I walked all the way home from school instead of taking the bus as I normally did. That darn song by The Four Tops was still ringing in my ears, giving my walk a bouncy step and a swing of the hips. It was the hip swing that started the whole thing and made my summer the most memorable of my whole life…so far that is.

It was Tuesday, September 6, 1966, the first day of my senior year of high school and I didn’t relish having to explain to my friends why I had been missing in action for three months, from graduation day until the Friday before Labor Day.

I was dressed in a freshly ironed white button-down shirt, brown cotton velour trousers and brown wingtip oxfords. Dad had forbidden me to wear what I really wanted: a paisley print peasant blouse, powder blue hip-hugger mini-skirt and white vinyl go-go boots. I mean, really, I am 17 years old, after all. Okay, I’m a boy, not a girl. Well, it’s a long story.

My name is Itsuki Brennan. But everyone calls me Shuggie or Shugger. That’s because my big sister Connie had trouble pronouncing my name and my dad preferred Shuggie to a Japanese name he couldn’t explain to American friends and family. If Dad and I were out somewhere without Mom, he’d just blithely tell people I was Black Irish.

My Mom, Eriko, met Dad after the War in Okinawa where Corporal Gerald Brennan was stationed as part of the Allied Occupation. She was a war widow and at the age of 24, she eagerly accepted my father’s marriage proposal. Her parents weren’t ecstatic about their daughter marrying a gaijin, but they knew her life prospects were exponentially better halfway across the globe than in the backwater post-war uncertainty of Okinawa. Mom was already pregnant with my sister on the plane ride back to the States and, three years later, I joined the Brennan clan here in sleepy suburban Bergenfield, New Jersey.

“Why are you dressed like that, Itsuki-chan?” My 70-year-old grandmother was working on our vegetable garden, practically on all fours, a spade in one hand, dressed in what looked like, to Western eyes, pajamas, a floppy beach hat and wellies.

“You know it was my first day back at school, sobo.” She and I conversed in a cute hybrid of English and Japanese. It was a private language between us that we’d spoken ever since my parents brought her over from Okinawa after grandpa died 10 years ago. My big sister never bothered to learn. The only Japanese word she knows is her own given name, Kanako, but she prefers to be called Connie at Rutgers, where she’s a junior business major.

“I can’t understand why your chichi insists you dress like a boy when everyone knows you’re a girl. Things are so strange here in this country.” She wiped her brow and shook her spade at nothing in particular.

“We’ve talked about this before a million times, sobo. Dad will never see me as a girl. And Mom just goes along with everything he says.”

“Your sobo is getting old and senile, chisana nezumi. Tell me again where you’ve been all summer? I thought you had run away with your boyfriend and never coming back,” she sniffled and walked over to me.

“My boyfriend? He’s not…why would I do that, sobo?”

“You love him. I have eyes. I can see.”

“But I can’t marry him…”

“I know. Your chichi would never allow it. He doesn’t like the boy and he thinks you’re too young. But your mother was married when she was 17. Like you are now, Itsuki-chan. Poor Haruto-san. He was only 20 when…” She stopped, seemingly lost in memory.

“Well, it’s a moot point. Bobby is in boot camp right now. He might be fighting in Vietnam next year. And he’ll probably forget all about me . I don’t think I’ll ever love anybody as much as I loved him.” Tears started streaming down my cheeks as my grandmother wrapped her arms around me, pressing her head against my chest and cooing softly.

We stood there in the garden, like that, for what seemed hours but, after a few minutes, I had gathered myself enough to ask, “So you really want to know what happened?”

“Yes, child, tell me again for the first time.”

The second they handed his diploma to him, Bobby Gene Messina leaped off the stage of the Bergenfield High auditorium, tossed his mortarboard into the air, tore off his academic gown and made a mad dash for the exit. On the way, he passed his astonished parents, bored younger twin sisters, my parents, and, most importantly, me, his best friend forever and a year younger, Shuggie Brennan. While they all remained stuck in their seats from the sheer shock of it, I jumped up, almost stumbled over my dad’s feet, and ran after Bobby. Although Bobby was several inches taller than I, from the time we were in elementary school I could always beat him in a foot race.

