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Authors: Jacqueline Briskin
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dying to get Frankie’s ‘Night and Day.’”
In the shop, the girls browsed over bins of records whose paper wrappers were cut out in a circle to display the credits.
BJ selected five. Marylin picked up only “These Foolish Things” by Tommy Dorsey, wishing she could afford to buy it, though the purchase would have been idiotic. The Waces had no record player.
All four of the booths were occupied: beyond soundproofed glass, people listened raptly to inaudible music. BJ plopped onto the narrow waiting bench. “You want me to talk about Linc, don’t you?” Her dark eyes were shrewd.
“Oh, BJ.”
“I’m not exactly a moron, Marylin. My brother takes you for an ice cream and all at once we’re buddy-buddy.”
Marylin stared down at her record, considering how sick she wasof a life filled with lying. “That’s true, BJ, but I do think of you as a friend, too.” This was honest. BJ’s braggadocio might irritate, yet she had brains and—more important to Marylin—a bounding warmth, like a big, ungainly St. Bernard puppy. “The truth is, I like you a lot. And admire you—your play’s a wonder.”
BJ wriggled with pleasure. “Hey, I do believe those two in there are leaving.” A gray-haired couple were replacing records in an album imprinted
Excerpts from Carmen.
“Let’s go wait there before some other classical creeps take over for another year.” As they shifted positions, she asked, “You find Linc devastating, don’t you?”
“I’m in love with him.” A common-enough confession exchanged by Beverly High girls, but Marylin’s voice quivered on a note of visceral sincerity.
BJ leaned against the glass wall. “So it’s like that. Listen, I don’t blame you. He’s a terrific guy and groovy-looking. If he weren’t my brother . . . Oh, Hail Mary and preserve me from incestuous thoughts.”
“Does he have a lot of girls?”
“Some. The latest is Rosellen St. Vincent—she’s a Pi Phi at Berkeley. She came down to spend a weekend after he graduated from flight school. I’m positive she goes all the way.”
Marylin sighed, richly jealous of Rosellen St. Vincent and her sexual activities with Linc.
“Would you rather not hear about her?” BJ asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. . . .”
“Well, anyway, it’s probably cooled off. He hasn’t talked about seeing her this time.”
“How long has he been in the Navy?”
“Since the day after Pearl Harbor. Dad was furious, I can tell you. It was his idea to get Linc into the quartermaster corps and keep him here in California. The funny part is, Dad’s a gung-ho physical type and it’s hard to imagine Linc in a war. I mean, he’s very caring of life, if you know what I mean. I can’t see him shooting at anyone, even a Jap in a Zero.”
The classical couple emerged and BJ and Marylin went into the booth.
“He seems very complicated,” Marylin murmured in a fishing expedition.
“Is he ever! Listen to this. He had this poem published in
Atlantic Monthly,
and he never told any of us. I mean, what’s the point of getting something printed if you aren’t going to let everybody know?” BJ paused. “Look, that was a clunky remark I made aboutyou worming into my good graces because of Linc. And I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, BJ.”
“Sure I do. Aren’t we friends?” BJ grabbed her record. “Let’s put that on first.”
Oh, how the ghost of you clings!
These foolish things
Remind me of you.
7
Despite their awesome bulk, aircraft carriers are thin-skinned. When the
Enterprise
had limped into San Diego in early January it was after thousand-pound bombs had caused costly fires and a torpedo had wreaked hell on the steering mechanism. Work proceeded on the enormous craft night and day: the estimate of the time the repairs would take was, of course, strictly hush-hush.
* * *
“But how long will you be here?” Marylin asked.
They had just left the rambling, ugly barn of the
In the shop, the girls browsed over bins of records whose paper wrappers were cut out in a circle to display the credits.
BJ selected five. Marylin picked up only “These Foolish Things” by Tommy Dorsey, wishing she could afford to buy it, though the purchase would have been idiotic. The Waces had no record player.
All four of the booths were occupied: beyond soundproofed glass, people listened raptly to inaudible music. BJ plopped onto the narrow waiting bench. “You want me to talk about Linc, don’t you?” Her dark eyes were shrewd.
“Oh, BJ.”
“I’m not exactly a moron, Marylin. My brother takes you for an ice cream and all at once we’re buddy-buddy.”
Marylin stared down at her record, considering how sick she wasof a life filled with lying. “That’s true, BJ, but I do think of you as a friend, too.” This was honest. BJ’s braggadocio might irritate, yet she had brains and—more important to Marylin—a bounding warmth, like a big, ungainly St. Bernard puppy. “The truth is, I like you a lot. And admire you—your play’s a wonder.”
BJ wriggled with pleasure. “Hey, I do believe those two in there are leaving.” A gray-haired couple were replacing records in an album imprinted
Excerpts from Carmen.
“Let’s go wait there before some other classical creeps take over for another year.” As they shifted positions, she asked, “You find Linc devastating, don’t you?”
“I’m in love with him.” A common-enough confession exchanged by Beverly High girls, but Marylin’s voice quivered on a note of visceral sincerity.
BJ leaned against the glass wall. “So it’s like that. Listen, I don’t blame you. He’s a terrific guy and groovy-looking. If he weren’t my brother . . . Oh, Hail Mary and preserve me from incestuous thoughts.”
“Does he have a lot of girls?”
“Some. The latest is Rosellen St. Vincent—she’s a Pi Phi at Berkeley. She came down to spend a weekend after he graduated from flight school. I’m positive she goes all the way.”
Marylin sighed, richly jealous of Rosellen St. Vincent and her sexual activities with Linc.
“Would you rather not hear about her?” BJ asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. . . .”
“Well, anyway, it’s probably cooled off. He hasn’t talked about seeing her this time.”
“How long has he been in the Navy?”
“Since the day after Pearl Harbor. Dad was furious, I can tell you. It was his idea to get Linc into the quartermaster corps and keep him here in California. The funny part is, Dad’s a gung-ho physical type and it’s hard to imagine Linc in a war. I mean, he’s very caring of life, if you know what I mean. I can’t see him shooting at anyone, even a Jap in a Zero.”
The classical couple emerged and BJ and Marylin went into the booth.
“He seems very complicated,” Marylin murmured in a fishing expedition.
“Is he ever! Listen to this. He had this poem published in
Atlantic Monthly,
and he never told any of us. I mean, what’s the point of getting something printed if you aren’t going to let everybody know?” BJ paused. “Look, that was a clunky remark I made aboutyou worming into my good graces because of Linc. And I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, BJ.”
“Sure I do. Aren’t we friends?” BJ grabbed her record. “Let’s put that on first.”
Oh, how the ghost of you clings!
These foolish things
Remind me of you.
7
Despite their awesome bulk, aircraft carriers are thin-skinned. When the
Enterprise
had limped into San Diego in early January it was after thousand-pound bombs had caused costly fires and a torpedo had wreaked hell on the steering mechanism. Work proceeded on the enormous craft night and day: the estimate of the time the repairs would take was, of course, strictly hush-hush.
* * *
“But how long will you be here?” Marylin asked.
They had just left the rambling, ugly barn of the
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