Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool Read online

  Glynn, with the strings of brightly coloured beads that hung around his neck rattling as he moved, led Gordy into the gaudy hallway which was painted in a very abstract fashion using a mishmash of psychedelic colours - metallic gold and silver as well as bright purples, luminous pinks and day-glo orange which had then be daubed with copious amounts of glitter. It really couldn’t have looked more ‘hippified’ if they’d tried.

  Glynn took Gordy through to the living room which was like no other living room (or indeed any other room of any kind) that he had ever seen before. It resembled the interior of a Bedouin tent (or what Gordy imagined a Bedouin tent to look like). There were many colourful rugs of differing sizes covering the bare planks of the wooden floor and instead of the standard three-piece suite which Gordy would normally have expected to see there were low bed-like couches draped with ornately patterned fabrics. The facing wall, either side of the chimney breast had floor to ceiling shelves that were stacked full with row upon row of LPs (which rather spoiled the whole Bedouin vibe) and on the chimney breast itself was a large hand-painted picture of the head and shoulders of Jesus with a wide colourful rainbow arching over the top (which, again, didn’t fit in with the whole Bedouin theme). Around the other walls hung more coloured fabric (which disguised the hideous flock wallpaper that had presumably been put up by the previous owners) and on the ceiling was painted a huge orange ‘peace’ sign with a standard light fitting, complete with fringed yellow shade, hanging from the centre.

  On the mantelpiece joss sticks were burning and the air was thick with the smell of incense. On one of the couches lay a fortyish, slightly plump woman in a very thin, floaty white nightgown with a string lace-up tie (which happened to be untied) between the breasts of the very low scooped neckline which revealed a more than ample cleavage. Around her shoulders, and disguising her modesty, she wore a bright purple paisley shawl that clashed terribly with her extremely long, straight ginger hair and dangling from her lips was an extremely long, straight joint. The heady scent of premium grade marijuana (not that Gordy knew that was what it was) added to the almost overpowering aroma of the joss sticks and made Gordy feel quite woozy. The woman, who Gordy took to be Daisy’s mum (because of her bright ginger hair and unmistakable resemblance to Daisy), looked like Mama Cass with a slow-puncture and was clearly stoned out of her bright ginger tree.

  However, none of this kaleidoscopic attack on his senses struck Gordy half as much as the fact that in no part of the room could he see a telly. This seemed like an absolutely awful omission and for a moment Gordy had to seriously question their sanity. He decided though (mainly because he needed Daisy’s assistance) to give them the benefit of the doubt - rather than being insane perhaps they were just very eccentric. Maybe the lack of a TV was just a horrific oversight and they had all been too stoned to notice the absence of one. After all, they were hippies and God-squadders to boot - and they did have one hell of a collection of LPs so they couldn’t be all bad. Besides, Daisy seemed fairly normal (apart from the huge ginger afro and God-awful specs) so they must be alright. Mustn’t they?

  “Hey, man, this is Lynn”, said Glynn Flynn. “make yourself at home - I’ll go and get Daze”.

  “Okay, thanks”, said Gordy. “Hi, Mrs. Flynn”, he added, waiving at Daisy’s purple-paisleyed pot puffing parent who was languidly sprawled out on the couch in front of him.

  She turned slowly and looked at him with droopy spaced-out eyes and a dopey grin. She waived back with the long, fat spliff held loosely between her fingers, the quality of the marijuana clearly rendering her speechless as she slowly turned away again and stared in fascinated wonder at the peace sign on the ceiling.

  Unfortunately, the movement had displaced the paisley shawl which had slipped off her shoulders and now Gordy could clearly see a very white boob with a very pink nipple through the flimsy nightgown as Daisy’s mum reclined unknowingly on the couch (and no doubt far too high to care).

  Gordy stared transfixed. He couldn’t help himself as he had never seen a woman’s boob before (except his mum’s but that didn’t count) or on the telly in a late night movie (which he wasn’t allowed to watch) or in the Penthouse magazine that he found discarded in a shop doorway along with a half eaten kebab which he now kept under his bed (the magazine, not the kebab!) - but not a real life, in the flesh (almost) boob on a real, in the flesh (almost) woman - a bloody boob for christ sake! Ironically, it was not for Christ’s sake at all as Christ would undoubtedly disapprove of a forty year old woman (devout disciple or not) flashing a big-bouncy boob (it wasn’t bouncy at all but Gordy’s imagination was getting the better of him) at a young, impressionable fourteen year-old boy - just him, the woman and the boob - hardly a scenario made in heaven but one Gordy was heartily delighted to be a part of.

