"While the other kids were rockin' round the clock, we were hoppin' & boppin' to the Crocodile Rock"

From The Eggman to The Birdman My sister soon enough forgot about The Beatles and moved on to Elton John. Now to me, Elton was lumped in with The Scary Music, mainly because I didn't like the look of him. All feathers and monstrous glasses, he reminded me vaguely of a giant bird, and birds frightened the crap out of me. I could pinpoint my bird phobia to one night when Mom and Dad were out at a party, or maybe their Thursday night bowling league. Sue had been left in charge of babysitting me, and had spent most of evening on the phone arguing with her boyfriend. She'd hang up on him and ring her friend Lori to commiserate, then hang-up and wait for David to call her back so they could have another round. Engrossed in battle with the beleaguered David, she completely forgot to check on little sister, who was supposed to be safely tucked into bed. Unbeknownst to Sue, however, I had crept past the kitchen where she sat yelling down the phone, and hid behind Dad’s green leather easy chair. It was the perfect place to hide and listen in on her phone conversations. It was not, however, the ideal location to hide from the television, and I ended up viewing Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" in its entirety. By the time one of the actors got his eyes pecked out, Sue's phone conversation was long forgotten and all I could do was hold both hands over my mouth so I wouldn't scream and be discovered out of bed. Thereafter, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with anything remotely birdlike. That said, the first time I ever heard “Crocodile Rock” on WSAI-AM, I was hooked. It was simply unfathomable that Elton John could be said singer. So deeply did I feel that he was not the person responsible for such a wonderfully fun and catchy song, that I argued with both Mom and Sue about it one afternoon in the car on the way to the bowling alley. "That horrible birdman Elton John does NOT sing Crocodile Rock!" "Does too" Sue fired back. "Does not! He's too ugly and weird." "You're uglier and weirder than he is, creep" Sue wasn't persuaded by my argument. "Hey now," Mom cautioned, "don't call your sister names." "But she's wrong Mom, and you know it" Sue looked across the front seat to Mom and continued, "Elton John does sing that song, whether spaz wants to believe it or not. Gosh!" "I am NOT a spaz! Elton John is! He's a big, ugly bird and he's got a squirrel head!" I piped from the back seat. "Shut up twerp! You don't know what you're talking about coz if you did you'd know that Elton John DOES sing it and he wrote it too!" Sue thought she was soooo smart, and stuck her chin up in the air like an authority on the subject. Tugging on the seat-belt latch, I squealed "You think you're so smart but you're not! You're as dumb as Elton John looks!" Once free, I perched on the edge of the backseat and leaned over the front to bellow into her ear, "He looks like a bird but you're a bird-brain!" and I fell backwards, howling with laughter. "Mom!" Sue attempted an alarmed look, "did you hear what that little nimrod called me!? Aren't you going to do anything to her?" Mom shot her a cautionary look across the seat, but Sue wasn't sharp enough to leave it alone. She turned in her seat to confront me. "You are so stupid, you ignoramus little creep!" she spat at me, and I howled even louder, because I had never heard the word "ignoramus" and it struck me as just the sort of word to file away for later use back at her. "Elton John is not some weird birdman just coz he wears feather boas," she continued, "Only an idiot would think that!" She then reached over the seat and gave me a sucker punch to the leg, "And he DOES TOO sing 'Crocodile Rock'!" "That's enough from both of you!" Mom said, one hand on the steering wheel and the other hauling Sue back into the front seat by the shirttail. "Both of you sit down and shut up! One more word and I'll turn the car around and we won't go bowling." Mom's word was always final. I crossed my arms and pulled a face at the back of Sue's head, then turned my attention to the passing trees and buildings of our small town. "He does not," I muttered under my breath. Mom bowled in a league on Thursday nights, but every now and then she would bring us on a Saturday afternoon and let us have a go. On that particular occasion the lanes were full and we were resigned to the bar until a lane became available. Still muttering under my breath as we entered the dimly lit, medieval-themed barroom, what should I spy but a jukebox in the corner. The Elton argument was momentarily forgotten as I pestered Mom for a dime, and such was my persuasion that she gave me three, and told Sue to go with me while she got Cokes for everyone. Sue was never the brightest crayon in the box, and as she read through the listings for me, she emphasized that “Crocodile Rock” by ELTON JOHN was among the choices. It was red rag to a bull, and I hopped up and down excitedly and told her to play it. She obligingly punched the corresponding numbers into the machine, "E-5, and the E stands for Elton, spaz" and with that she dragged me away from the glowing music box and back to our table. “I remember when rock was young...me and Suzie had so much fun...” I knew every word and sang along in an off-key pipsqueak voice as the record spun its musical web. Sue hid her face in her hands as Mom joined in, and for the next three quarters of an hour Mom and I played the song repeatedly, with intermittent bursts of "This is NOT Elton John" issuing forth huffily from my little know-it-all self. Other patrons came into the bar, had a drink and left, all to the tune of our warbled rendition of "Crocodile Rock." I made a mental note of how many other people were putting their heads in their hands, just like Sue. Seven. Over and over we sang, until one of the seven, a drunken, disheveled man on a barstool, warned us that if we played it again he'd use our heads as bowling balls. He then turned to me and said, "And for Christ sakes, it IS Elton John, so shut up already." Sue shot me a look of superiority and said "Go eat a big 'I-told-you-so sandwich,' you little twerp!" and flashed a smile at the drunken man, who simply shook his head in thinly veiled disgust and turned back to his beer. Pouting, I stuck my tongue out at his back and decided that if Elton John really did sing “Crocodile Rock,” he would HAVE to be okay in my book, birdman or not.