I caught up to him just as he opened the driver’s side door of his new Cherry Red Chevrolet Corvair Corsa. The one his dad had bought him for graduation. He was so proud of his son and was sure he’d play first chair oboe for a famous symphony orchestra someday soon. After finishing his conservatory studies, of course. But Bobby had other plans.

Bobby was going straight into the music business, playing tenor sax for one of genius producer Billy Schechter’s famous acts, Hank & Honey Hutch with Hank’s Honeys. They were touring the country that summer. A package show headlined by Hank & Honey and supported by other rockin’ artists who were just emerging onto the charts. Schechter’s scouts had discovered Bobby playing local gigs in bars and clubs ever since he was an underage 16-year-old. He’d even lied to his parents about attending Junior ROTC weekend camps at Fort Dix so he could sit in with bands in Newark or even New York City. We would have to sleep in the car unless someone let us crash in their pad. Of course, I went along to support his story and my dad was very proud of me, although Mom was hoping the Vietnam War would be over by the time I was of draft age. The tricky thing was obtaining hand me down ROTC uniforms. Fortunately, Bobby had cousins who had gone off to college. My uniform was just a little too big. And the cap fell over my eyes at every opportunity.

“Where do you think you’re going, shrimp?”

I dove in past him and struck a triumphant pose as he shook his head and climbed in behind the wheel.

“I told you I can’t take you. Your dad will kill me if he ever catches up to us. I’m taking you back to your house.”

“Good. I need to pick up my suitcase. If you’re hitting the big time, your girl can’t be caught wearing the same old dowdy threads. I’ve got some new outfits! “

He snickered when I said “your girl” and just started the car. True to his word, we moved at high speed toward my house, which, of course, was next to his. Our dads both worked at the Marcal Paper factory in nearby Elmwood Park and moved onto our block just months apart from each other.

“I’ll just be a minute, Bobby.”

“I’m not waiting, Shuggie. I’ll be late for rehearsal. I told Schechter I’d be there by…shit, I’m already half an hour late. Just forget it, Shug. I can’t take you.”

I stood there and looked like I was about to burst into tears. My hands went to my face because I knew the blood was rushing to my cheeks. I burbled something unintelligible.

“Okay. Okay. Jesus, Shuggie, turn off the waterworks. Get your suitcase. We’ll think of something tonight. I’ll drive you back. But get a move on. Can’t lose my job before it even starts!”

I ran into the house, climbed the stairs two steps at a time, went into my room and hauled out my suitcase and makeup case (kept hidden from my dad but Mom knew about it). Rushing out, I hugged my grandmother as she shuffled into the living room, carrying a cup of tea. I placed my index finger against my lips.

“Ima wa hanase nai, sobo.”

The door slammed unintentionally as I flew out to Bobby’s car. We drove off in the opposite direction just as my parents’ car turned the corner onto our block, followed right behind by Bobby’s family car. I giggled and immediately hunkered down in the back seat, out of sight.

“Not funny, Shuggie. Hey, what are you doing back there?”

“Changing. You’ll see. Don’t look in the rearview mirror. Be nice. You’ll see when I’m ready. Ooof. Can you not drive like a maniac? I don’t want to poke out an eye here.”

“If the traffic’s not bad, I can make Times Square in 40 minutes. I’ll be an hour late but Schechter’s gotta give me some slack. He knows I’m good. Hey, are you really wearing ear rings?”

“Don’t look I told you! Just keep your eyes on the road, buster.”

“I wish I’d never told you I thought you were too pretty to be a boy. Jesus, look at you now.”

“I’ve always felt more like a girl than a boy. You know that. My mom knows that. Even my grandma. It’s only my dad thinks I’m a pervert.”

“Speaking of which, Shug, I’m no homo. I mean, you’re my best buddy and all, but I’m not into guys. How many times do I have to tell you?”

I popped my head up from the back seat and fitted my wig on. Shaking it from side to side, I reached over and pulled down the visor mirror.

“Good thing I combed it out this morning. Whatcha think, Bobby?”

“I think you need help.”

“I think I look nice. Tell me I’m not prettier than Rachel Hanley.”

“Well, she’s a girl. You’re not.”

“Did you do her in this car? Like in the very back seat I’m sitting on? Oh, lord, the thought.”

