If Time Were Mud, My Feet Would Be Clean, December 2012

A pie chart of my childhood mind growing up in Pennsauken, New Jersey in the haunted 1950s would have featured a large portion devoted to possible nuclear war. A kid on the school bus who will remain nameless (all right, Alan Markowicz) was convinced that living ten miles from Philadelphia, we were all doomed. Alan believed the Russians were preparing a preemptive hydrogen bomb attack on the United States. He reasoned the Strategic Air Command would intercept most of the missiles, but what kept him and later me up at night was that one might sneak through.

Alan, older and clearly more knowledgeable, held us in suspense. “Where would you aim if you were Nikita Khruschev?” Taking a pen he wrote NYC on the palm of his left hand up near his index finger. On the fleshy part near where you would karate someone he wrote DC. With the air of someone who had given the matter considerable thought, he continued, “New York has the money and Washington the government. They drop the bomb right here,” pointing to the very center of his palm. Philadelphia, perhaps not worth leveling on its own, but with the radiation and fallout one H-bomb could paralyze Congress and Wall Street.

A huge slice of the pie went to rooting for the hapless Philadelphia Phillies, the worst team in baseball for much of my childhood, and of course thinking about Margie Fenimore (see HLP. October, 2004). Smokey, (my boxer), school, good excuses not to go to Camp Ockanickon, and my family took all but the last piece. If I am truthful, more than a sliver of my time and energy was devoted to finding obscure music.

I was no Alan Lomax haunting the Depression era coal towns of Appalachia or the cotton fields of rural Georgia for nearly extinct folk songs and blues music. I simply wanted to be ready if I was suddenly chosen from a television studio audience and given the opportunity to name a song the band could not play. Johnny Carson played “Stump the Band” on the old Tonight Show, but I believe my quest predated that. Particularly since I was not allowed to stay up for a show that began at 11:30 PM.

The dreamlike image spun daily in my head. The emcee (not Carson) would first root around and pick an adult who clearly was unprepared. Stammering torturously, he finally came up with My Old Kentucky Home, which the band quickly plays with a flourish. The band members call him “Colonel”, mocking him in fake southern accents and joking about taking a mint julep break as he squirms in his seat, a cautionary tale for the rest of us.

The host restores order and asks rhetorically if there is time for one more? I am about twelve years old, sitting on the aisle. Suddenly I am up. When asked why I am not in school, I reply that I am here to stump the band. Kids my age fantasize grand slam home runs, electrifying touchdowns, or buzzer beating baskets. I am calm and prepared, having considered and discarded thousands of songs in my mind.

The announcer remarks on how composed I am as the trumpeter wets his lips, the pianist plays chords almost silently, and the band leader, baton in hand, prepares to lead his troops. Taking the microphone I turn to squarely face the band, and with a studied casualness (and a voice deeper than my adult one), I offhandedly suggest the boys strike up a blues number they must surely all know. The trap is set; the blues is not the forte of this all-white studio band. But still, there is 150 years of experience accrued in strip clubs and Carnegie Hall staring at me.

I say, “Let’s hear If Time Were Mud, My Feet Would Be Clean.” I am even giving them a hint by snapping my fingers to the melody. The saxophonist takes a shot, let out of his cage for a few seconds, he plays an impressive riff. The leader signals they do not know it, but to win, I must prove it is a real song. I have commandeered the audience mic, and since I never stopped keeping the beat, it is easy to sing the first verse. The sax player helps me out as I do a Bobby Darin move and return control of the room to the momentarily forgotten emcee. There is a pregnant pause as the audience waits to see if we are in trouble. I have clearly left some line or fourth wall behind. “Ladies and gentlemen, Pennsauken’s own...Tommy Cook!”

The applause is hearty, half for what has transpired and the rest a relief that we have not been a bad audience. The announcer, who is making a mental note not to visit the great unwashed in the audience for a while, grips the mic tightly. What looked on television like a gentle hand guiding me to my seat left quite a bruise. “For stumping the band, let’s see what Tommy has won... Dinner and dancing for two at the fabulous Knickerbocker Room!”

Tom H. Cook thought you might like a break from warmhearted feel good holiday tales. He is still twitterable @Tomhowardcook