Scene 1: The den

Its any given weekday and I’m sitting on the couch in my dad’s office. This was the room next to mine. One wall was a shelving unit with a mess of stuff, albums, tapes, music equipment. I clearly remember the KLH turntable with the small radio dial which sat just to the right of a semi-automatic shifter that would often confuse of challenge my ability to have the record start where I wanted it. I would therefore rely on manually lifting the tonearm and placing it on the record.

Its unclear why today Im so pragmatic around this process in an attempt to avoid a single scratch on a record, but then I did my best and my dad never seemed to care or correct me. I think as much as he loved music, the needles on this unit was never changed…. It simply worked…. Enough. He might have been at his desk writing on a typewriter, or siting at his piano messing with a song or leaning on an old favorite.

There could be a martini on the piano and a smoldering Marlboro that I had ventured across Madison. Ave to get for him. My mom would saunter in…. Scotch in hand…. Dewars or Cutty with a splash of water, tall glass… ice…. And then the act may begin…. Transported to the time in the early 60s.. Was it the BlueAngel, The Hungry I…. were they transported to Aspen, Chicago, St Louis…. The road may have called but it was just a den in NYC.

“Those were the days my friend”…. “Your gonna miss me honey”…. “Here’s to the kids at the Rex cafe, goodbye good luck Ill see you all tomorrow…. Remember Smiley Mae who hated waiting tables in the very worst way.” “ It’s just one of those songs….”

There was a repertoire that they fell back on. I didn’t understand and appreciate this but it could become a full on show…. With banter…

… and the audience was a little version of me.

There were drinks, the smell of cigarettes that could create a thin smoke in the air and I sat on the couch.. And I watched and they were gone. In their zone, in their act. Being who they had once been and likely aspired to have never left. This act could pop up often.. a dinner party, basically anywhere there was a piano. It was that version of…. “Will play a song”…. Oh no I shouldnt…. maybe just one…. Ok and then 30 minutes later he is still there with now a chorus of guests, friends, and lost in song.

With my dad it felt like he was flexing a muscle. His ability to run through the motions was him being the version of himself that was most at peace. His eyes would close, he would play without effort, carry his parts or provide a perfect harmony to my mother. She was…. Well she was Dolly Jonah…. A nightclub singer from Delaware with star ambitions. Massive ambition. Her desire for fame and recognition was so deep in her.

When I think back often the memories are fuzzy. Was she talented? Well she was clearly passionate…. She was the life of the party. A woman who wanted to tell stories and make people laugh, and cry and feel something in her orbit. Its interesting as I look back on these sessions and what we all wanted and needed. They wanted an audience.. I could provide this but it was weird. It was also constant…. They were living a version of a fantasy that had long been put to bed, but between them, they were codependent on being the “act” they once were, even if it was for a kid that neither of them probably wanted. So I was the audience. And I would clap.