They’re rockin’ and rollin,’ hoppin’ and boppin,’ twistin’ and shoutin’ all across the country. Who, you ask? Teens. From soda shops to living rooms, slumber parties to beachside hangouts, they’re tuning in to hear those addictive Billboard hits. Excitement has never been higher, and neither has the volume.
Parents are stuffing their ears with cotton balls and wondering what happened to the big band sounds of yesteryear. Artie Shaw. Benny Goodman. Where are they? They’ve faded to the background, crowded out by young, hip artists like Billy Haley and his Comets, The Platters, and Little Richard. This ain’t your grandma’s music. Not even close. But today’s teens are diggin’ it, and that’s what matters to record producers. They’re taking their cues from those calling the shots…your kids.
So, parents, where are your teens? At their local record stores, of course. And gathered around transistor radios, snapping their fingers and tapping their toes. They’re singing along with Elvis, Pat Boone, and the like. They’re also gearing up for the nationally syndicated American Bandstand, which is sure to be a success, if this reporter’s predictions are accurate. (And since when has Hepcat Harry ever been wrong about something music related?)
Wake up and smell the vinyl on the 45, Mom and Dad. Sharpen those record needles and stock up on earplugs. Your teens are setting the trends for the future of entertainment in the US of A. Like it or not, they’re here to stay…and so is their music.
— Reporting for Hollywood Heartthrob magazine, “Jukebox Jive” columnist, Hepcat Harry.
* * * * *
About fifteen minutes after Debbie finished supper with her family, she walked into the living room in search of her father. She found him seated on the divan, reading the newspaper.
“Pop?” She glanced at the television, more than a little curious. “It’s time for Dragnet. Did you forget?”
He waved a hand and continued reading.
“But Pop, you never miss that show. It’s your favorite.”
“Sal!” he called out, as he lowered the newspaper. “Sal, could you come in here for a minute, please?”
Debbie’s mother entered the room looking a bit frazzled. “What is it, Frankie?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m trying to clean up the supper dishes so I can get back downstairs to help Junior with the evening crowd. We’ve got a packed house tonight.” She glanced at the television, a look of concern registering in her eyes. “You’re not watching Dragnet?”
“No, I can’t think about that right now. This is important.” He pointed to the newspaper. “It says right here in this paper that gas could someday cost fifty cents a gallon.”
Debbie gasped. “W–what?” She took a seat on the arm of the divan and glanced over Pop’s shoulder at the article in the paper. Sure enough, the headline touted the possibility that gas prices could someday rise to unbelievable levels.
“Fifty cents a gallon,” her father repeated. “Can you believe that?”
Debbie’s mother sat next to him and shook her head. “Frankie, that’s impossible. It must be a misprint of some sort.”
“A man would be better off leaving his car in the garage,” he sputtered.
“At that price, who could afford a car, anyway?” Debbie asked.
“We need to stop taking this paper. It’s nothing but foolishness.” Her father flipped the page and pointed. “Says in this article here that some scientists think it’s possible to put a man on the moon by the end of this century. A man on the moon. What do you think of that?”
“Foolishness, dear. Pure foolishness.” Her mother rose and gave him a kiss on the forehead, then headed back to the kitchen.
As Debbie took a seat in the chair across from Pop, she tried to work up the courage to talk to him about her idea. Unfortunately, Becky Ann thwarted her plan. The sixteen-year-old entered the room wearing her prettiest skirt and blouse. Her bright red lipstick was a close match for her new hair color, Miss Clairol’s Sunset Red.
Their father took one look at her, folded the paper, and rose. “Becky Ann, where are you going?”
“Hey, Pop! Why aren’t you watching Dragnet? It’s Tuesday night.”
“Don’t avoid the question, Becky Ann,” he said. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going downstairs to the soda shop to jive with my friends. Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s so old-fashioned.”
Debbie held her breath, wondering how Pop would respond to such sassiness. Oh, if only Becky Ann would stop being such a… well, a teenager.
“I’ll show you old-fashioned!”
Their father drew near, but Becky Ann didn’t appear to be paying attention. Instead, she checked her reflection in the tiny compact mirror she fetched from her skirt pocket.
