Bud Brewster Galactic Fleet Admiral (site admin)
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Joined: 14 Dec 2013 Posts: 17168 Location: North Carolina
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Posted: Thu Mar 19, 2015 11:36 am Post subject: The Hero Experience - Chapter 2 |
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Chapter 2
It was just like a police stakeout. We were two veteran cops, sitting patiently in our inconspicuous blue 1964 Dodge Polaris, diligently watching the liquor store. Charlie’s Liquor sat out on the edge of the two-lane highway as if it were waiting patiently for a small town to be built around it. Unfortunately, the town of Union Point had already been built a few miles down the road, where it waited patiently for Atlanta to expand and swallow it.
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Charlie’s Liquor was doing a booming business on this balmy Friday evening. People were going in and out of the store, casually buying booze as if it were done every day. Stan and I sat nervously in the Dodge and desperately tried to work up the nerve to ask someone to buy us a six-pack. But secretly I was having serious doubts about the venture, so I kept disqualifying each person Stan suggested, sighting improbable reasons.
“Hey, how about that guy?” Stan pointed at a grizzled old man in baggy pants who entered the store after driving up in a rusty old Ford truck.
“Naw, I wouldn’t trust him with our money. He’s probably never had more than five dollars in his life. You can bet he’s flat broke.”
“Then why is going into the store?”
I watched the old man and shook my head in sympathy. “He’s just going in there to beg for booze.”
Stan was looking at me with obvious contempt. “Jones, you’re thinking about saloons in the old Westerns.”
“You watch. He’ll come out empty-handed.”
Minutes later, the old man emerged with two bags, one under each arm, both bearing the distinctive shape of a six-pack. I stared straight ahead and listened to the sound of Stan’s smug chuckles coming from my right. I hated him for being smarter than me. I hated anybody who was smarter than me, which might have been everybody — but I wasn’t sure, since I wasn’t very smart.
As the old truck drove away, Stan said, “We’re being too picky. Let’s just try the next guy who shows up.”
“The next guy who shows up will probably be an off-duty cop.” I mulled the problem over and then I tried another suggestion. “It’ll be getting dark soon. Maybe we’ll look older in the dark.”
Stan smiled and shook his head slowly. “Trust me, Jones, it never gets that dark.” He took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “Crap, why can’t we just get a few lousy beers like everybody else does? Those guys at school talk like they polish off a case of the stuff every weekend!”
A wild and wacky thought came to me. It was a bold concept, and I was hesitant to say it right out loud in public. But Stan was a trusted friend, and he wouldn’t tell a soul about the dark realm my mind had ventured into. I took a deep breath and gave words to the unthinkable.
“Maybe they’re lying,” I blurted out.
Strangely enough, Stan just nodded slowly. He had obviously been thinking similar thoughts. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re right. And that makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
It did make me wonder — but I wasn’t sure what it made me wonder, so I had ask. “Wonder about what?”
“Well . . . they could be lying about other things, too.”
Stan had lost me. “Like what?”
“About other things they brag about.“ He glanced over at me and saw that I wasn’t following him, so he added, “About the other things they brag about doing.” He stared at me until he realized I was still clueless. His eyes bulged at my lack of intelligence, so he blurted it out. “About girls, dummy!”
My facial features went in different directions: eyebrows went up, jaw went down. “Oh, that! Yeah! Got it now. About the girls. Right.”
We both lapsed into silence for a moment while we pondered this stunning revelation. Wow. Stan could be right. Here we were, feeling like wimpy nerds compared to the jocks at school who boasted about heavy drinking and frequent sex — when they might all be sober virgins, just like us!
It suddenly occurred to me that this outrageous conspiracy might not be confined to the boastful claims of high school boys. I turned to Stan and spoke in an awed voice.
“Stan? Maybe everybody is lying. Maybe nobody does it . . . anywhere in the world.”
