Basil Beighey
A young college misfit opens a disco in rural Appalachia and achieves great success. Then, becomes involved in an underworld crime scheme that costs him everything except the knowledge, the experience, and a greater appreciation for the woman he loves.
Summary:
In 1980, Tommy is a lonely college misfit working his way through Penn State as a mobile DJ. The demands of his business prevent him from engaging in the college experience. His grades and relationships suffer. Alienated from school and classmates, he feels like an unworthy outsider, unable to achieve academic, relationship, and romantic successes that others in his world seem to easily obtain.
After graduation, faced with a sagging economy and no job prospects, he employs energy, ingenuity, and naïve single-mindedness to transform a rat-infested miner’s bunkhouse in a tiny Appalachian coal village into the hottest nightclub in three counties. At first, it seems he achieves the success and vindication he yearns for. But his success is short-lived as he succumbs to the temptation of an underworld crime scheme and loses everything except the knowledge, the experience, and a greater appreciation for the woman he loves..
Last Call is also a transformational love story. Early on, Tommy meets Shelly at a frat party. He’s an aspiring entrepreneur, while she’s planning on attending medical school. Their conflicting schedules and distance make their relationship difficult. Over time, however, Tommy’s many liaisons at the club leave him empty, unsatisfied, and lonely. His success is hollow, and he yearns for a deeper relationship with the woman he learns to love.
Tuesday, December 7, 1982
The clinking of beer bottles rolling under my seat awakened me from my trance. I was now as alert as I could be after a night of short sleep and aimless wandering. Overhead, a huge green sign read: Interstate 80 West — The George Washington Bridge. The traffic light turned green, and I stomped on the gas. The rear tires of the massive Chrysler chirped as I accelerated up the on-ramp. Bright morning sunlight framed the blue-green bridge masts and heavy cables, but it was irritating my eyes. I was tired and despondent, but this ordeal was over, and I was going home.
As far as I could see, pleasure boats speckled the surface of the Hudson River. It was a pleasant Tuesday morning. People were out and having fun. I wondered if any of the occupants of the boats below the bridge were as anxious or as distraught. The car’s tires thumped rhythmically over the expansion cracks in the bridge decking, amplifying the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I watched as each support cable flashed by at regular intervals, as if to mock my anxiety.
My attention drifted again as I contemplated the previous day’s events. Emotion welled, and a single tear rolled down my cheek as I contemplated my alternatives. Was there any recovery from this? I tried to recall the excitement I felt two days earlier when I saw the beautiful aqua bridge for the first time. I recalled how giddy we were to see the skyline of the magnificent city, then shook my head in disgust. What the fuck were we thinking? Two days ago, the future seemed bright, and my life stretched out in front of me like … the highway that brought us. We ate in expensive restaurants, drank good liquor, and reveled in our cleverness. Nothing could go wrong. The bottles under my seat clinked again, and my consciousness returned.
I deluded myself into thinking this crazy move would put me over the top. Everything seemed perfect, and we had carefully prepared. We had rehearsed the plan and convinced ourselves that we had covered every contingency; nothing could go wrong.
My most trusted friend was covering my back. Kurt and I had been like brothers since we could walk. Who better to ask for counsel? But I convinced him so completely that it tainted his judgment as well, and we both fell into the same delusional trap. We wanted to believe it, and it became real.
The third member of the crew was the muscle. On a mission like this, you never knew what you’d run into. So we brought Chester along, just in case. A state power-lifting champion, Chester could handle anybody.
And if things really got hot, we were packing heat. We had armed ourselves with concealed automatics and extra clips in a city where the simple possession of a firearm was a felony and could land you in jail for years. Why not? It seemed logical. They did it on TV. But twenty-four hours later, I felt lucky not to be in jail, … or worse.
The last two years were amazing, almost magical, … too good. I was bristling with hubris when I entered the city. But now, I wondered whether I was smart or just lucky. Had I outsmarted everyone? … or just stumbled into success? Did my insight and intuition serve me, … or ruin me? When I left Pennsylvania, I was solid. I was popular; I had more friends and lovers than I’d ever dreamed of. It was an unbelievable ride, and I felt invincible. I took it for granted. How foolish I had been.
I recalled a time picking dandelions with my Great Aunt for salad. We were in a huge field. The woman who owned the land looked at me and said, “What a beautiful boy.” My Aunt nodded politely. But when the woman left, she turned to me and said, “Quick, do this with your hand behind your back.”
The old Italians believed that whenever you received a compliment or encountered good fortune, you should always touch your middle two fingers to your thumb and extend your little finger and index finger toward the ground in secret. It was called the “mano cornuta”, or the “sign of the horns”. The gesture was a defense against the “malocchio”, the evil eye. It drained the sin of pride from your body and protected you from the curse. It was a reminder that pride was the root of all sins, and all success and good fortune are fleeting. But for all the good fortune and compliments I’d received in the last two years, I hadn’t remembered to practice this simple ritual even once. I had forgotten to remind myself that pride obscures rational thinking. I didn’t recognize those evil eyes.
I looked over at Kurt. From the shotgun seat, he stared out over the Hudson in the opposite direction. I knew what he was thinking.
“Well …,” said Chester from the back seat, “it’s a beautiful morning.”
“Yes,” I muttered, forcing a sarcastic laugh, “it’s a beautiful fucking morning.”
As I turned toward Chester to see his reaction, my eyes caught Kurt’s, and we began laughing at Chester’s simple but truthful comment. “What else could we do?”
“Yeah,” said Kurt, “it’s a beautiful fucking day all right.”
The bottles under my seat clinked again. “Those fucking beer bottles are driving me nuts; are any of them full?”