  Gordy tried to look away, his head certainly moved but unfortunately his eyes didn’t seem to want to as he mentally strummed his fingers, wondering just what to do when confronted by a rogue boob in a Bedouin bedecked, hippie-trippy living room - shouldn’t there be a handbook or something? Or at the very least an instructional pamphlet?

  Nevertheless, Gordy waited - for what seemed like an eternity - whilst the Head Hippie went to fetch ‘Daze’ (no wonder they called her that, he thought, if she was raised in the hallucinogenic fog of these psychedelically spaced-out surroundings) and as he did so, the smokey, pungent atmosphere seemed to effect him too. Suddenly he felt perfectly happy to just stare blatantly at the boob, which somehow seemed to come alive, the bright pink nipple became a shiny, pink nose and magically a pair of eyes and a mouth appeared on it. The mouth smiled widely and Gordy politely grinned back (he may have even dribbled slightly). The hypnotically, melodic rhythm of Jimi’s All Along The Watchtower, which was playing loudly on the impressively expensive record player (the only expensive thing in the whole house as far as Gordy could see) that sat next to the couch on which Daisy’s mum was laying, filled Gordy’s brain and for a moment he was totally lost, away with the fairies, like those drug-addled revellers he had seen dancing mindlessly on the TV footage of Woodstock.

  “Gordy?” A voice suddenly said behind him, making him jump out of his skin and snap out of his tripped-out trance. He span around guiltily, hideously aware that he had been ogling the boob and immediately his face coloured bright red as he saw Daisy standing before him.

  Strangely, Daisy turned bright red, too - embarrassed that he had witnessed the strange environment in which she lived. Never before had she invited anyone to her home, it was bad enough that the Bible-bus was parked outside and that they (her parents) dragged her along on their door-to-door evangelistic ventures - but the thought of anyone seeing how they lived (which she knew to be truly odd) filled her with an enormous sense of dread.

  So for Gordy to turn up out of the blue - who she was just starting to think hesitantly of as a possible friend - stunned her.

  Then, she genuinely wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole as she too suddenly noticed the boob. Her face turned almost maroon as the horror of the situation washed over her, ‘what on earth must he think?’ she thought, utterly mortified by the sight of her mother’s chubby, round breast as it peeped at her beneath the sheer material of the white nightgown that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. “Oh, my God!” she said out loud.

  “Hey, man!” Glynn Flynn said to Gordy as he re-entered the room behind Daisy, “You wanna a mint tea or a julep or something?”

  “Erm, no thanks, I’m fine,” Gordy said whilst simultaneously thinking ‘A mint tea or a julep? What the hell are they?’

  “Sure? That’s cool, no hassle, man” replied Glynn, “Just help yourself if you change your mind.”

  “He won’t. We’re going upstairs,” said Daisy curtly.

  “Hey, sure thing, baby girl,” said Glynn, sounding more like Dylan with every sentence (the rabbit, not Bob). “No problem, that’s cool.”

 
‘That’s cool?’ Gordy thought. Wow, if he’d suggested in his house that he took a girl upstairs Alan and Barb would probably go nuclear. No way, no how would he be allowed. But apparently, here at Hippie Central where bare boobs, juleps(?) and marijuana were common place, it was ‘cool’ and Gordy was starting to like it.

  Glynn Flynn ambled over to his wife (seemingly oblivious to the sight of her boob) and laid down beside her, he took the spliff from her lips and placed it between his own. However, before he could take a puff Daisy grabbed Gordy by the wrist and physically dragged him from the room and up the steep, psychedelic staircase to the safe sanctuary and relative sanity of her bedroom.

