Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of LaVern Baker performing her 1950s classic Tomorrow Night.
“Tomorrow night, tomorrow night, will you still say the things you said tonight- a line from LaVern Baker’s song Tomorrow Night.
Walking down the narrow stairs leading to the admission booth at Jacky Fleet’s in old Harvard Square I was suddenly depressed by this thought-how many times lately had I walked down these very stairs looking, looking for what, looking, as Tom Waits says in his song, for the heart of Saturday night, looking recently every night from Monday to Sunday. Looking, not hard looking, not right now anyway after my last nitwit affair but looking for a man who at least had a job, didn’t have another girlfriend or ten, and who wanted to settle down a little, settle down with me a little. Yes, if you really need to know, want to know, I’ve got those late twenties getting just a touch worried old maid blues, and my parents, my straight arrow parents, my mother really, my father just keeps his own counsel between shots of whiskey, keeps badgering me about finding a nice young man. Yes, easy for you to say, Mother. And then she starts on the coming home and finding some farmer-grown boy from high school and X, Y, and Z still asks about me. No thanks that is why I fled to Boston right after college in 1972, and not just because I wanted to get my social worker master’s degree like I told them. And so here I am walking down these skinny stairs again, sigh, yet again.
Jacky’s isn’t a bad place to hang your hat, as my father always likes to say when he finds that one or two places where he feels comfortable enough to stay more than ten minutes before getting the I’ve got to go water the greenhouse plants or something itch. Not a bad place for a woman, a twenty–eight year old woman with college degrees and some aims in life beyond some one-night stand very now and again, or women if my friend and roommate Priscilla decides she is man-hungry enough to make the trip to Harvard Square from the wilds of Watertown and can stand the heavy smoke, mainly cigarette smoke as far as I know, but after a few drinks who knows, that fills the air before half the night is over. Tonight Priscilla is with me because she has a “crush” on Albie St John, the lead singer for the local rock group The Haystraws. And the last time she was here he was giving her that look like he was game for something although he is known around as strictly a for fun guy. And that is okay with Priscilla because she has some guy back home who will marry her when she says the word.
Here is the funny thing though alone, or with Priscilla like tonight, this funky old bar is the only place around where a woman can find a guy who was the least bit presentable to the folks back home, wherever back home was. I’ve met a couple although like I said before things didn’t work out because they were one-night stand guys or already loaded down with girlfriends and I am in no mood to take a ticket. So you can see what desperate straits I am in trying to meet that right guy, or something close. My standards may be a little high for the times but I’m chipping away at then by the day.
Moreover, this place, this Jacky Fleet’s is the only place around that has the kind of music I like, a little country although not Grand Ole Opry country stuff like my parents like, a little bit folkie, kind of left-handed folkie, more like local favorite Eric Andersen folk rock, and a little old time let it rip 1950s rock and roll, like the Haystraws cover, that I never knew anything about when I was a kid since I never got past Rickey Nelson and Bobby Darin, darn him, out in the farm field sticks. Upstate New York, Centerville to be exact, not far out of Albany but it might as well have been a million miles away me picking my sting beans, tomatoes, and whatever else pa grew to keep us from hunger’s door. Not for me this disco stuff, not my style at all, although I love to dance and even took belly dancing lessons even though voluptuous I am not, more just left of skinny and really voluptuous Priscilla calls me skinny. Also my kind of guy never, never would wear an open shirt and some chainy medallion around his neck. Plus, a big plus, Jacky’s has a jukebox for intermissions filled with all kinds of odd-ball songs, real country, stuff, late 1950s rock and roll (the Rickey Nelson/Bobby Vee/Bobby Darin stuff) that nobody but me probably ever heard of unless, of course, you were from Centerville, or a place like that.
After going through mandatory license check and admission fee stuff, saying hi to the waitresses that I know now by name, and Priscilla does too, and the regular bartenders too we find our seats, kind of reserved seats for us where we can sit and not be hassled by guys, or be hassled if something interesting comes along. I have been in kind of a dry spell, outside the occasional minute affair if one could really call some of the things that, for about six months now since I started to work, work doing social work, my profession, if you need to know. That’s what I am trained to do anyway although when I first came to town a few years ago I was, as one beau back then said, “serving them off the arm” in a spaghetti joint over the other side of Cambridge. Strictly a family fare menu, and plenty of college guys, including a few who I wound up dating, low on funds doing the cheap Saturday night date circuit. All in all a no tips situation anyway you cut it, although plenty of guff, a lot of come ons, and extra helpings of “get me this and get me that.”
Before that out in Rochester in college and later after a short stop at hometown Centerville it was nothing but wanna-be cowboy losers, an occasionally low rent dope dealer, some wanna-be musicians, farmer brown farmers, and married guys looking for a little something on a cold night. Ya, I know, I asked for it but a girl gets cold and lonely too. Not just guys, not these days anyway. But I am still pitching, although very low-key that is my public style (some say, say right to my face, prim but that’s only to fend off the losers).
