For He's A Fine Upstanding, Patriotic, Healthy Normal American Boy
The next morning my suitcase is packed and I'm at Penn Station before any of the other girls. New York Suzie is neurotic about punctuality; she has to be on time and organized no matter what. (Real Suzie was yelling at New York Suzie for waking her up so early after the rendezvous with a certain affectionate fellow named after a forest-fire-fighting grizzly bear, who was even better than the coffee.)
New York Suzie is joined by cousin Bonnie at 8:40. "I just couldn't wait any longer," Bonnie exclaims upon spotting New York Suzie. "To think – in just a few minutes, we'll be seeing Conrad! Oh!" She literally clasps her hands to her heart with glee.
"It's the living end," agrees New York Suzie enthusiastically, employing a phrase she doesn't even understand.
Mary Elizabeth and Caroline enter together at 8:43. "We knew you would flip if we were late," says Mary Elizabeth. "Besides, we didn't want to miss a single thing." Caroline nods half-heartedly, her normal buoyant self seemingly suppressed.
"Have you seen the others?" asks Bonnie. We shrug, watching a nearby clock tick out two slow minutes.
"Where are they?" a frustrated New York Suzie says as the clock ticks to 8:46. She's entering what Bonnie calls Anxiety Mode. New York Suzie enters said mode a lot, and Real Suzie often reminds her that it's usually the fault of Bonnie's dippy friends.
"Should we start without them?" Mary Elizabeth suggests hesitantly at 8:47.
"I suppose we'll have to," sighs New York Suzie. Real Suzie performs an I-told-you-so jig all around my mind. Marilyn and Betty and Dorothy are just as flaky as can be. With Mary Elizabeth and Bonnie casting quick glances over their shoulders, I count to three and we begin rehearsing our song.
We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.
We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.
Just as a depressed Caroline floats off to a nearby bench, Marilyn, Betty and Dorothy scamper in with sheepish smiles. I glare but we continue singing, never missing a beat.
When you're not near us, we're blue.
Oh Conrad, we love you!
An anxious man in a suit approaches us. Bonnie spoke of a manager, Mr. Peterson. This must be him. "Hi, girls, sorry I'm late. Now let's go over the Birdie song one more time before we go down to the train."
We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.
We love you Conrad...
"Oh, little girl, you can sing with us if you want," he says, taking notice of the forlorn Caroline sitting off to the side. When he gets no response, he asks us, "What's wrong with her?"
"Oh, she's just sad because Conrad's going into the army and she'll be too old for him when he gets out," Mary Elizabeth replies. Ah. So that's it. What a... perfectly... legitimate reason. Caroline's barely thirteen.
"I think she's still got a few good years left," Mr. Peterson says. I think he's joking around, and this makes me like him more than I like most adults. "Look, why don't you girls go down to Track 12 and I'll talk to her." Shrugging, Mary Elizabeth leads us off to Track 12, where Conrad will be. "And stay out of the bar!"
The last remark elicits a giggle, but as soon as we're out of Mr. Peterson's earshot, New York Suzie begins ratting the girls out. "Why were you late? No excuse is good enough," I say, invoking a tired parentism.
"Got stuck in traffic," Marilyn smiles, employing her usual coquettishness.
"That coy act doesn't work on me! You said you'd be here at 8:45 and you didn't show up until 8:48! That's three minutes."
"And you know, in five minutes we'll all be seeing Conrad, so what does it really matter?" says Marilyn.
"Gee whiz. Conrad Birdie," sighs Betty, ever a follower.
"Now why is Caroline behaving so oddly?" asks Bonnie, changing the subject quickly. "She's being terribly dramatic. I mean, it's tragic that Conrad's leaving, but it's not as if he would go for her. She's so childish." Surprisingly, Mary Elizabeth rolls her eyes at Bonnie.
"And who, pray tell, would meet up to Conrad's standards? Certainly it isn't you," she says.
"Children, children," Dorothy chimes in, "Behave, all of you. Honestly." The bickering girls regain their composure and I stifle a laugh. Are they really arguing over who has a chance with dating Conrad? Really?
"Oh, Mary Elizabeth, I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry," apologizes Bonnie.
"I'm sorry too. I guess Conrad's leaving is just getting to me," Mary Elizabeth states, and they reconcile with a brief hug. By now, we're dangerously near Track 12, and the entrance of our favorite, argument-worthy rock star is heralded by a hapless police officer, whom we try to bombard in order to reach Conrad, who enters dramatically, flanked by Mr. Peterson and a tall, no-nonsense Hispanic woman.
"Eeeee!" we scream, making rabid attempts to grab at Conrad as the police officer holds us back. Poor guy: what must he have dreamed of as a child? Certainly not this, being a wall of restraint for screaming teenyboppers, one of whom (Caroline) is trying to crawl through his legs to get by and touch Conrad.
"Hey, Conrad, howsabout answering a few questions?" shouts a reporter. She's not the sort that my full name invokes, but rather the brassy, perennially pushy, trenchcoat-wearing sort. "Like how do you feel about going into the army?"
"How does he feel? You ask how he feels? He's much too shy to tell you, so I'll tell you how he feels," Mr. Peterson says in a rush as the woman pushes Conrad out of the way of the reporters and we teens strike a carefully calculated pose. It seems that the managers have the same tendency to break into song as the Sweet Apple teenagers do.
