A lot of liquor was served on the flights which led to loud conversations, raucous behavior and the constant chain-smoking filled the cabin with noxious fumes that further aggravated tempers. Willie Bell, one of the band’s school mates and press reporters took the opportunity to pick up some juicy gossip while partaking in a shot of whiskey.
“Hey, Alex,” said Willie. “So tell me, how’d you score with Frankie Robinson? First base? Second base? Third? Or did you steal home?”
Alex curled against the wall of the plane. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Willie?!”
“Well, from what I hear, you wouldn’t have had to steal anything,” Willie said. “I hear she gives it up pretty easily.” He laughed and then downed his shot of whiskey.
Alex leapt from his seat, walked down the aisle, and punched Willie in the face. “I told yeh to shut the fuck up!”
Willie managed to stand up and took a swing at Alex, catching him in the jaw. Alex shook it off and slugged Willie in the face a second time. Nick and Chase rose from their seats to restrain Alex as Josh and Peter held back Willie.
“Hey, hey, hey! Fellows, we don’t want a mid-air collision,” Josh joked.
“She’s a slut, Alex,” said Willie. “She would have done any of you—maybe
all
of you!”
Alex struggled to get free from Nick and Chase’s grip.
“
I’m going to beat the shit out of yeh, Willie, if yeh don’t shut the fuck up!”
“Oi!” said Willie, “It’s not just her; it’s
all
American girls. Yeh know they’re the easiest in the world.” He looked at Robbie, Nick, and Peter, who also had scored American girlfriends. “That’s why yeh chaps fancy coming to the States, right?”
“Now, Willie,” replied Nick.
Alex grunted angrily. “Okay, this is for everyone on this plane. If anyone mentions Frankie—says
anything
about her—I will bust yeh open, ’ear me?”
Willie nodded and said, “Okay, Alex. Not a word.”
Robbie, slouched in the back seat of the plane, lifted his sunglasses from his bloodshot eyes and asked, “Who’s Frankie Robinson?”
“Exactly,” responded Peter jokingly. “Who
is
Frankie Robinson?”
“No, seriously,” said Robbie. “Who is Frankie Robinson? Is he a ball player or something?”
Josh roared with laughter. “No, that’s Igor Shantzky.”
Alex threw his arms up in the air and returned to his seat. He lit a cigarette and puffed. He hated flying and couldn’t wait until he was on the ground, where he would finally be able to get some peace and quiet and time away from everyone. A few pillows hit his head and then landed on his lap. “Knock it off, arseholes!” he yelled, hearing Nick and Josh chuckle behind him.
“You need to loosen up, buddy!” exclaimed Nick.
“Did I miss something?” asked Robbie.
“Aye, when yeh had yer head up that redhead,” replied Josh.
“Oh,” Robbie sighed and covered his eyes once again with the sunglasses to get some sleep.
Chase sat down in the seat beside Alex. He too lit a cigarette and said, “Don’t let Willie get to you. It’s his job to get a rise out of you and make you open up for a story. Don’t give it to him.”
“He’s a fucking arsehole,” said Alex. “All reporters are fucking arseholes.”
“Yeah,” replied Chase, “but you have to maintain an image. Yeh keep lashin’ out at reporters, you’re going to get a bad rep.”
Alex turned to face Chase. “Shite, Chase. I can’t believe
you’re
the one lecturing me on image.”
“I’m the perfect one to vent to; you know it goes nowhere with me,” replied Chase. “You gotta let it out, buddy, or it’s gonna eat you alive.”
Alex opened the window shade of the plane and could see the jagged cliffs of the Rockies below. Memories of Buddy Holly passed through his mind. He closed the shade, trying to escape his thoughts of Frankie with other men. Deep down it was gnawing at him.