“Laura, what are you having, tonight honey?’ asked my “regular” waitress, Lannie, and then asked Priscilla the same. “Two Rusty Nails” we replied. Tonight, from a quick glance around the room even though it is a Columbus Day holiday night looked like it was going to be a hard-drinking night from the feel of it. That meant on my budget and my capacity about three drinks, max. About the same for Priscilla unless she s real man-hungry. But that is just between us, Lannie, as is her habit, knowing that we are good tippers (the bonds of waitress sisterhood as Priscilla has also “served them off the arm”) brought the drinks right away. And so we settled in get ready to listen to The Haystraws coming up in a while for their first set. Or rather I did Priscilla was looking, looking hard at Albie, and he was looking right back. I guess I will be driving home alone tonight. But as I settled in I noticed that some guy was playing the jukebox like crazy. Like crazy for real. He kept playing about three old timey LaVern Baker songs, Jim Dandy of course, and See See Rider but also about six times in a row her Tomorrow Night. I was kind of glad when the band, like I said, these really good rockers, The Haystraws, began their first set. And so the evening was off, good, bad, or indifferent.
About half way through the set I noticed this jukebox guy kept kind of looking at me, kind of checking me out without being rude about it. You know those little half looks and then look away kind of like kid hide-and-seek and back again. Now I have around long enough to know that I am not bad to look at even if I am a little skinny and I take time to get ready when I go out, especially lately, and although times have been tough lately I am easy to get to know but this guy kind of put me on my guard a little. He was about thirty, neatly bearded which I like and okay for looks, I have been with worst. But what I couldn’t figure, and it bothered me a little even when I tried to avoid his peeks (as he “avoided” mine) is why he was in this place.
Jacky’s, despite its locale in the heart of Harvard Square, is kind of an oasis for country girls like me, or half country girls like Priscilla (from upstate New York too, Utica) and guys the same way although once in a while a Harvard guy (or a guy who says he goes to Harvard. I have met some who made the claim who I don’t think could spell the name, I swear). This guy looked like Harvard Square was his home turf and if he found himself five feet from a street lamp, a library, or a bookstore, he would freak out big time. He might have been an old folkie, he had that feel, or maybe a bluesy kind of guy but he was strictly a city boy and was just cruising this joint.
But here is where the story gets interesting. At intermission Priscilla had to run to the ladies’ room and on the way this guy, Allan Jackson, as I found out later when he introduced himself to me, stopped her and said that her brunette friend looked very nice in her white pants and blouse. He then said to her that he would like to meet me. Priscilla, a veteran of the Laura wars (and I of hers), had the snappy answer ready, “Go introduce yourself, yourself.” And he did start to come over but I kind of turned away to avoid him just in case he had escaped from somewhere (ya, like I said before my luck has been running a little rough lately so I am a little gun-shy).
And this is the every first thing that Allan ever said to me. “I noticed that you kind of perked up when I played LaVern Baker’s Tomorrow Night. Have you been disappointed when things didn’t work out after that first night of promise too, like in the song.” Not an original line, but close. I answered almost automatically, “Yes.” Then he introduced himself and just kind of stood there not trying to sit down or anything like that waiting for me to make the next move as Priscilla came back and said she had run into Albie St. John and he wanted to talk to her (like she was doing him this big favor, like I said I am definitely driving home alone today) before the band came back for a second set. She left and Allan was still standing there, a little ill at ease from his look. Befuddled by his soft non-threatening manner, and soft manners, I was not sure if I wanted him to sit down but then I said, what the hell, he seems nice enough and at least he was not drunk.
So he sat down, and gently, actually very gently, shook my hand and said thank you to me for letting me let him sit at the table. In the flush of that gentle handshake, I swear no man had ever taken my hand in such a manly manner without guile or gimme something, and so I relaxed a little and asked him, not an origin question but I was curious, what brought him to Jacky’s. He started to tell me about his country minute, about finding out abut the wild boys of country music, about Hank Williams (I winched that was my father’s music) about this guy Townes van Zandt and so on. And then he said he was looking for me. I winched again. No, not me exactly, but me as a person who he sensed had been kind of beaten down in the love game lately like he had. He said he saw that look in my face, in my eyes, when he kind of half-checked (I made him laugh when I said we were kid-hide-and-seeking) me out at the jukebox. I said I thought he had fully checked me out but he would only confess to the half. We both laughed at that one.
And after that opening strange to say, because being a country girl, and being brought up in a Methodist-etched household to keep my thoughts to myself, or else, or else Dad would have a fit, I started to talk to him about my troubles lately. And he listened and kept asking more questions, but not in your face questions but questions like he was really interested in the answers and not as some fiendish experiment to take advantage of a simple girl and then I asked him a few things and before we knew it the evening’s entertainment was over and Lannie kept telling us that we had to go. I still had some doubts about this guy, this city boy and his city ways, and his blue eyes that could be true or truly devilish.
As we got up to leave he asked, kind of sheepishly with a little stutter, asked, for my telephone number. No “my place or your place, honey”, or “let’s go down the Charles and have some fun” or “I brought you six drinks (we each brought our own) and so I expect something more” or any of that usual end of the night stuff that I have become somewhat inured to. He simply, softly, said he wanted it because he wanted to call me up tomorrow night. We kind of laughed at that seeing how we met, before we met. I hesitated just a minute and he, sensing my dilemma, started to turn to leave. A guy who knows how to take no for an answer, or the possibility of no, without recrimination or fuss. Wait a minute, Laura. Before he took two steps I blurted it out. And then put it on a cocktail napkin for him. As I passed the glass wet napkin to him he said he would call about seven if that was okay. I said yes. And then he shook my hand, shook it even more gently than when he introduced himself, if that was possible. I flushed again as he headed to the door. Something in that handshake said you had better not let this one get away. Something that said you had better be at the phone at 6:59 PM tomorrow night waiting for his call. And I will be.
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