He ignored me as we crossed the George Washington Bridge and exited onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. All the way down the West Side of Manhattan I could see the forest of buildings that hid the heart of darkness named New York City. It was exciting to escape the black and white dullness of suburbia and throw ourselves into that dangerous, mysterious, but oh so glamorous city that lay waiting like a predatory beast to devour us.

Bobby parked the car a couple of blocks west of 1619 Broadway, otherwise known as The Brill Building, home to music publishers, talent agents, and songwriters. We left our bags in the locked car. I wasn’t too sanguine about the surroundings. They didn’t call this Hell’s Kitchen for nothing. Bobby carried his saxophone case with him. I tried to hold his free hand as we walked but he kept switching his case from side to side, making it a frustrating shell game. He avoided looking at me. But, really, no one even gave us a side glance. I think I was totally convincing as a teenage girl. Because, well, I am one. Really.

There was no one in the lobby of The Brill Building. Not even a doorman. Like the ones in the paramilitary uniforms with epaulettes you see on TV. Bobby moved over to peruse the Lobby Directory but turned away, a confused look on his face.

“Cripes, I don’t know the name of Schechter’s company. Can’t see the record label name on here either.”

“Nice planning, Brainiac. What do we do now?”

At that moment, a couple who looked like they were in their mid-twenties, casually dressed, the man in a corduroy blazer, a pipe dangling from his lips, and the woman in a sweater and plaid A-line skirt, walked into the lobby from outside. Bobby tried to make himself smaller and not attract their attention, but I boldly walked up to them. What the heck. Maybe they know this guy Schechter.

“Excuse me. Can you help us out here?”

“Hey, no panhandling, kid.” Turning to the woman, “Where in the hell is that security guy? Another two-martini lunch?”

“Not likely on his salary, Gerry. Don’t mind him, miss. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for the offices of Billy Schechter. He’s…”

“Yeah, we know who he is. He doesn’t have offices here.”

“They’re using younger and younger bagmen these days? Look, Carole, a couple of suburban teens. They even gave one a saxophone case to carry. Very convincing.”

“Cut the comedy, Gerry. This Billy Schechter you speak of, what is your business with him, may I ask?” Gosh, these two had some thick New York accents. Like out of The Honeymooners or something.

Just as Bobby found the spunk to open his mouth, a tall, slender man in his mid-twenties, wearing a dark three-piece suit and a tan-colored fedora, burst out of the elevator.

“Hey, Billy, a couple of bagmen here looking for you.”

Schechter almost fell back into the elevator, but the doors had already closed behind him. He took a look at us and laughed.

“You had me for a minute, Gerry. Carole, nice to see you. Forsooth, what do you kids want?” He started reaching into his pants pocket. You could hear loose change jingling.

“Mr. Schechter, I’m Bobby Messina. You know, tenor sax?” He hefted the case into view.

“You’re an hour late. Lucky for you I came over here on the likely chance you didn’t know your ass from the rehearsal studio. Come on, the studio’s at 1650 Broadway. I’ll introduce you to Hank and the boys.” He walked quickly toward the doors, waving Bobby to follow.
I was left alone in the lobby with the couple I knew as Carole and Gerry. We exchanged looks. I’m sure my face betrayed my sense of abandonment.

“I’m Carole King, by the way. This is my comedian husband, Gerry Goffin. You may have heard of us?”

I shook my head and tried to not convey my embarrassment. I couldn’t find a good place to put my hands. I would have whistled if I could. But I can’t. Finally, Carole took me by the arm.

“We’re going up to our office. Wanna sit and watch us write a song or two? Billy’ll bring your boyfriend back here after rehearsal’s finished. What’s your name, sweetie?”

The phone rang from inside the house. My grandmother jumped as if startled. I ran in and picked up on the third ring. It was Mom.

“Hello, honey. Your father and I are going to visit your Aunt Brenda tonight. You know she’s just gotten home from the hospital. Needs some help. Your uncle is just useless. We won’t be back until late. Anyway, I’m at the paper factory right now, waiting for your dad. Have sobo make dinner or order pizza. Let her decide. Bye. Love you.”

My grandmother had just come into the house. “Was that your okaasan? What did she want?”

“She said to order pizza.”

“Good, chisana nezumi, then you can continue your story while we wait. I love pizza. Make sure to order the one with pineapple.”