to the piano and sat down.

“Good morning, Miss Brennan, is it? Yes, well, you will pleasure us, hopefully, with two songs, for which you will be graded by each of the auditors on this panel. We will notify you of our decision as soon as we can, seeing as the end of the Fall term is upon us. I do have one question, if I may, before you begin. What is the reason you withdrew from your former high school in…let me see…New Jersey?”

“Umm…my parents thought I should be enrolled in a school that more properly addresses my talents. My talents plural. Various and sundry talents.” I smiled broadly. Mr. Spinetti’s baleful expression didn’t change.

“We’ll be the judges of that, Miss...” He looked at the sheet on his clipboard. “Brennan. Proceed.”

I thought the audition went well. So did Billy and Bobby who applauded after each song and raised the ire of Mr. Spinetti who grumbled about outsiders disrupting the audition process. Of course, no one shouted brava! brava! the way Barbra had. The three other auditors did smile at me when we left the theater. Mr. Spinetti was deep into his clipboard and didn’t offer a goodbye. Still, in all, doesn’t 3 out of 4 votes win?

That Saturday, Bobby was away with his family, visiting his Aunt Emily and her family in Glassboro. Her husband was a linguistics professor at Rowan University there. So, I spent the day at the old homestead. It was one of the weekends when Connie decided to stay at Rutgers. Must have had a heavy date. I should ask her. After all, sisters share important things like that.

We were watching The Hollywood Palace on ABC when Dad turned to me and told me he and Billy had had a long conversation over the phone the day before. Since the guests on The Hollywood Palace were extremely boring (Eddie Fisher, Agnes Moorehead, The Kessler Twins, and The Young Americans), instead of feigning sleep, I actually listened to what Dad had to say. Mom was trying to knit Dad a sweater and kept ripping the stitches apart and starting over again. I wanted to suggest she use mohair yarn but the picture of Dad in an enormous sweater like Mr. Spinetti made me giggle.

“Why are you laughing, Shuggie? I haven’t said anything funny.”

“Yet. Sorry, Dad. What did Billy have to say?”

“Well, he thinks you’ve cinched getting into Music and Art. Now, you have to be a resident of the city to attend a city school. Billy has a solution.”

“We’re moving to New York?”

“You know that’s not possible, Shuggie. I’ve got almost twenty years on my job at the plant. I’m not gonna give up my pension when I’m this close to vesting. But you can’t live in the city by yourself. At least not until May when you turn 18. So, Billy suggested you and your mother move into his apartment until you graduate in August. He doesn’t even live there half the time. You know he’s bi-coastal, as the cool people say. And I’ll stay here. It’s the logical answer.”

“What about grandmother?”

“Oh, yeah, Billy said she can go with you guys too.”

“It might be hard on her to move. After all, she’s stuck in a wheelchair.”

“I know she can walk, princess.”
“You do?”

“Yeah, the doctors told us before they released her last month. I figured I’d humor her for a while. Let her get her kicks, you know.”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re too much. Anyway, you won’t mind being here alone?”

“We’ll be together on weekends. Either here or in New York. It’s only a half-hour drive, sweetie.”

I hugged both my parents. Everyone shed a tear. Well, I shed a few more than they did. I really love my mom and dad. I don’t deserve them. Or Billy. What a nice gesture. I wouldn’t let a bunch of relative strangers live in my home for nothing. Or even a bunch of strange relatives.

Christmas was drawing near, and I hadn’t heard yet from the Music and Art people. I was getting a little nervous and starting to doubt Billy’s declaration that I had cinched the audition when Mr. Spinetti called on Friday the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. Dad answered the phone and didn’t give anything away with his replies or facial expressions as he talked to Spinetti. He put the phone down and held his arms out to me.

“You’re in, princess! Your classes start on January 3rd in the New Year.”

We hugged. Mom came in from the kitchen and joined in the group hug. Grandmother walked in from her bedroom and hugged me from behind.

“Why are we hugging, Itsuki?”

“I got into The High School of Music and Art! We’re going to live in Manhattan!”

“You’re changing schools? Why doesn’t anybody ever tell me anything?”

“You’re coming with us, sobo. We’re going to live in a luxury apartment on the East Side of Manhattan!”

“Can we afford that?”

“We’re living there rent free!”