“Parents, honestly.” She smacked her lips together, the bright lipstick now smearing over her teeth. So much for looking like she wore the stuff all the time.
“What do you need all that lipstick for?” their father asked. His gaze narrowed. “And what have you done to your hair? It’s…it’s red!”
“Finally! I thought you’d never notice!” Becky Ann giggled and turned in a circle to show it off. “You like it?”
“You…you dyed your hair?”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek then winked. “Only my hair-dresser knows for sure.”
Pop’s face turned red. “Sal!” he called out. “Sal!”
Debbie’s mom reappeared, dishtowel in hand. “Yes, dear?”
He pointed to Becky Ann. “She dyed her hair.”
“Well, I know. I helped her with it when we came up from the shop earlier. Isn’t it lovely?” Debbie’s mom tucked the dishtowel into the waistline of her apron and fussed with Becky Ann’s long red mane.
“Lovely?” Pop’s eyes widened. “You think it’s lovely? What has happened to this world we live in? I tell you who I blame it on. It’s that crazy fellow, that, that…Elvis…Elvis…”
“Presley, dear,” their mother said.
“Elvis Presley! He’s completely corrupted our kids. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about. The whole planet could go up in smoke tomorrow, thanks to the Communists. And what does my daughter do about it? She dyes her hair! Dyes her hair.”
Debbie fought the sinking feeling that tried to overtake her. With so many distractions, she would never get to talk to Pop about her plan. Would Becky Ann’s hair really spoil the whole thing?
“Frankie, remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure. You need to stay calm.” Debbie’s mom picked up the newspaper, folded it, and tucked it under her arm.
Debbie watched her father, who sat in silence for a moment. She breathed a sigh of relief when he reached for the large remote control and pressed the button. After a loud click, the television began to warm up. A few seconds later, the screen filled with the familiar faces of the Dragnet stars. Pop settled onto the sofa.
“No more talk about the Communists,” he said. “I’m going to watch my show now.”
“Good idea. It’ll be therapeutic.” Debbie’s mom gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee, dear?”
He grunted a “Yes,” his eyes never leaving the screen.
Debbie didn’t budge from her seat, even as Becky Ann slipped out the door to head downstairs. She would sit through as many television shows as necessary to find just the right moment to approach Pop.
Before long, she found herself caught up in the familiar police drama. Then, as the clock on the wall chimed the half hour, another show began.
About halfway into The Texaco Star Theater, Pop lowered the volume on the TV. “Okay, honey. You win out over Milton Berle. Tell me what you want to talk about.”
Debbie startled to attention. “W–what?”
“Don’t act so surprised. You’ve been sitting there for over an hour waiting to talk to me about something. I know you well enough to know you’ve got something on your mind. You might as well tell me.”
“Ah.” She grinned. “Well, now that you mention it.”
“What is it?” he asked. “You need an advance on your paycheck? Want the day off to hang out at the beach with your friends? Want me to add something new to the menu?”
She laughed. “All of those things sound good, but they’re not what I had in mind.”
“What is it, Debbie? Spill the beans.”
She rose and joined him on the sofa. “Pop, I’ve been worried about you.”
His brow wrinkled. “You know what the Bible says about worrying. It won’t add a minute to your life. Better to trust God than to worry.”
“I know,” she said, “but it’s not always easy. I see how hard you work.”
“‘In all labor there is profit.’” He quoted the familiar verse from Proverbs, one he lived out every day and one he repeated often.
“Well, yes,” she agreed. “But I liked Dr. Perry’s idea about you working in the office and leaving the cooking and cleaning to the rest of us. If we didn’t have to worry about finances, you could relax. We could hire a couple of extra cooks.”
“I have a feeling you’re cooking up something right now, so just spill it.”
“Pop…” Debbie rose and began to pace the room. She finally paused and gazed into his eyes, hoping to keep her tears at bay. “Pop, we’ve been running behind on the mortgage ever since you got home from the hospital. Mom told me.”
His gaze narrowed. “I wish she hadn’t burdened you with that, Sunshine. It’s not your problem.”
“I know, but I’m glad she did.” Debbie paused. “I knew the medical bills were high, but I had no idea about the mortgage until she told me. I wish I’d known sooner so I could have come up with a plan.”