Chester grunted as he struggled to contort his massive frame to feel under the seat for the loose bottles. He fished three out and passed two forward, exclaiming, “… and they’re still cold! How about that?”
We twisted the caps off in near unison and tossed them on the floor. It was 10:00 AM, too early to drink on most days, but today it seemed appropriate. We needed something to kill the depression and erase the memory of our joint stupidity.
I sipped the beer, and then Chester broke the silence. “Hey, all we can do is make the best of it. What’s done is done, and there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it today.”
I tipped the bottle and took a long drink. The cold beer tasted good. For at least a moment, it drove away the fear and despair. I took another long drink and focused on the image in the rearview mirror. I wanted one last look at Manhattan, the city that symbolized the pinnacle of my success and the naiveté that brought me down. The magnificent skyline faded into the distant horizon and, with it, at least for today, my hopes and dreams. My name is Tommy Costa, and this is my confession.
Saturday, December 13, 1980—Two Years Earlier
The mass of humanity undulated to rhythms generated by two giant speaker stacks. Towering over the dance floor, the obelisks paid homage to the gods of decadence. Ultra-low thumps from the bass bins coursed through the floors and walls, pounding the occupants in the room. Between the speakers stretched a light panel facade forty feet wide by four feet high. Blobs of colored light danced inside it, creating a hypnotic effect like something from a 60s sci-fi movie. Thirty-two feet of black light tubing made teeth, eye whites, and white cotton garments glow with an eerie fluorescence. Sixteen color flood lights flashed to the beat, creating a surreal oscillation between vibrant color and a mysterious black-lit darkness. On the ceiling, over the center of the dance floor, a twenty-two-inch mirrored ball slowly rotated, reflecting sharp splinters of colored light in all directions. Tobacco smoke and airborne dust made the rays look as solid as lasers slicing through the dank air of the cavernous ballroom. Snow melt from damp garments piled on tables and slung over chairs made the room uncomfortably thick and humid, while the vague scent of human sweat, mixed with hints of cologne and spilled beer mingled to create the unmistakable aroma of a keg party. Confident scholars groped and clung on the dance floor, while the timid and disinterested crowded the periphery. Tall drinks in hand, they bore witness to the orgy of human interaction, seething with sexual energy and testosterone-fueled tension. The late November mixer at the Penn State Chapter of Lambda Chi was reaching its crescendo.
Sound Odyssey, my massive DJ show, turned the huge frat hall into a high-energy disco tech. The show’s centerpiece was a wall of light panels that hid me from the crowd. From my vantage point behind the panels, behind the turntables, surrounded by amp racks, controllers, and record stock, I could see everything. It was safe behind the facade, and I liked it that way. I preferred to stay out of sight and instead manipulate the crowd through music selection and atmospheric lighting. Seeing all, without being seen, I was a curious voyeur looking in on a party I did not wish to attend.
Most disc jockeys considered themselves the entertainment, the “Master of Ceremony,” shouting over song intros to stimulate the audience. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t a performer; I was the “wizard behind the curtain,” a technologist and event puppeteer pulling the strings of emotion. I was the caretaker of energy and the architect of excitement. The crowd seemed to like it. The jobs kept coming, and the money kept rolling in. I could do it; that’s why I continued. But I didn’t enjoy it. How many times had I woken from sleep, sure that the music was running out and no song was in the cue? That was my nightmare.
Tonight was just another gig. I would work the event, ensure everyone had fun, bring the excitement to a crescendo, and then let the crowd down easy. The room would fade to black. I would pack up my gear, load my van, get my check, and get away before anything or anyone got seriously damaged or hurt.
The ignorance of the crowd amused me. Most were unaware of the emotional manipulation and assumed certain parties just blossomed into spectacles. Some unseen force or serendipitous mix of people, music, and atmosphere magically came together. If you were lucky enough to be there, you experienced it.
But I knew differently. It was no accident that the parties I “played” always built to maximum attainable excitement. My technical ability, artistic sensibilities, musical ear, and most of all, my empathy for the crowd were my superpowers.
My father gave me the technical skills that empowered me to build and maintain the equipment necessary to accommodate an event of this magnitude. He taught me to wire HO-scale railroad layouts at nine years old. He was a craftsman, an artist, and a musician, a creative Renaissance man, and I was part of him. But my essential ability, my feelings, came from my Mother’s side. A pronounced sense of empathy empowered me to imagine, long before anyone entered a hall, what was required to put people at ease, and what was necessary to inspire a great party. It was a gift, and I realized it.
But knowing and doing were different things. Knowing was intuitive, but doing was a lot of work. It was all so predictable. How many gigs had I performed over the last five years? It seemed like a thousand. Maintaining the gear, driving to gigs, finding the hall, meeting the client, unpacking the van, setting up the show, answering the questions, mixing the music, building the party, surviving the crazy late hours, packing the gear, loading the van, and getting paid was a necessary sequence that had to be honored.
The physical exertion was taxing. Even when I hired a helper, lifting and moving the heavy equipment was strenuous. But the real exhaustion came from dealing with the people. There were always fools to be suffered. How many times had I answered the same questions? Questions from audiophiles, would-be entrepreneurs, music buffs, trivia questions, and personal questions all sapped energy.
The worst interactions, however, were the song requests. There was always someone who thought they knew better, always some amateur who was going to show the pro. Once in a while, someone would surprise me with a cut or song that I hadn’t considered. But the vast majority of the time, requesters were boors pushing personal agendas with no consideration for the group or the party as a controlled event. I minimized the energy drain by hiding out of sight behind the impregnable wall of light panels and equipment. Forcing dancers to walk around the forty-foot-wide veneer of flashing light blobs prevented the worst of the boors from gaining access.
