Coming of Age
By: Brock Archer
(© 2020 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

barcher@tickiestories.us

Chapter 13
Birthday and Holiday Surprises

In October, Johnny and I celebrated our seventeenth birthdays together as we had celebrated our sixteenth. We invited Troy and his mom to join us. I got almost as many presents as Johnny did that year, but he was most excited about the present he got from Mike, an autographed football “from the game where I scored the winning touchdown against the Cowboys.” It was a bit of intentional irony since Johnny had always been a big Cowboy fan before he met us.

We had our traditional Thanksgiving dinner at our house with the Andersens and the Mazures, and we even invited Carlos and Eddie to join us.

The week before school was to let out for Christmas break, Mrs. Mazure asked us if we were going to the school’s annual Christmas concert. We hadn’t planned on it—after all, it didn’t involve football—but when she told us that Troy would be singing in the choir, Mom said, “Well, of course, we’ll go. We can’t miss that.”

Troy had a deep, very sexy speaking voice—I thought he’d be great on radio—but it had never occurred to me that he might be a good singer. When we sat down in the auditorium that night, Mom, looking at the program, said, “Oh, look. Troy has a solo.” Sure enough, it was the last song listed on the program.

The concert was not bad for a small-town high school. The program included a mixture of hymns and secular Christmas carols. When it came time for the final number, Troy stepped down from the risers and took center stage. The stage lights were dimmed and a spotlight focused on him. He began to sing “Adeste Fideles,” in Latin, of course, a cappella, and my jaw nearly hit the floor. He had the most beautiful baritone voice I had ever heard. On the second verse, the concert band and the rest of the choir joined in, but his voice rang out over them all. After the second verse, they switched to the English version, “O, Come All Ye Faithful.” He held the last note for what seemed like forever, and when he finished, the audience gave him a spontaneous standing ovation. When it seemed like the applause would never stop, we began to hear shouts of “bravo” and “encore.” Obviously, those comments were directed specifically at Troy and not to the choir in general.

Troy started to walk back to his place among the choir, but the choir director stopped him, whispered something in his ear, and redirected him front and center. The director may have prepared an encore for the choir, but if she had, she shelved it and gave the floor to Troy. He took a couple of deep breaths and then launched into the most stirring a cappella rendition of “O Holy Night” that I had ever heard. I thought I was in the presence of an angel, and he was singing only to me.

Even before he finished, at least half of the audience was moved to tears. My own eyes were watery. I was too stunned to cry, but I noticed that even Johnny wiped an eye. After the climax, there was dead silence in the auditorium. The audience was too stunned to react. Then, all of a sudden the audience erupted in thunderous applause that had to have lasted for a good five minutes. There were even more shouts for an encore, but the director took the stage and thanked everyone for coming.

When the members of the choir came out front to greet the people from the audience, Troy was mobbed by his throng of new fans, and when word circulated that the choir director had hired a videographer to record the concert, everybody insisted on having a copy. I purchased two and sent one to Mike.

When the crowd dispersed, I tried to tell Troy how much he had impressed me, but I couldn’t rally the words to come out of my mouth. Johnny rescued me with these words: “Dude, you’ve been holding out on us.” That performance was the talk of the town for weeks and weeks.

We celebrated Christmas at the Andersen’s, who decided not to go away to visit relatives that year. Mike’s presents to Mom and Dad came in two envelopes. One was an all-expense-paid vacation cruising up Alaska’s Inside Passage, followed by a train excursion through the Canadian Rockies, ending up at Niagra Falls. The trip was booked for next summer. The other envelope contained a letter from the bank informing them that their mortgages on the farm were all paid up. When times had gotten bad a few years back, Dad had to take out a second mortgage, but now he was debt free.

Troy, Johnny, and I each got an autographed picture of Mike in his 49ers uniform and several gift certificates. Troy also got a hand-written note from Mike saying how much he had enjoyed the tape of the Christmas concert that I had sent him. Troy was thrilled.

After dinner, we had all settled in the family room when the doorbell rang. “Who could that possibly be?” asked Mr. Andersen. “I’ll get it,” said Johnny. And the next thing we heard was, “Oh, my god, what are you do—” But the unexpected guest swept past him before he could finish the sentence and burst into the family room. “Oh, my god!” I echoed Johnny’s reaction.