  If the rest of the house was a kaleidoscopic collage of confused colour then Daisy’s room was it’s polar opposite. To say it was plain in comparison would be an understatement. It was white. White walls, white ceiling, white carpet, white wardrobe, white chest of drawers. The only colour that Gordy could see was the pink gingham curtains and matching pink pillow cases (on the otherwise white bed). Cases of cassette tapes were piled up next to the ancient, obviously well-used, Pye cassette-recorder that sat on the tiny (white) desk under the window and aside from a couple of photos in frames that hung on the wall, that was about it. The photos were obviously taken in Africa, of a very white skinned, very red-headed Daisy surrounded by a group of very dark-skinned, very dark-haired girls of approximately the same age. Everyone was smiling and Daisy looked incredibly happy, which was in stark contrast to how she looked now.

  “What are you doing here?” She snapped at Gordy in a much angrier tone than intended. Apart from being acutely embarrassed she was actually very pleased to see him. “Sorry”, she said, “Didn’t mean to snap”.

  “Oh”.

  “And for that weirdness downstairs - I know it must seem a bit odd”.

  “Erm, well...”

  “They’re not always like that, honest. Well, not quite like that - I mean, they are a pair of complete and utter nutters but that whole boob flashing thing is new. Never seen that before - and I really don’t want to see it again. Sorry you had to see it too”.

  “Erm, that’s okay”, said Gordy, whose head was now slowly clearing from the combined effects of the marijuana and incense although his mind was still screaming ‘boob, boob, boob, boob!’ And, in contrast to Daisy’s opinion, he definitely would like to see it again - preferably as a matching pair next time and being displayed by someone nearer his own age - ideally someone like Pippa Wilson, although the thought of such a vision made him feel quite weak at the knees).

  “Well, I’m still sorry”, said Daisy. “Anyway, what is it you came round for? Not an eyeful of my mum’s bosoms I’m quite sure.”

  “Erm...” said Gordy, suddenly aware that many of his sentences started that way, “No, not exactly. I’ve come to ask you a favour”.

  Chapter Six

  Daisy sort of knew that Gordy was sort of using her but she didn’t really mind.

  She liked him. He seemed nice, albeit a little awkward and gawky and clearly wrestling with some issues of his own. But she recognised a potential friend in him and she was desperately short of those.

  She suspected he must have thought she was okay too - if he didn’t why on earth would he ask her to spend four days a week with him at Bailey’s Bandstand for the remainder of the Summer holidays?

  She certainly couldn’t put up with someone for all that time if she didn’t like them no matter how much they knew about something. Besides, in a way, she was actually using Gordy too. Whilst she was teaching him about music, she intended to find out all she could from him about TV, movies and pop music - by pop music she meant the stuff that the other girls at school listened to which she generally regarded as rubbish but felt the need to converse knowledgeably about in order to fit in.

  Knowing about Frank Zappa or Bowie or the Velvet Underground or The Kinks or The Stones meant very little to Pippa Wilson and the ‘popular’ clique. Gordy might well think the music Daisy knew about was cool but girls like Pippa and her pals preferred plastic, manufactured pop and the pretty boys who sang it and so Daisy needed to know about it too - and maybe even pretend to like it herself if she ever wanted to be accepted - and Gordy would be the ideal tutor.

  Mr. Bailey gave Gordy and Daisy a very brief lesson in the art of ‘shopkeeping’ (although Gordy could tell his heart wasn’t in it and that he didn’t really want to be there at all) and asked them if they could work on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Saturdays for which he would pay them both thirty pounds a week (which was an absolute fortune) and they both eagerly agreed, the money already burning a hole in both of their pockets. Gordy dreamt about spending his earnings on a pair of jam tops and maybe even a Harrington jacket which he’d seen a few of the cool kids wearing. He’d buy some peg-leg trousers too. Also, on the telly, he’d seen some prescription glasses being advertised that had something called Reactolite Rapide lenses which he thought might finally put an end to the whole glasses/sunglasses debacle once and for all. Everything was possible now he was going to be rich.

  As for Daisy, she fantasised about contact lenses and a much needed trip to the hairdressers for a complete re-style - a new, trendy wardrobe was in order, too, starting with a pair of Brutus jeans which all the girls seemed to be raving about.