The party was rolling. I pressed the button on my Casio Databank to illuminate the dial. Shit, I thought, … midnight, … two more hours. The last two hours of a four-hour show, usually midnight to 2:00 AM, were the “crazy hours.” The alcohol and drugs were running strong, and anything could happen. Accidents and fights were always a possibility. Equipment damage was my primary concern. I had to pay attention and broaden the radar. I had to heighten my awareness at the very moment boredom and mental fatigue were setting in. I segue into a slow dance. Better take the energy down a notch and let them pair up, I thought; leave no doubt who is with whom.
As I cued the next cut, a loud, melodious, “Excuse me!” gave me a start. I whirled around to see two comely females standing in the shadows behind the record cases. My preoccupation with the crowd on the dance floor allowed them to slink around the facade unnoticed.
“Yes,” I replied, scanning the clothing and body type of each. Both girls were attractive, but one was slightly taller and seemed to be the protagonist. The shorter coed appeared to be her “wing gal,” lending support and “watching her back.”
“What can I do for you?”
Bracing herself with both hands over the record cases, the taller girl leaned forward such that her white silk blouse fell open in front, slightly exposing her small, firm breasts. Her lips edged so close to my ear that I could smell the alcohol on her breath and sense the fragrant mix of her perfume and perspiration. Her breath tickled my ear as she asked, “Can you play Funky Town?”
I pulled back to observe the girl again in her entirety. She radiated a playful energy that caused me to hesitate. She scanned my full height with her level blue-gray eyes. Time seemed to stand still. I noticed tiny beads of sweat glistening on the bridge of her nose. She had been dancing hard. Her skin-tight designer jeans accentuated the re-curve between her butt and her thigh. She wore leather, low-heeled, black dress boots. Her sandy brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and around her face. I usually handled requests with polite disinterest, but there was something about this woman that moved me. I struggled to compose myself and remain professional.
“What’s your name?”
“Shelly,” she shouted with a playful smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“We crashed the party!” The two girls looked at each other and broke into laughter.
“Okay,” I said, smiling and eyeing each curiously.
“Will you play it next?” she asked with a hint of flirtatious insistence.
I glanced at the turntable. I subtracted the time needed to find her request from the remaining playing time of the current song and decided it was possible. “Okay,” I replied with a smile. “But you owe me.”
She smiled and her face flushed, then she looked away and raked her hair over her ear. The two girls backed away and then turned into the shadows. In the dim light, I could see the shorter girl whisper something in her ear. Then Shelly turned back for one last glance before disappearing into the darkness.
I cued her request and clicked the start button on the turntable. Taking care to match the 4/4 beat, I cross-faded the mix. Shelly’s request was a popular selection and drew an immediate and energetic reaction from the crowd. The dance floor filled even more tightly. I watched to see if the two girls would dance.
As I scanned the crowd, my right hand reached toward the color organ. Without looking, I ran my fingers over each toggle until I reached the large sensitivity knob on the far end, then rotated it right to increase the luminance of the room. It only took a few seconds to fixate on the woman. She was dancing with her friend toward the back of the dance floor. Both girls had their hands over their heads, moving them back and forth, palm up, palm down, reminiscent of an Egyptian princess. The two gracefully swayed to the music and burst into laughter at brief intervals. They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed as if they were the only two on the dance floor.
The request was winding down. I again cross-faded into the next song and watched to see if the girls would continue dancing. But they seemed to lose interest and disappeared into the crowd. That was fun while it lasted. I looked at my watch again at 12:45 PM. Another hour and a half, and I’m out of here. I cued the next record with disinterest.
Suddenly, a disturbance in the far back corner of the ballroom captured my attention. In the distant corner of the hall, two huge guys wearing football jerseys locked up in a Sumo wrestling hold. A small woman shouted and tried to push the two giants apart. Drinks flew, and a chair tipped over, making a loud wooden clap as it hit the floor. The ruckus, however, was barely audible over the ambient noise of the room. Beer splash sprayed a few brothers standing close by as several plastic cups exploded on the hardwood floor. Several others joined in to help quell the disturbance. The two men continued to shout, barely audible, if ugly epithets, at each other as they were separated and moved outside. From my high vantage point on the stage, I followed the action. Interestingly, most others in the hall seemed oblivious.
A half hour crawled by. I was thumbing through the record stock to ensure I hadn’t missed anything when I again sensed a presence within feet of my bowed head. I looked up to see Shelly and her friend once again moving through the shadows toward me. The shorter girl leaned forward and inquired loud enough to be heard over the music, “Will you play another song for us?”
“What’s your name?”
“Amanda.”
“Sure. What do you want to hear?”
Amanda glanced at Shelly. Shelly stepped forward and leaned over the record case. Again, she leaned so close that her lips nearly touched my ear. “We want to hear Donna Summer.”
I looked into her eyes and said, “Sure, … no problem.”
“Will you play it next?” she pleaded.
“I’m finished in fifteen minutes. How about if I play Donna Summer’s Last Dance, for the last dance?”
The two girls smiled and bounced with apparent glee and approval. Shelly then grabbed my arm and pulled me close enough to whisper in my ear and said, “I know. I owe you.”
I turned and caught her eyes only inches from my own and said, “I think I like you.”
Amanda reached out and grabbed Shelly’s arm, then pulled her toward the dance floor. Shelly resisted, turning one last time to smile, then disappeared again into the shadows behind the light wall.
