Where have they all gone? I can’t quite figure it out. If you have any suggestions, please don’t hesitate to share ‘em. Meanwhile, enjoy this little tune, and read the first installment of a serial novel to published EXCLUSIVELY on this site, one paragraph at a time…
Verse / Chorus 1: All my life I’ve never stopped to worry ’bout a thing / Open up and shout it out and never try to sing / Wondering if I’ve done it wrong / Will this depression last for long? / Won’t you tell me, where have all the good times gone?
Verse 2: Once we had an easy ride and always felt the same / Time was on our side and we had everything to gain / This could be like yesterday / Is that me your happy day? /
V/C 3: Ma and pa look back on all the things they used to do / Never had no money and they always told the truth / Daddy didn’t need no little toys / Mommy didn’t need no little boys / Won’t you tell me, where have all the good times gone?
V/C 4: Yesterday was such an easy game for you to play / Ah, but then let’s face it, things are easier today / Yes you need some bringing down / Get your feet back on the ground / Where have all the good times gone?
I.
Early reports of the look of terror on Jim’s face when he was discovered at the end of the street, it turns out, were grossly overstated. Bemusement was a more fitting description, June thought. She thought he looked like he was savoring a funny line from a movie, one of those silly early sixties farces he loved to watch, like the one with Jimmy Stewart that always made him laugh, Mr. Hobbs Takes a Vacation, or some such nonsense. Hell, she remembered its name, for once.
Jim and June lived together at the end of the hill on Partridge Street, a sloping vista that ended in the far-busier Sloan Road, in a small house with a pointed roof, painted mustard brown for as long as they owned it. Many years had passed since they first shacked up there, in the parlance of the times, which June still used more often than not, but the street had not changed much, except now there seemed to be entire schools of kids pouring out of every yard as soon as the 3:20 bell rang at the local elementary. June’s child had attended school there for a couple of years, as had Jim’s.
For several months, an Asian border named Fu, but who went by Frank, had lived in the small, dark third floor of the house, which Jim had outfitted with a water closet three years ago. It’s a good investment, Jim had told June, It will pay for itself and then some when we go to sell. Every time he mentioned leaving Partridge Street, June crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out in a gesture that meant, God, when will that ever happen? But they both knew they were there for awhile.
