Sally would sometimes get in trouble for drawing in class, but not as often as George. This was not because he was worse at hiding his artwork; the opposite was true. George got caught more often because he drew constantly, while Sally drew only occasionally. Nevertheless, when she did sneak a sketch, she invariably got caught. It was only years later that she was told of her unconscious habit of humming whenever she drew. "What's wrong, Sally," the teacher would ask, and Sally never knew what had clued the teacher in. Upon investigation the drawing would be discovered, and "Dear me, Sally," the teacher would say, "how do you expect learn anything when you're drawing. You must pay attention. Most of the time you're so responsible."
George was the irresponsible one. He drew always. Yet he was craftier than Sally. To avoid the teacher's eagle gaze he sat at the rear of the class, in the far left-hand corner. Although drawn to sit near George, Sally tended toward the middle.
Sally had only a few colored pencils, red and orange and green, which she kept concealed in her blouse pocket. George had a whole spectrum, from one edge of the rainbow to the other, as well as the gold and silver found only at the end. Most of these he kept in his lunch-pail, sneaking only a few to class to hide in the dark space beneath his desk. Just the ones he wanted to use that day, so if he got caught only a few would be confiscated. Usually the teacher was forgiving and would return the pencils after class. "George Levine," she would say, although she rarely sounded angry, "how are you ever going to learn anything if you just sit there drawing."
She did seem to like his drawings, though. But then everyone liked his drawings; Sally wished she could draw like him. His figures seemed to pop from the page; they almost moved. Sally's, by contrast, seemed flat and lifeless. And he drew so many things. Sometimes, like most of the children, he drew flowers, houses, and people, but more often he drew strange creatures. Early in the year he concentrated on dragons-large beastly ones with flaming eyes, small ornamental ones along the edges of pages, elongated Chinese ones with wrinkled foreheads, and one with a large, bushy mustache that looked just like Groucho Marx (if he had happened to be a dragon). For a while, George seemed bored with mythical creatures and drew horses, camels, and elephants, with astonishing realism. When the creatures returned, however, they grew quickly stranger, passing through a brief griffin phase to various strange mixtures and geeks. There was a red and brown monster that looked like a boiling pool of lava, with tentacles spewing every which way and two heads (with three eyes each including a big middle one for tracking creatures flying overhead). The first head was locked in battle with a naked, hairy ogre, while the second devoured a maiden. She was already swallowed from the waist up, and only her billowing dress and two kicking legs remained sticking from its mouth. In the distance, alone in a corner, a single knight galloped to save her. But he was too late.
Sally vaguely wished she could draw like this, but had no idea how to get started. Still she was content enough drawing one thing: birds. One bird followed by another bird. Small and off-center, they never filled the page. They didn't really resemble birds so much as crooked, bloated creatures with tiny wings that should never have been able to carry them aloft. And in such drab colors. Sally wished that she had more colored pencils, but somehow never thought of asking her parents to buy them.
But she persevered, for she had a goal. Once, in a picture book perhaps, or perhaps at a zoo, she had seen a wonderful bird. She wasn't sure of the color. Was it pink? She had been very young. Was it a peacock or a flamingo? Surely not a common robin, but who knew? Still she kept this unknown bird in her mind. This was why she continued with her scribblings. And throughout that year, if intermittently, she continued in her quest to draw the perfect bird.
* * *
Seven years later, Sally sat cross-legged on the floor of a used-book store, searching through Barnham's Big Book of Birds, staring at a brown and red Turkey-Eagle, who looked more like a turkey than an eagle, and who stared back with curious young eyes.
"Still interested in birds?" A voice floated from above. She glanced up to round glasses and stringy red hair that she hadn't seen in a long time. It was George.
What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Just visiting. And you?"
"I'm only browsing. I come in this shop a lot."
"It's a nice store. If we hadn't moved I'd be in here all the time, too."
A pause. Sally didn't know what to say, so she flipped the page.