After about fifteen minutes, I cued the girl’s request. As I cross-mixed the selection, I made my customary announcement to the crowd, indicating this would be the last song of the evening, and then thanked everyone for coming. By this point, it was well after 2:00 AM, and the crowd seemed tired, drunk, and ready for the dancing to end. No one shouted any objections, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight, there would be no paid overtime. After the current song, I could pack up and go home.
“Last Dance” is a disco song, but it starts as a slow dance, then, after a few minutes, “bursts” into a driving disco beat. The dancers paired up and slow danced during the opening portion of the song. Once again, I scanned the crowd to see if the two girls would dance. It was standard procedure during slow dances to turn off all lights except for the black lights and the pin spots focused on the mirrored ball. Stars then flew around the darkened room, painting the glowing garments on the dancers and giving the couples privacy to make out without being seen. After a few minutes, I spotted the two girls slow dancing together theatrically as if to say, “We’re just having fun”.
As if in love, the two took turns dipping each other, dramatically pirouetting and singing the lyrics into each other’s eyes. When the song burst into the driving disco portion, the girls slung each other back and forth like swing dancers. They were quite good, and the scene was fun to watch, but after a few minutes, the reality of the impending “tear-down” consumed my full attention. I began packing everything possible without interrupting the music. As the last song wound down, I opened the mic and bid the crowd one last thanks and good night. The music ended, and the house lights came up.
The tear-down procedure was so ingrained in my mind that I flew through the motions in a zombie-like trance. First, the music was “potted” down, then the power switches were snapped off. Next, I disconnected all the power cords from the wall sockets. Then I disconnected every cable and cord, coiling and storing each in a large trunk. Next, the turntables, the amp rack, and the effects racks were covered and locked down. Then I folded the floodlights, black lights, and strobe lights into “suitcase-like” crates and readied them for transport. I removed the large mirrored ball from the ceiling and packed it in its hard case. Last, I stored and secured the pin spots, light panels, stands, and ‘Sound Odyssey’ sign for transport.
With the equipment crated, I backed my van up to the loading area. I opened the two rear doors and removed a hand dolly and a pair of leather gloves. I then dollied each piece of equipment from the dance floor to the van. The largest pieces first, the heavy speaker cabinets, then the folded light panels, then the trunks, the stands, and the record stock. When I finally replaced the dolly and gloves on top of the stacked equipment, I heard my favorite “song” of the evening. The song I had been waiting to hear all night was the sound of the slamming rear doors of the van. That sound was sweet music. It was the signal that the gig was over. Only one last detail – get my check.
I stood for a moment. The air was cold, and light snow was falling. I was struck by how beautiful the bushes, the shrubs, the trees, and the lawn appeared. The blanket of snow reflected the blue-white light from the street lamps. I paused for a few seconds to enjoy the view. The frosty night air was clearing my head. It was quiet now. Only the faint voices from lingering party guests and conversations from occasional passersby broke the night’s silence — a silence made more so by the noise-dampening effect of the snow.
I resented it when the party host made me track him or her down for payment after the gig. It was extra work and unnecessary. What did they think I would do if they gave me the check during the party, shut everything down, and leave? I turned away from the quiet beauty of the yard and made my way back into the house. I inadvertently kicked empty bottles and plastic cups as I walked across the vacant dance floor. Most of the crowd had filed out through the front door by now, but enough guests remained to make the house feel busy. I made my way to the bar in the basement, excusing myself as I slipped around others on the tight, dimly lit staircase. The party in the basement was still going strong. The stereo over the bar was blasting, and the room was about half full of drunken brothers and guests.
As I looked around at the foolishness, it occurred to me how easy the college experience was for many people. The occupants in the room were well dressed, sporting expensive designer clothes and shoes, but, for the most part, disheveled. I wondered if many of them had worked a day in their life. I unzipped my worn leather bomber jacket to let some moist heat escape, then moved toward the bar.
“Excuse me,” I addressed the bartender. “Who do I see about my check?”
“That would be the Social Chairman, Miles, second floor, first room on the right. I think he’s up there now.”
“Thanks.”
As I turned toward the steps, I noticed the two girls, Shelly and Amanda, standing behind me.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Shelly inquired with a drunken slur as she wrapped her arm around my neck.
“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you had left.”
“We’re just leaving for another party. Do you want to come?”
I hesitated for a moment, eyeing each girl. They were drunk and seemed a little flaky. It was three in the morning. I was tired and sober, and this could be a tremendous waste of time. Worse, it might diminish any chance of productivity on the following day. But I liked Shelly; there was something about her. She was attractive and playful. I was lonely, and she was asking. That didn’t happen often. The hand was begging to be played.
“I’ve got to get my check upstairs from the Social Chairman.”
“Alright, mister DJ,” Shelly said. “We’ll wait for you here; then you can follow us to the party?”
I hesitated for a second. Looking at her smile, I noticed her teeth were perfect, clean, white, and straight. “Okay,” I said, whispering in her ear, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait here.”
I then made my way back up the stairs to the main floor, then up another flight to the second floor, all the while passing drunken house members and guests in the dark staircase and hallway. The first door on the right was partially open. Through the opening, the room appeared to take on a hellish orange-red glow. I knocked on the door with my right hand while pushing it open a little with my left. “Miles?” I called out.
“Yeah, … come on in,” came the reply from the other side of the door.