“A plan?” He looked concerned.
“Yes.” She waited a moment to ask the next question, choosing her words carefully. “Is…is that why Everett Anderson keeps hanging around the shop? Do you think he’s going to…”
“To foreclose?” Her father sighed. “I don’t know, honey. He’s been concerned about the money from the get-go, and I know he’s really nervous that we’re not caught up yet. I got a letter from the bank just this week.” He paused. “Not really a threat, but close. If the man was a believer, I’m pretty sure he’d be more understanding.”
Debbie shook her head. “If he’d walked a mile in your shoes, he would be more understanding, too. Obviously he’s never been through a crisis, or he would know it takes time for things to get back to normal.”
“Well, I think we’d stand a better chance if McDonald’s hadn’t built their new place so close by,” her father said. “Not that I mind a little competition. I think it’s healthy, in fact. But folks like to try new things, and McDonald’s is the new kid on the block.”
“We might be the old kid, but we’re still the best,” Debbie said. “And we’re going to prove it. We’re going to do something else, too.”
“What’s that?” he asked, his brow now wrinkled.
“I think it’s high time we did a benefit. Folks have been talking about it for months. They’re all concerned about you.”
“A benefit?” He did not look convinced. “What for?”
“To pay off the mortgage on the shop so you can take it easy.”
“Pay off the mortgage?” He laughed. “Get it caught up, you mean.”
She shook her head. “No, I want to pay it off. Otherwise, we could get behind again, if….” Debbie shook her head, unwilling to think of the “ifs.”
“Honey, we owe eighteen thousand dollars on the mortgage. What kind of benefit is going to raise that kind of money?”
“The kind where Bobby Conrad comes to town and sings on our stage at Sweet Sal’s.”
“What?” He slapped himself on the forehead. “Have you caught Bobby Conrad fever, too?”
She decided to avoid the question by going a different route. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what those teen girls want. They want Bobby. And if we could get him to come and sing a few songs, we could take donations from the people who attend. And think of the sales. We’d sell hundreds of burgers and fries and such in one afternoon. People would come from all over Orange County and beyond. It would be fantastic.”
Her father’s gaze narrowed. “And just what makes you think Bobby Conrad is going to come here to do this concert?”
“I don’t know if he will. But I’m sure we could ask…if we had some sort of connection.” She gave her father a pleading look. “You know folks, Pop. You could call in a favor, couldn’t you?”
He paused but said nothing for a while. When he did speak, his words surprised her. “You’re really concerned about your old dad, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
She nodded.
He kissed her on the forehead. “I still say you don’t need to worry, but it does my heart good to know you’ve been thinking about me.” He sighed. “And I’ll be honest with you. The idea of working in the office and leaving the cooking to other people is tempting.”
“I knew it. But why didn’t you say so before?”
He shrugged. “You’re young, honey. You wouldn’t understand. When you get older, you don’t want people to know that you feel… old.”
Debbie laughed. “It’s not like you’re ancient, Pop. You’re only… what? Forty-eight?”
“Forty-nine,” he said. “But who’s counting?”
They both laughed. But even as they did, Debbie thought back to that awful day last spring when Pop had collapsed in the kitchen. The event replayed in her mind over and over again, like a scene from a bad movie.
On that horrible day, she’d feared she might lose her father. Even now, she blinked back tears as the possibility settled in.
“So, let’s go back to talking about this Bobby Conrad idea,” her father said. “I might know his agent.”
“W–what?” Debbie looked his way, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What’s to tell? I know a lot of people. Folks come and go from the shop and I get to know them. Nothing new there.”
“So, do you think you could ask him if Bobby could come?” she asked. “Performing at a benefit concert would be really good for his reputation. And the television reporters would love it, too.”
“Probably.” He patted her arm. “I’ll make you a deal, Sunshine. You talk Becky Ann into dying her hair back to its original color, and I’ll consider calling my old friend and asking him to come down for a visit.”
Debbie sighed. Of all the things to ask. Becky Ann would be plenty miffed at the idea of dying her hair back to its original blond. On the other hand, she would squeal with delight if she heard that Bobby Conrad might really be coming to Sweet Sal’s Soda Shoppe. Surely that would be incentive enough.