"That's an interesting bird." George pointed from above. "What is it, some kind of flamingo?"
"Which one, this?" She pointed at a pink-winged creature with a neck curved to form an S. "It says it's a Greater Flamingo."
"Greater than what?"
"I don't know. I don't care about names, I just like to look at the pictures."
"Do you still like to draw birds? Are you looking for models to copy?"
"Oh, I never draw nowadays. Well, not very often. I'm just curious-I'm looking for a certain kind of bird."
"What kind?"
"I'm not really sure."
"then how will you know when you find it?
"I'll just know."
"Mmm," said George. He loomed overhead for a moment, prepared to leave, hesitated, then withdrew. Sally leafed through the book. A robin, ho hum. Ho dee hee. Still the book did need to include all creatures. But wait, a Scarlet Cock of the Rock glared from beneath its crimson plume. And a Crowned Crane and a Blue Gallinule. Randomly, she flipped, landing upon a Great Horned Owl which crouched in a feathered mass upon a tree-limb, its triangular ears and triangular mouth forming a greater triangle, an almost perfect shape. Its eyes were supposed to symbolize wisdom; she peered at them, they peered back. She knew she could never beat it in a staring contest. She wasn't sure if the eyes held wisdom, but deep within the irises she thought she saw something. . . .
A shadow fell upon the book preceding a voice, just as lightening precedes thunder. Thankfully, the voice was much kinder than thunder. "Listen," it said tentatively. "Wanna go somewhere for coffee?" It was George.
"All right."
Outside the December wind whipped through her garments and Sally wrapped her garments tightly about herself. They had, she thought, a choice. "Do you want to go to Buffalo Bills or to the Java Joint?"
Walking in rhythm-ta tap ta tap ta tooey--talking about life since George had moved away, Sally asked most of the questions. At first he was reluctant to talk, but gradually his tongue loosened. Yes, he enjoyed High School, at least some of the time, but no, he wasn't looking forward to returning now that break was ending. Did he still draw those fantastic creatures? Yes, but not in class any more. Except in Art class, of course. And had he enjoyed the holidays? Yes and no. He had spent Hanukkah at home surrounded by relatives from New York-"a bunch of stodgy Wall Street types, who only care about stocks and bonds." His brother-in-law, who just a year ago had made his first million, had lost most of it through his investments in a small computer company gone sour. George liked that; he thought it much more interesting when people lost great sums of money than when they gained them. He most enjoyed his great uncle Karl, who told tales of when he had fought for the anarchists in the Spanish Civil War and who, while wounded in the thigh in a hospital bed, had actually met Ernest Hemingway. Still he wondered why the family even got together to celebrate Hanukah when they didn't do anything else Jewish.
After all this talk, Sally didn't know what to say. She wished he would ask about her, but he didn't. But then again what did she have to say? George was so much more interesting. They walked on-ta tap ta tap ta tooey-and she remained silent and he remained silent. She grew distracted. Instead of watching him, or the gray pavement ahead, she watched the sky, which was round and blue today, although broken by a few furious wisps of clouds, and across which a single bird, a blank bird, an any-kind-of-bird, thrust itself on its own wings on a flight of its own making.
Suddenly George spoke. "What are you humming?"
"Oh, am I humming? Oh yes I am. I'm humming 'It's Too Darn Hot.' What a strange song to pick. I don't even like Frank Sinatra. And what a strange day to be humming."
I like that," said George. "Humming 'It's Too Darn Hot' in freezing weather."
"Uh huh," said Sally, and she continued humming, but more self-consciously now.
"You know what your humming needs?"
"What?"
"More zest. More life. More energy."
"Why? I'm just humming."
"You're not just humming. You shouldn't just do anything. You have to put energy into everything you do."
"But what can you do with humming except to hum?"
"Do a skat version. Like this: dah doo wee dobbah, wee dobbah dee doo. Like Ella Fitzgerald."
