This isn’t the best story in the world, but I’m feeling a little ookie, so it’s all I got.
I used to be a singing telegram girl. This was long ago and far away, when my voice was decent and my butt was tiny. Each day, I’d arise and put on my uniform– a pair of black tuxedo pants, a red jacket with braiding and brass buttons, black Capezio shoes and a red pillbox hat. I’d head to the office, and someone would hand me a stack of orders, each of which represented an appointment to sing a song. Each form indicated an occasion, a location (usually some public place, like a restaurant or an office) and a “victim” (the person to whom I’d sing).
Our busiest time of year was the week of Valentine’s Day. One song, every 30 minutes or so, all day, every day for 4 crazy days. People were so anxious to order these things that once we became completely booked on the big day, they’d settle for a day or two before or after.
The work routine went like this: Grab your orders, zoom to the delivery site, find a place to park, seize your kazoo and a card, run to the designated area and start calling out the victim’s name. When they appeared, mortified and blushing, make a big to-do over them, and begin singing– loudly:
“Be my, be my Valentine baybee
Be my, be my honey child.
Darlin’, my heart is yearning for you, dear
Oh Valentine, you just drive me wild.
Oh when that southern moon rises in the sky,
With you I want to spoon
While the moonbeams dance in our eyes.
Cupid’s arrow hit my heart, love
Now darling, you’re always on my mind
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Oh be my, be my Valentine!”
(I forgot that second-to-the-last line)
There’d be a really fancy kazoo break in there, and a lot of dancing around, then we’d end with a flourish, down on one knee, hand the recipient the card and announce the name of the telegram’s sender. Example: “Happy Valentine’s Day to my widdle shnooky ookums. Love, Harvey.”
There were no cell phones in those days, or if there were, they were the size of compact cars and we didn’t carry them. We’d stop at a pay phone after every few deliveries, to call the office and let them know which missions we’d accomplished. Often, we’d be given more orders to fill.
There were also frequent stops back to the telegram company to pick up flowers, candy, or balloons to include in our presentations. The place was filled with singing bellhops, gorillas, Fred Astaire and Dolly Parton lookalikes, all ready to descend on the hapless lovers of mid-south.
Okay, so I was really young, but this week long musical love fest really tested my energy levels. There was almost no time for sleep, for food, for anything. I looked and felt like hell. At some point, one of my co-workers said, “Here. Take this. It’ll give you energy.” He handed me a little blue pill, and like an idiot I swallowed it, no questions asked.
Within ten minutes, I was feeling better. Within twenty, I was feeling great! Zip! Zip! Zip! I was gettin’ er done, enthusiastically serenading men and women across the metro area. Zippity doo dah! I was peppy! I was fabulous!
Then, I was sick.
The little blue pill started scrunching the top of my head like a vise, my heart began racing, and I suddenly had to vomit. My routine became: stop the car on the side of the road, open the door, hurl, get to my destination, and sing. Rinse and repeat. Ahhhh, romance!
At some point, I called the office, and was told, “Channel 5 News is doing a story on us. A reporter’s going to meet you at the next stop to interview and film you.” And so they did. I promise, that story did nothing to promote the fine art of singing telegrams. I have no idea what I said, but there I was for all the metro area to see, a whacked out, nauseous, speed freaked, bleary-eyed young woman, making myself dizzy with every dance routine, my Tic Tac covered vomit breath rasping out love songs for multitudes to hear. It was a beautiful thing.
At some point, it became apparent to the folks at the office that the only thing holding me up was the starch in my uniform. The fellow who’d given me the happy pill took me home, and I crawled into bed, where I remained for two days.
So here’s to you, singing telegram messengers of the world, on this lovely Valentine’s Eve. Twenty-eight years later, I still feel your pain.
As soon as I started to read your blog, I was reminded of that movie Beaches. Remember how stupid Bette Midler looked in that singer rabbit costume? I do not think i would want that job AT ALL. Do people even do that job? I’ve never even seen a singing telegram, except for on my tv show Scrubs.
