Chapter 7
After we left my home, we traveled for quite a while. We occasionally took some side-stops for some photo opportunities, but our only main stops were for food, gasoline, and sleep. (Both of us slept out in the car to save money for the former two items.) Other than that, we drove on the open road by daylight, determined to find a place to live (or possibly a college I could go to.
It was during one of our stops at a diner that I started to feel a little homesick. Even though it had only been about a week since we had left, I was concerned about my mother and her safety. As much as I had wanted to stay with her, I knew that there was no other choice but to move on.
Lindbergh and I were seated in a booth, waiting for the waitress to come by with our orders. I was staring out the window, watching the cars go by. As I thought about my troubles, I let out a sigh.
My companion must’ve heard the sigh (obviously; he was sitting right across from me), because he immediately spoke to me afterwards. “Something wrong, Michael?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Lindbergh,” I said to him. “It’s just that… well…”
The kiwi nodded, understanding my problems. “You miss your mom, don’t you?”
I swallowed something that was in my throat before responding to him. “… yes,” I confessed, looking down at my hands, “very much so.”
“Aw, don’t worry too much about her, Michael,” my friend said to me. “You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you. Besides, it’s natural to get homesick every once in a while.”
“I know that, Lindbergh,” I addressed to him, hardly looking up, “but I think that this is an extreme case of something, if not homesickness.”
“Michael,” the kiwi began, “it’s okay if you’re like this right now. You’ve just left your home and you have a lot of things on your mind right now. You probably feel that the whole weight of the world is on your shoulders now, am I right?”
“Something like that, yes,” I responded. “Plus, I want to find a college to go to so that I can at lest get a passable job.”
“Well, whatever happens,” Lindbergh continued, “I want you to remember one thing.”
It was then that I looked up at him. “What’s that?” I asked.
My friend smiled at me. “I want you to know that you’ll always have a friend in me.”
I gave a small smile back, pondering my companion’s words. Out of all the people I knew, he was the only one other than my mother who treated me like I was still normal in appearance and not like I was an experiment out of a science-fiction film. In all honesty, he was the first true friend that I ever had.
“Blasted TV,” I heard a man say before he stood up.
“So, do you feel better?” Lindbergh asked with a smile.
“Why yes,” I answered, “but I still have a funny feeling in me that won’t go away…”
“Wonder what it is,” the kiwi commented.
Around that time, the man started to change the channels on the TV. Right at that moment, I started to glitch up a bit.
“And now for the forecast of the week,” I began before I started to sing. “Sunday, Monday, happy days! Tuesday Wednesday-- Sunny day! Sweepin’ the clouds away! Lucy, I’m home! Book ‘em, Danno!”
Little did I know that some of the patrons of the restaurant were giving me odd looks. Fortunately, the channel-changing came to rest on a broadcast of “Hello, Dolly!” “… and one more thing: we are not coming back to Yonkers until we have each kissed a girl.”
“Guess it was a glitch after all,” I heard Lindbergh say. “I should fix that soon.” He paused. “But why do you want to kiss a girl?”
“I’m twenty-eight and three-quarters,” I answered him, influenced by the broadcast. “I got to begin some time.” In actuality, I was 19.
“Well, I’m a plumber,” my friend replied. “I thought I could meet girls any time I wanted to.”
“Here you go, boys,” a female voice said. It was the waitress, but in my glitches state I mistook her for the title character from the movie.
“Mrs. Levi,” I said, slightly surprised.
The waitress raised an eyebrow. “Uh yeah. You’re orders are here.”
“Oh goody!” Lindbergh softly exclaimed.
“We were only talking,” I told her, trying to cover up for my friend and myself.
“Right,” the waitress said. “Now, unless these are your orders, I could probably send them back to the kitchen to exchange them for your actual meals.”
“What ladies?” I asked her, still in tune with Michael Crawford’s character.
“Okay, kid, you’re freaking me out,” the waitress said to me.
“Okay, here’s a cheeseburger with no onions…” She set the plate in front of me.
“Irene Malloy?” I repeated.
“The name’s Barbra.” The waitress rolled her eyes before handing Lindbergh his order. “You put up with this guy?” she asked him.
“Oh, he’s just glitching,” the kiwi explained to her.
“… your orders cost $9.95,” the waitress told both of us, “and you can pay before you leave.” She left the table herself, muttering something under her breath about “weirdos”.
I had a look of surprise on my face. “A millinery shop,” I stated.
“Why are you talking about a hat shop?” Lindbergh questioned before starting to eat.
“Adventure, Barnaby,” I said again, my voice growing in excitement.
“It’s Lindbergh, actually,” my friend said, concern in his voice.
“Living, Barnaby!” I exclaimed.
“Who’s Barnaby? I’m not Barnaby!” the kiwi stated, concerned about my well-being.
“Will ya come, Barnaby?” I asked him.
