Bob Deakin Short Stories

"You and Me Against the World" is from Helen Reddy's "Love Song for Jeffrey" album.

I was always a sucker for a good sappy song from the 1970s. When I was a little kid roaming the shores of St. Pete Beach, Florida, my only cares in the world were finding sea shells and hoping my older brothers and sisters would let me stop by their rooms and listen to music. They were into Chicago, Steely Dan, The Beatles, Beach Boys and others, and I was hip to everything except why The Doobie Brothers called themselves that when they were obviously not brothers.

I did have some of my own forbidden musical pleasures, however, such as The Carpenters and Gilbert O’Sullivan (yes, Gilbert O’Sullivan), but there was one song that I adored, which was just too sad to play on the stereo: “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy. I remember it occasionally playing in the house, typically followed by everyone going their separate ways or one of my brothers yanking it off the turntable and quickly throwing on something else.

The song was written by Paul Williams and Kenny Ascher and it sadly emotes a single mother’s plight ‘against the world’ and how they’ll ‘muddle through’ when ‘one of us is left to carry on’ and so forth. It’s an amazingly beautiful song. A small orchestra works the melody with a stunning vibrato electric guitar while Helen works her magic on the lead vocal. For added anguish, Helen’s young child is included in the mix, cooing “I love you mommy” at the end for maximum melancholy. The little bastard.

The song’s sentiment fits any situation at a given time of sadness and unfortunately it works really well. Someone in my family bought the record not long after it was released in 1974 and I played it a few times, but it was just too sad to play, and I wouldn’t play it in front of anyone for fear that I might start crying. The notes were sad enough but to hear the lyrics was just too much. It’s so sad that I almost wish it had never been written.

“You and Me Against the World” always hit me hard. I was very independent in a large family and occasionally had ‘me against the world’ feelings, in an immature, dramatic way. Match this with my realization that not every kid had it as good as me, and there we have a powerful emotional collision to ruin a good afternoon.

I must add that at the time, I still had the wonderful innocence to believe that songs were “real” in the sense that the singer was telling their own true story. This caused me to wrestle with the dichotomy: “If you’re Helen Reddy – rich, famous and beautiful – aren’t things going better than that for you these days?” I always wondered what the inspiration for the song really was, so I decided to go to the source, and I contacted Paul Williams.

“It’s one of those songs that seems to resonate with single parents,” he said. “I get a lot of nice ‘heart payments’ from people thanking me for the song. It’s the best part of being a songwriter. Thanks for honoring the tune.”

I didn’t tell him that I’m not really “honoring” the tune though in a way I guess I am.

Another source of torment for me is the apparent message that the song conveys, which is to retain sad memories: The memories alone will get us through; Think about the days of me and you. You and me against the world.

Somebody get me a drink and some pills.

I didn’t ask if he was trying to torment the listener with that message, but I have a growing list of concerns about the song that just might warrant another phone call to Mr. Williams.

Damn you Helen Reddy.

Copyright 2009

There she stood, long hair dangling in the warm breeze as she writhed like a snake, to the pleasure of the small group gathered to watch. All the people came to stop and stare, including me. But it wasn’t her belly I was staring at, it was the bells on her bottom.

“Did you hear the music?” Did you see her body sing that song?” the wise man next to me asked.

“I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom,” I replied, feeling foolish and narrow-minded.

I was struck at how the bells on her bottom were the perfect accompaniment to the tabla and other Middle-Eastern instruments. Her veil echoed the winds while her belly played the bass.

A man with a curiously intelligent beard then sidled up to me and asked, “Do you know the meaning of the music?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, pensively, feeling ignorant and shallow. “I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom.”

Her hands and arms were floating in the sound waves of the main theme, while her hair changed directions with every measure.

“Do you know why it is that she is performing this dance?” another man asked me, conspicuously awaiting my reply with raised brow.

“I was really taken with those bells on her bottom,” I replied, sheepishly and embarrassed.

I couldn’t get my mind off the way her hips played a frantic rhythm, uninterrupted and even. Everything on her moved in concert, but I couldn’t get my mind off those bells on her bottom.

“Did you notice those bells on her bottom?” a young child asked, innocently.

“What bells are you speaking of?” I replied, feeling deaf, blind and immature.

Copyright 2010

Nothing like a good cardboard box to make the world a better place.

Whenever I’m feeling down or losing sight of my soul, a couple minutes inside a nice big cardboard box always sets me right. It’s like when I was a kid and dad brought home something big and new, there might be a wonderful cardboard home for me to get away from it all.

Just something about the privacy, the comfort in knowing no one could know what I was doing. Or more importantly, what I was thinking.

I know my brothers and sisters and parents couldn’t read my mind, but it felt like they could if they could see me and hear me. Not if I was in a big comfy cardboard box though.

The box always took me to all these places I wanted to go. The acoustics were such that the music sounded cozy, the words from the vocalist’s mouth making more sense in my big cardboard home.

It protected me too. Even if I brought it to the dreaded basement and hopped inside; I was alright. And back in the 60′s and 70′s, cardboard boxes lasted for a long time – built from the wood of freshly fallen rainforests.

I long for the comfort of that big cardboard box again. Just a few moments, maybe just a song or two. A hop back in that big box might just do me a world of good, and some good for the world.

Just as long as no one can see me inside, or know what I’m thinking.

Copyright 2010