The above is the title of a song that was popular in the late 1930's, perhaps the early 1940's. It is not a song of particular excellence to me, but it is memorable in that it evokes those days, when, as a young man, my fancies were somewhat limited--one might say monosyllabic.
So, I am somewhat saddened to hear on the news that the writer of this popular ditty has died.
This news and the memories they invoke give us a kind of kinship, though I do not generally composers of any stripe, fro Mozart to Tiny Tim--who, by the way, is now strumming his ukulele in some astral realm.
Larry, my best friend at the time, and I, have dates. Eddie, a friend of Larry's, has a car. It is an impressive vehicle, though it is not his. His father buys this make of car, a Cadillac, every year, or as soon as the ash tray fills up. He does this with the shekels he accumulates from the sale of half-sweet and half-sour pickles, and very sour green tomatoes. Eddie, his only son, the apple of his eye is a distinguished scholar and a nerd by any standard.
Larry negotiates our access to the car, the conditions being that we find a date for Eddie and share in the expense for gas. The conditions are harsh particularly since Larry does not volunteer a source our of which the date will appear for Eddie. The girl Larry is squiring is b the beneficence of my girl friend, who has a sister with nothing to do on Saturday night.
Still the car is an absolute necessity. We have promised our dates and evening at the Glenn Island Casino, many miles outside of New York City, one of the Big Band Temples of pre-war days. I suggest we repair, preliminarily to West Farms Road, where the monstrous Seventh Avenue subway snaked its way out of its subterranean tunnel, onto the massive pillars of an elevated structure, and then wheels, one more stop to the Bronx Park Station. It is at this juncture that the "Starlight Dance Hall" resounded to the rhythms of the Big Bands, where boy looked for girl on Saturday night, where "Marty" either played by Rod Steiger or Ernest Borgnine found his date, where three of my four sisters snared life-long mates, that we repaired in search of a date for Eddie, one flight up on a staircase of ascending and descending hopefuls.
Eddie was a disaster. He could not find a single girl to dance with that he did not refer to as a "dog". Our dates began to carp with impatience. Drastic measures were called for.
I asked Eddie to dance with my friend. I had noticed a very attractive girl standing apart from the fray, seemingly aloof.
She looked a little tall for me, but I decided to try. She was indeed tall, wearing flat shoes, as if in testimony that height was a negative. Her hair was long and almost blonde. She was exceedingly pretty and bore a pencil applied mole on the side of her chin. She was an accomplished dancer and managed to squish down that inch or two that exceeded my height. She hummed the words to the number we were dancing to. I, in turn, related our dilemma, assuring her that Eddie was a nice guy, that we were planning a big evening at the Glen Island Casino, and, she assented. She would go with Eddie.
Eddie did not assign to her that canine quality he had applied to all others earlier. He was delighted. Larry and I agreed that Eddie had the prettiest date. He did not stop at a gas station to top his tank, a sure sign that her presence discouraged his usually miserly predisposition. He put on several bursts of speed to demonstrate his mastery of the Cadillac. Larry and I gritted our teeth at these sallies, as he was as lousy a driver as he was a dancer.
It was a spectacularly successful evening. The music, the dancing, the cocktails. Miriam, that was her name, though she preferred "Mimi" was gracious and comfortable even though Eddie was more insupportable than usual. She sang uninhibitedly to almost all the ballads.
She seemed to place a special emphasis on the words to that new song, as she intoned:
"All of me, why not take all of me?" looking casually at no one at all, but simultaneously caressing the inside of my thigh, under the table at which we all sat, in accompaniment.
POSTSCRIPTUM
I mourn, therefore, the passing of the song's author. More tragically, I mourn the fire, after the war, that destroyed my memorabilia. My photo album featured an 8 by 10 of Mimi, with the little black pencilled dot on the left side of her chin.
Four years of correspondence went up with the fire, words of dalliance continents away. One of my sisters, on viewing the photo, dubbed her, uncharitably, "The Mole." Sisters are ungenerous critics of other women.
"All of Me" was our song for memorable year before I went into the service. In January of 1943, we spent our last seven days together, a shiny, new second lieutenant and a lovely blonde girl several inches taller than he was. Oh, such a world of memories that can be triggered by a song.
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