Authors: G L Rockey
I looked across the
water and thought, that's where I and a forgotten lady, a million years ago,
went for a swim, said things … how dumb that was, but that was so long ago I
had forgotten it.
I observed shades of
pink in the sky, high cirrus clouds, and distant strains from a fiddle echoed “The
Tennessee Waltz” through the muggy air.
Standing beside
Winston, that long-ago-forgotten-lady strong in me, from afar I felt like
another person as I studied, across the stunted sea, summer cottages the size
of quarters. The water looked like broad Monet strokes of blue and white with
reflections of puffy white clouds. Elms and poplars and white birch slummed
randomly on a soft hide of green grass that flowed down to the edge of the lake
where weeping willows bowed over, seeming to lap at the water. Nearly hidden by
the willows, lazily absorbing the premature waves, a beat-up wooden skiff
bobbed its head above the water. A rope strained between the bow and a wobbly
dock. Out a little further a white sail carried a sloop over the rippling
glitter. Honeysuckle and magnolia smells baked in the thick sorghum air.
The other person thought:
mating, separating, mitosis, sucking and buzzing and humming and the quiet
noises of the sun absorbing, a speck, a now, a seed, sweet saccharin flowing,
nipping and budding, odors on a wind and through it, one with union and being—time
interruptus—and over there is where we swam….
With an eerie aura of
impending doom, that other person left.
* * *
Stepping down a grassy
slope, I noted a gaggle or so of people dressed in a rainbow of short shorts,
swim suits, T-shirts, halters, hats, and sunglasses. They played volleyball,
softball, and some frolicked in the lake.
In the middle of it
all, the park’s familiar whitewashed octagon gazebo was decorated in red,
white, and blue crepe paper. Stretched above the step to the gazebo stage, on a
long piece of white paper, red lettering read:
Annual TV12 Summer Picnic.
Closer, I saw that the
earlier strains of The Tennessee Waltz came from Peggy's Felix The Cat band,
The Billy Boys. Set up on the gazebo, I surmised Berry had instructed Joe
Galbo, before Peggy was fired, to book them with the idea that Peggy would sing
a number or two—best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, get fucked up …
whatever.
I noticed Billy Boy
fiddle player, Larry, fiddle the last of The Tennessee Waltz, the quartet
paused, then exploded into “Rocky Top”. A dozen or so dancers began gyrating on
a wooden dance floor in front of the gazebo.
Walking around and
through the crowd, I exchanged mixed hellos with Berry's wife, Adele, and
Bobbi, Joy, P.J., then moved on.
I saw Sago with Whitney.
I went up to them. Sago had a sad face on. Actually tragic. I asked him why. He
said he saw, in a dream, last night, a raven on the branch of a tall dead tree.
He looked at me deeply. Not good. He also saw evil spirits on, in, and around
an Indian blanket under that tall dead tree. He said I should leave, invited me
to The Green Onion for a drink with him and Whitney. I laughed. He asked again.
I declined. He shook his head and said he and Whitney were going without me.
After he left, making
my way around the crowd, I noticed, under a tree, on a large Indian blanket,
lying on her stomach, the Kitten from Felix The Cat, Neon. More interesting,
kneeling beside her, Snakebite rubbed lotion on her back.
Neon in zebra bikini,
top straps undone, feet in the air, orange painted toe nails twitching, her
skinny settee looked like two Krystal hamburger buns. Behind enormous rose-colored
sunglasses, she appeared to be sleeping.
Closer, I noticed a
bottle of Coppertone suntan lotion. I also noticed a fifth of Meyer's Rum, a six-pack
of Coke, a package of red plastic cups, a small white ice chest, and, arm’s
length from the chest, cigarette in his mouth, busy rubbing Neon's back was
Snakebite. Decked out in just skinned looking leather goods, wide brimmed white
hat, and familiar wraparound sunglasses, his face and hands (covered with I
assume Coppertone) looked like the white of a partially cooked poached egg.
I figured, get it over
with. I stepped to the side of the blanket.
Snakebite's sunglasses
beading me, he said, “Whata’ you want, prick?”
“Hi Snakebite, new
hat?”
He grabbed the brim.