Frankie returned home to her family in Queens. It was always nice coming home—being able to sleep in her own bed and receiving home-cooked meals. Her plan for spending Friday night with Alex after the band’s performance was already set in motion. She was going to tell her parents that she was going to stay with folk singer Cassie O’Brien. Cassie, of course, was going to back the story completely because, in reality, it wasn’t a complete lie. She was going to see Cassie perform on Friday night, since she was opening for the band.
As the late summer sun radiated off the water and onto her sunglasses, Frankie sat lounging by her family’s pool, mindlessly skimming through the pages of her psychology textbook while the Dark Knights’ song,
Mistaken Identity
—a song with heavy drum beat, Alex’s raunchy guitar playing and Robbie’s bellowing voice
,
blared from the record player inside the house
:
Man in a dark cloak shuffles by
His brim pulled low for all to despise
No one see his face, but knows his case
Convictions rise with immediate haste
It’s just a case of mistaken identity.
Afraid a stranger's anonymity.
She daydreamed of her scheme to see Alex in the next few days and had even decided not to see Sam Esposito perform on Wednesday night. After only a couple of days with Alex, Frankie knew she didn’t want to be with any other guy. Frankie knew Sam was disappointed about Wednesday, but she knew he understood. He had sent her “get well soon” card and a bouquet of flowers for the flu she didn’t really have.
Frankie’s mother, Geraldine, entered the kitchen and set down a pair of bags filled with groceries on the kitchen counter. Before she could start emptying them, her first order of business was to turn down the racket that Frankie was blaring. Geraldine was not only not a fan of the Dark Knights, she hated loud music in general.
No one know anybody
It's their character we embody
Never caring who they truly are
Judging others from afar
It's just a case of mistaken identity
Afraid of a stranger's anonymity.
Geraldine walked over to the record player and removed the pin from the turntable and turned the damned thing off. Outside by the pool, Frankie heard the volume of the music suddenly silence. She leapt from her lounge chair and rushed inside.
“Hi, mom,” she said, leaning on a dining room table in her bikini.
“What are you up to, Francesca Marie?” asked Geraldine, putting away a jar of peanut butter.
“Nothing. Studying.”
“With that racket?” questioned Geraldine. “How can anyone study to
that
noise?”
Frankie twirled around the dining room table toward the kitchen, and then said, “I’m able to block it out.”
“If you can block it out, then why play it all?” replied Geraldine.
Frankie rolled her eyes and sighed. “You’re such a square.”
Geraldine eyed Frankie. “I’m your mother. It’s a mother’s
job
to be square.”
“Whatever,” Frankie grunted. “Mom, my friend Cassie is performing on Friday night.”
“I already said you could go to the concert,” Geraldine replied without letting Frankie finish. She was too busy putting away the groceries. “Can you help me instead of just standing there?”
Frankie walked over to the counter and pulled out a few cans of soup from one of the paper bags. “Yeah, but Cassie’s never been to New York. She asked if I could stay the night with her and then show her around the city on Saturday.”
Geraldine looked at her daughter carefully. “Why can’t you come home after the concert and meet her the next day?”
“Mom, I’m nineteen. Can I have just a little freedom to spend the night with a friend?”
“From what I hear, you had too much freedom in L.A.,” replied Geraldine.
“Gossip,” Frankie said. “You can’t believe everything you read in the gossip rags. What you
don’t
read is the real story.” She put the cans away in the cupboard and then came up with the clincher. “It’s not like I’m asking to spend the night with any of the guys in the
band
. I’m asking to spend the night with Cassie—a girl.”
Geraldine sighed, exhausted; she hated these battles of wit with Frankie. She was getting too old, and Frankie was getting too clever.
“All right,” she said.
Frankie jumped up and down excitedly and then kissed Geraldine on the cheek. “Thanks!”
Geraldine grew immediately suspicious from her daughter’s reaction—hanging out with a girlfriend shouldn’t have aroused such a response.
“Don’t thank me yet,” her mother said, “you don’t know how things will turn out.”