He just looked at me for a moment and blinked a few times. Now it was his turn to be clueless. “Nobody in the world does what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”
“Sex!”
Stan had stopped blinking. He was a lizard who stared at me while he tried to decide if I was kidding or if my father had really botched our father-and-son discussion about the birds and the bees. But Stan noticed that I was working hard to hide a smile, so he kept his face straight and said, “But then . . . where do all those babies come from?”
The object of this game was to say the dumbest thing while keeping the straightest face. Stan usually won, but I was going to give him run for his money.
“Heck, maybe nobody knows! Maybe babies just start growing in a woman’s stomach, and nobody really knows why. I mean, I can’t really imagine two people doing that thing they say causes babies.”
Actually that last statement was dead serious. Imagining something as bizarre as sex without every having seen it first hand was like trying a describe a new color that wasn't like any of the others.
“Neither can I,” Stan confessed. “I mean, French kissing is pretty weird, but full-blown sex is downright creepy."
I just nodded, trying to visualize this strange act that was supposedly so popular. I struggled with mental images for a few seconds, and then I put the question to Stan. “Be honest. Can you picture Gloria Answorth doing it?”
He closed his eyes and tried. Then he shook his head and said, “No, I can’t. She’s too skinny. She’d break something.”
“Yeah. Right. Okay, how ‘bout Sharon Lucas?”
Stan looked alarmed. “Lord, no! She’s too fat! I’d break something.”
We both sat there staring straight ahead, our eyes unfocused as we wrestled with impossible mental images of various girls doing that legendary tango. Or maybe it was just the mythical mambo, a figment of some bygone practical joker’s warped imagination.
“Whoa! Look here!” said Stan, sitting bolt upright and pointing at a car that had just pulled into a nearby parking space. “Is that Eddy Freeman?”
A guy in his early twenties was climbing out of his car in front of the store.
“Eddy who?”
“Eddy Freeman. He graduated three years ago . . . one year late.”
“You know him?’
“He lives down the street from me, and my mom knows his mom.”
I asked the question that really mattered at the moment. “Will he buy us some booze?”
“I think so. Come on.” Stan scrambled out of the car. I shuffled along behind him, hoping he’d do all the talking.
“Hi ya, Eddie!” said Stan in a loud and cheerful voice. Eddie turned quickly, as if he expected to be arrested. I guess old habits were hard to break. He quickly recognized us as younger versions of himself, and he listened patiently as Stan outlined our problem. When Stan finished, Eddy said, “Just a six-pack?”
“Yeah. Uh . . . we’re a little short of cash,” Stan said.
“Okay. What kind?”
“Beer,” I said, without thinking.
“Uh . . . he means Schlitz,” Stan said quickly, glancing at me and wishing he had something to stuff in my mouth.
“Right. Schlitz.” Eddy took the money from Stan and said, “Be right back.” He turned and sauntered into the Forbidden Zone. I saw the store clerk, who’s name was presumably Charlie, glance at us through the window. I started sweating and wondered if the police were being summoned by some silent alarm, like the banks use.
“I think the guy at the register knows what we’re doing.”
“Don’t panic, Jones,” said Stan. “Keep cool. Act older.”
“I thought I was acting older.”
“No. You’re acting guilty as charged.”
Suddenly a soft female voice caught our attention. “Isn’t anybody going to say hello to me?”
We spun around like two convicts caught in a searchlight, and we discovered Allison Weaver sitting in the car that Eddy had parked in front of the liquor store. The car windows were open, and she had heard every stupid thing we’d said. Allison had been a senior at Union Point last year, a varsity cheerleader, and the single greatest cause of high blood pressure among males for fifty miles in any direction.
Stan and I walked over to Allison’s side of the car and tried to look casual and cool while we both had nervous breakdowns at the mere sight of her. She was the sort of girl who seemed to communicate directly with a guy’s hormones. She was big and blond, and she always looked relaxed — which didn’t seem fair since all the guys around her stayed permanently tense.