"I'm afraid I don't listen to her."
"Not too many people do these days."
"Besides it's silly. People will laugh. And you can't even carry a tune."
"That's not important. All that matters is how much spirit you put into it. Music should be hot, to melt the snow. You have to improvise."
"But I'm not the improvisational type."
"Now's the time to learn. Listen: Dah dooh dah dee doh, da woopah dee bop."
"It doesn't even sound like music. I'm sure Ella Fitzgerald doesn't sound like that."
"It's a new form of music. It's Jewish bop music."
"I don't think so."
"It's Yid Bop."
"Yid Bop?"
"Jewish Jazz. Listen. A bupp a doowop, buh dooh bidee dooh. Now you try it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because . . . well, it's Jewish music and I'm not really Jewish. I'm only half Jewish."
"Half is good enough."
"But it's my father. It's the wrong half."
"Mother, father, who cares? Just some old religious laws."
"But I never go to synagogue or anything."
"So, neither do I. That's not what makes you Jewish."
"So what does?."
"Don't worry about it. You're Jewish enough. Quit arguing and just sing."
"No. Leave me alone."
At this rebuff, George gave up. And they walked on in silence: trudge, trudge, trudge. On the curb the last remnants of Monday's snowfall had turned into a brown mush. The brown buildings of Evanston stretched out, all suddenly alike, in every direction. Sally realized that they were not headed toward a specific coffee shop, but were wandering aimlessly. She looked up at an empty grayish sky devoid of birds, devoid of clouds and airplanes. A complete emptiness, a round and pure emptiness, a blank slate. Even the coldness seemed somehow pure, somehow renewing. And on they walked-trudge, trudge, trudge-silent. And out of nowhere a spark struck in Sally's mind. Not quite fire, but a spark.
"Ta de ta."
"Huh," said George. "What was that?"
"Ta de ta. Ta de ta Do."
"Not bad," said George. "Not bad at all. But it needs more . . . more variety."
"Ta de Do de Do de Dah."
"Better. Keep it up and I'll accompany."
"Ta de ta de Dah Do."
"Dooh bopsie beeah bah beeah bah bop." From a passing mink coat stared a woman's startled face, but George paid it no mind. "Wah rahah scoobey dah boobey dee Bop."
"No, that's not right," said Sally.
"Why not?"
"We're not in unison. You're drowning me out."
"I think we're fine. Yid Bop is a syncopated, individualistic, do your own thing kinda music."
Suddenly, "Look," said George, pointing at a nearby shop window.
"What?" Sally asked. "Glasses?" The shop was filled with all variety of glasses, from black to brown to green to screaming pink, from conservative to horned to wire-rim to funky.
"That pair . . . ." He stretched his arm, pointing to the rear.
"What, those purple and red things? Are they even glasses?"
"Don't you think they'd be perfect for Yid-Bop?"
"They look ridiculous."
"Exactly. Just what we want."
"Can we even afford them?"
"I have ten dollars Hanukah money. Is that enough?"
"I have no idea. You're the one with glasses."
"But not way-out, funky, psychedelic classes."
Sally found herself following George into the store, where the proprietor had, not screaming purple, but bland oval glasses, and a bland oval face to match. When he asked "What can I do for you," Sally decided he had a gentle voice.
When George remained silent Sally nudged him. "Well?"
"Oh," said George. "We're just looking."
"How much," Sally asked boldly, "for those glasses in the window?"
"Which ones?"
"Those purple things."
"You see," said George, "we've invented a new form of music, and we need a look to fit our image."
"Strange. And what might this new music be?"
"We call it Yid Bop."
"Yid Bop?"
"It's the smashingest music around. It's taking the country by storm."
"So what's the price?" asked Sally.
"For you," said the salesman, "I'm willing to offer a special price. A ten percent discount, since it's for a good cause. Only eighteen dollars and fifty cents."
