Maple and Fedora
First published in Books 'N Pieces Magazine, July 2024. Following is the author's version (excerpted from my novel Electric Fantasy Land) and includes preferred formatting and a couple of corrections.
For a kid who grew up speaking two languages, Jake Kutcher didn’t have much to say. He preferred to leave the talking to his affable twin Sammy, who always seemed to have handy a joke, a tale, a curse, or an alibi. Jake’s mom and pop called him their quiet kid, which was fine with him. He’d speak up when he had something to say, get to the point, and then let it rest. Maybe Jake’s efficiency with words was a good thing and maybe it wasn’t. It was helpful to say more with less after his bike accident when he spent twelve days sucking on a cold, wet wash cloth. Jake never agreed that it was all his fault, since the Wolotsky brothers could already ride bikes down the front stoop of their building. Maybe if they hadn’t dared him, he wouldn’t have charged down the brick steps and flipped over the handlebars, or landed on his head, or bit through half his tongue. His twin brother Sammy would say it was just stupid. Sammy could be efficient with words, too.
Ever since the accident, Jake’s embarrassment over his mumbling lisp kept him socially timid. But Jake was also a smart kid, knew his strong points, and had confidence in his abilities. He was lithe and muscular, strong and graceful with his arms as well as with his legs. At Stuyvesant High School he was a star athlete, able to clear hurdles, run a football, and field a baseball. To Jake, these were simply things he did, and he never made a big deal of it.
Jake liked to watch his pop fix small appliances in the garage of their home. The teenager became a helpful third hand, later a welcome associate, finally a trusted repairman on his own. He enjoyed disassembling whatever mechanical and electrical devices he could scrounge and rebuilding them into better condition. He wrangled and repaired dishwashers, percolators, radios, and sewing machines, and he kept things whirring, bubbling, clacking, and humming for any relative or friend who asked. His twin Sammy, all cocky, garrulous, and persuasive, pitched the idea that the two of them should open a hardware store. Jake was all in and joined his brother in their new venture. The quiet one knew what to do, the other knew how to sell it.
The Kutcher brothers were fortunate. One in four Americans were without a job during the peak of the depression, but those that held onto their homes did more of their own repairs. Jake and Sammy didn’t get rich, but they didn’t get poor. They split the profits and helped their pop buy the rented house where he lived and worked. They remodeled the place themselves, adding a couple of bedrooms and a second bathroom. Life was on the up.
Jake took to going out weekend nights to hear music playing around town. He started by going alone to college dances, where he first heard a kid name Goodman play jitterbug on clarinet. The music was great, but the shy young man didn’t fit in with the rowdy college crowd, the girls in their tight defensive cliques, the boys egged on by beer-fueled bravado. He then tried a few of the taxi-dance halls, but the bands were forgettable, the dances slow, and the atmosphere sodden with the smell of cheap booze. His younger sibling steered him right.
“Forget those joints,” Molly told him. For all his brains, Jake couldn’t figure out how his kid sister became an expert in social settings. “You wanna go to a big music hall. Someplace nice,” she said. “Like the Savoy or the Roseland.”
Jake took Molly’s advice, and with a couple of friends or Sammy or sometimes alone he’d head out to hear the likes of Fletcher Henderson, Chick Webb, or Harry James. He came prepared, fedora up top, dancing shoes below. Jake learned something astonishing. Some girls didn’t come to talk. They came to dance.
The agility Jake had shown in high school sports was still with him. He found that he could slip right into the beat, his feet, knees, and hips flowing with the swings, steps, and dips of each dance. Rather than flaunt his dexterity, Jake displayed a quiet, smooth confidence. He was still shy between dances, but he found that when a single girl smiled and widened her eyes, she was ready to take a spin. And when he hit the floor for a Lindy hop, balboa, jive, or shag, he could connect with most any girl without having to say a word. The moments between songs, and when the band took a break, were a challenge for Jake. That’s when girls could get chatty. So, where are you from? What do you do? Which bands do you like? Have you seen that movie? Jake tried to avoid conversation, ashamed by his ungainly speech. He’d keep to short answers, one or two words—uptown, I work, swing, nope—and avoid asking any questions. Jake learned something astonishing. Some girls didn’t come to dance. They came to talk.
As much as Jake enjoyed both the music and the movement of dance, the social expectations, whether real or imagined, weighed on him. He wasn’t certain, and no one was explicit, but Jake supposed his pals, his brother and sister, his parents, were all anticipating something further. A date, a girlfriend, a grandchild for god’s sake!
He quite liked seeing the girls at the music halls. What they wore, how they looked, their smell, their curves. Then came the puzzle of what they were thinking. Jake’s early inclination was that he could figure this out. Collect some data, watch for cause and effect, note any patterns and reactions, and come to a reasonable conclusion. Of course, this got Jake nowhere. He turned next to trusted advisors, persons with greater experience and knowledge than him.