“Hi, Allison,” said Stan as he strolled up to Allison’s open window for a better look at her own impressive hormones.
“Just what are you guys up to tonight?” Her voice was like long red fingernails dragging across silk. I had to will my knees not to buckle.
“Oh, we’re just cruisin’ around,” Stan said, trying to make his tense body look relaxed, which was impossible. His voice sounded three octaves higher than usual, which made him sound three years younger than he was. He glanced toward the store. “Eddy is getting us a six-pack of beer.”
“Yeah, I heard you talking about it,” said Allison with a lazy grin. “I’m surprised you guys don’t have dates tonight.”
I caught myself doing a nervous little dance as I stood there with my hands pushed down into my pockets. I noticed Stan doing the same dance.
“What are you and Eddy doing tonight?” I asked her. Allison raised her arms to run her hands through her blond hair, pushing it up to the top of her head while she arched her back and stretched like a cat. Every wrinkle in the front of her t-shirt disappeared.
“Oh . . . ” she drawled sensuously, “we’re just going to enjoy this lovely summer evening.”
Stan and I discovered a level of tension far beyond the nervous dance stage — a level that could best be described as park statue, which is what we must have looked like as we stood there totally motionless, gazing at Allison and filing the image into our long-term memory so we could enjoy it later when we were eighty years old.
Allison, who was wise in the ways of men, diagnosed our condition instantly and broke out laughing. “Now I know why you fellas need a six-pack,” she said.
Stan rose to the occasion and gave Allison a lopsided grin of admiration. His voice sounded noticeably rusty when he said, “And now I know why Eddie needs one.”
Allison gave a soft chuckle that electrified my soul and made my toes perform strenuous exercises inside my shoes. “You’ll ruin my reputation with that kind of talk,” she said with mock innocence.
“What kind of talk?” a voice said from behind us. We turned as Eddy walked up with two paper bags. He handed one of them to Stan.
“Don’t drink it all at once, guys,” he said with friendly sarcasm.
“See ya, around,” said Allison, giving us a melting smile as Eddy climbed into his car. He seemed to be in a hurry. I felt a strong urge to donate our six-pack to him, in case his own wasn’t enough. He backed out quickly and roared off down the road, eager no doubt to begin his tango lessons. Stan watched the retreating car with his head cocked to one side.
“Somehow,” he said casually, “I have no trouble at all picturing Allison as the lower half of a natural act.”
I looked over at Stan with slack-jawed admiration. “Wow. Well put.”
“Thank you.” He was still gazing down the road at Eddy’s taillights.
“And right now I’m having trouble picturing anything else,” I added.
“I know exactly what you mean.” Stan drew a deep breath and let it out noisily, all his pent-up passion and frustrated desires voicing themselves in one ragged exhalation. “Well, let’s make our getaway with this stuff before the vice squad arrives.”
Unconsciously, I glanced up and down the highway, looking for approaching police cars. Amazingly, the coast was clear.
Once we were on the road, I stopped worrying about who might drive by the liquor store — like my father or the chief of police. As we left Charlie’s Liquor behind us, Stan was staring down into the paper bag as if it contained a priceless relic from an Aztec treasure chamber. He had a very strange look on his face.
“Anything wrong?” I asked.
“It just occurred to me that Eddy the con artist kept our change. He knew we were mesmerized by Allison’s hormonal Morse code.”
“Yeah” I said softly. “Wow. What a pair.” I was thinking of Allison and Eddy.
“Yeah. She’s sure somethin’.” (Clearly Stan had another pair in mind.)
“No, I meant Eddy and Allison.”
“Oh.” Stan gave me a sheepish grin. Then he pulled a beer out of the bag with slow ceremony and took hold of the pop-top. He looked over at me and said quietly, “Well, this is it.”
I glanced from the road ahead to the reverent face of my friend. “The moment we’ve been waiting for.”