Everyone else in the room looked to Johnny and me for an explanation, but before we could offer up one, the man went straight to Mom, kissed the back of her hand, and said, “Mrs. Murphy, I would recognize you anywhere. Now I know where your sons got their beautiful looks.” And before she could thank him, he extended his hand to Dad and said, “Mr. Murphy, such an honor to meet the father of two such outstanding young men. They are so beautiful in their bodies, in their minds, and in their hearts,” and no sooner had he said it when he whirled around and greeted the Andersens in similar fashion, praising them as Johnny’s parents.

“And who is this extraordinary man?” he asked, grabbing Troy’s chin and sizing him up. “Last night I stayed in hotel in town and everyone was talking about ‘the young man with the golden voice.’ You must sing Iago in Otelo,” he insisted.

“I love Verdi,” said Troy.

“And you must be his sister,” he said to Troy’s mother, who actually blushed.

“Mom, Dad, everyone,” I finally managed to interject. “I would like you to meet Armando.”

“He’s the photographer who shot the photos of Mike in Hawaii a couple of years ago,” chimed in Johnny.

With this sudden clarification, everyone re-greeted the Italian photographer and complimented him on his work. “It is not work,” he said, “when you have such beautiful models for your art.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked Armando.

“Patrick!” Mom scolded. “Your manners.”

“I’m sorry,” I corrected. “I meant, what brings you to Texas?”

“Hot shot actress in Hollywood ask me to photograph her for portrait. Ugh! Movie stars!” he practically cursed. “But trip give me chance to come here to ask your parents,” he said to a roomful of puzzled faces. “I asked to photograph your sons in Hawaii,” he said to Johnny’s parents and mine, “but Mr. Murphy…er…Mr. Mike—such a nice man—he tell me, ‘No. They are too young.’ And then I see photographs taken by Claude, that hack, and I think, Armando must photograph these men and show the world what real art is.”

And after every sentence, he mumbled something in Italian.

Johnny and I were ready to crawl under the sofa, our parents didn’t know whether to gloat or laugh, Mrs. Mazure must have been thinking “who are these crazy people I’ve gotten myself mixed up with?” and Troy looked like he couldn’t wait to get back to school so he could use the incident to embarrass the hell out of us.

“Forgive me for intrusion in your holiday,” he said, “but I come to bring you present, the gift of my art.”

“What is he talking about?” Dad asked me, confused and perhaps a bit perturbed.

“I think he’s saying he wants to photograph us.”

“Si,” he confirmed. “No nudo. Only rispetto. Like businessman. Bellissimo.”

“So, you’re saying that you want to photograph Johnny and Rick in business suits?” asked Mrs. Mazure.

“Si, bella signora. But no, not only signore Johnny and signore Rick, but also I must photograph this bella signore,” he said, gesturing toward Troy. “I give you photographs free. You can use for your high school…how do you say…yearbook. You can use for apply for job…or university. Everyone will love you.”

Our parents all smiled at each other, not knowing quite what to do with this situation.

 “How do you plan to do this work…this art?” asked Mr. Andersen. “I mean, when? Where?”

“Qui,” Armando answered. “Here. Adesso. Now.”

We were all stunned. “Un momento,” he practically commanded. “Signore Johnny, venire. Signore Rick, come,” so Johnny and I followed him out the front door to a cargo van parked out front with Troy following behind, more out of curiosity than anything else. Armando opened the back doors and ordered, “Bring, bring.” Inside the van was a clothes rack carrying at least a dozen men’s suits. “Inside,” he said, “Inside. Now. Go.”

Johnny and I took the rack of suits out of the van and began to roll it to the front door. Seeing Troy standing there, Armando commanded, “Venire, venire. Come, come.” And he directed Troy to carry some of the large metal cases into the house.

In the foyer, he filtered through the suit bags, selecting a suit, shirt and tie for Johnny and pushing him upstairs to change. Then, he did the same for Troy, and then me. As we were heading up the stairs, we heard Armando ask Mr. Andersen, “Where shall I set up?”

He was a whirlwind. It all happened so fast that our parents were at a loss to pause it, let alone stop it.

