The Maxima cut a swift southeast arc on the inner loop of the Beltway. We followed and then passed taillights of various geometric mutations, using the leftmost lane for the pass and then returning to the center. Billy seemed to be holding his booze fairly well, though the fact that he was driving did not seem to influence his rate of drinking. He was on a tear, and I was right there with him.
We exited at Route 5 and headed south, stopping at the first bar we saw, a strip joint named the Fourway at a traffic crossroads in Clinton, to cop a six of long-necks. I waited in the car and kept an eye on the movement behind the fogged car windows in the lot. Billy emerged from the bar, the thump of bass briefly chasing him until the door behind him swung closed, and hustled to the car. We popped the caps on two of the beers, swung back out onto the highway, and once again drove south.
The road went to four lanes with a wide, bare median, the terrain hilly at first and then flattened out. In the southeastern sky the bright yellow moon was full and large. We passed pickup cap depots and parts yards and outdoor ornamental pottery shops, broken by the odd stretches of undeveloped land. Ten miles of that, and the low lights of Waldorf appeared ahead.
Charles County’s Waldorf stood where Route 5 met 301. It had once been a gambling mecca for Washingtonians who had a taste for the slots, but that had ended by law sometime early in the sixties. Scattered remnants of Little Vegas remained-the Wigwam “casino” had been converted for a while into a bakery, and now the peaked structure was nothing but an empty glass tepee-but Waldorf had been reborn initially as a five-mile stretch of car dealerships, Taco Bells, and strip shopping centers whose tenants consisted primarily of liquor stores, electronics franchises, low-end clothiers, knockoff booteries, and convenience markets. Now the area had entered another phase, as its predestined growth pushed it into the league of Washington Suburb. A mall at the south end of town, anchored by two mildly upscale retailers, had opened to much fanfare, bringing with it the legitimization of a ten-plex cinema and a new Holiday Inn.
But all the swirling logos and white-handled shopping bags could not mask the fact that Waldorf was still Waldorf-the memory of the abandoned 301 Drive-In still loomed like a decaying gray ghost over the highway, and it still took fifteen minutes to get an ice-cream cone from the geriatric hair-netted help at Bob-Lu’s Diner. Then there was Reb’s Fireplace (the sign had two silhouetted swingers dancing the night away over the tag line LET’S PARTY TONIGHT!), aptly named since it had become a raging inferno one night three years earlier and had remained und nGHTemolished, a charred shell and unforgivable eyesore to the occupants of the Volvos who cruised by nightly on their commute home to the planned “city” of Saint Charles.
Billy pulled the car into the next lot down from Reb’s, where a nightclub called the Blue Diamond stood windowless and alone. The lot was filled with Ford and Chevy pickups, late-model American sedans, and Mustangs and Firebirds. We parked next to a black El Camino that had a blue tarp in the bed covering varying lengths of PVC pipe.
“What’s going on?”
“One of April’s haunts,” Billy said. “She used to stop here on the trip home, and usually on the way back. Maybe someone’s seen her.”
I patted the dog, who had instinctively lain down when Billy cut the engine. We locked up and walked across the lot. A couple of young men exited the club as we approached. They didn’t look at us, and they didn’t hold the door. The Top 40 rock coming from inside faded and then blared out as I pulled the door open once again.
The Blue Diamond had two circular bars on either side of the room and a large dance floor in the middle, with a live band playing on a barely elevated stage in front of it. The band was finishing up their set with “Glory Days,” the vocals buried somewhere in the heavily synthesized mix. A sea of acid-washed jeans, high-tops, and ruffled shirts moved on the dance floor. A glitzy banner behind the band announced that they were FRIDAY’S CHILD.
Two mustachioed bouncers, both twig-legged but heavy in the chest, checked our IDs. We moved to the bar and ordered a couple of domestics. I paid the tab and added a healthy tip, and the neckless bartender took both without a nod. Billy and I turned and leaned our backs against the bar.
No one spoke to us while we drank or even gave us a hard stare. Finally I turned to Billy. “Come here often?”
“I like it like cancer.”
“We’re way too old for this shit. Nobody even wants to kick our asses.”
“I know,” he said. “Let me ask around, then we’ll split.”
“That’s my job.”
“And you can do it. But I’ll do it here. I know some of these guys.”
“Go ahead.”
I grabbed my beer off the bar and walked into the men’s room. After I drained I washed up in a dirty sink and ran a wet paper towel across my face. When I walked out Billy was on the other side of the room talking to the barkeep. He was putting something back into his wallet while he talked. He nodded and headed back in my direction. I finished my beer and placed it on the Formica-topped bar as he arrived.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Any luck?”