Brave and eager, strangely humble, proud to be a plain G.I.
Pulling Conrad with her, Mr. Peterson's secretary (I think she's his secretary) joins in the song.
He will gladly face those bullets, for he's not afraid to die.
And then, with our arms held like an operatic chorus, we pitch in our two cents as well.
For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!
"And that's why he volunteered for-" Mr. Peterson begins.
"Volunteered? I thought he was drafted!" exclaims the female reporter.
"And he appealed – three times!" adds another reporter. Clearly unnerved by this statement, the female secretary-manager shoves Conrad into our cluster of teenyboppers with a shout of "Sing!". Bonnie and Mary Elizabeth reach for his shoulders, Caroline and Marilyn snuggle into his arms, Betty and Dorothy hug his legs, and I grab his writs, and we sail into another chorus of the infamous Birdie song.
We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.
We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.
When you're not near us, we're blue.
Oh Conrad, we love you!
Mr. Peterson applauds, telling us, "Very nice!" as Conrad pulls out a pen and we wave our arms in his face, Sign me! Sign me! "What's the pitch on that Hollywood starlet, Conrad?" asks the female reporter. "Are you two engaged?"
The rumor mill is spinning madly. Conrad, engaged? This is enough to set the girls off. Dorothy and Betty embrace each other tearfully from their positions on the floor. Caroline looks utterly devastated. She may be the right age, but what's the point if he's taken? Bonnie and Mary Elizabeth glare at him with looks that say, How could you not even tell us? I comfort a hysterical Marilyn, allowing Real Suzie to shine through and give Conrad a look-what-you've-done glare. I hate seeing my friends cry, and flaky though she is, Marilyn is my friend. All through our frenzy, Mr. Peterson and his secretary spout some lies to make us feel better. "Is he engaged? Is Conrad engaged? There's absolutely nothing to the rumor he's engaged!" she begins. Mr. Peterson continues, then, by song.
She's a real pal, like a sister, but it doesn't mean a thing!
And that eighteen carat diamond… it was just a friendship ring!
For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!
"Then why was her husband so mad?" asks the male reporter. We gasp and Mr. Peterson cries, "Sing!", pulling Conrad out of our circle and back over to his female counterpart.
We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.
We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.
"I'll never forget Conrad's first words when he heard he's been accepted into the Armed Forces. 'Say, Mr. Peterson,' he cried eagerly, 'Do you suppose I can get assigned to the front-line trenches? That way I'll be sure to get me one of those dirty Jerries!'" Now the gathered adults have their turn to gasp, and I can't believe Mr. Peterson made such a politically incorrect mistake, though I pretend to be befuddled like all the other teenagers. Of course none of them understand the term.
"Albert!" exclaims his secretary.
"Or whoever's dirty this time," he hastily covers.
"Hey, Mr. Peterson, give us the real scoop, is Conrad still drinking a lot?" asks the female reporter. Now everyone gasps. "Conrad doesn't drink!" Betty mouths at me. "No, of course not," I mouth back, my eyebrows knitted together with concern.
"Now listen here, this gossip must stop!" says the secretary. "He goes to church each Sunday and he doesn't touch a drop!" As Mr. Peterson sings, we all bounce up and down in rhythm and then segue into a perfect patriotic march, complete with syncopated saluting.
He's as decent as a minister, he's as sober as a judge.
He subscribes to every charity and his hobby's making fudge!
For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!
"Is it true that you found Conrad in a reform school?" both reporters query, obtaining a veritable amount of righteous anger from the crowd. "Reform school?" Bonnie whispers to me with wide eyes. That explains a lot, Real Suzie thinks bitterly. She then breaks into Round Two of the I-told-you-so dance while the managers try to counter what is so obviously the truth.
"That is a lie! A lie through and through! I'll tell you where he came from, here's the story and it's true!" both Mr. Peterson and his female counterpart recite in unison. He strides over to the teenagers and she walks to the adults, both spinning stories so fake that they sound almost plausible.
He was born in Indochina...He was born in old Virginnie...
Son of missionaries there...On a thousand-acre farm...
Very poor and very hungry...From a line of wealthy planters...
What a cruel life to bear!Full of genteel Southern charm...
Then he drifted down to Hong Kong...Every evening by the river...
To a waterfront saloon...In the moonlight he would croon...
That is where I heard him singing...That's where Conrad started singing...
'Neath that dirty Hong Kong moon!'Neath that sweet plantation moon!
Everyone gets into the act now, the adults being patriotic, the teenagers being obsessive.
We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.Oh, beautiful for spacious skies.
We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.For amber waves of grain.
When you're not near us, we're blue.For purple mountain's majesty
Oh Conrad, we love you!Across the fruited plain.
Oh, oh, Conrad, we love you!God bless America...
We love you Conrad, we'll be true!God bless America...
For he's a fine upstanding, average modest, patriotic, healthy normal American, American boy!
Spectacularly, we all strike a pose with our arms in the air like the finale of a big dance number in a musical, then after a beat, we all wave Conrad good-bye and rush off.
"Love you, Suze! Come back soon!" the girls cry, sending me off to my Sweet Apple doom.
