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Local Writing Jukebox Saturday Night When I was a kid, back in the 50's and early 60's, my folks had a luncheonette. It opened at 5-a.m. and went on weeknights until 9, with a steady stream of customers. The garbage men and street sweepers would come in first, followed by Nick the Mailman and Freddie the Cop. After that came the first shift at the factory. Then, after a while, the office workers. The same scene followed at lunchtime, with some at the take-out, others on stools at the counter, and some, with a little more time to eat, at the tables lined up against the far wall. And at the end of the far wall, in a small in-set my father built to hold a table that could seat eight, was the jukebox. The jukebox was a magic machine, more magic even than the pinball. The first juke I remember was an old Wurlitzer. Up under the hood of it was an electric light, and around that, a cylinder of color that rotated slowly, so that, from the outside, the glass between the rows of record cards glimmered with liquid color. During the weekdays, the juke didn't get much play. Lots of times, it wouldn't make a sound until after lunch, when, lounging around a bit before they went back to the office, Joey or Pat would put a nickel in and the Wurlitzer would start to hum and whir, tracking down the title, until ...
Yeah, but when the weekend rolled around, that's a different story. All the kids in the neighborhood would flock to our corner store. The soda fountain would become a bustle of orders, and my dad, master of the pumps and spigots and blenders, alchemist of syrups and ice creams and malt, would begin to bang out the drinks ... cherry Coke! ... vanilla shake! ... lemon-lime! ... chocolate malt! ... The 'kids' were mostly all older than me, already sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, while I hadn't seen fifteen yet. But what I did see was Andy-Boy's sister, Linda, and my younger years knew absolutely nothing about any limit that could keep me from having a super crush on her. Of course, Linda had a boyfriend. In fact, I can't think of a girl who came in on Saturday nights -- not Linda, not Francine, not Annette, not Marianne -- not a one of them who didn't have a boyfriend, even though there seemed to be plenty of guys, including me, without girlfriends. Linda's boyfriend was Frankie. Well, there we all were, as usual. A Saturday night in the neighborhood. And, of course, the jukebox began to jump ...
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