Neon sat up and tugged
her bikini top over her nobleness. She took off her sunglasses and I could see
she was high on something.
I said, “Hi Neon,
what's this jerk doing here?”
Snakebite said, “Yeah,
fuck off, prick, I'm a guest a’ Frazer.”
“Nice.”
It was then, like that
first night, peripheral vision, I saw her approaching. Gillian, red plastic cup
in hand. She wore an airy summer dress, yellow and green, thin straps over her
shoulders. Her soft caramel colored hair fell to her bronze shoulders. Her eyes
sparkled that deep rum brown. Her legs like I remember, bare feet too,
beautiful in perfect barefoot weather.
Sitting on the
blanket, she glanced at me. Still there, that smile, for just a moment, but
hidden, some fear like she was handcuffed to something.
Snakebite said to me,
“Hit the bricks, prick.”
I looked at Gillian.
We had once mastered, around 1 A.D., saying things without words, but it had
been so long ago … she broke eye contact and bowed her head.
Snakebite stood, “I
said hit the bricks, prick.”
I thought about
assaulting his throat, but mindful what Sago had said about ravens and Indian
blankets, Gillian avoiding me, I steered myself away as if this was some kind
of bad joke, playing tricks with my eyes, at the bottom of a charred oak
barrel.
I maneuver through and
around people and there it was—the bar. Same spot as previous years, a picnic
table covered with newspaper, Big Joe stood behind, very much in charge and serving
drinks. Berry straddled a folding chair backwards in front of the table.
After a few steps I
arrived bar side and Berry slurred, “Hey Jack, where ya been, late again … har
har har … 'et a drink.”
Berry wore a white
tank top with a big CBS eye on the chest, white Bermuda shorts, red and white
Reeboks, and no socks. His milky skin had begun to sunburn. I noted his lower
lip sagging and I confirmed he was smashed. He sipped from a plastic cup.
I said to Joe, “Jack
Daniels, no ice.”
“Got it.” Joe said. He
appeared sober and wore a white butcher apron, white T-shirt, and a white
baseball hat with gold military ‘scrambled eggs' on the brim. Douglas MacArthur
sunglasses concealed his eyes. He chewed on an eight inch cigar, I assumed an
Aliados. He picked up the Jack Daniels bottle, plunked a plastic cup on the bar
and said, “Say when.”
I said to Berry, “How was Europe?”
“Suuupaaa.”
“When,” I said to Joe
and took my drink.
The band struck up a
version of Hound Dog and I was about to say something about how nice it was to
see Snakebite, but I noticed Joe stiffen. Freeze actually, and he began
sniffing the air like a bloodhound working something down wind. After a moment,
looking past Berry, he mumbled something military, “Incoming.”
I looked where Joe
looked.
Peggy, red thong
bikini, high heel open-toe sandals, nobleness hanging out pretty good, white
Styrofoam cup in hand, Parliament dangling from her lower lip, teetered to the
bar, slurred to the group, “Having a ‘ittle party, are we?”
I calculated: very drunk.
Berry said, “‘eggy,
you shouldn't be….”
“Uck you.” She waved
her paper cup and some (I assume gin and tonic) sloshed to the ground. She
stuck a smile in my face, inhaled, took her cigarette between fingers, and,
blowing smoke in my face, said, “Hi motherfucker.”
I sipped and thought,
time to go.
Berry stood, wobbled,
braced himself and said, “‘eggy, you should….”
”Uck off.” She flipped
her cigarette at his feet.
Berry tried one of his
glares but, with the load he had on, it wasn't working.
Peggy wiped a frosty
look across my face and touched my arm. “Thought you was ediiitin’ with Sago?”
I pretended I didn't
hear her. Berry did. So did Joe. I turned to look at the band, slugged Mr. D.,
and The Billy Boys' struck up Turkey In The Straw.
Peggy pinched my ribs
and smiled, “I'm talking to you.”
My eyes went to her
bikini top, her nobleness hanging out pretty good, actually mostly, I caught
myself. Too long at the look, I glanced up.
Peggy said, “Vanilla,
remember.”
Berry said, “Why don't
you just 'eave, Moore.”