"If you knew how I felt you wouldn't act so adult now..."

There always seems to be the same cast of characters on the bus each morning. There are two people who obviously know one another (I think they are related somehow) but they never sit next to each other. Normally they sit across the aisle from each other, but argue and antagonize all the way into downtown.

It can be amusing, because iPod doesn't let me hear what they actually say, I can only see their reactions, and the reactions of those around them.

This morning iPod chose Todd Snider's "Good News Blues," which was the perfect background music to their visual antics. The moon-faced guy likes to talk, and he constantly tries to engage people in conversation--everyone but the grim old lady across the aisle from him, of course. And he waves to each and every bus that passes. He also waves at all the bus stops--even when there is no one standing there. This morning I watched him wave to an empty bus shelter in front of the Aquarium.

His waving seems to upset the grim old woman, who snaps and snarls at him like a vicious little Pomeranian with thick glasses.

Which just eggs him on.

This morning a new face got on the bus, much to the delight of Mr.Waver. The new face belongs to a young businessman wearing a very sharp navy suit & tie. He made the unfortunate mistake of sitting next to Mrs.Grim, which is to say, across the aisle from Mr.Waver. The new guy sat down and opened his newspaper, but Mr.Waver was dead set on engaging this new speciman in conversation. The guy was courteous, as far as I could tell, which made Mrs.Grim snap at him.

Which is when iPod decided some Love & Rockets was in order: "Well the drunk outside the Wendy's is becoming less than friendly...A dog is barking at the moon."

Brilliant!

The new guy tried to read his newspaper, but Mr.Waver kept requesting to look at whatever section the poor guy opened. I could sense the new guy was getting frustrated by the shinanigans, but he continued to be courteous and handed each section to Mr.Waver. Mr.Waver didn't read anything--he would give it a cursory glance and hand it back, only to repeat the process two minutes later when the guy started to read.

"...newspaper boys selling you the hard truth...Lucifer employs idle hands by night and day..."

This went on until we were in downtown, and I couldn't help but smile to myself when the new guy bolted from the bus the moment it stopped.

"He wants to get away...from the city of light..."Who knows where he actually intended to disembark.

He just had to get away.

"But I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this..."

Paris, 20 years ago...