“I guess we can afford that.”

The dreaded day was upon us. After a wonderful week of Christmas cheer, it was time for Bobby to leave for San Francisco, where he would board a military plane that would fly him to Southeast Asia to begin his two years in the service. Bobby’s father had booked a room at The Fairfield Inn near Idlewild Airport in Queens, New York for New Year’s Eve night. His commercial flight to San Francisco was set to take off at the ungodly hour of 7AM on New Year’s Day morning. Although the drive from Bergenfield to Idlewild was only an hour and a half, because of the flight being so early, Mr. Messina suggested it was better to stay at a hotel the night before. It was a double room, but I knew my father wouldn’t let me go with Bobby. I was surprised when I saw Dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom. It was too early for dinner.

“Pack something to wear overnight, Shuggie. Bobby’s coming over in fifteen minutes.”

“What? Why?”

“I know you want to see Bobby off tomorrow morning. He’s leaving for that hotel near the airport right now. Hurry up.”

“You mean…”

“Sweetie, I know what you mean to each other. And now that you’re determined to be a woman, regardless of my reservations about it, I’d feel awful if you didn’t have one last private moment with Bobby before he goes away, maybe forever—”

“Daddy, don’t say that!”

“None of us know what’s in the cards for us. War is hell, Shuggie. I know. I was in the biggest one ever. And I’m damned lucky to have survived. I hope and pray Bobby makes it back to you in two years. I really do. Because it would kill me to see you destroyed by that.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Now hurry up. Your man’ll be here in ten minutes.”

I came out of the bathroom wearing my pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set. Bobby, sitting on the bed of the hotel room, in just his pajama bottoms, whistled as I struck a seductive pose.

“Come here, babe. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“Be gentle, Bobby. It’s my first time.”

He didn’t reply. We fell onto the bed, and he started nuzzling my neck and shoulders.

“You don’t really mind, do you? About, you know…”

“I love you, Shuggie. There’s nothing about you I don’t love. I’ll think about you every minute I’m away from you.”

“Two years is a long time…”

“I’ve loved you since we were 4 and 5 years old, Shuggie. Two years will go by fast. When I get back, we’ll get married. We’ll spend the rest of our lives together.”

I knew what Bobby was saying was probably a fantasy that had no chance of coming true. Where would we be in two years? Will Bobby make it out alive? Will I ever be able to get the surgery I need? The universe was conspiring to drive us apart. Honey was right. God has a plan for all of us. But we can’t know what it is until it actually happens, and we have no control over it.

“Let’s stop talking and just enjoy the moment and each other. Make love to me, Bobby. Please.”

Not another word was uttered. There were sounds, of course. Sounds of pleasure and joy. I learned that night I’m a bit of a screamer. I hope the people in the rooms next to us were deep sleepers. I’d hate to think I deprived some tired travelers of their well-deserved rest. As we made love, the music that played in my head was “The Look of Love.” It was the look Bobby and I exchanged as we moved inside each other’s bodies.

I sat in Bobby’s cherry red Chevy Corvair Corsa in the parking lot of Idlewild Airport. His plane had taken off a half hour ago. I was cried out, exhausted from the heaving, shaking tremors and rivulets of tears. I had held it together when I half-jokingly told Bobby not to get killed. He smiled and said, “Not a chance, babe. I’m coming back to you. I promise.” Then he was on that plane and gone.

I squirmed in the driver’s seat. Damn, I won’t be able to walk normally for a week. Still, I smiled when I thought about how careful Bobby had been, so tender and, yet, I shared his passion and knew how tough it was for him to hold back. Slow, slow, I implored him, and he heard me and responded. Oh, God, please have him come back to me. Please. Please. Please.

I was looking forward to all my changes in the new year. A new school. A new home in Manhattan of all places. Bigger breasts. Yes, bigger breasts! A recording contract with a single Billy swears will be a Top 10 hit. I’ll turn 18 in May. High School graduation in August and college in September. Will I be a real woman in mind and body by New Year’s 1968?

1967 is going to be one wild ride.

Author’s Note: There will be a Book 2. I don’t know when exactly. My next bit of scribbling will begin posting by the end of the week. It’ll be a return to the universe of my story, “Painted from Memory.” So, same bat time, same bat station, see you all there. Thanks to all my loyal readers.