"Eighteen fifty," George exclaimed. "We can't afford that. We're poor Jews from the outer city. We can't afford that."
"I'm sorry, kids, but that's the best I can offer."
"Well let's look around a bit . . . ."
Just then a real customer entered the store, rather plump and quite well dressed, and he drew the salesman to him like an electric zapper draws a bug. And it was "can I help you, sir," and "this style will suit you well, sir." The man, Sally overheard, needed his bifocals replaced by trifocals. My, how could one set of eyes need correction in so many ways? The two droned on for a while while Sally looked over the display case one last time to make sure they hadn't missed any bargains. "Come on," George whispered. "Let's get out of here."
Outside the last of the snow was melting, along with the end of the winter holiday, which seemed wasted. The corner Santa was gone, replaced by a chubby man who gasped and breathed out strands of white smoke as he walked. "Aren't we going to sing Yid Bop?" Sally inquired.
"Without those glasses? I don't think so."
"We don't need glasses."
"I told you no," George grunted. "You were right before. There's nothing especially Jewish about Yid-Bop."
"Mmmm." They walked on a bit and suddenly Sally spoke up. "Why not make it more Jewish?"
"How?"
"We could add Jewish phrases. In Hebrew or Yiddish or something."
"What a great idea."
"There's just one problem. I don't know any Hebrew or Yiddish. Do you?"
"Only a couple of stodgy old prayers. But I know a few words in Yiddish."
"Let's try it."
"Oy vey is mir. Ba boy ba beer. Hmmm, this is going to be difficult."
"Schlemiel," said Sally. "That's the only Yiddish word I know. Schlemiel doo ah dooie. How does that sound?"
"Needs work."
"We need to change the melody to fit the new words."
"Make it more like prayers in a synagogue."
"Of course. Only I've never been to synagogue."
"I've only been a few times, but I think I remember how it sounds."
"With your ear for music it won't sound right anyway."
"Oye Vey, Oy-Eeeee Vey, we are two little Jews who have lost our way."
"Oy vey, oy vey, boop de boop de boop de bey."
"Nu, Nu, we're true Jews."
"What's this 'Nu'? I've never heard that."
"It's an expression. It's . . . hard to explain."
"Oy vey, oy vey, loop de loop de loop de hey."
"Momma's little baby loves chicken soup."
"Oy vey, oy vey, scoop de scoop de scoop de dey."
"And momma's little baby loves Shiksas too."
"Hey," said Sally. "I don't appreciate that."
"Tachus, schlong, let's sing our song."
"You're disgusting."
"Your Yiddish is better than I thought."
Just then they came upon "Ray's Records," a funny old shop that Sally rarely entered. But again she had an idea. "Why don't we look for old Jewish music. That way we can make Yid Bop even better."
The darkened shop breathed a musty smell. Empty, except for George and Sally. Even the proprietor was gone. Who would leave a shop all alone? A shop so empty that there was no danger of thievery, for no thief would bother entering.
And no CDs. This shop was definitely not cutting edge. In front were bins of ancient tapes. Sally imagined them squeaking and crackling, still trying to fling out the old songs that had once made people happy. Mostly, though, there was vinyl. Old fashioned record albums. On one side the young, unkempt members of The Who gazed at Sally and George, half rebellious half eager to please. On the other, an older and wiser Anita O'Day peered from a tattered record cover. Rows of albums extending to the dark cave of the rear. Who knew where it ended? Was the musty spell due to the vinyl? No, that would smell all modern and plastic and squeaky clean. Perhaps it was the smell of old cardboard, but Sally thought it emanated from the rear.
From the rear there came a creaking sound. Someone was there. Out of the darkness a lone figure wandered. An old man with a bit of a limp and a face creased with wrinkles that seemed to smile.
"Can I help you?"
"We're looking for Yid Bop."
"Oh, don't," said Sally. "This is getting embarrassing."
"Yid Bop? What's that?"
"Yid Bop. Jewish jazz."