As I pushed the door open, the sweet smell of marijuana smoke wafted from the room. The red-orange glow emanated from a large lava lamp on an end table and a buzzing Pabst Blue Ribbon beer neon sign over a desk on my immediate right. The room was small and cluttered with books, sports equipment, records, and clothing. Against the near wall was a couch. Beside the couch was an end table supporting the lava lamp. Over the lamp, a poster of Cheryl Tiegs hung next to a tattered poster of Bruce Lee. A college-age male lounged on the couch with a sleeping girl in his lap. Her sheer dress had climbed to her panty line, exposing her bare legs to the top. Across from the entrance was a window looking out on the snow-covered roof portico and back yard. Next to the window was an overstuffed chair. Another apparent brother with bloodshot eyes sat in the chair and toked deeply on a large yellow bong. The water in the bong gurgled as he drew the smoke into his lungs. A homemade bunk bed arrangement covered the left end of the room. On the bottom bed sat two more guys with bloodshot eyes sorting through some LPs. The guy with the bong looked up, exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling, and said, “I’m Miles. What can I do for you?
“The bartender in the basement said you were the one to see about my check.”
“Shit, … that’s right, you’re the DJ. Hey man, so sorry; I forgot. Hey, great show tonight; it was an epic party. Listen; … I’ve gotta write your check. Wanna hit this while you’re waiting?”
I was tired, and the girls were waiting, but the pot smelled good. Maybe just one would take the edge off, I thought. Plus, being seen as “cool” with this Social Chairman could be good for future business.
“Sure, … one for the road,” I murmured.
Miles handed the bong to one of the brothers lounging on the lower bunk and said, “Pack a good one for the DJ.”
Turning toward the desk, he slid onto the accompanying straight-backed wooden chair. He opened the lower right drawer, removed a large ledger-style checkbook, and proceeded to write the check.
“$400?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The guy on the lower bunk handed me a loaded bong and a Bic lighter. “Straight back, man,” he said.
I sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair, took the bong, and struck the lighter. I covered the carburetor hole with my index finger and pulled the flame hard through the moist reefer. The bong gurgled, and the pot crackled. The fragrant smoke filled my lungs. This is good dope, I thought, as I held the smoke in for as long as I could stand it. After a few seconds, I released it with a gentle whoosh in the direction of the Pabst neon sign, then hit it again. After exhaling the second time, I handed the bong back to its owners. It only took seconds for the “high” to creep in. It was good pot.
The room was still for a few long seconds. It seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize until this moment how much energy I had expended and how much tension I had accumulated in my head and shoulders. It was a long day, and it felt good to relax. As the pot took hold, I could feel the tension draining away as if a giant valve opened, allowing all the anxiety and negative energy to pour out on the floor. A relaxed, silly feeling covered me like a warm blanket.
The sound of the check ripping from the ledger page awakened me from my stupor. Miles turned and handed it over. “Here you go bud, good job. What’s your calendar looking like for January?”
“I’ve got some dates,” I murmured from inside the encroaching buzz.
“Call me on Monday. Let’s compare calendars.”
“I will, Miles; … thanks. It is nice to finally meet you.
“Cool; … how do you like that dope?”
“Awesome. … I’m stoned already,” I said as I noticed the girl on the couch beginning to regain consciousness. Struggling to sit up, she noticed me sitting across from her and began to feign modesty by pulling her dress down to a more socially appropriate length. Her glazed eyes scanned me from head to toe, as if wondering what the hell I was doing next to her.
Just then, the guy looking through records said, “You gotta hear Mile’s stereo, man, it’s killer. These Polk Audio speakers kick ass.”
In an instant, he placed an LP on a turntable next to the bed. My eyes followed the speaker wire around the edge of the room to a pair of small Polk Audio speaker towers wedged into the dark corners on either side of the desk. The brother placed the needle on the LP. A loud crackle from the dust and scratches suggested the volume was cranked. The woofers lurched forward as the first notes of the song blasted from the paper cones. I recognized the cut as “Der Komimissar” by a band named “After the Fire.”
Don’t turn around, wa-uh-oh (yeah-yeah)
Der Kommissar’s in town, wa-uh-oh
You’re in his eye and you’ll know why
The more you live, the faster you will die
Alles klar, Herr Kommissar?
The speakers were very good, but the song was giving me wicked flashbacks of the evening’s gig, and I felt the sudden urge to flee the room. My business was music, and good stereos didn’t impress me much. It always amused me how most people assumed I enjoyed the music I played. The opposite was actually true. I was burned out on it. I played music, loud music, over and over to make a living. Quiet was what I yearned for most of the time, especially after gigs.
“They’re great, right?” the brother yelled.
“Yes, they’re awesome; you were right,” I reassured the well-meaning brother. I assumed he was looking for validation, and I wasn’t above giving it.
“Guys, thanks a lot, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got some people waiting for me.”
The occupants in the room made faint attempts at goodbye salutes and gestures. Miles said, “Take care, man. Call me Monday?”
“Yes, we’ll talk on Monday; thanks again,” I said as I backed through the door into the dim hallway.
I made my way back downstairs, again passing and bumping into party zombies on the way. As I clomped down the basement steps toward the bar, I could hear the girls laughing. I spotted them sitting on an overstuffed chair in the corner across the room. Both girls had their coats on as if ready to leave. Their laughter seemed to result from their toying with a couple of inebriated brothers. The drunken males looked at me suspiciously as I approached.
“Here’s our boyfriend,” Shelly exclaimed. “Are you ready, baby?”
“Yeah, all set; let’s go,” I replied, smiling at her theatrical address.
The three of us made our way through the crowded room toward the steps. Once upstairs, we made our way across the trashed dance floor and out into the night air. The girls parked on the opposite side of the house. “What do you drive?” I asked.
“Amanda is driving a red AMC Pacer with a white roof,” Shelly replied.
