All Is True: The Naked Girl in the Tree House

A Serial Novel by Mark Howell

Chapter 3

‘If you can’t see them, join them’

One of the wonders of writing a serial novel like this is the chance to interact with the audience.

Already one reader has asked us why there’s a naked girl in the title, but no such person has made an appearance.

The fact is, she has already made her appearance.

But now we’re getting ahead of ourselves. If truth be told, the first title of our tale was “All Is True,” the original title of William Shakespeare’s play about Henry the Eighth, although the whole truth about that is it was actually written by Francis Bacon.

Our point is this. Here is a true story about make believe. David Carpenter and your storyteller, Thom One, have arrived in New York City in 1964 for their first and most glorious adventure before returning to England and, for better or worse, higher education.

Already they’ve scored more cash than they’d ever seen in their native land and have purchased from a couple of beatniks a car of dubious provenance so they can drive across country to who knows where. In other words, to the girls at Lake Erie College whom they’d met on the boat coming over.

But first, a couple of missions to accomplish. I insisted we attend the American premiere of “A Hard Day’s Night” in Times Square. Then David wanted to catch the Rolling Stones live at the Peppermint Lounge. I was a Beatles fan and a good boy. He was a Stones fan and a bad boy. At least that’s how we saw ourselves as new pals and our opinions were subject at any moment to change if not to complete reversal.

“A Hard Day’s Night,” with that alluringly long opening chord and its black-and-white cinematography immediately instilled a deep blast of nostalgia. Those “loveable mop tops” in the appalling language of Murray the K on 1010 WINS New York, had us singing along right away.

“When I’m home everything seems to be right…” And the humor of Alun Owen’s script! Reporter to John: “How did you find America?” John to Reporter: “Turn left at Greenland.” Then the key scene with Ringo to the tune of “That Boy,” as he strolls the docklands deliciously alone and is charged by the police with “wandering abroad.” And for me, that most plangent line of all, from “If I Fell,” mooning back to my lost love whom I left back home in England: “Love is more than just holding hands.”

But the funny thing about the premiere, with the theater packed by young people, more boys than girls amazingly, is that some of the kids had brought guitars into the house. We’d never seen such a thing. The nerve of it, playing along with the Beatles! My new friend, David Carpenter, had a guitar himself — in its case it was like a third passenger on our way over — and was quite good on it, in fact he accompanied our sing-alongs with the girls on the ship’s deck, but he’d never have dreamt of breaking it out in a movie theater. We laughed at the idea, yet the seed of an idea was born.

And then there were the Rolling Stones. One evening when I was off the night shift at my elevator-operator job, we heard it announced on 1010 WINS that the Stones had arrived on their first U.S. tour. Supposedly they were going to put in a quick appearance in Manhattan at the Peppermint Lounge.

This was news too huge for David to ignore. The Beatles movie was big, but the Stones in early 1964 were the next big thing.

My own taste in pop –I didn’t play an instrument, I liked to sing — leaned mostly toward the bespectacled thrills of Buddy Holly (“It’s a-getting’ closer/Goin’ faster than a rollercoaster”) and the strings and choirs of Ray Charles anthems (“I’ve made up my mind/to live in memory…”). David’s tastes, meanwhile, seemed tainted with darker experience. He liked drums and parties that featured fake fistfights among the guests.

But who could resist a glimpse of those notorious Stones? And, Mick Jagger was a university lad and Brian Jones came from my hometown of Cheltenham. And they rocked!

We marched with haste to the lounge at 128 West 45th St. on the afternoon of the band’s supposed visit. This was going to be too cool. Guys with long hair, a rare sight in ’64 even in New York.

As we descended the steps to the club’s basement entrance, however, we took note of a thinning crowd. Where were the Stones? “They’re not coming,” muttered a surly voice from among puddles of water from air conditioners accumulating in the well of the basement-level entrance.

“Long live the Beatles,” I murmured. David was too pissed to speak. Instead he knelt down and grabbed the corner of a poster floating at his feet. “A souvenir,” he announced as he shook it dry. A black and white photo on yellow paperboard showed the Rolling Stones lined up against a limousine.

“Take a look at this,” said David back on the sidewalk. He pointed to Brian Jones in the lineup. “You look just like him.”

“Nah,” I said.

“Yeah, you do,” David insisted. “Blonde. Bags under your eyes.”

“Thanks, I said. “Well, look at Keith, then. You’re just like him. Black hair. Wasted.”

“I do, too,” he said. “You’re right, Thom. We got a couple of dead ringers here.”

And thus was born our nefarious plan: Why don’t we cut out this photo from the poster and stick it on the side of the Plymouth Savoy? With white shoe polish (we’d seen some in the window of a Fifth Avenue department store) we would write in big letters: THE ROLLING STONES – LONDON TO LOS ANGELES.

“Yeah,” I said.”

“You bet,” he said.

“If you can’t see them, join them,” I said.

“You’re bad,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m the vicar, I’m good.”

“I saw you shoplift that jar of honey from the store the other day,” he said. “You’re going to hell. Me, I’ve got morals.”

And so were set our places in a drama of deception about to engulf us in the rock ’n roll theater of our lives.

(Continued next week.)

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