Debbie sprang to her feet, more determined than ever. “Pop, you’ve got yourself a deal. By tomorrow morning, all of your offspring will be blond once more, or my name isn’t Deborah Marie Carmichael.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “Because right now Becky Ann’s hair is redder than Bobby Conrad’s convertible…and that’s pretty red!”
Debbie laughed. “I promise. Not sure how I’ll do it, but I’ll do it.”
With a spring in her step, she headed for the door, excited for the day she could tell the others the good news.
* * * * *
Johnny sat in the front seat of Jim Jangle’s sedan as they cruised up the highway to an unfamiliar part of town. “The Great Pretender” played on the radio, and he pondered the words, realizing they hit a little too close to home. What in the world was he doing in California, halfway across the world from Topeka? Oh yes, chasing his dream. Following his heart.
“Thanks for stopping by the Y to pick up my bag,” Johnny said after a few moments of thoughtful silence. “And thanks again for letting me stay at your place. Hope I won’t be putting you out for long.”
“Putting me out?” Jim grinned as he reached to turn down the radio. “Kid, I’m going to make a fortune off you.” His words were followed by a raucous laugh, one that unsettled Johnny’s nerves.
For the next couple of minutes he contemplated his choice to get in the car with a total stranger. Who is this guy, anyway? How do I even know he’s an agent? Sure, he says he is, but… Johnny snuck a peek at the fellow one more time. Could be this Jangles fellow had a few tricks up his sleeve. Maybe he was a scam artist or something. Johnny had read about folks like that. He’d been warned. For a second, fear enveloped him. Just as quickly, it dissipated.
“Listen, kid,” Jim said, breaking the silence. “I don’t want you to get hung up on what that producer said back there. Don’t let his words stop you from becoming what you’re meant to be.”
“Oh.” Johnny paused, realizing just how badly Mr. Conner’s words had stung. Could he really shake them off so easily?
“You know what the great Fred Allen once said, son?” Jim asked.
“Fred Allen…the comedian? The one who passed away last year?”
“Yes, may he rest in peace.” Jim’s voice softened. “He was my favorite. Truly brilliant. Did you ever listen to his radio show?”
“My parents did, from time to time.”
“He was a great ad-libber, and those gags he did with Jack Benny were priceless.”
“What did he say?” Johnny asked.
“Oh, yes.” Jim paused, as if trying to remember. “He said, ‘You can take all the sincerity in Hollywood, place it in the navel of a firefly, and still have room enough for three caraway seeds and a producer’s heart.’” A hearty laugh filled the car. “Get it?”
“Hmm.” Johnny pondered his words. “So, folks aren’t sincere in Hollywood? They don’t say what they mean and mean what they say?”
“Rarely.” Jim changed lanes and exited the freeway.
“So, how do I know I can trust you?” Johnny asked.
“Smart boy, to ask a question like that.” Jim kept his focus on the road. After a few seconds of dodging traffic, he answered the question. “The only logical answer is, you can’t. But I’m going to ask you to, anyhow.” Jim turned and flashed a smile so bright it lifted Johnny’s spirits. “We’re not all bad, kid. And not all directors are like that guy you met today.”
“I’m counting on it.”
A few minutes later, Jim pulled up to the front of a large two-story house with a second car in the driveway. “We’re home.”
“Nice.” Johnny couldn’t help but stare. The house beat anything he’d ever seen back in Kansas.
“Don’t be too impressed, kid,” Jim said. “It’s mortgaged. Won’t be paid off till 1982.”
“Wow.” Johnny tried to imagine life in 1982, but couldn’t think that far ahead. Why, he would be in his mid-forties by then. He’d probably have a wife and a houseful of kids. Maybe they’d live in a place like this. With a mortgage.
Nah. If he made it big in Hollywood, he could pay cash for a house.
Jim led the way to the front door. Johnny followed along on his heels, feeling a bit like a stray pup. He entered the house with his suitcase in hand and looked around, surprised by the home’s expansive size. Seconds later, a lovely woman with brunette hair appeared. Her cotton dress and crisp white apron put him in mind of his mother, though this woman was considerably younger. Probably in her mid-thirties.