“Hey Sammy, what’s the deal with how girls think?”
“Don’t be stupid,” was his twin’s reply. “Who cares how they think? I like the way they feel.”
And “Hey Molly, explain to me how girls think”
“Sure. We all got a little machine inside our heads. You feed it a couple of quarters, the gears spin around, and we spit out a thought.” Jake stared back at his sister, wondering why he bothered. “Same as you do, chucklehead.”
Jake quit the dances and withdrew into his known world, spending more hours at the hardware store, nights reading Hammett, Buck, Steinbeck, sometimes catching a Yankees home game with the guys. With each night home alone, his mom and pop wondered about him. When Sammy, who had been seeing the same girl for two years now, announced his engagement, they were thrilled for their gregarious son. And they pestered Jake that much more. The conversations around the dinner table ran like a serial radio show.
1. ANNOUNCER: It’s time for “The Kutchers.”
2. MUSIC: OPENING THEME...THEN BEHIND ANNOUNCER-
3. ANNOUNCER: It’s been a long day at work for Pop Kutcher, and just as long cleaning and cooking for Mom. Let’s join them and their three grown kids, Sammy, Jake, and Molly, around the dining table. Mmm, that pot roast smells good!
4. SOUND: DINNER TABLE BACKGROUND (DISHES, UTENSILS, ETC.)
5. LAZAR: What a meshuga day. That Mirsky putz was back again. Says it’s my fault his rear bumper fell off.
6. SAMMY: What’s so crazy? Didn’t you work on his bumper?
7. LAZAR: Yes, Sammy, but that was the front bumper.
8. ROSA: So, how’s the roast? Not too dry I hope.
9. MOLLY: It’s perfect, Mom. Just needs a little salt.
10. ROSA: Someone pass Molly the salt. I made it a little different, so it is what it is.
11. LAZAR: It’s very good. Here, pass this salt. How was work today, Molly?
12. MOLLY: Eh, work is work. I do my job, the men act like jerks, and then I come home.
13. SAMMY: Same as always.
14. LAZAR: And at the store? Anything new, Sammy?
15. SAMMY: It’s good, Pop. We got some new electric tools coming in. As soon as Jake figures out how to use ‘em, I’ll start selling ‘em.
16. ROSA: Have you set a date yet?
17. SAMMY: As soon as they come in, Mom. I can’t sell ‘em if they ain’t here.
18. ROSA: Forget it with the tools. I’m askin’ when you’re getting’ married. People wanna know.
19. SAMMY: What people?
20. ROSA: Whoever people.
21. LAZAR: Me people, that’s what people!
22. JAKE: Pass those potatoes, please.
23. MOLLY: I’ll trade you the potatoes for the peas, Jake.
24. SAMMY: No date yet. We’re good being engaged. It’s like being married, but with fewer parents.
25. LAZAR: Let me tell you, it’s not like being married. And what’s wrong with more parents? Are we so bad?
26. ROSA: As long as we’re talkin’ marriage, Jake...
27. MOLLY: Uh-oh, here it comes, Jake. Better run.
28. ROSA: ...how are you gonna meet someone if you don’t go out more?
29. MOLLY: He can’t talk with his mouth full.
30. SAMMY: Keep your mouth full, Jake.
31. ROSA: At least when you went dancing, you met girls. Maybe you should go to shul more often.
32. SAMMY: The kaddish don’t swing, Mom.
33. ROSA: At synagogue you’ll meet some nice, single girls. That’s all I’m sayin’.
34. JAKE: I’m fine, Mom.
35. LAZAR: Send the potatoes back. And the salt.
36. ROSA: Sammy could be getting married any day...
37. SAMMY: Not any day.
38. ROSA: ...and you’re alone in your room. Doing what, I don’t know.
39. MOLLY: (TAKEN ABACK) Oh! I don’t think we’re talking marriage anymore!
40. MUSIC: CLOSING THEME...THEN IN BG, UNTIL END
41. ANNOUNCER: Tune in again on Sunday for the next episode of “The Kutchers.”
The next morning, while all of the Kutchers were starting their days, Molly knocked on the door of Jake’s bedroom and walked in without waiting for his reply.
“I decided to do you a big favor,” she said.
Jake, used to his sister barging in, didn’t bother looking up. “Yeah, what’s that?”
“I’m gonna let you take me to Roseland tonight.”
“Why dontcha take yourself?”
“Cause I can’t dance the Big Apple by myself.”
“Lotsa guys ‘ll dance the Big Apple with ya.”
“Yeah, but none of ‘em do it right. C’mon, if you’re with me you won’t have to talk with any strange girls. It’ll be fun. Maybe Basie’s playing.”
