The Autograph

WRITERS’ CHAPTER STORY-OF-THE-MONTH – JUNE 2017

THE AUTOGRAPH

By: Joan M Barnes

Back in the Sixties, when our children still were still quite young, my husband and I had a summer cottage in north-western New Jersey on Lake Tamarack. London Lennie’s was not a big seafood restaurant then, but a small retail fish market. We were closed Saturday and Sunday. Every Friday night, we would close up the store as quickly as possible, load the children into the car, and head off over the George Washington Bridge to our little weekend home.

One Friday night as we were driving on the New Jersey Turnpike, the children noticed a car on our left that was going about the same speed we were. Len was an excellent driver. I was never in an accident with him all the years we were married, but he did like to drive fast and he was always aware of other drivers.

We sped up, the other car sped up and Len would speed up again. He thought it was fun, that’s all. He was never reckless. As we neared a Howard Johnson’s, we decided to pull in and have something to eat before we got to the cottage. The other car pulled in as well. We were a bit ahead of the people who were in that car.

Wendy, who will be 56 this year, was about 12 or 13 then, looked back at these men who were walking behind us and started jumping up and down and making weird sounds. “Oh, Oh, don’t look at them”, she squealed, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, Oh, let’s get inside. Oh, Oh”. She was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do. Something was making her really agitated. I had no idea what was going on and looked back in spite of all of Wendy’s protestations not to do so. All I saw were about five or six of the most disreputable looking young men I had ever seen. Their hair was thin and greasy, complexion sallow, shoulders hunched over, clothes baggy and unkempt. “Dissipated” was the first word that came to my mind, that look you might have if you have been out drinking all night. They did not seem to care about their appearance or the fact that I had turned around to look at them. They looked right back. When I think about it now, I realize they were quite used to people looking at them.

When we got into Howard Johnson’s, Len asked me what was wrong with Wendy. Wendy was still acting very strange, but finally blurted out that these men were the Rolling Stones. She recognized them. I certainly did not. I had heard of them, but never listened to their music. Don’t forget, this is back in the sixties. Len had not even heard of them. I told him they were sort of like the Beatles but rougher. Their music was not as melodic, but they came from England, just like the Beatles, in fact, I told him, I think they came from London, the city Len came from.

Well, now he is interested. “Does Wendy want their autograph?” he asks. He is not the least bit in awe of them or intimidated, never even having heard of them before. I told him yes, I thought Wendy would like their autograph. Wendy is too embarrassed to speak. She is so afraid her father is going to do or say something that will completely humiliate her.

So Len walks up to Mick Jagger, the one with the big mouth and the swagger, and says, in Cockney, something like “What‘cha Mate?” Mick recognizes Len’s London accent which is just like his own and they start to chat about where in London each came from. Len is older than any of these young men, so they are all polite to him and they carry on quite a friendly conversation. Turned out Mick Jagger and Len went to school in the same area of London.

Wendy is starting to come around by this time, but she can still hardly look at the Stones. But other girls are not so shy. Girls appear from all over the place, running and giggling, holding bits of paper in their hands, hoping to collect an autograph. They start to gather around the young men. Before the crowd gets too big, Mick Jagger casually takes a Howard Johnson’s place mat, turns it over to its blank side, and all of the Rolling Stones autograph it for Len. He takes it, smiles and shakes all their hands, and proudly walks back to our table and gives it to Wendy.

This whole event is in our minds all the way to the cottage. The next week I show the autograph around to customers in the store, but soon forget about it and end up pasting it in a photograph album.

Years later, maybe four years ago. I start to wonder if this album page with the Howard Johnson Rolling Stones autographs on it, might be worth something, especially since one of the original group, Brian Jones, had died. I mention it to the kids, who are now either in their fifties or close to it, and tell them I might go on Ebay and try to sell it.

Well, that went over like a lead balloon. I was not allowed to sell it. Wendy, the orderly one in the family, said that each one of us must write down his/her version of that day. She would take it upon herself to get the autograph framed and we would put our written version of the events in an envelope and stick it behind the picture.

It was impossible to remove the thin Howard Johnson place mat paper from the black album page. The paper was too thin, the glue too old, so the framer tastefully used part of the black page as a matte.This was done and I have it hanging in my dining room. It’s been a frequent topic of conversation as people try to make out why I have this framed round sheet of thin paper with some kind of writing on it hanging on the wall.

Wendy told me she went into the internet recently to see what this autograph might bring on the open market. Surprisingly enough, the appraiser thought it would go for $2,000.00, probably because it had Brian Jones name on it and he had been one of the original Stones. He died in 1969.

So that’s the story. Keep an eye on who is behind you the next time you go into a restaurant on the N.J.Turnpike.