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Somebody took a picture
Morning Sentinel Online (Maine)
Sunday, January 2, 2005
By J.P. Devine
Somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now. It was an early autumn day
in the 1950s at an old Greek dance hall outside of Waukegan, Ill. I was
the new boy in town, all of 17, out of high school and living with a
brother.
I met a bunch of kids at a malt shop back when kids actually drank
malts. I fell in with this crowd, and we went dancing at night and on
Saturday afternoons. There was Greek music and Nat "King" Cole. It was a
magic time.
One day we all took a break by the lake and ate at a picnic table
between dances, and somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now.
There were two blondes, one who looked like Veronica Lake, the other
like nobody at all. There was a tall girl named Barbara, a saxophone
player named Dugo, who was so good that when he played "Mood Indigio,"
even the boys cried.
Then there was the Armenian girl whose name I've forgotten and two
skinny boys with black hair in white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled
up, both named Jerry. Jerry Devine and Jerry Orbach.
We were all just out of high school and the future was like the six
o'clock mist on Lake Michigan, gray and impenetrable.
We all put our arms around one another. Dugo, passed around cigarettes
from the pack he kept rolled up in his clean white T-shirt. We dangled
them from our lips like Alan Ladd or Victor Mature.
The two Jerrys stood next to each other, arms on each other's shoulders
and somebody took a picture. I think it was the Armenian girl whose name
I've forgotten. I wish I had it now.
The two Jerrys entertained the others from time to time in the hall when
it rained. They did Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin impressions. Everyone
laughed. There was a dance contest once and Jerry Devine really wanted
to dance with the Armenian girl whose name he knew then. But Jerry
Orbach, or Jerry O as they called him, snatched her away for a Greek
dance. He was always a better dancer.
Years later, the two Jerrys met again in New York, both actors now. They
studied with Herbert Berghoff and Myra Rostova and at the Actor's
Studio. That was something then.
They both started working in drafty off-Broadway theaters and worked at
all the low-wage day jobs they could find. They would meet on the street
from time to time when both were working in theaters two blocks apart.
One Jerry got bored with slush and cold winds off the East River and
went to Hollywood to be a movie star.
The other Jerry stayed in New York and moved uptown to become a Broadway
musical star. They met again one day on a street in Beverly Hills. Then
Broadway Jerry went back to being a musical star.
One Jerry became a famous television detective, the other a writer.
They never met again, the new kid from South St. Louis and the boy from
Waukegan who was a better dancer.
Broadway Jerry Orbach died Wednesday. Writer Jerry is left to write
about him and how they were young once on a picnic table with arms
around each other and cigarettes dangling from their lips that made them
look like Alan Ladd or Victor Mature.
Sometimes the past is like that mist off Lake Michigan, thick and gray
and impenetrable. But once upon a time, before the hard rain fell,
somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now.
Goodnight Jerry O, wherever you are.
J.P. Devine is a freelance writer who lives in Waterville.
http://morningsentinel.mainetoday.com/news/local/1256509.shtml
Morning Sentinel Online (Maine)
Sunday, January 2, 2005
By J.P. Devine
Somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now. It was an early autumn day
in the 1950s at an old Greek dance hall outside of Waukegan, Ill. I was
the new boy in town, all of 17, out of high school and living with a
brother.
I met a bunch of kids at a malt shop back when kids actually drank
malts. I fell in with this crowd, and we went dancing at night and on
Saturday afternoons. There was Greek music and Nat "King" Cole. It was a
magic time.
One day we all took a break by the lake and ate at a picnic table
between dances, and somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now.
There were two blondes, one who looked like Veronica Lake, the other
like nobody at all. There was a tall girl named Barbara, a saxophone
player named Dugo, who was so good that when he played "Mood Indigio,"
even the boys cried.
Then there was the Armenian girl whose name I've forgotten and two
skinny boys with black hair in white T-shirts with the sleeves rolled
up, both named Jerry. Jerry Devine and Jerry Orbach.
We were all just out of high school and the future was like the six
o'clock mist on Lake Michigan, gray and impenetrable.
We all put our arms around one another. Dugo, passed around cigarettes
from the pack he kept rolled up in his clean white T-shirt. We dangled
them from our lips like Alan Ladd or Victor Mature.
The two Jerrys stood next to each other, arms on each other's shoulders
and somebody took a picture. I think it was the Armenian girl whose name
I've forgotten. I wish I had it now.
The two Jerrys entertained the others from time to time in the hall when
it rained. They did Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin impressions. Everyone
laughed. There was a dance contest once and Jerry Devine really wanted
to dance with the Armenian girl whose name he knew then. But Jerry
Orbach, or Jerry O as they called him, snatched her away for a Greek
dance. He was always a better dancer.
Years later, the two Jerrys met again in New York, both actors now. They
studied with Herbert Berghoff and Myra Rostova and at the Actor's
Studio. That was something then.
They both started working in drafty off-Broadway theaters and worked at
all the low-wage day jobs they could find. They would meet on the street
from time to time when both were working in theaters two blocks apart.
One Jerry got bored with slush and cold winds off the East River and
went to Hollywood to be a movie star.
The other Jerry stayed in New York and moved uptown to become a Broadway
musical star. They met again one day on a street in Beverly Hills. Then
Broadway Jerry went back to being a musical star.
One Jerry became a famous television detective, the other a writer.
They never met again, the new kid from South St. Louis and the boy from
Waukegan who was a better dancer.
Broadway Jerry Orbach died Wednesday. Writer Jerry is left to write
about him and how they were young once on a picnic table with arms
around each other and cigarettes dangling from their lips that made them
look like Alan Ladd or Victor Mature.
Sometimes the past is like that mist off Lake Michigan, thick and gray
and impenetrable. But once upon a time, before the hard rain fell,
somebody took a picture. I wish I had it now.
Goodnight Jerry O, wherever you are.
J.P. Devine is a freelance writer who lives in Waterville.
http://morningsentinel.mainetoday.com/news/local/1256509.shtml