“Hm.” He did like the Count Basie band. “I guess.”
“Great,” said Molly. “I’ll change at work and grab a bite midtown, then meet up with ya there. You can thank me later. ‘Bye.” She zipped out and closed the door behind her, leaving Jake to wonder thank her for what?
Looking beyond her friend she spotted, standing by a small table, an unfamiliar man with a stylish fedora and Clark Gable moustache. Her first thought was who the hell is this?
Muriel Broder got her job as a swatch clerk at the Kleinman Dress Company when the girl she replaced could no longer hide her pregnancy, thereby considered unsuited for the rigors of the job. She met Molly Kutcher there, friendly and cheerful, long dark hair tied back out of her face, a cigarette butt often smooshed into an ashtray close by.
The two women became close friends. Their camaraderie grew over quick lunches together, to occasional cheap suppers at the nearby Horn & Hardart Automat, to meeting in the city for a Sunday matinee. Sometimes they spoke about men and whether they were better off with or without them. Molly had been married before. Her husband, a socialist labor activist from Cleveland, had been jailed too often and too willingly for Molly to expect a stable future. She divorced him, moved in with her parents, and went on with life. For Muriel, the question remained open. When Molly suggested they go to the Roseland Ballroom one Saturday night, Muriel was game. “There’ll be single men there, I’m sure,” added Molly. “Who knows, we might get asked to dance.”
Seven thirty was neither early nor late for music at the Roseland Ballroom. The venue advertised continuous dancing, which it delivered by alternating two orchestras throughout the evening. When Jake arrived, Mitchell Ayres & His Orchestra had the stage. Jake snared a small table just off the side of the dance floor. He stood up to look around for his sister, or to be seen by her, in the soft blend of pink and yellow neon light. The large dance floor was uncrowded yet, and the Ayres music was smooth and controlled. Jake was about to sit down when he heard his name called out. He turned and spotted Molly squirming toward him through the packed tables and chairs. She was dressed okay for Roseland, he supposed, in her calf-length shiny dress. Good enough not to embarrass him. She paused for a moment and turned away from him. Jake noticed that beyond Molly, catching up to her, was a nice face framed by waves of blond hair. His first thought was who the hell is this?
This was, in fact, Muriel’s first time at the famed Roseland Ballroom. She found herself falling behind Molly’s quick pace, mesmerized by the view of spectral couples gliding through the subdued light of the expansive dance floor. She was aroused from her reverie upon hearing Molly call out a name. Looking beyond her friend she spotted, standing by a small table, an unfamiliar man with a stylish fedora and Clark Gable moustache. Her first thought was who the hell is this?
Molly reached Jake and flashed her mischievous smile. “Hi, big brother.”
Jake leaned close and asked, “Who’s this? You said no strange girls!”
“She’s not strange,” whispered Molly. “In fact, she’s a little too normal.”
Muriel caught up and stopped a step short of her friend. She looked back and forth from Molly to Jake, from Jake to Molly. “So, what’s going on?”
“Well, what a surprise! This is my brother Jake,” she said to Muriel. “I told you about him. And this is Muriel, my friend from work. I told you about her. Here, sit down,” she continued, guiding Muriel to one of the chairs. “You two get comfortable. I’m gonna find us another chair.” With that, she took off through the people, tables, and chairs, taken or not.
“Molly, there’s a—,” but Molly was gone. “Oh well, I guess these empty chairs nearby aren’t what she had in mind,” Muriel said.
“No, not at all on her mind,” agreed Jake, taking a seat.
The two of them sat there, watching for Molly’s return, looking around randomly, and sometimes meeting each other’s eyes and smiling nervously.
“Anyway, I’m Jake.” He held out his hand to shake hers.
“I’m Muriel. Pleased to meet you.” She reached out to consummate their introduction. “I guess we were both a little blindsided, huh?”
Jake shrugged. “A little. I should know better, right? I mean, not that’s there’s anything wrong. No, sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“After all, she’s my sister.”
“And she’s my friend.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
They sat, watched for Molly again, glanced here and there. Jake fiddled with his hat on the table.
“That’s a nice fedora. Is it fur felt or wool?” asked Muriel.
“Um…I’m not sure.” Jake turned it over, as if he might notice something new. “I like how it looks. It fits pretty good.”
“I think a fedora is more stylish than a trilby. Did you know the fedora got started in France? A lot of people think it’s Italian, but no, it’s French.” She gave a tiny smile when Jake did not reply, then looked around again for Molly to save her.
Jake didn’t know much about hat styles beyond what he’d put on his head. Still, it felt like his turn to say something. “So, I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Actually, it’s my first time.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She fidgeted with her fingers, tapping along to the jazz beats. “Molly says you’re a pretty good dancer.”