Stan pulled at the small metal tab and created a small explosion of mist. He stared at it with religious reverence as he whispered, “Gee, just like in the commercials.” He cautiously tipped the can up and took a healthy slug. When he lowered the can, his eyes went wide for a moment and he made a gasping sound.
“How does it taste?” I said.
Stan coughed a few times and said, “It burns like cheap chili!” He sounded like the 1930s actor, Wallace Berry, famous for a voice that sounded like two rocks rubbing together.
“You’re kiddin’!”
“No, I’m not.” He took another swallow, then he slowly handed an unopened can to me. I fumbled with the pop-top with one hand while I drove badly with the other. Finally, Stan reached over and opened it for me. The misty spray caught me under the chin. I lifted the can and started taking cautious sips. By the third sip, I had discovered two interesting things about beer.
Interesting Thing Number One: beer tasted awful. I had always heard that beer was an acquired taste. If so, I had a lot of acquiring to do.
Interesting Thing Number Two: the bitter taste of beer made my nose crinkle up and my eyes squint closed. It was a reflex as strong as sneezing, and I couldn’t stop it to save my life. Go figure.
Stan, however, was slugging down beer like a pirate who’d just come back from the high seas and all that yo-ho-hoing had made him real thirsty.
I concentrated on controlling my wrinkling nose and my squinting eyes, hoping my stomach wouldn’t rebel against the mistreatment. Evening was approaching, and as we rolled along I noticed that every third car we passed had a young couple in it on their way to a movie or a restaurant or a party. Each couple I saw depressed me a little bit more. If the trend continued, I’d be leaping from the moving car to end my sad life in about twenty minutes.
Dammit, where was my date? Where was the girl of my dreams? Where was the heroine I could rescue, thereby winning her heart, her hand, and all the parts connected? Flash Gordon had Dale Arden. Superman had Lois Lane. Batman had — well, Batman just had Robin, whose costume was funny, and not in the ha-ha way. But Batman did have his secret identity, Bruce Wayne, who was rich and could probably get a date just by asking Alfred to make a phone call for him. I didn’t have Robin or Alfred, but I did have Stan to tell my troubles to.
So, I did. “Stan, I need a woman.”
“You need a woman? I need two women, just to start off right and make up for lost time!”
“No, I don’t just mean any woman. I need The Woman.”
“Which woman?
“The Woman. You know, the Great Love of My Life.”
“Ooooh, that woman!” Stan looked sympathetic and understanding and slightly blurry for reasons I didn’t quite understand. “Well, since this is obviously our lucky night, maybe you’ll find her.”
We pulled up to a red light, smack in the middle of Union Point, the center of town, the heart of this booming metropolis. One more red light and we’d be leaving town again. Three red lights total. Thank God this wasn’t the rush hour on a weekday or we’d be stranded here for several minutes.
I noticed that the car in front of us contained yet another young couple. They were sitting so close together they were probably taking turns working the gas pedal. She had her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. If he jumped out of the car quickly enough she would still be hanging there like an overnight bag.
I took a good, long swallow and finished the beer. I was hoping it would dull the pain in my young heart. That’s what they always did in those old western movies: get the guy drunk before they dug the bullet out of his chest.
“How do you feel?” I asked Stan. He didn’t answer, so I assumed he felt the same way I did — slightly numb. I reached over and grabbed a second can from the bag as we pulled away from the stoplight, and I noticed that I was having a little trouble keeping the car on the road. I ignored the problem and pretty soon it went away.
Even when I'm sober, my driving is notorious. Stan says that with about ten years of diligent practice, my driving might actually become mediocre. With a car equipped with an automatic transmission my driving is merely terrible. But with a standard shift I become a genuine threat to Western civilization. I had a tendency to put the car into third gear when it should be in first, and it would lurch up the street like a wounded infantryman trying to make it to his foxhole.
Not a pretty sight, no sir.