"Jewish jazz? Do you mean klezmer?"
"Klezmer? What's that?"
"You don't know klezmer?"
"No."
"Young man, are you Jewish?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so? Either you are or you aren't. But tell me, by Jewish jazz do you mean jazz by Jewish musicians?"
"Is there much?"
"Is there much? What about Benny Goodman and Stan Kenton? What about Davie Brubeck. And of course George Gershwin, the father of them all. Why without the Jewish influence, the whole history of jazz would be different."
"Oh. Well. Learn something new every day."
"Obviously you have a lot to learn. Don't know your own history. Not in the old world and not in America. A lost soul."
"I'm not lost."
"Then where are you?"
"I'm right here in Evanston Illinois in the good old U.S.A."
"Am I lost?" asked George, back out on the frosty street. From his arms dangled a brown bag containing two albums recommended by the proprietor. Having just switched over to CD's, he would have to play them on his parents' old stereo.
"I like you the way you are. If you don't know something make it up. That's better than the real history." And she squeezed his hand tightly. "Come on, one more round of Yid Bop."
"Let me listen to these old records first. Do a little research."
They trudged on and in a few blocks spotted, way down the street, a black man carrying a guitar case. "Look," whispered George, nudging over to Sally. "A musician. Let's sing some Yid Bop for him."
"You're crazy."
"Come on. Let's start now so we can get warmed up." Sally remained silent, so George started up on his own. Reluctantly, Sally joined in.
The man approached and George sang boldly into his face. Quietly, embarrassed to sing but embarrassed not to, Sally joined in.
"Wah," said the black man. "What are you saying."
"It's Yid Bop."
"Yid what?"
"Yid Bop. It's a new form of music. It's a cool groove thing. It's sweeping the country."
"It's the 1980s. There's no Bop any more of any kind. Just heavy metal and Ronald Reagan." George came to a silent halt. "Besides," said the man, "you've got to learn to sing in tune before you go approaching people on the street. If you could do that, I'd throw you a quarter. Gotta support the street musicians. Heh heh." George was silence and, as the man walked away, they heard him muttering, "Crazy kids. Crazy kids."
"He should understand said George in a small voice. "A musician should understand." Silently they walked on two blocks, three blocks, five, and the cold numbed Sally's ears.
"Come on," she said. "Let's sing."
"What's the use."
"Don't look so dejected. What did that guy know? Get into the Yid Bop spirit."
"I've given up. I'll never sing Yid Bop again."
"Come on. Lah di lah." Silence. "Bop di bah," Sally burst out, louder than she thought she would dare. A small woman carrying two very large grocery bags stared.
"Will you shut up. The whole Yid Bop idea was stupid."
"Sorry." They were getting nowhere. They would never reach a coffee shop, and Sally didn't even want to talk to George or be with him, but she didn't know how to say goodbye. She was only trying to help. Why did he have to be so rude?
They walked on. Ta-tap, ta-tap, ta-tap. And suddenly, out of annoyance, with vengeful purpose (yet softly out of fear) she uttered a single line. "Loopah de Doopah."
And something about this line seemed right.
Yes, Loopah de Doopah, that was it. More loudly. "Loopah de Doopah."
"Ska looah bohee da boopah di bop. Cool groove man," George joined in.
And, with more energy and harmony than before the two joined together. Sally's soft, lush voice filled the air, repeating and repeating, circling harmoniously upon itself, intermixing with George's harsher, quicker variations. Their voices blended, bouncing forward on cold winter gusts, dancing on frosty breath, together, sung out to passing pedestrians, an audience with shopping bags and briefcases. A short break in the routine. Yid Bop, the music of the day, a brief visitor traveling through on the frosty air.
* * *
In greens and blues the tail spread. The bird's wings fanned out across the pale green page. It was shortly joined by other birds, of similar design although smaller and in different colors. A red and yellow one flapped just above, just behind. And below in a corner hovered a little gray one, struggling not to fall off the page. All the same pattern, stylized, with block colors and triangular wings. All faced forward, staring, with big and round and solid eyes.