Billy shook his head quickly. “These brain-deads don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”
›
We moved across the empty dance floor to the entranceway. I noticed the blue vein of determination on Billy’s temple, and I knew he was going to crack on the doorman, knew it like I knew the sun was going to rise, knew it from all the teenage years we had spent together in bars more dangerous than this. When we reached the door, Billy turned to the larger of the two bouncers and smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “We had a great time. And oh yeah”-Billy whacked his own forehead thoughtfully-“I meant to tell you when we walked in. I really like those jeans you’re wearing tonight.”
“Yeah?” the doorman said with hesitance.
“Yeah,” Billy said, the smile turning down on his face. “My sister’s got a pair just like ’em.”
The doorman sighed and said, “You guys have a nice evening,” holding the door open for us as we walked out. I zipped up my jacket as we moved across the lot.
“What the hell you do that for?” I said.
“It’s his job to take shit.”
“You always had to do that, Billy. You always were a mean drunk.”
“Drunk?” Billy said, showing me his young-boy grin. “Man, I’m not even halfway there.”
We climbed into the car, and Billy started it up while I fixed him a beer. Maybelle’s nose touched the back of my neck. Billy caught rubber and tilted back his bottle as he pulled back out onto 301.
Waldorf ended abruptly, and then the highway was the same as it had been before-flat road and forest with the occasional strip shops, failed antique stores, and billboards. Billy kept the needle at seventy, and ten minutes later we hit La Plata, much like Waldorf only less. Past La Plata were last-chance liquor stores and low-rise motels with Plymouth Dusters and Dodge Chargers and Chevy half-tons parked in their gravel lots. Billy aimed the Maxima for a red-and-blue neon sign touting on/off sale as we both drained the last of our beers.
“You go in,” Billy said, cutting the engine. “I’ll pitch the empties in that can.” He nodded to a rusted oil barrel open on one end that stood near the bar entrance.
We were parked in front of a wide, noncurtained plate-glass window. The bar-it had no name-was cinder block painted white. Through the window I could see a small group of men in their thirties and forties shooting pool. “I’ll be right back.”
I left the car, walked to a glass door, pulled it open, and entered. It was only ten o’ clock, but the place was lit up like last call. I guessed they didn’t go much for atmosphere-a look around the place confirmed it. There were three scarred pool tables standing on the industrial-tiled floor, with some metal folding chairs scattered around the tables. A jukebox was against the left wall, though it wasn’t lit and there was no music playing. A narrow wooden bar stood against the back wall, also unlit, with a small selection of low-call liquor racked behind it.
There were two games being shot, and the entire snd ont patronage of the bar was grouped around the games. The men wore designer jeans circa 1978 and sweatshirts with the sleeves pushed back to reveal uniformly pale and hairy forearms. The few women in the joint, teased hair and also in jeans, sat in the folding chairs drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, the ashes of which they flicked to the floor. The men’s cigarettes were balanced on the edges of the pool tables, lit end out.
I moved to the bar and on the way got a chin nod from one of the players, a nod that I returned. The woman behind the bar was blond and maybe fifty, with a raspberry birthmark on her right cheek.
“What can I get you?” she said in a businesslike but upbeat way.
“Two sixes of Bud bottles to go,” I said, “and a pint of Old Grand-Dad. Thanks.”
“Don’t have the Grand-Dad. Something else?”
“A pint of Beam, then.”
“The Black or White?”
“Make it the White.”
She wrapped the bourbon and handed me the bag. “Let me go in the back and get you the beer.” She winked. “Rather not pull it from here, have to restock the cooler later.”
She left the bar and entered a walk-in to the left of it. I turned, rested my back on the bar, and looked out the plate-glass window onto 301. Billy was standing in the gravel next to the Maxima, looking down at the rush of his own steaming urine as he peed toward the window. His hair was unmoussed now, full and ruffled as I remembered it from his youth, and his mouth was slightly open, with that dumb look of stoned concentration he had perpetually worn as a teenager. I felt a sudden sting of guilt and looked away. I drew a cigarette from my jacket and lit it, keeping the hot smoke in and giving it a long exhale. Someone tapped my shoulder.
One of the pool players stood next to me. He had long black hair thinning on the top, and he was skinny and nearing forty. His small potbelly barely hung over the waistband of his Sergio Valente jeans.
“That your friend out there?” he said in a direct but not unfriendly way, pointing out the front window.
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said, giving a quick nod to a woman in one of the folding chairs, “if next time he wouldn’t be so quick to show off in front of my wife.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said.
He nodded and smiled. “You take care, buddy.”
“You too.”