“I’ll pull around front and look for you,” I said. With that, I headed back through the ballroom toward the back door and my waiting van. It was snowing harder now. I unlocked the door and slid onto the cold seat. I pulled the manual choke out as far as it would go. Then, pumping the gas twice, I turned the key, and the starter churned. Come on, baby, I mumbled as the engine strained to start. Then, with one more pump of the gas peddle, the engine roared to life. I depressed the clutch, shifted into first, and eased forward. The heavily loaded vehicle bumped down off the curb onto the snow-covered driveway, and I pulled around to the front street.
A couple of inches of fresh snow now covered the roads except for the thin channels where tires from other vehicles had churned the snow into a light gray mush. I spotted the Pacer’s tail lights and flashed my headlights to indicate I was following. The Pacer lurched forward. The girls seemed uncertain. They drove slowly and paused at every intersection as if to confirm the directions.
Shit, I thought. These chicks are drunk and lost. They’ll never find this party in their condition. They’ll be lucky to avoid an accident. Fuck, … this is going to end badly.
Turning south on South Atherton Street, the little car headed toward the outskirts of town, finally turning on a secondary road. I followed at a safe distance. The streetlights ended, and the darkness of the countryside enveloped the vehicles.
They’re driving too fast for these conditions, I murmured to myself. Where the fuck is this party, anyway? Where are these flaky chicks taking me? Who is still partying at this hour, and why do we want to be there?
ts of the distant Pacer and the myriad of snowflakes blowing into the windshield. The view out of the windshield was like the bridge screen of the Starship Enterprise. Thousands of snowflakes, brightly lit by the headlights, were like the stars flying past the spaceship at warp speed. Get a grip, I told myself. Pay attention. I strained to focus once again on the taillights of the Pacer.
About three hundred yards in front of me, I saw the taillights of the little car veer off onto a side road. I bumped my turn signal up and followed. As I made the turn, I saw the headlights from the distant Pacer sweep wildly across the field on the left side of the road and disappear. They’ve spun out, I thought.
As I drew closer, it became apparent the girls had indeed lost control and spun the car in a circle on the slippery road. The front passenger wheel of the car was off the right side of the road in a drainage ditch. The snow was falling heavier now as I pulled up and rolled down my window. I couldn’t see any damage to the vehicle. The driver’s window of the Pacer opened, revealing the two girls inside engaged in wild laughter. A driving disco beat emanated from the car, breaking the silence.
“We’re lost!” the two girls shouted in near-comic unison. Shelly leaned across Amanda to better see out the driver’s window and shouted, “We’re going back to our place; follow us.”
I hesitated for a moment to digest the new information. Go back to their place? I’m being invited back to their place? It’s fucking four in the morning. I considered for a moment the toll the pot had taken on my judgment. Is this smart? I wondered. You know how this will turn out. “What the fuck?” I muttered.
“OK,” I announced over the music and drone of the engines, “but give me a minute to turn this beast around or you’ll lose me.”
“Come on!” Shelly hollered over the loud music as the Pacer spun its rear wheels, attempting to escape the ditch.
I did my best to make a quick, three-point turn on the narrow, snow-covered road. As I slammed the van into first and popped the clutch, I saw the rear wheels of the Pacer attempt to accelerate, broadcasting snow in high “rooster tails”. Once again, I followed the taillights, this time back toward State College.
Once in town, the girls maneuvered east on Beaver, north on Allen, then west on College Avenue, finally parking on the left side of the one-way street in front of a dark retail store. At this hour, there was no problem finding a parking space on the usually congested avenue. My van drifted up silently behind the Pacer and parked. The usually noisy street was silent.
The sound of jingling keys and slamming doors broke the silence. Amanda locked the Pacer and started across the sidewalk with purpose, leaving deep tracks in the snow. Shelly pulled her coat tight around her neck and motioned with her head, nodding toward Amanda and the storefront. I watched as Amanda walked through the stone arch between the retail stores and inserted a key into the lock on a heavy wooden door. Curiously, I had walked by here many times but had never noticed this door before. The girls entered.
The door led to a staircase that ascended to the second floor of the building. We all clomped up the steps to a hallway on the second floor, leaving a trail of snow and water droplets in our wake. Amanda approached another large, solid-core wooden door and once again inserted a key from her cluttered, jingling keyring into the lock.
“Let’s be quiet,” she said. “They may be sleeping.”
They may be sleeping? I thought. Who is “they”?
The large wooden door creaked as Amanda opened it, revealing a long, dark hallway. I closed it behind us as quietly as I could. At the far end of the hall, I could barely make out a bathroom entrance. To the left, three wooden doors presumably led to bedrooms. A large archway on the right seemed to lead to a dimly lit living area. As we approached the archway, I heard the faint sound of voices in the room beyond.
I looked at my watch again. It was almost 4:00 AM. I’m tired and stoned. Do I have to meet somebody? It’s probably Shelly’s husband, I thought.
A large brick fireplace dominated the far side of the living space. A low fire crackled, supplying a comforting amount of heat and the only ambient light in the room. In front of the fire hearth, a large Persian rug loaded with throw pillows covered the hardwood floor. I could make out the faint silhouettes of three figures sprawled on the pillows in front of the flickering flames. They lounged on the pillows like Arab merchants. On the left, a couple, unaware of our entrance, embraced, nuzzling and exchanging brief kisses. Then, as if startled, they broke apart and looked up as we approached. Sitting opposite the couple was another young woman. As Amanda approached, the woman exclaimed, “Hey girl! There you are.”
“Julie, this is our new friend Tommy; he was the DJ at the party tonight,” Amanda explained as I came into the light of the fire.
“Come on in; make yourself comfortable,” she said as she flopped back into the deep pillow arrangement.
“Thanks,” I said as I slipped off my wet shoes and stepped on the carpet.
