Each of these first four chapters of my proposed novel Meet The Frantiks! has been posted previously. As I look into what will happen in Chapter 5 and beyond, and as I feel the characters pulling me toward a different path than I originally envisioned, I wanted to collect the book's beginning in one place. This is a long-term project, and I have several other books to complete before this one. But I like this a lot. Whether this is your first visit here or a reintroduction, I say now is a fine time for you to meet the Frantiks.
CHAPTER 1
I was dreaming. In the dream, I was still a little girl, five years old.
I knew it was a dream. I'm a grown woman, a widow, an occasional writer, and a frequent insomniac. When I did sleep, I didn't dream. But I was dreaming now.
I was dreaming that it was 1965. The year my parents divorced. The year my Aunt Ellis died. The dream wasn't about any of that.
The dream was about television.
Bobby's Angel was my favorite TV show when I was five. I know you've never heard of it. It ran just one season, its IMDB listing is perfunctory, and none of its cast members went on to subsequent fame or fortune. It doesn't turn up in reruns, and it's not on YouTube. It's...gone, man.
The show was about a teenaged boy named Bobby, who was head-over-heels for Angel, the pretty girl next door. Angel just happened to be a literal Angel, sent down from Heaven to learn more about these silly, fascinating mortals, and to do good with her heavenly powers. Hijinks ensued.
It was 1965. Anything was possible in 1965.
My favorite episode of Bobby's Angel was the show's only two-parter. "Meet The Frantiks!" and "Beat The Frantiks!" A lot of TV shows did mock British Invasion episodes, where the regular characters interacted with a twangin', moptopped combo inspired by...yeah, those guys. The Beatles. The Standells, a real-life American group, turned up on The Munsters, and actual English pop stars Chad and Jeremy played the fictional Redcoats on The Dick Van Dyke Show. But it was usually a fake group, created in a Hollywood writers' room for a one-off sitcom appearance. Sometimes the "group" spoke in an exaggerated Cockney tongue. The actors were almost always Yanks.
I presume the Frantiks were also made in America, and I presume they didn't exist outside of the two consecutive weeks they shook their puddin' cuts in glorious black and white on an obscure TV show no one else remembers. If there were ever any such thing as Frantiks 45s or (even less likely) LPs, they were too obscure for a listing on an authoritative site like Discogs or 45Cat. The Frantiks barely rated a quick mention in the book It's A Shindig And A Hullabaloo!, Marshall Crenshaw's definitive study of rock 'n' roll on TV. They probably weren't real. To the world at large, they didn't matter at all.
But I loved the Frantiks. I was five. I never missed Bobby's Angel, and my eyes were wide and my ears open to the sights and sounds of these faux British Invaders cavorting on screen. They were cute, and they were funny. The music was vibrant, closer in style to the authentic American folk rock of the Beau Brummels (who, of course, appeared in animated form as the Beau Brummelstones on The Flintstones) than your Bedbugs or Mosquitos or whatever cathode-ray caricature of rock 'n' roll that show biz could concoct at the time. It was genuinely...good, radio-ready. I wish it existed in some legit form.
No actors were credited in the roles of the Frantiks (Simon, Wally, Tristan, and--of course--Moishe); the Frantiks were played by the Frantiks. Duh. Five-year-old me wouldn't have noticed the credits, but my late husband Dennis somehow tracked down bootleg DVDs of the show's entire brief run. I've never seen any other evidence of such a product anywhere. Dennis could find the impossible-to-find. The DVDs were his final gift to me before he...you know. Almost a year ago. But anyway, I don't have to rely solely on a six-decade-old memory of the Frantiks on Bobby's Angel.
I would remember it anyway. "Meet The Frantiks!" and "Beat The Frantiks!" were the last-ever episodes of Bobby's Angel, as Angel and her hapless mortal suitor Bobby tried to become rock 'n' roll movers and shakers. Yes, hijinks ensued. Hijinks always ensued, didn't they?
Until they didn't anymore.
