They walked into the room slowly, like prisoners being forced into the cell block after their afternoon meal. They looked at Edwards sitting at his desk, looked at the flutter of his hands, looked at his goddamn goggles perched on his nose, looked at the intense, serious eyes behind those goggles. Man, they thought, why was you born such a ugly child? And such a boring one in the bargain. Didn’t no one ever teach you how to be interesting, Edwards? Josh-wah, old boy, didn’t no one ever tell you you was a boring sonofabitch? It’s a shame, Josh-wah, because somebody should sure as hell have told you. Someday, you’re gonna get reported to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, Josh-wah, and then you will lose your gold-plated license, and then you will have to go out and dig ditches or climb flagpoles or sit around with your thumb up your backside, which is a good job for you, Josh-wah, because you are really a boring sonofabitch.
They drifted into the classroom, and they took their seats, resigned to their fate, waiting for Edwards to begin blabbing again. Balls, Josh-wah, don’t you never learn? You need another beating to wake you up? That was a fine beating, wasn’t it, Josh-wah? Boy, you looked jazzy on that Monday morning, like a steam roller had tried to flatten your head, only better because your head was flat to begin with. Still, some guys never learn. What’s it gonna be today, Josh-wah? A letter to Grandma in Oshkosh? How you feeling. Grandma? Your rheumatiz bothering you, girlie? You keeping your legs crossed, Grandma? Come on, Josh-wah, get through with the attendance and let’s start. We can hardly wait for this ball to begin.
Edwards closed his Delaney book and smiled at the boys. “I’ve got a surprise for you today,” he said.
Well now, Josh-wah has a surprise. Ain’t that great? Let’s all stand up and clap our hands. What kind of surprise, Josh? Little test maybe? Little homework? Something pleasant like that? Something you thought up last night in your torture chamber?
“What kind of surprise?” Vallera asked.
“A surprise I think you’ll like,” Edwards said, still smiling.
“Not a test?” Jones asked suspiciously.
“No, not a test,” Edwards answered, smiling secretly. “Something you’ll like.”
Yeah, something we’ll like. This boy’s ideas are always pips. Like the time he asked us to bring newspapers in. Yeah, we were gonna like that, too. So he spends the next week telling us to read the New York Times. That’s his idea of a big ball, a real snappy time. Sit on your ass and wade through all that fine print. Boy, what a ball! Man, it gassed us, the happiest time, the most. Now he’s got another peachy idea. He’s got a million of them, this boy. Why don’t he just throw in his jock?
Edwards was not throwing in any of his underwear. He was, instead, walking to his coat closet at the rear of the room. Maybe that’s his surprise. Maybe he’s gonna put on his coat and go home? Now that would be a surprise. That was something to look forward to.
“As you know,” Edwards said, “literature is not the only form of expression. We’ll be studying a lot of literature this term in class, but there are other means of expression, too. A lot of other means of expression.”
He sounds nervous, Josh-wah does. Repeating himself all over the place. What’s he got in that closet, a naked girl? Never saw a guy as nervous as this one. Jumpy as two skeletons screwing on a moving freight car.
“Art is one form of expression,” Edwards said. “Painting, sculpture... uh... art, in general. And music is another form.”
He had the closet open now, and he was taking out something that looked like... well, how do you like that? A record player! A phonograph. And what was that little case with the lock on it? Records? Dig that! Old Josh-wah was turning into a disc jockey.
“Today we’re going to listen to some music,” Edwards said. He was walking back to his desk now, the phonograph under one arm, the leather case of records dangling at the end of his other arm.
“What kind of music?” Pasco asked suspiciously.
“No longhair stuff,” Edwards said. “Today, we’re going to hear swing, and jazz, and even a little bop.”
Bop? From you, Josh-wah? Oh, come down, man. Climb off that cloud, boy. Bop? Bop this a while, Josh-wah.
“I think you’ll like these records,” Edwards said. “I’ve been a collector for a long time now, and there’s some exciting stuff here.”
Like the Times, huh, Josh-wah? Exciting like the Times is exciting. Man, that was really exciting.
He was setting up the player now, plugging it into the outlet. He tested the needle with his forefinger, and a scratching sound flooded the classroom. He smiled and said, “The player’s not my own, but it’ll do. Let’s see now.” He fiddled around in his record case, and came up with a shining black disc. He looked at the disc like a guy sick over a girl, and then brushed at it with his sleeve.
“We’ll play this one first,” he said. “ ‘I Can’t Get Started’ is the title. It’s one of Bunny Berigan’s best records.”
Bunny Berigan? Who the hell is Bunny Berigan? What kind of crap is this, anyway?
He put the record onto the turntable, dropped the arm into place, and then stepped back with his arms folded across his chest, a broad smile on his face.
So this is Bunny Berigan. What’s so special?
So it’s a guy singing. Does he stack up against Como? Where does he shine to Tony Bennett? Guys singing are a dime a dozen. Who does Josh-wah think he’s fooling? This is exciting stuff, huh? Like the old maid said when she kissed the cow, “It’s all a matter of taste.” Ain’t he got no stuff by The Hilltoppers?
“Listen to this fine trumpet work,” Edwards said. “This man is the predecessor of James and Spivak and Elman. Just listen.”
James? He mean Harry James? But who’s Spivak? And who the hell is Elman? Man, this guy lives in another world. All right, so we hear a trumpet player. Bunny Berigan. Sounds like a strip queen in Union City. What else you got, Josh-wah? Come on, this one is almost over.
The needle raced through the record, clicked in the retaining grooves. Edwards stood with a stupid grin on his face, and finally he picked up the arm, lifted the record from the turntable and returned it to the case like a guy tucking his daughter into bed. He picked up another record and said, “This is the old Will Bradley combo. A fine record, and it’s called ‘Celery Stalks at Midnight.’ ”
How’s that again? Celery stalks? Come on, Josh-wah, we ain’t that dumb. Celery stalks? Jesus Christ! Ain’t you got nothing good in that goddamn box? How about Julius LaRosa? Now he’s got something on the ball. Or how about Joni James? Nothing from her?
“What else you got, teach?” Brothers shouted.
“This is a good one,” Edwards said, engrossed. “Listen to it.”
“You got any recent stuff?” Magruder asked.
“Listen, listen,” Edwards said, his head cocked toward the player.
That simple jerk, watch the look on his face. He really digs this crap. A band playing around with a tune. This is his surprise, his big jazzy surprise. Hell, he must have something good in that box. What’s he got in that box?