In the middle of the seating area was a low Asian-style table. On the table were two spent red wine bottles and a large ashtray. In the tray were several roaches, leading me to believe the group here was even more stoned than I was.
The girls and I peeled off our wet coats and hung them over a chair in the corner. We sat on the carpet and squirmed into the pillow mass, attempting to find a comfortable position. I slid close to Shelly and leaned back on a pillow, stretching my feet under the low table toward the warmth of the fire. Shelly turned toward me, smiled, and leaned into me.
“So Shelly, … how do you like Penn State so far?” Julie asked.
“We had a great time,” she said in a sleepy tone.
As the conversation progressed, Julie revealed Shelly was visiting for the weekend. Shelly, Julie, and Amanda were close high school friends. They grew up together in Altoona, a railroad town about halfway between State College and Pittsburgh. Amanda and Julie enrolled in Penn State, but Shelly decided to enroll in the University of Pittsburgh to major in pre-med. The apartment’s paying residents were Amanda, Julie, and Candice. Candice’s boyfriend Terry, visiting from St. Francis, made up the sixth member of the group.
“You guys want to get stoned?” Julie asked as she reached for one of the larger roaches in the ashtray.
“Yes!” Amanda said. “I want to get very stoned, then I’m going to bed.”
Terry and Candice sat up to join in. Terry said, “We don’t have any more wine, but we have a couple of cold beers in the fridge, if anybody’s interested.”
I hesitated to impose, but I was thirsty after loading my equipment and smoking. “One beer would be really great,” I said.
Terry left the room briefly, then returned with three cold cans of Rolling Rock. He handed one to Shelly, Amanda, and me. Julie lit the roach, hit it, then passed it left. Amanda pinched it between her index finger and thumb. Then, holding it so it just barely touched her lips, she drew deeply. The roach glowed in the dim light as she pulled the smoke into her lungs. She bumped the ashes into the tray and passed it to Shelly. Struggling to sit up, Shelly repeated the ritual. I snapped the pop top on the beer and took a long drink. It was cold and good. I hadn’t taken a drink of anything since loading the van and hadn’t realized how thirsty I had become. This isn’t so bad, I thought, as my attention fixed on the warm fire. For a long moment, I stared at the crackling flames. I was relaxed now and at peace. A sharp bump against my shoulder broke my focus. I turned to see Shelly looking straight into my eyes. She handed me the roach, and I took it. Then she playfully blew smoke in my face and smiled mischievously. I reached for her and pulled her closer with my right arm as I hit the roach with my left, then I passed it to Terry.
At one point, Terry mumbled to Candice, “I can’t believe I lost $300.”
“How’d that happen?” Amanda asked.
Staring blankly at the fire, Shelly whispered, “Gradually, … then suddenly.”
The reference was from my favorite novel, “The Sun Also Rises” by Ernest Hemingway. Mike Campbell, a main character, speaks the line when someone asks him how he went bankrupt. Terry went on to describe a poker game he had played in that evening and lost the money.
I turned toward Shelly and asked, “Did you read the book?”
She turned toward me and said, “It’s my favorite book. I’ve read it three times.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I love that period in France and Spain. I love trains and travel. Most of all, I like the way Hemingway builds the relationship between Jake and Brett. They loved each other, even though they couldn’t consummate the relationship because of his war injury. That’s love,” she said, staring into the fire. “Have you read it?”
“It’s my favorite book too,” I said.
“Seriously?” she said with a smile. “You’re kidding, … right?”
“No. I’ve read it at least three times.”
“Okay, smart guy, … Who’s Lady Ashley going to marry?”
“Mike Campbell, … the same guy you just quoted,” I said, looking her straight in the eye.
“Wow, … I’m impressed,” she whispered, looking me over with interest.
“When did you first read it?” I asked, looking away into the fire.
She moved closer, hooking her arm through mine, and whispered, “My father collects old classic books. He found a first edition at a rummage sale and bought it for $5.00. I think it’s worth like, around $6,000 now. I was curious when I heard about the find. I was only in the seventh grade, but I read the first few pages, and I couldn’t put it down.”
“So, you think it’s love when a woman runs off with another man, … say, a bullfighter?” I needled.
“She was just trying to forget the man she really loved, but couldn’t have. It was too painful to be close to Jake and not be able to express her love physically,” she whispered as she again looked into the fire.
We sat for a few minutes, then Shelly looked at me and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I looked at her in shock. “Remember you? Have we met before? … Where have we met?”
She laughed and turned again to face the fire. “You played The Fall Formal at my high school in Altoona, four years ago, and I requested a song, … just like tonight.”
“Seriously? I remember the dance, but I don’t remember that.”
“Amanda and I were there alone, just like tonight. We approached you and asked you to play Night Fever from Saturday Night Fever.
I laughed, “Wow, maybe I do remember that. You looked different then, right? You were shorter and skinny?”
“Yeah, I was thinner then and had short hair, and no breasts to speak of,” she laughed.
“Yes! I do remember you,” I laughed. “Wow, … did you recognize me tonight?”
“I developed a little crush on you at that dance,” she said, staring into the fire with a smile. “Amanda bet you wouldn’t remember.” She looked back at me again, and we studied each other.
“Amanda,” Shelly shouted, still looking into my eyes, “Where did we first meet Tommy?”
“He played the High School Formal,” she said. “You thought he was cute.”
Shelly smiled and looked back toward the fire.
When I first met the girls, I thought they were party girls – attractive, but drunk, flaky, and shallow. As I continued talking with Shelly, however, I realized she was deep and introspective. She was smart, and her biting sense of humor came from her observations. We discussed science and her love of medicine. She was aware, interesting, and engaging. But most of all, she was playful and easy to be with. She had a relaxing effect on me.