I also tended to experiment. Stan and I once discovered that the chrome strips along the side of the family’s 1964 Dodge Polaris would actually vibrate in the wind and make funny noises at ninety-six miles per hour. With me driving at ninety-six miles per hour Stan made funny noises too, some of which were coherent but not suitable for mixed company.
By the time I was halfway through the second beer my driving had actually improved, which was strange since I had always heard that drunks were lousy drivers. And yet, as anybody could plainly see, my driving was terrific. In fact, I was driving so well that I considered going past the police station just to show them how great I was driving.
A loud voice suddenly shattered my thoughts.
“Just fine, thank you!” Stan exclaimed right out of thin air. I wondered if I had asked a question. I didn't remember asking one, but since the answer was so cheerful I figured there was nothing to worry about.
It occurred to me that since I was driving so well, this would be a good time to practice some new skills. I practiced driving with my knees, just in case both my arms were ever in a cast. I practiced driving on the left side of the road, just in case I ever visited jolly old England.
Just before I finished the second beer, I noticed that my nose no longer crinkled up. The beer still tasted like battery acid, but at least I looked like I was enjoying it.
“This stuff kinda grows on ya.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” said Stan.
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
I was having a little trouble talking, and I realized that something in the beer had made my tongue swell up. Now there was something I had never heard before, though it didn’t seem serious. In fact, nothing seemed serious. I was amazingly relaxed. I marveled at how smoothly the car rode.
“I’ll be glad when I’m twenty-one,” said Stan, again right out of nowhere.
“Twenty-one what?” I was a bit confused.
“Twenty-one years old.”
“Oh, right. How old are you now?”
“Thirty-two,” he said.
I was confused again, but I pressed on bravely. “What’s so special about twenty-one?”
“That’s when the angel comes at midnight on your twenty-first birthday.”
Now I was completely baffled. “The what?”
“The angel. The one that comes at midnight on your twenty-first birthday to explain all those things a man is supposed to know.” Stan looked at me like I’d just arrived in America and hadn’t learned much English yet. “Didn’t you know about that?”
“Crap, no! An angel, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, but . . . what if you fall asleep before midnight? Does the angel wake you up?”
“Nope. If you miss the angel then you’re just dumb for the rest of your life.”
“Dumb like now, huh?”
“Exactly. I know a couple of older guys who must have missed the angel.” Stan tipped up his third beer and drained it dry. When he lowered his can, he wiped his mouth with the back of this hand.
“Aaaah . . . I needed that.”
I drained my own third beer and marveled at the floating euphoria that enveloped my brain. Unfortunately my bladder was floating too. It was time to visit a restroom. I noticed some fast food places ahead. I also noticed a strange bluish glow all around me, pulsating rhythmically. It was eerie.
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a police car with lights flashing.
This didn’t seem like a very good thing. In fact, it seemed like a very bad thing. In fact, it might be the worse thing to happen to anybody, ever, amen. I pulled into a closed gas station, and the police car followed.
Big trouble. Suddenly I didn’t feel the least bit euphoric. I felt panic-stricken and confused. I felt groggy and stupid. A patrolman climbed out of his car and walked up next to us. He glanced down at the empty beer cans on the seat.
“Was I speeding, sir?” I said politely.
He gazed at me for a moment with a faint smile, and I got the distinct impression that he knew everything I'd done since the day I was born.
“You sure were, partner. You were barreling along at about fifteen miles per hour. But what really clued me in was the way you stopped at a green light.”
“I did what?” Maybe he was joking. Maybe I was dreaming.
“Come on out here for a minute, young man.” He looked over at Stan. “You too, son.”
I opened the door, got out, and carefully closed the door. I was desperately anxious to cooperate, so I turned around to face the car, spread my feet wide, and fell forward to rest my palms flat on the left front fender, ready to be searched the way they did in cop shows on TV. I glanced over at Stan as he came around the front end of the car. He took one look at me and fell across the hood, belly down, laughing hysterically.