“I’m already traveling with you,” “Barnaby” answered. “Of course, I’ll come!”
“The lights of Broadway!” I exclaimed, stepping onto the table. “Elevated trains! The stuffed whale at Barnum’s museum!”
“Wow, I didn’t know that they had a stuffed whale there,” Lindbergh said before he continued to eat. “We should go there sometime. New York sounds nice around this time of year.”
“Let’s get dressed, Barnaby,” I told him, “we’re going to New York!”
“We are?” my friend asked, nearly finished with his meal.
I answered him by singing. “Out there, there's a world outside of Yonkers. Way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby… there’s a slick town, Barnaby. Out there, full of shine and full of sparkle. Close your eyes and see it glisten, Barnaby. Listen, Barnaby…”
“I’m listening, Michael,” “Barnaby” told me, “but all I can hear is you singing along with the TV.”
“Put on your Sunday clothes, There's lots of world out there!” I sang again, getting up from the table. “Get out the brilliantine and dime cigars.”
“Michael, neither of us smoke,” the kiwi reminded me.
“We're gonna find adventure in the evening air,” I continued to sing, hardly hearing my friend over the music. “Girls in white in a perfumed night where the lights are bright as the stars!”
“It sounds fancy!” Lindbergh commented.
“Put on your Sunday clothes, we're gonna ride through town,” I continued, glad that my friend was getting into it, “in one of those new horsedrawn open cars!”
“Yeah!” my friend exclaimed before joining me in singing the rest of the verse. “We'll see the shows at Delmonico’s, and we'll close the town in a whirl. And we won't come until we've kissed a girl!”
I was surprised, but not too startled, to hear Barbra the waitress sing as well. “Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out,” she sang. “Strut down the street and have your picture took. Dressed like a dream your spirits seem to turn about. That Sunday shine is a certain sign that you feel as fine as you look!”
A female customer joined in and started to sing with her. “Beneath your parasol, the world is all a smile that makes you feel brand new down to your toes!”
Lindbergh and I joined them in song. “Get out your feathers, your patent leathers, your beads and buckles and bows,” we sang. “For there's no blue Monday in your Sunday... No Monday in your Sunday... No Monday in your Sunday clothes!”
Then, all the diner seemed to come to life with the sound of music. “Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out. Strut down the street and have your picture took.”
“Dressed like a dream your spirits seem to turn about,” Barbra sang as she led us in the verse. “That Sunday shine is a certain sign that you feel as fine as you look!”
“Beneath your parasol, the world is all a smile,” the waitresses and female customers sang.
“That makes you feel brand new down to your toes,” we all sang. “Get out your feathers, your patent leathers, your beads and buckles and bows. For there's no blue Monday in your Sunday clothes!”
After that verse, all the patrons and employees started to dance, including Lindbergh and myself. I was actually surprised by my own dance skills, considering that I‘ve hardly danced before.
“Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out,” the children in the diner sang. “Strut down the street and have your picture took.”
“Dressed like a dream your spirits seem to turn about,” the women sang.
“That Sunday shine is a certain sign that you feel as fine as you look!”we all sang. “Beneath your bowler brim the world's a simple song, a lovely lilt that makes you tilt your nose. Get out your slickers, your flannel knickers, your red suspenders and hose. For there's no blue Monday in your Sunday clothes!”
“Modulate, everybody!” someone shouted.
“Put on your Sunday clothes there's lots of world out there,” everyone in the diner sang. “Put on your silk cravat and patent shoes. We're gonna find adventure in the evening air.”
“To town we'll trot to a smokey spot where the girls are hot as a fuse!” Barbara sang out, mainly addressing my companion and I.
“Wow!” all of us exclaimed before we continued to sing. “Put on your silk high hat and at the turned up cuff. We'll wear a hand made gray suede buttoned glove.”
“We wanna take New York by storm!” Lindbergh and I harmonized, dancing towards the front of the diner.
“We'll join the Astors at Tony Pastor's and this I'm positive of,” everyone sang. “That we won't come home…”
Lindbergh gave the cashier a ten-dollar bill to pay for our meals. “No we won't come home…”
The two of us then danced to the door and finished the song. “No we won't come home until we fall in love!”
The door closed behind us, leaving the two of us outside the diner.
“Wow, that was fun,” the kiwi commented to me, walking to the car. “New York does sound like fun, Michael. We should go there sometime.”
“Adventure, Barnaby!” I exclaimed, sitting on the hood of the automobile.
“Oh yeah,” Lindbergh remembered, “you have a glitch.” He went to get his tool belt out of the car and then dragged me to the back seat. “This will only take a few minutes, Michael.”
That’s all I remember hearing before I shut down.
~~~
When I woke up, we were on the road again. Lindbergh was listening to the radio while driving.
I tapped my friend on the shoulder. “Lindbergh, why was I dreaming that I was in a musical?” I asked him, puzzled.
“Long story, Michael,” the kiwi answered. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”