“Well, there you are.” She reached for Jim’s jacket. “I was starting to think Toby and I were going to have to have dinner without you.”
“Now, would I do that to you, Theresa?” Jim kissed her on the cheek.
She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.
“Okay, I plead the fifth.” He laughed. “But this time I have a good reason. Theresa, meet Hollywood’s next teen sensation, Johnny Hartmann.”
She flashed a smile and gave Johnny a quick once-over. “Hartmann. Great stage name.”
“Oh, it’s my real name,” he said. “I promise.”
“Sure it is.” She extended her hand.
He shook it, hoping she could read the gratitude in his expression. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Jangles. You have a great place here. Reminds me of home.”
Jim’s wife chuckled. “It’s Mrs. Williams, honey. But you can call me Theresa.”
“Oh?” He looked back and forth between Jim and his wife.
“Jangles is my professional name,” Jim said with a sheepish look. “Adds a lot more splash and color, don’t you think? I mean, who’s going to sign with an agent named Williams?”
“Uh, me?” Johnny laughed.
“True.” Jim paused. “And speaking of signing, I’ve got a form you’ll need to sign. Well, both of us need to sign it, actually. Standard stuff. I’ll be getting 15 percent of any monies you make off of movie deals and recording projects.”
“Fifteen percent?”
“Well, sure, kid. That’s standard. Bobby’s got the same deal. All the big names do.”
“Bobby?” Johnny’s curiosity was piqued.
“Surely you’ve seen him around. Bobby Conrad?”
“B–Bobby Conrad?” Johnny sputtered. “Y–you represent B–Bobby Conrad?”
“Well, sure.” Jim shrugged. “I told you I was an agent, kid. I know talent when I see it. Bobby’s one of the kids on my team. Now you are, too. Unless you want to play hardball over that 15 percent. Then we might have to talk about starting you off in the minor leagues.”
“Oh, no sir.” Johnny shook his head.
A youngster appeared next to Jim. His freckled face and closely cropped haircut reminded Johnny of his kid brother.
“This is Toby,” Jim said with a smile. “He’s part of the team, too. We let him live here year-round, and not just because he’s cute. He happens to belong to us.”
Johnny laughed.
Toby gave Johnny a curious look. “My dad discovered you?”
“I…I guess you could say that.” Johnny shrugged. Right now, he didn’t feel “discovered.” He just felt like a guy who needed a place to stay and a hot meal. And a shower. A shower sounded mighty good.
Toby nodded. “Bobby stayed at our house for three months after he was discovered. How long are you staying?”
“I have no idea.”
“As long as it takes,” Jim said. “But if my predictions are right, it won’t be long before Johnny will be swimming in the dough.”
“Swimming in the dough?” Johnny shook his head, wondering what that would be like. “I…I can’t even imagine it.”
“Well, sure, kid,” Jim said. “Welcome to Hollywood. All things are possible here.”
“Hey, that’s a scripture,” Johnny said. “‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’ It’s one of my favorites.”
“Believeth, huh?” Jim’s brow wrinkled. “Well, I believe…in you. And I’m going to prove it over the next few weeks by getting you some of the best auditions in town. So, welcome to the family.”
“Thank you.” Johnny felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment.
Jim’s wife gave Johnny a pensive glance. “Looks like it’s settled, then. You’re the next great thing.”
“Well, I…” Johnny wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Oh, it’s okay.” She patted him on the back then reached for his bag. “Jim only brings home the ones he’s really sold on, so you must be something else, Johnny.”
“Oh, he is,” Jim said. “Just wait till you hear him sing, Theresa.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, first we eat, then we sing.” She dropped Johnny’s bag onto the sofa then led the way into the dining room.
Johnny’s mouth watered the moment he saw all the food on the table. Meatloaf. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Homemade rolls. He could almost hear the heavenly choir now. A good home-cooked meal could go a long way in making a guy feel welcome.
“Time for supper, everyone,” Theresa said. “I can’t keep this meat-loaf waiting all night.”
As Johnny took his place at the table, he whispered up a prayer of thanks. No way to know if the Emerald City was up ahead or not. But he was willing to make the journey up the yellow brick road, one way or the other.