I heard the policeman say, “If you promise you’re not carrying a gun, I’ll skip the frisk.”
“I promise,” I said with humble sincerity.
“Okay. Stand up.”
I did, turning to face him, filled with gratitude for his magnanimous nature. He was a wide, stocky man, about my height, with a weathered face that looked invulnerable. The skin that covered his face was laced with a network of tiny wrinkles, as if every smile and every frown he’d ever made had left a souvenir. That, of course, explained why the thin smile that pinched his steely eyes seemed so controlled.
“Boys, what would your folks do if they found out you were riding around in the family car and drinking?”
“They’d kill us,” said Stan without hesitation.
“Right,” I agreed. “Truly dead. And they’d also ground us for a couple of years.”
The patrolman’s thin smile promoted itself to a grin. “Where did you get the beer?”
“Charlie’s Liquor, down by — ”
“I know where it is. Did they check your IDs?”
“A friend bought it for us,” said Stan.
“Uh-huh.” He put his fists on his hips and looked around for a few seconds, apparently debating what to do with us. I wondered how he knew we weren’t twenty-one. I wondered how he knew we were driving the family car. I decided all policemen were psychics.
“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” he said finally. “See that Burger King down there? Leave your car right here and give me the keys. I’ll keep the keys and your driver’s licenses for one hour while you wait for me in the Burger King. If you’re sober enough to drive in an hour, I’ll let you go home.”
We both nodded so hard that our heads were in danger of falling off. “Thank you, sir!” I said with the same gratitude sinners show God when He lets them into heaven. I suddenly knew what condemned murderers felt like when their reprieve comes through from the governor.
We watched the patrolman drive away with our car keys and licenses, and then we turned to gaze at the restaurant down the street. We plodded across the parking lot toward the bright lights that represented sobriety, responsibility, and a second chance at fitting in with civilized society. As we entered the restaurant, I kept telling myself that people weren’t really staring and pointing at the two drunks who had just stumbled in.
“We might as well get something to eat,” said Stan as we approached the counter. He shot me a stern look. In a low voice through clenched teeth, he growled, “Walk straight, will ya?”
“I’ll try, but there’s something wrong with the floor in here.”
“Leave the talking to me, okay?”
I smiled and agreed. “Okay, but don’t say anything too hard to understand.”
Stan seemed annoyed, but I was darned if I knew why. I left the ordering to him. This was embarrassing. Everything seemed to be happening just a little too fast to follow. Conversations took a moment to figure out. I stood behind Stan and tried to act sober. Stan got some food for us, and I followed him to a table on feet that kept wandering off to each side. We sat down and he pushed a small Coke and some French fries over to me — which I suddenly had no urge to even touch. Golly, what a wonderful time I was having.
“Are you okay?” said Stan.
“Oh . . . sure . . . great. I won’t gobble these down too fast, because I want to make sure they last the whole hour.”
“If you feel sick, you should go outside.”
“Oh, no thanks. Outside is too far away. I’ll just sit here for a few days.”
“Hmmm . . .” Stan studying me carefully. “You don’t really seem all that drunk.”
That one surprised me. I stared at Stan for a moment and said, “Really?” He just nodded. “Neither do you!”
“Oh heck, I’m just fine,” he said. And then he pretended to sag forward, unconscious, face down on the table.
I sipped my Coke and gazed around the restaurant, which was crowded with people. I was nearly eight o’clock. Outside, the gloom of dusk deepened into darkness and was granted full knighthood. Stan was idly stirring his French fries around with his index finger. The corners of his mouth were turned down as he looked up at me, then he pushed the French fries to one side, out of sight. Through the window, I saw a police car cruise by. The officer was checking up on us. I waved.