I paid and thanked the woman behind the bar, put the bourbon in the larger sack, and moved toward the door. On the way out I smiled apologetically at the man’s wife and got a smile back. Out in the lot I took a last drag, tossed the butt, put the beers in the backseat, transferred the pint to my jacket pocket, and patted the dog on the head. Two of the beers came out of the bag before I settled in. ‹ s
Billy grabbed one, popped it, and tapped my bottle with his. He drank deeply and turned the bottle to admire the label. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“You ready? Or you going to do a beer commercial.”
“No, I’m ready. But I really had to let one fly.”
“I noticed. So did all those folks inside.”
“You talkin’ about those rednecks?” Billy said, pointing in the window. “ Fuck them.”
We continued south. The road ahead was free of commercial activity and hilly once again as we neared the Potomac. I lodged my beer between my thighs and withdrew the pint of Beam from my jacket. I twisted the cap, broke the seal, and handed the bottle to Billy. He had his and then passed me the bottle as he chased it with some beer.
“That’s good,” he said, wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Been a long time since I took whiskey from a bottle.”
“Listen, Billy…”
“What?”
“I was looking at you, back there, pissin’ on the highway. I saw you for a second, like it was you, man, fifteen years ago.”
“Yeah?” Billy looked at me briefly with a blank smile and returned his gaze to the road.
“I’m trying to apologize,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to do. I’ve been kind of ice cold, man, since you walked into the Spot. I expected things to be like they were with us, when we were kids-like you were. You understand?”
“You’re drunk, Greek,” Billy said, turning his face in my direction again. Half of his was lit green from the dashboard lights. “You are drunk, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Or are you trippin’?”
“I guess I’m just drunk.” I had a slow pull of bourbon, then beer. “Not trippin’, though. Last time I did that I was with you. Right before you went away to school. Remember?”
Billy reached for the bottle. I put it in his hand. “That time in the park, right?”
I nodded, thinking back. The blurred dark limbs of trees rushed by against the night as I stared through the passenger window and recounted that night for Billy.
On a late August afternoon, at the tail end of the summer of 1976, Billy and I had eaten a couple of hits of blotter that I had copped through the back door of Nutty Nathan’s from Johnny McGinnes. We smoked a joint on the way down to Candy Cane City and once there began a round of pickup ball with a group of Northwest boys we had come to know. For the first hour we were on our game, but that ended when the acid began to seep in, and after a while our laughter caused us to drop out. I went home and took a shower, sneaking around my grandfather, unable to look him in the ey shimad a slowe. Then Billy came by and picked me up in his Camaro.
That night had started like any other-we had no clue at first as to where we were headed, only that we were headed out. Neither of us talked about the buzz-that would have been uncool-but when Billy asked me to drive I knew he was tripping as hard as I was; he had never let me drive his car, even on his most twisted nights.
Billy was wearing straight-leg Levi’s that night, rolled up once at the cuff, and one of those glitter-boy rayon shirts, from a store named Solar Plexus, in Silver Spring. The red lid of a Marlboro box peeked out over the top of the shirt pocket. On his feet were the denim stacks that he had bought at Daily Planet, a pair of shoes that he knew I had always wanted to own.
For some reason we ended up on Beach Drive in Rock Creek Park. I had begun to hallucinate mildly, but it was under control, and my driving up to that point had been okay. But then Billy popped Eat a Peach into the eight-track, and he turned up the volume, and when “Blue Sky” came on, and Dickey Betts moved into his monster guitar solo, I lost my shit. It was at that point that I was convinced that the car was going to lift up and fly right off the parkway.
I pulled over at a picnic area, Billy laughing over the sound of the tape, and he walked me down to a patch of dark, gravelly beach at the creek. I lay down by the creek and stared at the top branches of the oaks that lined the east side and listened to the rush of the brown water over the rocks and the loopy liquid guitar that was still flowing through my head. Then Billy took my shoes off and put his-the denim stacks I had coveted throughout our friendship-on my feet. And he talked to me for at least two hours. By then the branches had melted into the flannel gray of the sky, and there was a small throb in my stomach, and I had begun to come down.
“That was a night,” Billy said when I was finished. “After that we went down to some hippie bar, right next to the Brickskeller at Twenty-second and P, second floor, got sober on alcohol. Some band was playing, some cat blazing on lap steel, right?”
I nodded. “Danny Gatton.”
“How do you remember all that shit?”
“The funny thing is, I almost forgot. And the thing is, the thing you did for me that night, those kind of things are the only things worth remembering. Am I making any sense?”
“Yeah, pardner, you’re making sense. Hang on.” Billy eased off the gas and swung the Maxima into the turn lane. He pulled left across the highway onto Route 257. We passed a gas station and liquor store, then drove southeast, into a shroud of darkness.