Wendy Meets the Wizard

Outside, on the small chipped, painted concrete slab porch Jimmy Sweeny sat, Bic pen in one hand and a small stack of typing paper he had borrowed from his customer service job at the publishing company, on his lap, writing a letter to his sister back home in Piney Fork, Ohio. It was an early spring weekend afternoon in East Astoria, New York. His red pageboy hair glowed in the afternoon western sun.

Sound Street, directly in front of him, was unusually quiet, unlike his apartment, directly behind him. Mrs. Cappellanti, his elderly landlady upstairs, had recently purchased, through the Montgomery Wards 1978 fall and winter catalog, a wooden rowing machine, and placed it on the hardwood floor directly over the bedroom Jimmy shared with his room mate, Chip.

Jimmy and Chip had known each other since elementary school, and had decided to move to New York together, upon their graduation from the local community college. Jimmy pursuing a career in publishing and Chip as a chorus boy in road companies of various closed Broadway productions.

Right now, Jimmy wished he was on the road, too, and away from the constant banging, thumping racket of the rowing machine above. “Chip,” Jimmy told his room mate during a recent long distance telephone call. “It’s like she’s trying to row all the way back to Italy! I’ve had to sleep on the couch all week!” Even now, seated on the porch, he could still feel the house vibrate and buckle, under stress from the rowing machine. “And how did they get a charge card from the Montgomery Wards anyway? She can’t write a word of English!” He also took a moment to remind Chip about the overdue rent, which was paid in cash to his Mrs. Cappellanti.

He returned to his letter writing. “…it is quite the life for a 22 year old bachelor here in Manhattan, sister, all the parties and going to the discos; I have so little time to work on my historical novel…I would like to come home to visit, but money is tight for me these days” The ringing of a bicycle bell broke into his thoughts, and he looked up to an unpleasant sight. Unsteadily approaching him on a small bike with banana handlebars was his annoying co worker, Wendy Goldfish!

Wendy brought the bike to a skidding halt, let it fall carelessly to the sidewalk, pushed a damp strand of hair from her wet face with a pudgy hand and wiped it on her stretched worn Barnaby Jones acrylic sweat shirt. “Hey there, Jimmy,” Wendy leaned against the metal gate and gasped for breath, “What are you doing sitting out here on a Saturday afternoon? There’s some really good movies on the TV!” She took another bite from her ever present foot long stick of Bubs Daddy watermelon bubble gum.

Jimmy looked at Wendy and shook his head. “What are you doing here? Where did you get that Beverly Hillbillies sweatshirt? It’s enough that I have to see you five days a week, but-" He glanced at the slowly spinning wheels at her feet. ”Aren’t you a little old to be riding that kind of kid’s bike. Com’on, aren’t you at least my age?”

She sneered unpleasantly. “It’s Barnaby Jones, Jimmy. Korvettes had ‘em on sale.” Wendy smoothed her wrinkled pleated shorts and cleared her throat. “I wanted ta tell ya sumthin in person, that I am not going to be into work until twelve noon on Monday, cause I am gonna go to Flushing park ta see-“

Jimmy moved away from the loudly rocking house. “Wendy, why couldn’t you just call me on the telephone to tell me you were going to be late? You know my number. It‘s not unlisted…yet.”

Wendy replied too quickly, her breath damp with artifical watermelon scent. “Cause, Jimmy, what if ya didn’t believe it was me?” She did not want to tell Jimmy that she was forbidden to use the telephone at her house, since her mother had opened the most recent New York Telephone bill and discovered that Wendy had been spending endless evening hours chatting with her on again-off again boyfriend, person to person, in nearby area code 516. “Do ya wanna know why I am gonna go ta the Flushing park, Jimmy?” she prodded.

Jimmy scraped the webbed folding chair on the scarred concrete. “Tell me quickly, I want to finish this letter to my sister before the post office rates go up to fifteen cents.” Jimmy mumbled listlessly. “In one week.”