“I guess I’m all right.” Jake wrestled out something else to say. “I have a little secret that makes me look like a better dancer.”
“Oh, yeah? You wanna tell me your little secret?”
Jake scooted his chair up to the table and leaned closer to Muriel. “Actually, it’s in plain sight, but nobody sees it.” He gestured out to the dance floor. “Take a look out there. What do you see?”
“Well, I see a lot of people dancing. Most of them are dressed very nice. And a few look like they just fell off the el.”
“Everybody’s doing the fox trot. And most of them are doing it the same way. Take another look. Who are the best dancers?”
Muriel looked over the dancers on her side of the floor, then considered those further away. “Maybe that couple near the middle of the floor. See that guy in the tan corduroy jacket, the girl’s wearing a skating-skirt dress, it’s sky blue—ooh, that’s a nice color.”
“That’s Joey Wojcik. I don’t know the girl. But everybody knows Joey. He’s a helluva dancer. What’s different about him?”
“Well,” started Muriel. She watched how the man moved, having fun, eyes staying on his partner. His suit was of a common fashion, just loose enough to allow for comfortable movement. While his right hand waved about like a careless band leader, his left hand kept hold of the fingers of his girl’s right hand. Muriel studied Joey some more. She saw how his heels bobbed in double-time, following the main pulse of the music as well as the subtler offbeats. With each step his knees and thighs jerked up and down in rhythm. Somehow his torso was steadier, relaxed. He held his elbows away from his body, free to move with the music and with his partner. “He seems to, I don’t know, have this extra thing he does. Like an extra bounce between steps. You know what I mean? Like his legs are still going while everyone else is waiting for the next beat.”
“Yeah, that’s right. And his girl’s doing it, too. And they can do it all night. ‘Cause Joey knows the secret.”
“So, what’s this little secret that’s in plain sight?”
“Look down there at the floor,” Jake said. “That’s what ya call a sprung floor. Those boards are polished Canadian maple, eight feet long, very strong and real smooth. They’re supported by wooden battens. That gives ‘em more spring. When you step down hard, a sprung floor absorbs the shocks, and that makes it easier on your legs. And then they bounce back up, which puts a little more spring in your step.”
“Huh. I never knew that. To me a floor was just a floor.”
“Well, here’s the thing. The boards are all nailed down at the ends. So they’re not gonna bounce there. The most bounce is in the middle of the boards, between the battens. See there?” Jake pointed out the ends of a few floor boards close to them. “Each board is offset twenty-four inches from the one next to it. They’re laid out on a diagonal all across the dance floor.”
“Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. What does that have to do with how Joey dances?”
“Watch him. He keeps near the center of the boards, where the most bounce is. And he angles himself on the same diagonal. That way he can move back and forth and stay close to the centers of the boards, getting that extra bounce with each step.”
“I never would’ve thought,” said Muriel. “How come you know all this?”
“I got a hardware store. I know all about construction.”
“Oh, yeah. Molly told me that.” She was impressed and, for the first time, smiled at Jake. “I wonder how come Joey knows about it.”
This time it was Jake who smiled. “’Cause I told him,” he said.
At this, Muriel laughed out loud. “Well, I guess it’s not such a secret anymore.”
“That’s okay. I got another.”
“What, about the floor?”
“Sort of. Not exactly. You know how they finish the floor? Using wax or maybe polyurethane?”
“Sure. That’s no secret.”
“They do that not only to protect the floor, but so people can glide their shoes a little better. But that finish gets worn off, and then it’s harder to glide.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I do them one better,” said Jake. “I put a little wax on the soles of my shoes. Just in the middle. That way I can glide when I want to, but still control my step. Here, look.” Jake swung one foot out and clunked his heel down on the middle of the table for Muriel to see. But also, as she arrived with two drinks in her hands, for Molly to see.
“For God’s sake!” Molly exclaimed. “I leave you alone for a minute and civilization comes to an end.”
“You’re still here? I was having a pretty good time without you around.”
“How about you take that foot off the table and put it back in your mouth where it belongs. Here.” Molly placed two glasses down where Jake’s foot had been. “I got us a couple of seltzers. Just for me and Muriel. Sorry, I only got two hands.”
“Um, what about a chair?” asked Muriel.
Molly looked around, then stepped a few feet over to where a young couple sat canoodling, a third chair disregarded. “You mind?” she asked, without needing an answer, grabbing the spare and swinging it around to her table. “Mission accomplished.”
Molly sat down and picked up a seltzer. “You might wanna get yourself a drink before the bar gets too crowded,” she said to Jake.
“Nah,” he replied, rising from his seat. “I’m gonna show Muriel how the boards bounce, if she don’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” said Muriel, standing up and taking Jake’s extended hand.
“What? I don’t get it. Is that a euphemism?” asked Molly. But they were already gone.