“Fuck you Sally, you
ain't heard the last of Peggy Moore.”
Berry tried another
one of his glares but it still wasn't working.
Peggy jerked my shirt
collar, “I'm gonna go sing with the Billy Boys, doll, come join me.”
What can you say?
She started off,
settee wobbling, high heels flopping, toward the band. Halfway there she looked
over her shoulder and called to me, “Come on chicken.”
As Peggy staggered up
the three steps of the gazebo, The Billy Boys stopped playing, she waved and
said, “Weeee, it's a party, howdy all.”
Catcalls, jeers, a
shout, “Get a job.”
Peggy said, “’uck
you,” into the microphone then said, “Let's all give Sally the finger.” She
shot her middle finger toward the bar area. “Galbo too.”
The drummer did a drum
roll. Peggy executed a sloppy bump and grind, then her voice hacked from the
microphone, “Let's hear it for the great white hope, piano playing Jack Carr.
Get yer ass up here, doll.”
Whistles, cheers, a
loud boooo, a chant: “Jack, Jack, Jack.”
Keeps you humble.
Berry said, “Go ‘hut
that bitch up, Carr.”
Peggy over the loud
speaker again: “Let’s hear it for the piano man.”
Amid pleasant
applause, I went up the gazebo steps.
Taking my arm, Peggy rubbed her nobleness
against me pretty good. In the rubbing, her left noble popped out. She hauled
the matching one out, squeezed them together, a drum roll, and Peggy did some
more bump and grind.
Cheers, whistles,
applause. One boo.
Peggy took the
microphone in hand and said to the Billy Boys, “Dogwood Blossoms, hit it.”
The Billy Boys hit it, I accompanied on
keyboard, and Peggy slurred through Dogwood Blossoms.
Half way through the
song, I noticed Snakebite, Neon, and Gillian had joined Berry and Galbo at the
bar. I observed Berry's hands on Gillian's shoulders. He seemed to be pushing
words down her throat. I also observed Gillian glancing my way.
Dogwood Blossoms over,
Peggy looking toward Berry and company, said into the microphone, “Hey folks,
look who's here, a big hand for the albino shithead, Snakebite Walker, give him
the fin’er too.” She flashed her middle finger.
I started to stand but
Peggy sat on my lap and chewed into my ear. “Ya ain't going nowhere.” Then she
said to the Billy Boys, “Walking After Midnight, boys, hit it.”
The band hit it and
she started wailing:
“I go out waalkin, after midnight, out in the starlight….”
I noticed, coming to
the dance area, Berry and Gillian. Berry began some kind of rumba boogie in
front of Gillian. Not a pretty sight. Gillian pretty much stood there, swayed,
and did a good job of ignored Peggy's tit in my ear.
Song ended. Applause,
whistles, booos, Peggy kissed my cheek and said, “I dedicate this next one to
Jack … ‘Crazy’. Hit it boys.”
I started to get up,
“I gotta go.”
“Sit down.” She pushed
me back.
The crowd cheered.
Peggy straddled my lap, put everything in my face, the Billy Boys hit it, and
she started to wail:
“Crazy, I'm crazzy for feeling so lonely….”
My attention on
Berry’s hands roaming over Gillian’s body like a quack looking for lumps, I
noticed that she was staring through me to Upper Michigan.
Singing, Peggy nodded
me toward the lake and snapped her bikini bottom. I looked. Several people were
mooning the festivities. I also noticed that Berry, haw-hawing, was maneuvering
Gillian to the side of the water’s edge for a closer look.
Crazy ended, Peggy
said, “I gotta go pee pee.” I stepped down, stood by the side of the gazebo,
lit a cigarette, and noted a new moon rising. Its light welding the night sky
with the purple landscape, a smart wind began to blow and the cattails by the
water's edge swayed in the breeze.
I sniffed the air—rain—noticed
that Gillian and Berry had disappeared, and Galbo yelled, “Time to roast the
marshmallows,” and through the music like in a foggy dream, I watched Big Joe
throw paper and branches on a smoldering fire, the fire sparked and popped as
people came to the fire, stuck marshmallows into its glow, ate from sticky
fingers.