“Huh?” Wendy leaned against the front gate, ignoring the staining soot on her sweatshirt. “They’re makin’ a movie out in Flushing Park… The Wizzes er sumthing like that, and Ma’s favorite is gonna be there, and I‘m gonna get his autograph and give it ta Ma fer Mothers day!” She hoped this would restore her missed telephone privileges. “Since I can’t afford ta buy her nothin” Wendy glanced at the garish metal chain around Jimmy’s bony pale neck. “That’s some nice necklace ya got there, Jimmy. At least ya don’t have red hair on yer chest fer it ta gets caught in…?”

Embarrassed, Jimmy girlishly held his shirt closed. “It’s The Wiz, and, you mother is a Michael Jackson fan? The one from Motown?” Jimmy thought for a quick moment. “If they’re filming The Wiz at the park, then…then…” He excitedly struggled to form words, perspiring profusely. “Diana Ross is going to be there too. She’s the star of the movie! She is my all time favorite! I have every record of hers, after she left The Supremes, of course, and I have cassette tapes of her on television and I’ve seen Lady Sings the Blues dozens of times…” He was stopped mid sentence by Wendy’s shaking head.

“Nooo, Jimmy, not Michael Jackson’s, Nipsey Russell’s, Ma just loves him on all the game show in the after noon. I’m gonna get him ta write “To Mrs. Diane Goldfish, Love from Nipsey Russell.” Sheesh…I hope I have a clean page in my autograph book…”

Jimmy went to the gate and looked Wendy directly in the eye, as well as he could, through his thick eye glasses. “Wendy, I’m going with you to that park. I can get Diana Ross’ autograph, and maybe…I can give her a Photostat of my historical novel to read!” He thought for a moment, stepping away from Wendy’s unpleasantly fruity breath. “I’ll call the receptionist early in the morning and tell her that we have to visit a bookstore; that’s all. She’ll cover for us.”

Wendy shook her stringy hair “She hates me, Jimmy, that receptionist. She’ll probably screw up all the telephone orders she takes, and then blame me.”

“Whatever Wendy, we’ll have to dress up all nice, so we get noticed by…Miss Ross.” Jimmy shivered with excitement.

“We’ll have ta take the subway, Jimmy. I think you’re a little too big ta ride on the handlebars of this here bike.” She turned to head back up the street, shoving the remains of her gum into a tight pocket,. And that historical of yours…when you give it to that Diane Ross lady, you may want to call it Lady READS the Blues, cause it’s so boring!” She expelled a fruity laugh and wobbly cycled out of sight. Upstairs, the rowing machine continued its endless journey to nowhere.

Two days later, Jimmy and Wendy huddled under a large maple tree, in a wet northeastern Queens’ Flushing Meadows Park.. Jimmy was dressed in his best polyester leisure suit, which matched his pageboy red hair, now severely gelled back. A damp manila folder was tucked under his arm. Instead of his ordinary taped plastic framed eyeglasses, he wore a pair of orange tinted sunglasses.

Beside him, uselessly covering her hair with a damp copy of The Post, slumped Wendy, in her favorite pink sweat suit. Tucked in her waistband was her mostly empty autograph book. On the other side of the park, filming of The Wiz was temporarily delayed, because of the sudden downpour.

“Well, the receptionist is sure gonna know we didn’t go to no bookstore, when we come in all wet, Jimmy.” Wendy moaned. “We should a stood over where they’re making the movie; they’re all dry under that big...thing there”. She pointed to the Unisphere, surrounded by countless, trailers, tents and cameras. “Maybe I can find a phone booth and get Hermey to pick me up…gimme me a nickel. What a stupid idea this was.” She looked around the wet park and sniffled loudly. “Great, now I’m getting a cold.”

Jimmy, too excited to sleep the night before, tried to explain his reasoning. “Wendy, this is where the limousines come to pick up the stars. To take them back to their hotels. It’s a perfect place to get autographs.”

“Then why are we the only ones standing here, Jimmy? This is just plain dumb. I’d rather be sitting at work, doin’ my TV crosswords-” Wendy was silenced by the waving of Jimmy’s hummingbird-like limp hand.