Frankie grinned. “Yeah, we’ll see,” she said as she spun around and went back outside to the pool. She collapsed into her lounge chair, placed her sunglasses over her eyes, and lifted her chin to the sunshine. The plan was in motion, and in just a few days she would see Alex again. It was so close; she could almost feel him near her now.
Later that evening, Frankie sat on the couch, sharing laughter and a bowl of popcorn with her father, Marcus. Together they watched
Bewitched
on television. Marcus was already beginning to miss these moments with his daughter; they were becoming rarer with each passing year. He loved spending time with her. Frankie’s laughter and energy kept his spirit young as the passion in his marriage to Geraldine had begun to fade years ago.
He knew Frankie, at age nineteen, was already drawing the attention of many men; and he was relieved that Frankie, for the most part, was very discerning about whom she dated. Throughout her teen years she had dated only one nice neighbor boy and was not the type of girl who felt the need to date the school jock or the class hotshot. Marcus was pleased that Frankie always seemed happy with the nice, simple guy who made her laugh.
Love and laughter had been the inspiration for Marcus’s life since he was a young boy, growing up in the town of Montclair, New Jersey. He loved to play and act, but what he loved most of all was to clown around. In 1915 Marcus’s parents took him to see his first Vaudeville show. It was love at first sight. After that, his youth became one big act for the laughter and amusement of others.
Marcus attended Rutgers College and pursued a degree in the performing arts. Growing up just outside New York City, Marcus easily found work performing voice-over work on the radio for commercials and popular programs. Being a handsome fellow, Marcus was soon cast in television commercials. But that wasn’t enough for Marcus; he needed a real audience. He needed to see the smiles on people’s faces and hear their laughter.
While making a good portion of his money from radio and television, Marcus kept up his comedic acting craft by doing Vaudeville in off-Broadway theaters throughout Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. It was off the beaten Broadway path that Marcus met aspiring actress Geraldine Fischer, a striking beauty with strawberry blonde hair and long legs.
Geraldine had a sense of humor all her own—dry, sarcastic, and sometimes even biting. She enticed many men with her beauty and wit. The competition for Geraldine’s heart was intense, but Marcus had something many of the other young men did not—a sweetness of soul and lighthearted laughter. No matter how dark Geraldine’s sense humor became, Marcus was always there to brighten her up.
When Marcus learned that Geraldine was pregnant, he offered to marry her and to provide her with a beautiful house in the suburbs. With the birth of their son, Edward, the Robinsons were well on their way to obtaining the American Dream—money, good job, friends, and a beautiful white house with a large yard, surrounded by a white picket fence In 1944, seven years later, the arrival of their daughter, Francesca Marie Robinson became the veritable cherry on top for Marcus. As soon as she was born, Frankie became the jewel of Marcus’s eye.
Despite all of Geraldine’s scolding, Marcus doted on his daughter. He wanted to give Frankie everything in the world—not just money and gifts, but all the love and joy he had in his heart. Seeing Frankie sad and hearing her cries broke Marcus’s heart. He vowed to give her the best life any father could give his daughter and protect her from any harm.
Everything was going extremely well for the Robinsons. Until one day in 1954 when Marcus’s agent, Stanley Travo, gave him the worst news any entertainer could have heard in those days: “You’ve been blacklisted.”
Stanley had asked Marcus to come to his office in person to receive the news. Stanley was a short man with a dark, greasy comb-over atop his bald head. He sat behind an enormous oak desk, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigar as Marcus digested the information.
Marcus felt his heart fall into his stomach. “How is this even possible? I have absolutely no political affiliations.”
Stanley blew smoke and shrugged. “I don’t think Senator McCarthy cares about your political affiliations; he cares about your associates.”
Marcus gasped. “My associates?”
“Yes. Your fellow actors and entertainers—Uta Hagen, Pete Seeger, Sam Jaffe—have all been painted red. Heck, they even targeted Bernstein. Can you believe it—Bernstein!? And you saw what they did to Chaplin; they chased him right out of the country.”