When we came back downstairs in the suits Armando had selected for each of us, our parents literally gasped. “Oh, my word,” said Mrs. Mazure. “Johnny!” said Mrs. Andersen. And I thought Mom was going to cry.

“Bello!” proclaimed Armando. “Three subjects for Michelangelo, no?”

“Nice threads,” said Dad.

“They should be,” replied Mr. Andersen. “Those,” he said, recognizing the style and obvious quality, “are Dolce and Gabbana suits.” Seeing that the name meant nothing to Dad, he added, “Six to eight thousand apiece.” Mrs. Mazure gasped, while Mom and Mrs. Andersen looked at each other with astonishment.

Armando ushered the three of us into the living room where he had set up his equipment. “Johnny, stand. There.” Troy and I watched as Armando took dozens and dozens of shots with various poses in different locations within the room. When he was done, he led Johnny back to the clothes rack, picked out another suit, and sent him upstairs to change again. Next, it was Troy’s turn and then mine.

When the three of us came back downstairs in the formal tuxedos Armando had selected, I thought our moms were going to faint. Mrs. Andersen waved her hand in front of her face as if to fight off the vapors. “Don’t you boys ever go out in public dressed like that,” said Mr. Andersen. “We don’t have an army to fight off the girls.”

Armando repeated the sequence of sessions, first with Johnny, then Troy, and finally me.

After we changed back into our “street clothes,” we came back downstairs, put the suits back on the rack, and helped Armando load his equipment back into the rented van. We came back in to find our parents surrounding him in the foyer and thanking him profusely. He insisted that he should be thanking them, and when we started to take the suit rack back to his van, he rejected our assistance. “Too much work to carry back to Italy,” he said. “You keep.” We all tried to decline his generosity, but he was gone before we knew it.

When we sat back down in the family room, Mom began to cry. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “My baby is not a little boy anymore. He’s a man now.” The other mothers nodded in agreement and wiped tears from their eyes as well.

Perhaps to lighten the mood, Troy spoke up, “Man, Armando really hates that Claude guy, doesn’t he?”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“The whole time he was here,” replied Troy, “he kept cursing him.”

“How do you know?” asked Johnny. “Oh, wait. You’re kidding, right? You don’t actually speak…? Oh, my god! You’ve been holding out on us again.”

When everyone looked to Troy for an explanation, he said, “I’ve been studying Italian for six years now. If you’re going to sing opera, you really have to learn the language. I mean, you can memorize the words. That’s easy enough, but if you want to capture the full meaning of what the composer is trying to convey, you have to understand the cultural context and all the linguistic nuances.”

“Well, look at you, Professor Pavarotti,” teased Johnny.

About 10 days later, Mrs. Andersen called and asked us to come over. She had something for us, she said. When we got to their house, Troy and his mom were already there in the family room. Mrs. Andersen handed Mom and Mrs. Mazure each a package. They unwrapped them to find sets of photographs of their sons. “We’ve already opened ours,” said Mr. Andersen.

The Andersens looked on as Mom and Dad and Mrs. Mazure thumbed through the photos speechlessly. When Mom had gone through the set, she went through them again and finally sank back into the sofa. “When he boasted about being an artist,” said Mom, “he wasn’t kidding. These are the most gorgeous photographs I have ever seen in my life.”

Mrs. Mazure and Mrs. Andersen agreed. Mr. Andersen and Dad just smiled and nodded their agreement. “Careful, Faith,” said Dad. “You don’t want all this praise to go to the boys’ heads. They’re hard enough to handle as it is.” Of course, everyone knew that he was joking. His words notwithstanding, he was practically beaming with pride.

“There’s something else,” said Mr. Andersen, handing Troy’s mom and mine each an envelope. Mom read her note silently and then passed it to Dad, who read it and turned to me.

“He wants our permission to photograph you in his studio in Rome. He says that he understands that you are under age ‘by American standards’ and must have your parents’ permission. He promises that the photos will be ‘tasteful, not vulgar,’ and he has offered to pay our expenses as well to observe the photo session to ensure that everything is proper and acceptable.”

“Wow! Italy,” exclaimed Troy. “You lucky stiffs.”