Sally sat in the basement of the Sears Building, where she worked, fifty-seven flights above, as a computer programmer. She was alone at a table, beneath a sign that said "Wyoming." She was waiting for George in the American Room, which was decorated in red, white, and blue, and contained fifty pillars, each with the name of a state. Wyoming was at the back. Sally thought that the designers must have planned to put silhouettes of the states under their names, but had run out of money.
Looking up, she saw George at the distant cash register paying for his meal. He had been gone for some time now. Gone to California but still, even from a distance, he had that same ragged look, like someone who couldn't quite remember where he was. As he crossed the room he balanced his tray precariously on one arm and she was sure it would fall. Somehow he made it and, sitting down, asked how she was.
"Oh fine, but I've had such a hectic day."
"Why?"
"There was a horrid computer glitch and no-one could locate it except me. Still my co-workers made fun of me. They said that I'm too young to save the day. I'm used to being the oldest, not the youngest."
"But you did save the day."
"Yep."
"So what was wrong?"
"Well, actually, the problem was with a program I worked on, so it could have been my fault, but it was in a section written by Jim, another programmer. Anyway we had been getting calls complaining. For no apparent reason a store would suddenly get, say, 18 or 21 or 127 trash baskets instead of the number they had ordered. Anyway we weren't sure if it was a computer problem the first time, because it was such an anomaly. But once it became clear that our department had something to do with it we got on the case."
"Sounds like you have a challenging job."
"Sometimes. It can get hectic at times. I like the job. I almost love it. But what you do sounds so much more exciting."
"I doubt it. It's no way to earn a living."
"But you get your work on the covers of magazines and stuff. I even bought a couple of issues of Fantasy and Science Fiction that featured your work."
"Yeah. That's great when I get a sale. And I have some connections now. Still it's a haphazard way to earn a living."
"But you get to use your imagination at something you love, something you've been doing since you were a child. And all that time you spent drawing has led to a career. All that time getting chastised in the back of the room, and you were the one really getting an education."
"I guess so, but you haven't done too badly yourself. You have a real job, something I need."
"But you're an artist."
"A limited artist. I'm not even sure what that words means. Artist? I'm no Rembrandt, that's for sure. I have a certain craftsmanship and a certain imagination, in a limited way. Actually I was thinking about going back to school, picking up some computer graphics, going into commercial art."
"Commercial art? That's a disappointment."
"I don't see what there is to be disappointed about. But I see you still draw," he said suddenly leaning over.
"Oh I always have time left over at lunch. And right now the schedule's staggered so that I eat alone. So I've taken up drawing again."
"Still drawing birds. Some things don't change. And they're all the same."
"This is the bird I've always been trying to draw. The idea was in my head for years, but it wouldn't come out. Finally one day I was sick at home. Actually I felt all right except that when I tried to walk around my stomach started churning. I had slept so much I couldn't sleep any more, and television got to be a drag. I needed to do something. So what did I do? I drew."
"And?"
"And it just spilled out. This bird I've been thinking of my whole life."
"Mind if I try a few?"
"Go ahead. Though it's not really fair, my having to compete with a big time artist."
"Not so big time. Pass me a yellow chalk."
"Careful. They smudge your hands."
"I know that."
"Oh yes. Of course."
George's first bird resembled Sally's, but with a longer, curved beak, and glaring eyes.
And he drew a small yellow one, diving with wide-open wings, plunging down the page. He drew with shadow and depth, from different angles: straight ahead, in profile, soaring away in the distance, plummeting in search of prey. They turned and twisted, fluttering around and between Sally's birds, graceful forms flying between set forms, intertwining against the pale green paper sky.
Secretly, however, Sally preferred hers. All neat and orderly. Such clear bright colors. It was the best design. It was the perfect bird.
