As cute as a bug's ear, Suzanne was never a Mouseketeer, as
far as I know, but could have played one on TV. Maybe not Annette – who could
pull that off – but certainly Doreen, Sharon or Sherry. There's something so
atavistic and perfectly nostalgic about her old school picture that I was drawn
to it immediately and have kept the rumpled snapshot close to hand for
twenty-five years. Perfectly coiffed and starched, beaming out from the bygone,
every unseen seam is straight, each skirt-pleat sharp, each sandal polished,
the snow-white Bobby socks turned down exactly half an inch. Only that iconic,
black and bulbous tiara is missing, together with the casting call that might
have brought her beyond my own devotion and into the hearts and imaginations of
a generation of adoring fans.
One long-gone Saturday afternoon my brother
and I are prone before the Zenith, soaking up the last of the Mouse Club in the
fading, filtered sunlight of my father's study. The ebullient Jimmie and the
vaguely threatening Roy are leading the gang into the celebrated finale and
we're singing along, belting out “See ya real soon” at the top of our lungs and
ignoring Dad's demands from across the room that we pipe down and shut that
damned thing off. He's on the phone with Pan Am, trying to book a flight above
the din, and none of us is aware of the wrench old Mickey's thrown in the works
in the madness of that moment as my father impatiently spells his name out for
the agent on the other end of the line. “M. A.C”, he bellows, “F. A. D” - so
far, so good - “M.O.U.S.E!” He roars
into the receiver as we reach the crescendo in a shrieking tangle of nuggies,
knees and elbows on the study floor.
“Makes no difference who you are,” the clerk
at the airport might have said to my father some days later. “This seat is
booked for a Mr. MacFadmouse and, unless you are Mr. MacFadmouse, Sir, this
ticket is not for you.” We can only imagine the scene - and by today's standards he'd have been
hauled off and flown to Guantanamo instead of Cincinnati - but no amount of apoplectic threat or patient
explanation would budge the minor functionary at the desk. Was he forced to buy
another ticket at the gate? Did he miss his flight? The details of the
denouement are lost, but it's a safe bet that we were barred from the tube-glow
for at least a week, a standard consequence for the times that had little
effect as we were already banned from the box on weeknights.
Recently I woke in the wee hours to the
familiar, green and blinking glow of some electronic device at the far corner
of the bedroom. As the fog of sleep abated I found myself counting the
regulated intervals between flashes and slowly came to the realization that
there were, in fact, no electronics in the room. Step out into the living room
or kitchen and the place is lit up in the neon rainbow of electroluminescence
we've all come to take for granted, but I had nothing charging in the bedroom,
no phone or clock or screen in stand-by mode. Could I have plugged something in
over there earlier in the day and completely forgotten? Whatever it was, it
certainly hadn't been there the night before. I got out of bed and slowly
crossed the room in the pitch dark, aided by the coruscating, chartreuse
flicker. As I neared the corner the light went out; I groped about for a
device, confused, and turned away, only to see the steady flash begin anew. I
turned again and, standing stock-still, naked in the night, the glow appeared
at the center of my chest now, just below the sternum, in perfect cadence with
the beating of my heart. Turning on the overhead at last, the harsh light
revealed a tiny firefly at rest in the hollow of my chest. I haven't seen a
firefly in years.
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