I watched these on first run at my Aunt Ellis' apartment. When "Beat The Frantiks!" ended, Aunt Ellis scooped me up and carried me to bed. The next morning, my parents picked me up, and Aunt Ellis kissed me goodbye.
I never saw her again. Except in my dreams.
I stopped dreaming when Dennis died.
Until that night, a Sunday night in the present day, when I dreamed it was still 1965. I was with my Aunt Ellis, watching a new--new!--episode of Bobby's Angel, with the Frantiks returning for their third appearance with Angel and Bobby. There were more great songs by the Frantiks, songs that felt so vivid and immediate in my dream but which I knew weren't real.
Aunt Ellis' doorbell rang. She answered, and welcomed the Frantiks--THE FRANTIKS!!!--into her apartment. Simon, Wally, Tristan, and (of course) Moishe smiled, joked, laughed, schticked, and grabbed instruments that were magically present in Aunt Ellis' little living room. The Frantiks played yet another new song, dedicated to me. Come on and dance, just take this chance, I know you're looooooooonely, because I'm loooooooonnely too, lonely just like you. The music kept playing, Moishe somehow dancing with Aunt Ellis while simultaneously being seen at his drum kit, the others taking turns dancing with me as they also remained on their impromptu bandstand. You know how dreams are. You know how TV fantasies work. It was a montage.
It felt genuine.
As we danced, I was five. Then I was twelve. Sixteen. Twenty-one, and Simon kissed me. Forty-four. Fifty-seven. Sixty-four. The Frantiks stayed the same. Aunt Ellis stayed the same.
And then I woke up.
3:30 in the morning. Damn it. I didn't have to look at my clock. I woke up with a start every morning at exactly 3:30. I looked at the clock anyway. 3:30. Damn it again. I'd gone to bed at two. It never mattered what time I went to bed. I was up at 3:30, no matter what.
It's the time that Dennis used to come home.
CHAPTER 2
Don't you worry about me, baby
Music began to play. Weird. The clock radio? I never set an alarm; why bother when you wake up with a start every morning at 3:30? And weirder still that this unexpected ditty happened to start playing with that too-familiar phrase. "Don't you worry about..."
Wait. What the actual...WHAT...?!
It was the Frantiks. I knew those voices, that sound. And it was the song they'd just been singing in my dream.
Don't you worry about me, baby
I mean no harm
I'm just taken by your charm
(That's no surpriiiiise!)
With just one glance
(Yeah Yeah!)
I see romance
(Yeah Yeah!)
I've fallen in love, baby
(Right before your eyes!)
Right before my eyes? I rubbed my eyes, and...yeah, there they were. Simon, Wally, Tristan, and (of course) Moishe. In my bedroom, duly armed with guitars, bass, and tambourine. Singing to me.
I blinked. The room was silent. The Frantiks were gone.
Don't you worry about me, baby. I'll do the worrying for both of us.
I have no history of hallucination. I've never dropped acid, and my active imagination doesn't prevent me from seeing things as they are.
Usually.
There was that one time when I was little, right after Aunt Ellis died. Daddy had driven me, Mom, my older brother Steve, and a few of my cousins into the city to visit with other mourning relatives. I was playing in the backyard, as far as I could get from the dismal fog of sorrow, anger, and cigarette smoke that held court inside the house. I heard a car engine start. I knew--knew--I was about to get left behind.
I looked to the sky, frightened, and whispered, Mommy, Daddy, please don't leave me! And, I swear, an angel appeared before me. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't tell if the angel was Aunt Ellis, or maybe it was Angel, from Bobby's Angel. The vision spurred me to run from the yard, and race to the driveway as our family car was backing out. I remember the shock on Daddy's face as he realized I wasn't already in the car, could see his lips forming my name. Valerie...! He stopped the car with a jolt, and jumped out and up to grab me and hug me. He was crying. Mommy joined him. We held each other forever.
A week later, Dad moved out.
I'd love to say I hadn't thought about that near-abandonment in decades. 'Tain't so. Ask my therapist. I never blamed my parents; Daddy was all but overcome with grief, Mom wasn't faring much better, and they felt terrible, awful, for not realizing I wasn't already in the car with them. But the sting of the memory lingered. It lingered still, sixty years later at 3:30 in the morning, as all evidence pointed to the inescapable conclusion that I was going nuts.