A lovely girl in her early twenties sat down at the table nearest our booth. She was joined by a burly young man dressed in faded jeans and an oversized shirt, which he wore with the shirttail out and the sleeves rolled up. The guy was huge. His forearms were about the size of my thighs. Despite my recent victory in the fight at school, I felt intimidated by this beast the moment I laid eyes on him. His girlfriend saw me looking in her direction and she gave me a lovely smile. I smiled back for a long, glassy-eyed moment. It was the booze. I was still a groggy zombie.
“What are you lookin’ at, boy?”
The surly voice of the big man pulled my attention over to his face. Lord, what a face. He had a permanent sneer built into his mouth which kept it cocked over to one side. His hair was too long in front, and it hung down over his forehead like a dark brown wing, covering his right eyebrow.
“Nothing,” I said. I was trying to sound disarming, but it came out cocky.
“Then turn around, punk.”
“Sorry.” I instantly hated myself for feeling so totally cowed by the guy.
“You too, Red,” he said to Stan. I glanced at Stan and suddenly stiffened like a three-day-old corpse. Things were about to get ugly. Stan hated to be called Red. It was a quick way to say good-bye to the friendly Dr. Jekyll and hello to the evil Mr. Hyde. I saw Stan’s face turn to granite as a vein rose in his temple.
“You better watch your mouth, big boy,” said Stan. His voice was so level and quiet that it stunned the Hulk.
“Whadju say?” the man replied, looking even meaner than he had before — an impressive feat.
Stan leaned toward him and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Just leave us alone. We’re not bothering you.” His face was a mask of rigid muscles that would scare small children and old ladies. His body was like a coiled spring, and I was afraid that if Stan got the wrong reply from Godzilla he would launch himself like a missile and cause an incident that the eleven o’clock news could use as its lead story:
Large man impaled by human javelin! Film at 11:00!
The young girl put one elbow on the table and covered her embarrassed face with her hand. Her large boyfriend slowly rose from his chair and stepped over to our table. He put both hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward until it creaked from his weight. He glared down at us like an angry Greek god. The lopsided smile that suddenly grew across his face was somehow more intimidating than the angry look it had replaced. He studied me for a few seconds.
“You look a trifle drunk to me, buddy.”
At that moment I felt very sober. The threat of death will do that.
“Drunk? Me?” My voice was a squeaky little wheeze. I hated myself.
“Maybe you two should move to another table.” It didn’t sound like a suggestion. It sounded more like a presidential mandate. He was still smiling, and I knew that he would enjoy it if we got up and moved. I looked over at Stan, who leaned back in his seat and peered at me with visible disapproval. Suddenly I saw myself through his eyes. I made a heroic effort to summon up a little courage. I opened my mouth to say something defiant, even though it probably meant instant disfigurement and death. But before I spoke, a soft voice dropped into the conversation like a flower floating down in the middle of a battlefield.
“Edgar? Please don’t make a scene.” It was the lovely date of Edgar the Ogre, a picture of pathetic femininity.
“I’m not gonna make a scene,” the man said over his massive shoulder. He looked back down at me. I drew a deep breath and spoke quietly.
“Uh . . . We don’t want any trouble. I was not staring at your girl. And I think you’re embarrassing her with all this.”
The guy just stood there for a few seconds, hovering over his intended victims like the Colossus of Rhodes, still smiling. He gave a little snicker. He slowly straightened up and went back to his table. He sat down heavily, oblivious to the danger that his plastic chair might collapse.
I pulled my French fries over, took one look at them, and nearly lost all the beer in one explosive burst. Stan stared down at his food, still fuming with barely controlled anger. I sipped my Coke and stared out the window, trying not to look at the large man and his lovely date. The man’s insulting attitude had left me feeling vastly inadequate. I could not understand why someone would take such joy in minimizing another human being.
I caught myself wishing that some minor misfortune would befall the large and unlikable man — like choking to death on his hamburger.
I heard him and his date talking in low tones, getting louder as I listened. They were arguing. Finally, she said, “If you weren’t so jealous, I wouldn’t have to be!”