@ ghetto girl: Are you implying that I looked stupid? I was so cute. I did not look like Bette Midler, and I did not wear a rabbit costume. This was a serious, respectable job– except for when I was vomiting.
My god I bet you were adorable! Even when you were tweaking on speed. I’ve always wanted to ask you about that job and I kept forgetting, I’m so glad you blogged about it. Did you tap dance? I picture you tap dancing in the tuxedo pants and little jacket, that sultry gaze, your cornrows (or are those banana curls?) swinging …
@ Wendy: I didn’t tap dance, but some people did. I just sort of fake tap danced. Believe it or not, this was an awesome job. I was so unbelievably shy, and these people I worked with were just crazy and fun and wild. One was the woman I told you about who was on “Wishbone,” another was in a few movies, and was Rob Morrow’s stand-in on “Northern Exposure.” There were opera singers and rockers, and they’d all go out and do their things, but come back to do telegrams when the jobs ended or the money ran out. They were my school of life in a way. Fantastic experience!
I want to see this interview with you on YouTube RIGHT NOW. Please make that happen! The idiot that gave you the speed is lucky you didn’t puke on him. You should have! Blue pill, that would be like the 10 or 25 mg Dexedrine? Yikes! Lucky you didn’t have a coronary! This must have been the 70s, right?
@ David: If this tape exists on YouTube, I’m going to have to flee the country. How do you know so much about pharmaceuticals? I have no idea what it was– it was blue and wrapped in tinfoil. Maybe it was Midol.
And good call! It was 1979.
When you happily took the pill no questions asked I KNEW IT HAD TO BE THE ’70′s!!
Oh you are lucky to have live through that one!
Your stories are wonderfully hilarious and very eloquently written. You have a gift (in addition to your phenomenal cooking skills).
And the song has MOONBEAMS DANCING! My father-in-law actually does Valentine’s Day serenades with his barbershop quartet…
Brilliant story. Candygram for Mongo.
That might by my favorite Valentine’s Day story ever. I bet you made a killer singing telegram girl, although…did I miss the mention of “pants” in your outfit? Don’t tell me they made you sing in nothing but a tuxedo jacket and fishnets!
@ Heather: Oh yes, you got the time frame pegged. I was lucky to live through a lot of things back then! I straightened my act up in about 1984 or 5. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t immortal.
@ Adam: Thanks! Of course, I’ll always be a gourmet chef first… But nothing compares to your wonderful stories about elementary school love.
@ C: I KNOW! Isn’t that amazing. I tried not to really dance on anyone’s eyes, because I figured it would hurt. I hope no one offers your father-in-law speed while he’s doing his barbershop quartet serenading. It would put him out of sync with the other guys.
@ Thanks B&G!
@ K: No, no. Pants are in there. They were tux pants with the little silk stripe up the side. I loved those things! But you know, they might have made more money with your outfit design.
Can’t think of anything witty, as it is hard to think at all with diet Dr. Pepper dripping out my nose. Sing for us Moonbeam. Pleeeeeeeeeeese!
hahaha. I once dated a tarzanagram. Unfortunately he was one of those jokey ones so he was actually incredibly weedy, ha! He turned up at my door in his loin cloth once and my mum opened the door to him. Kizz your boyfriends here, she shouted… he has a strange choice of underwear on. Ohhhhh the shame. I think Id told her he was actually an accountant. hahahahaha. I love that you did this and it really made me chuckle. Your blog is just beautiful.
I read the entire PDR while I was in prison. They would only let me have the color printed pages of all the pretty little pills. I was doing 5-10 for selling counterfit masterpieces. Those were some sad times in my life …
NEVER trust a pill wrapped in tinfoil!
@ betme: (Passing a tissue) I promise, you don’t want me to sing. Not anymore. I’d probably sound like one of Marge Simpson’s sisters.
@ Narnie: At first, glance at the word “tarzanagram,” you made me think of Brendan Frasier in “George of the Jungle.” But then I started laughing at the thought of a “weedy” Tarzan greeting your mother at the door. Hilarious!
@ David: Wow. So you’re one of those self-educated ex-cons. Can you get me a Kandinsky?
No more foil. All my pills must now be bubble-wrapped.