“Wendy, look, a limousine is coming around those trees…this way!” He pointed in the opposite direction. “And look at those people with the umbrellas, heading this way!”

A few moments later, the small group of umbrellas met the limousine, and Jimmy bolted from under the tree to join them. “Miss Ross, Miss Ross!” he nervously shrieked out to the tiny woman, wrapped in an oversized trench coat, under an oversized umbrella.

“Brucie,” Miss Ross rapped on the driver’s tinted window. “Get me out of this trashy park and back to the Saint Regis.” She glanced past Jimmy, and thoughtlessly emptied the contents of her coat pockets on the wet grass. “Where’re my cigarettes? And call ahead to make sure I‘m still registered under my undercover name, Diana Goldfish! None of those pesky fans will find where I’m staying!” As she opened the passenger door, her eyes met Jimmy’s. “What do you want, an autograph?” she snapped.

“No,” Jimmy stammered in the rain. “I’m a writer and I, I, uh, wanted you to read my historical novel, about the town I grew up in.” He thrust the manila folder through the open window to Diana as she gawkily settled in the car. “I thought maybe it could be a…a…”

“Historical?” Miss Ross replied, dropping her wet umbrella to the floor. “Don’t think so…I can’t even spell it! And I’m from Detroit, kid, I don’t read. Get lost.” She flung the manila folder onto the wet pavement. “Floor it, Brucie!” And the long black car sped into the overcast, wet morning.

A moment later, Wendy was kneeled beside him, picking up pages of the wet manuscript from the curb. “Whatta jerk, she musta been, Jimmy. You don’t want her reading your historicals, anyway-what’s this?” Wendy turned and picked through the trash from Miss Ross’ trench coat. Gum wrappers…look at this a piece a paper! It says Nipsey PL1-2345! Baby this ain’t no jive! Jimmy, this must be his handwriting! The Nipsey Russell’s! Better than an autograph! I can call him!” She stuffed the wet wrapper into her collar.

Jimmy bent and gathered the last of his manuscript. “Get up, Wendy, let’s go. “It’s a good thing I have the original, safe at home. This has to be the worst moment of my entire-“

Wendy, still on all fours, grabbed his ankle and whispered hoarsely. “Jimmy, look at this…a Master Charge card. It must belong ta that Ross lady.” Wendy struggled,stood awkwardly and read the name on the grimy plastic. “Diane Goldfish! That’s Ma’s name!”

The next morning, Jimmy slumped at his tiny metal desk in the customer service department of the midtown publishing company where he was employed. Spread in front of him were the smeared, crinkled pages of his manuscript. Outside his window, a typical Tuesday workday crowd was rushing up and down Fifth Avenue

“Ten dollars worth of photostat copies, all gone…” he muttered. “No twin bed for me this month…” Jimmy had been attempting to save enough money to purchase his own twin box spring set, so he would not have to share a bed with his roommate, Chip, when he was not on tour.

He had planned on putting a ten dollar down payment on a set at Gimbels’ the next weekend, but replacing the only photostat copy of his manuscript somehow foolishly took priority. And the photostat machine in the publishing companies’ accounts payable department was definitely off limits.

Clipping the faded pages together, he turned to glance at the clock on the wall, just as Wendy arrived, late as usual. “Wendy, no watermelon gum today? Where have you been all morning?” Jimmy eyed the stuffed Orbach’s shopping bags under her arms. “You went shopping?”

Wendy dropped her purchases to the floor and sighed deeply. “No more a that Bubs Daddy gum fer me, Jimmy. My jaws were starting ta hurt. I just hadda get a few things fer Ma. Presents, kinda. I missed mother’s day, ya know.”

Jimmy turned back to his desk. “I really don’t care. Be as late as you want. I have more important things to worry about.” Wendy pulled her hair back with a neat new clip and carelessly kicked the packages under her desk, causing a charge receipt to flutter onto the open worn carpet. Jimmy glanced at the long thing strip of paper. “Wendy, you spent a lot of...where did you get a charge card?”

To be continued