“Troy,” said Mrs. Mazure, “This note says us too.” Troy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “There’s more,” she said. “He has shown your photographs to executives at Dolce and Gabbana, and they are interested in discussing a modeling contract, depending on the additional portfolio he would compile in Rome. And he insists that he can line up other sponsors as well.”

Our parents just looked at each other in astonishment.

“Can we, Mom?” asked Troy. “It’s Italy, Mom. Italy!”

She looked to the Andersens, who looked to my parents. Finally, Dad spoke. “It sounds like a real opportunity,” he conceded, “but I would like to see what Mike thinks. He knows this Armando, and he’s had lots of experience with this kind of thing. Let’s see what he says.”

Our parents all agreed that getting Mike’s input would be a good idea. Dad called when we got home and left a message. Mike called back the next day, and Dad filled him in. Mike asked to speak to me. “Do you really want to do this, champ?” I assured him that I did and so did Johnny and Troy. I told him that going to Italy was a life-long dream to Troy.

I gave the phone back to Dad, and Mike told him that he thought it would be all right as long as our parents were there to make sure that Armando did not “get carried away.” He asked if Armando had given us any time frame, and Dad said he had not. Mike said to give him a week or so to check on something. He said that he wanted to talk to some people and that it might take some time. He didn’t say who these people were or what he wanted to ask them, and Dad didn’t question him on that. For the next several days, we were on pins and needles waiting for Mike to call back.

Then, one day, Dad called a meeting of the “Italian Tuxedos Club” at our house. After The Andersens and Mazures had all arrived, Dad said we just needed to wait a few more minutes for another guest. Dad always did love a mystery, especially when he was the only one with the clues. About 10 minutes later, the door opened, and in walked Mike.

Everyone was so excited to see him, we practically tackled him, but I don’t think anybody was more excited than Troy. It was his first time to meet Mike. He thanked him for the autographed photo, and Mike replied that with the football season now over, he would be around—in and out actually—for a few months and that he expected to hear Troy sing for him. “Save me a couple of tickets for your spring concert,” he said. Troy was practically giddy.

Mike motioned for everyone to sit down and began his exposition. “As you all know, I told Dad that I thought it would be OK for you to accept Armando’s offer, but I wanted to check on some things first. I called my agent in New York, and he made some calls to our contacts at Andrew Christian. I wanted to find out if we could schedule my next photo shoot in Rome with Armando so we could all go together, but it turns out that they want to do the shoot in Greece with an Olympics theme, and they’ve already lined up a Greek photographer.

Seeing the look of looming dejection on our faces, Mike hastened to add, “Don’t kill me now, guys. I’ve got a plan I’d like to run by you.” He continued, “As soon as I find out the dates for that shoot, we can contact Armando to see if we can schedule your shoot (pointing to us guys) the week before or the week after. You (indicating our parents) can chaperone, but I’ll be around to answer any questions or to intervene if necessary. And,” he added, “if there are any contract negotiations, I can probably help with that too.”

Everyone agreed that this was a reasonable plan—hell, it was a fantastic plan—and we were all excited about the prospect of getting to visit both Greece and Italy.

“Now,” said Mike, “which one of you guys wants to go get my luggage out of the car and take it to the guest house?” The three of us practically tripped over each other rushing out to the car.

The day after Mike came home, Troy and Johnny virtually leaped out of their skins when Mike suggested a scrimmage. “You and Johnny have really matured,” said Mike after the scrimmage, “on the field and off. I’m really proud of you.” I did a kind of “aw shucks” gesture and asked what he thought of Troy.

“On the field or off?” he asked.

“Both,” I said.

“He’s got a helluva voice,” Mike said, “and from all I’ve heard, he’s a really nice kid. You three guys make a good team. As a quarterback,” he continued, “he’s good. He has the potential to be very good, maybe even excellent, but the question is, does he want it as much as he wants his music? You and Johnny are exceptional, you can handle more than one thing and do them all well. Not many people can do that.”

“Would you help him?” I asked Mike, “Coach him?” Mike understood better than anybody that Johnny’s success as a wide receiver and mine as a halfback depended on having a good quarterback.

Mike just smiled and said, “I’ll do what I can.”

To be continued...

Posted: 01/29/2021