It was that time of the month, and once again I was bedridden. It always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times too. Like when it happened the last day of band camp and I was so ill I could not participate in the final night’s shenanigans with the other members. I lay curled up on a cot in the dorm room while the flag corps advisor fussed and fretted over me with hot water bottles and cold wash cloths. My temperature was in triple digits and I couldn’t even keep water down. The bus ride home the following morning was grueling, and I was so violently ill that I was shunned as a leper by everyone, including my boyfriend.

You’d think I would have gotten used to it after so many years, but I hadn’t, and the pain relievers wouldn’t stay down long enough to work their magic.

And so it was that I lay fetuslike on a bed in a Parisian youth hostel, on a sweltering summer night, while everyone else in the world was out having a good time. My hostel roommates, mildly concerned for my comfort, had procured a sick bucket for the side of the bed, and had opened our second floor window to air out the room before setting off for a Saturday night of clubbing.

I lay sweating in the dark, cursing my fate and begging sleep to take pity and carry me away. It must have done, because some time later I was startled awake by a noise in the room. I foggily thought it was the roommates returning quietly as so not to wake me, but when I raised my head in the direction of the noise I saw a man, crouched low, rifling through one of the suitcases littering the room. My heart began to pound and I was sure he would hear it, so loud it sounded in my ears. I was terrified to move and my mind raced as to what to do. Should I scream? Should I try to get up and run? Should I continue to lay there and pretend I was asleep? I had no idea.

My mouth dried so rapidly that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I realized I was holding my breath, and I wasn’t even sure I could scream if I wanted. Who would hear me? Everyone in the hostel seemed to be gone for the evening; the corridors outside my room were silent. My world shrank to the blood thumping in my ears and the soft zip of a duffel bag being opened on the other side of the room. He was muttering softly to himself as he combed the contents of the bag, and I watched as he stood up and shoved something into his jeans pocket. Was he stealing money? Jewelry? I couldn’t tell. Stunned, I watched him move on to the next bag, which was only a few feet away from where I lay, paralyzed with fear.

He saw me. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I was absolutely terrified and helpless, and he must have sensed it. He uttered something in French and started toward me, unzipping his jeans as he advanced. It was then that I realized I had been dozing on top of the covers wearing only a thin tank top and panties. “Oh God,” my mind raced, “he’s going to rape me and I can’t even move.” I could feel bile rising in my throat.

In the short time it took to think that phrase, he was on me, tugging at my underwear and muttering rapidly in French. My paralysis suddenly broke and I struggled beneath him. I still could not scream, my mouth a desert, but I fought mightily with him. He grabbed my arms to hold them down, but somehow I managed to wrench one free and latch hold of a small lamp on the bedside table. I slammed it into his face as hard as I could.

He fell off of me then, bloodied and panting. I dove from the bed and swung the lamp again, breaking it on contact with the side of his head. He stumbled toward the open window, hiking up his jeans as he went. I began to sob, and realized my voice had returned. He was already scrambling out the window as the screams escaped me, and I continued to wail for help as I watched him disappear down the fire escape and into the dark Paris night.

Bloodied and shaking, I felt my legs carry me out into the corridor, where they gave out and I collapsed, sobbing in my torn underwear. Was there anyone at all inside the hostel? Did anyone even hear my pleas for help? Would he come back when he realized no one else was there? Trembling, I tried to stand up and ended up vomiting all over myself.

But someone HAD heard. Someone on the lower floor came rushing from the stairwell to my aid. He took one look and immediately ran to the communal bathroom for towels and water. I choked out the words “attacked,” “thief,” and “window,” then crumpled into a convulsing heap. I guess I went into shock, because I don’t remember how I came to be wrapped in a robe (whose robe was it?), cleaned up (whose blood was it? Mine? His? Who washed it away?), nor how the police were summoned.

The man who came to my aid was a French Canadian named Norm. He translated my story to the hostel manageress and the French police. He argued with the police when they shrugged off the story as “a lover’s quarrel” and he raged against the hostel manageress when she demanded money for the broken lamp. He sat up with me in the commons area half the night, because I was terrified to go back into my room.

I’m ashamed to say that I cannot remember whether or not I ever thanked him.