Don't you worry about me, baby. I hated that phrase, and I hated how it had nonetheless become such a regular part of my own speech. Dennis used to say it all the goddamned time. Val, my love, he'd insist, Don't you worry about me, baby. Don't worry if a bill gets paid late. Don't worry if I miss an appointment. Don't worry about that lipstick stain on my collar, that scent of perfume on my neck. Don't worry about when I get home at night, or morning. Don't worry about my health. Don't worry about my mood. Don't worry...
And I started to cry.
Why was I crying? It had been almost a year, it's...it...
...It had been exactly a year. The anniversary had snuck up on me. Don't worry about me, baby. Just didn't see it coming. I didn't see it coming a year ago either.
By now, the clock said 3:36. Go back to sleep? That would be a fantasy. A hallucination. I got up to make a nice hot cup of coffee. Don't you worry about me, baby. I don't worry.
Why should you?
CHAPTER 3
Suddenly, there was a knock at my door.
No there wasn't.
A voice, whispering in my ear. "No, no" I replied to whoever wasn't there with me. "It's gotta be my neighbor. Ben. He must have seen my lights or heard the noise made by the Frantiks..."
I stopped short. The Frantiks? Which was worse--talking to a voice in my head, or thinking that a make-believe sitcom band had been in my apartment in these wee, wee hours?
No, the voice repeated. Female voice. Familiar. Ben's not at your door. No one's at your door.
My phone rang.
No it didn't.
Silence. My phone was quiet.
It's okay.
My lights dimmed by themselves.
You need to get some rest.
I protested, out loud, to this voice that couldn't have been there. "I'm an insomniac! I can't just 'get some rest,' for God's sake! It's not that easy...."
It will be easy tonight. It will get easier in some future nights, too. But let's at least make it easy for you tonight.
And I felt...tired. Tired, but in a comfortable way.
It's okay. You've earned the right to relax.
I felt the calm embrace me, like a comfy blanket.
Go back to bed.
And then I recognized the voice.
Don't worry about that right now. Relax.
Angel. It was Angel.
We can talk about that another time, Valerie. Right now, it's important that you get some rest. Please, Valerie. Go back to bed. Go back to sleep.
And I did.
CHAPTER 4
And in such sleep, what dreams may come? My dream this weird night started with the theme song from Bobby's Angel. When it comes to catchy theme songs for TV sitcoms, let me tell you The Patty Duke Show had nothing on Bobby's Angel:
Bobby's Angel
Bobby's Angel
Bobby's Angel
Bobby's a boy
Angel's his joy
He's in love with his Angel next door
Angel's a girl
She's just out of this world!
And Bobby knows there's something more
Bobby's Angel is a real live Angel
Sent from Heaven with magic galore
Bobby's Angel is an extra-special Angel
And Bobby's crazy 'bout his Angel next door
Oh, Angel's got powers
And good luck is ours
Since Angel came here to stay
Angel's got magic
So nothing is tragic
Because Bobby's Angel
Bobby's Angel
Bobby's Angel
Will cast all our troubles away
I settled deeper into my bed. Relaxed. Sleeping. Dreaming. I may have heard a distant tune by the Frantiks.
Everything was going to be all right! I knew it. Knew it. I would wake up and discover the past year had never happened. Dennis would emerge from the shower. Alive! We'd be happy. We would....
No. I'm sorry.
Angel's voice again.
I wish it could be that way. It can't.
The dream became troubled. I bolted upright in my bed, seized by fear, anxiety, rage, sadness, all at once. Panic. Desperation. An all-caps italicized exclamation-pointed ALONE! My heart raced. My breath grew short, nearly hyperventilating....
No, dear.
I wanted to scream in Angel's face. But she wasn't there. Only her voice was there.
You're not alone. We'll talk soon. Please rest. You are going to need your strength for what's ahead. Rest. Rest. Please. Just rest.
I slept through until morning.
TO BE CONTINUED....
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