  She would also buy a maxi-skirt and a crop-cardigan for the new school term - so everyone would notice how different and how trendy she looked when she returned. She might even buy a Triumph front-loading bra too - desperately hoping that by September she might have something slightly more impressive than a couple of fried eggs to put in it. It was just such a shame that Steve Cool wouldn’t be around to witness this remarkable transformation from ginger duckling into sleek swan but unfortunately money couldn’t buy everything.

  After Mr. Bailey had given his briefing he asked if either of them had any questions before he left them to it.

  Gordy couldn’t think of anything, after all how hard could it be? They weren’t exactly going to be rushed off their feet - not unless Beethoven was about to release the much anticipated ‘end bit’ to his Unfinished Symphony causing giddy grannies to come rushing into the shop like a fearsome force of fanatical old fogies desperate to get their wrinkly, liver-spotted mitts on a copy.

  But Gordy thought that highly unlikely since Beethoven had been pushing up daisies for the last couple of hundred years.

  “Will we be able to play any of the records, Mr. Bailey?” Daisy asked.

  “Play any of the records?” Mr. Bailey said incredulously, “But of course, my dear. This is a record shop - the records need to be played, that is their very purpose - I would like nothing better than for you to play them. As many and as often as you like - although some might be a little bit dusty. I’ve not had the time recently, you see…” His words sort of trailed off as his thoughts returned to his ailing wife but Daisy quickly came to his rescue.

  “Oh, great, that’s good then - there’s loads to choose from.”

  “There certainly is, my dear. Perhaps too many. Sometimes I think I’ve been a bit of an obsessive about music. Records have been my passion since I was younger than you. Hopefully you’ll find something you like - but if not, you know where the order book is now so feel free. No doubt your tastes are much more up to date than mine and I’ve always tried to offer an eclectic mix so whatever it is it won’t be out of place here.”

  “Wow. Thanks. That’s very nice of you, Mr. Bailey but I’ve already seen loads of stuff that’s to my taste - so I don’t think I’ll need to order anything.”

  “Oh, okay. Well that’s nice,” said Mr. Bailey. “The same goes for you though, Gordy - if there’s anything you fancy, just feel free.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bailey,” replied Gordy, genuinely grateful of the offer but not really sure of how to make best use of it. After all, Gordy’s ‘taste’ (and he knew he was using the word very loosely) incl
uded such timeless twaddle as Chuck Berry’s My Ding-a-Ling, Rick Dees Disco Duck and one of his all time favourites, The Streak by Ray Stevens (‘look at dat, look at dat!’) but he thought now might not be the best time to mention it. Whatismore, admitting he liked shit like that (which in itself reminded him of how far he must travel on his musical journey to ever be considered ‘cool’), was quite possibly a bit more ‘eclectic’ than Mr. Bailey had in mind and might well be considered fair grounds for dismissal - and Gordy was already rather relying on his as yet unearned wages.

  Nevertheless, after the very briefest of briefings, Mr. Bailey didn’t hang around at the shop any longer than he needed to and shortly after 9.30 on the Monday morning of the second week in August, he vacated the premises and left Gordy and Daisy completely in charge. The future success of Bailey’s Bandstand (or at least four days of every week of it’s future success) rested squarely on their young shoulders. Although neither of them felt under any pressure whatsoever as Mr. Bailey had been so relaxed about the whole thing - in fact he had been almost recklessly carefree about it, but Gordy guessed that he had much more important things on his mind and the shop was quite possibly the least of his worries.

  Whilst Daisy started the day off by familiarising herself with each rack, stack and box of records, flicking through album after album and making the occasional note on the spiral-bound note pad she had purposely brought along with her, Gordy started the working day off out the back of the shop with a cigarette.

  Smoking was, to paraphrase Frank Sinatra’s classic New York, New York, - ‘king of the hill, head of the heap, top of the (Cool) list’ and he (Gordy not Frank) was very much determined to ‘be a part of it’.

  In order to be cool, smoking was an absolute must. It was a given. A pure, unadulterated fact.

  Gordy was given his first ever cigarette (and his only ever smoking lesson) on the patio at the back of their house during a very rare brotherly bonding session with Kev, which, for a welcome change, didn’t end up with Gordy also being given a dead arm, or having his nipple tweaked, or getting a Chinese burn. On the contrary, his brother was helpfulness and enthusiasm personified (which really should have raised Gordy’s suspicions).