And he said, “You smile at every guy that — ”
And she interrupted. “If you think so little of me, why do you take me out?”
And he said, “That’s a real good question, darlin’!”
And that did it. Beauty leaped up from her seat and hurried out, leaving the beast sitting there with his big fist wrapped around a large cup of Coke. He closed his fist slowly until the top popped off and the Coke ran over the edge, past his fist, and onto the table. He turned to look at us for a moment. Stan spoke softly, his expression sad and sympathetic, “You can’t live with ‘em . . . and you can’t live without ‘em.”
For one horrible second, I thought the guy was going to dismember us both. But he must have realized that his true love would never forgive him if he littered Burger King with bloody body parts, so he rose and lumbered off after her without a backward glance at us.
Stan looked over at me and shook his head slowly. “Do you still want a woman?”
“Yes.” I said quickly. Then, "No," I said hesitantly. And finally, "I really don't know," I said firmly.
The hour passed and the policeman returned to survey our condition and determine our sobriety. We redeemed our driver’s licenses and car keys, and the officer delivered one last warning on the evils of alcohol. On that subject, we were sold. Stan and I agreed to go on the wagon. At AA meetings we could say we had been hopeless alcoholics for a whole hour. I dropped Stan off after we drove around for a while, feeling depressed. When I got home it was barely ten o’clock. I wondered about my booze breath.
When I came into the family den my father was sprawled across the couch, watching television. I waved at him and said “Gotta go” as I passed. Then I hurried down the hall and ducked into the bathroom. Behind closed doors I took stringent measures to prevent discovery. I brushed my teeth until the enamel was gone, then I gargled until my gums were numb. Afterward, I retired quietly to my room where I contemplated the map of the solar system on my wall. I committed it to memory in case I ever got lost among the asteroids. But I knew I was more likely to pass my days right here in this tiny room, reading age-yellowed comic books until my teeth and hair fell out.
I surveyed my room with a critical eye. Standard equipment: desk, bed, chest of drawers, nightstand. Assorted lamps and books, models of spaceships and hot rods, a clock radio. Wall decorations comprised of science fiction movie posters from the last decade — and a framed picture of Green Lantern, one of my favorite superheroes, partly because his black and green outfit demonstrated a flawless fashion sense and partly because he wore a ring that granted unlimited wishes.
Such muscles those superheroes have. I debated doing a few push-ups to improve my own physique, but I decided that three beers and ten push-ups might be too much for one day. I wouldn’t want to wreck my health, since I had my whole summer ahead of me. Maybe this summer would contain something really worth living for. Who knows? I’m essentially an optimist, and perhaps this would be the summer when I’d prove my uniqueness to the world. Something like stopping a bank robbery, discovering a new planet, or finding the ruins of some lost civilization.
Some time after eleven o’clock I went to bed. When the eleven o’clock news was over, my father came to the door of my room.
“You’re not going to watch the late show?”
“I’ve already seen tonight’s movie,” I said. It sounded like a lie, even to me.
“That’s never stopped you before,” he replied. The look on his face was both wise and skeptical. He wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t ask any questions.
“Well . . . ” I searched for an answer that would get me off the hook — and get him out of my doorway. “Guess I’m just not in the mood tonight.”
He chuckled softly. “Okay. Sleep tight.” He turned and walked into his bedroom across the hall. I saw my mother already lying in bed. Within minutes Dad turned off the light and left the house in darkness — a soft and safe environment for the private dreams of all who dwelled therein.
I let the sounds of the night bugs that drifted in through my open bedroom window crowd in on my awareness. It was a warm and humid evening, and the sky was filled with more stars than any human eye could fully appreciate. A light breeze wandered in through my open windows. It was filled with the scents of summer, a free gift to any nose that wanted them. I took a deep breath, lay back on my pillow, and allowed the busy day end with quite dignity.
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![](https://i.imgur.com/SDRI6BG.jpg) _________________ ____________
Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958) |
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