After about a half hour, Candice and Terry excused themselves and headed for one of the large doors in the hallway. Julie was next to rise from the pillows. “I gotta get some sleep,” she murmured. “Nice meeting you,” she said as she shuffled across the wooden floor in her slippers and disappeared behind the middle bedroom door.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. The sun would be up soon, I thought. What should I do? Shelly invited me here for what reason? I wondered. I was tired and very stoned. My thoughts were foggy. What the fuck should I do now?
Just then, Amanda looked at Shelly and said, “What are you guys going to do? I think I’m going to bed.”
I looked at Shelly. “Do you want me to go?”
She looked at me and said, “No, you can stay a little while.”
“Why don’t you two take the alcove?” said Amanda.
“Yeah, … come on,” Shelly mumbled as she rose and took me by the hand. “Let’s go to the alcove.”
We entered the last door in the hallway next to the bathroom. It led to a large bedroom. On the right was a full-size bed. On the left was a large dresser. At the far end of the room, a large bay window looked out on College Avenue and the campus beyond. The large, three-section window was about four feet deep. Two pillows and a heavy quilt sat on the padded bench. The alcove apparently served as an auxiliary bed. A heavy curtain rod spanned the entire opening. Amanda crashed into the full-size bed while Shelly pulled me by the arm into the bay window alcove. She pulled the heavy curtain across the opening, taking care to overlap it for maximum privacy.
“Come on,” she said as she stretched out on the padded bench. She lay her head on the pillow and pulled the large quilt over her.
I sat for a moment on the edge of the alcove and surveyed the view outside. The scene was beautiful. The newly fallen snow now formed a thick blanket covering everything: the parked cars, the wires, the lawn, the bushes, and the majestic elm trees on the Penn State campus across the street. For the moment, the snow was virgin, untouched by tire tracks or footprints.
Shelly lay under the quilt in front of me, eyes shut. I slid under the heavy blanket and moved close to her, placing my head on the pillow next to hers. It was warm and quite comfortable. I put my arm over her and pulled her closer. She was barely awake. I kissed her to see if she would respond. She opened her mouth slightly and gently bit my lip. I turned my head to the side and pressed my mouth hard against hers. Her lips were soft but firmed as we kissed. My heart and mind raced as I contemplated the moment. Should I try to make love to her? I wondered. I was tired; it was almost morning; we were both on the edge of passing out from fatigue and intoxication. But the kiss had rejuvenated me somewhat, and my desire for her was increasing by the second. I began unfastening her belt.
“What do you think you’re doing, mister?” she lazily whispered in my ear.
“I want to make love to you,” I whispered as I unzipped her fly and slid my hand slowly into her jeans.
She grabbed my wrist to impede my progress and feign resistance. “I’m a good girl,” she said with a tired giggle. I kissed her hard again on the lips and rolled on top of her. Her grip tightened as I pushed my hand even deeper into her panties. She was ready, and my heart was racing.
“No, I can’t,” she whispered, in a firmer tone. “Amanda is over there. She’ll hear.”
“She’s sleeping by now,” I countered in a whisper.
“Can we just kiss?” she pleaded. “I’ll be gone tomorrow, and you’ll forget all about me.”
“I really doubt that,” I whispered in her ear as I lay my head back on the pillow. I closed my eyes for a second. The lazy high of the pot and the fatigue of the evening were closing in fast. It was warm next to Shelly, and her body felt good. The night was beautiful, the gig was over, and I had money in my pocket. Life was good.
When I next opened my eyes, an hour had gone by. Shelly was asleep, and the view out the window was brighter. The sun was beginning to brighten the overcast sky. I lay still for a second to allow my eyes to acclimate to the light in the strange little room. It looked different now, messier. I realized the walls were green. Through the crack in the curtain, I could see an ironing board with clothes draped over it. An unpacked suitcase lay on the floor in the corner; clothing was strewn all around. I carefully unwound from her and sat up. I squinted painfully to survey the view outside. A few cars glided by intermittently on the snowy street below, making faint sounds as they passed. It was time to go, I thought. Yes, … time to go.
I leaned over and gently kissed her on the lips. She smacked her dry lips, made some slight noise, then struggled to open her eyes.
“I’ve gotta go,” I whispered so as not to wake Amanda.
“You going to be okay?” she asked sleepily.
“Yes,” I responded. Then I took a business card from my wallet and slipped it into her jean hip pocket. “Here’s my contact information; call me with your information and let me know when you’re in town. I’d like to see you again. Maybe we can go on a proper date?”
“Fancy that,” she murmured, half asleep.
With that, I kissed her once more on the cheek and slipped through the curtain. I made my way out of the apartment, taking care to lock the door quietly behind me. I made my way down the steps and pushed the crash bar to exit the building. The snow made the morning light brighter. I squinted painfully as I crossed the sidewalk toward my waiting van. I felt for the key in my pocket.
Once again, I slid onto the cold seat and executed the ignition procedure. The engine roared to life. A weird mixture of pot hangover and sexual frustration, mixed with extreme fatigue, fogged my brain. I was very tired, and the cold and bright morning light was agitating. Get a grip, I told myself. Gotta get home safe; get the van back in the lot; secure the business; get to bed.
I drove west on College Avenue, then north on Atherton, then east on Beaver. My mind strained to obey the traffic laws while fighting the recollection of the evening’s events. Gotta stay focused, I thought as I slapped my thigh to stay awake. I took a left on McAllister, then another left on Calder Way. The short drive seemed to take forever. I slowed down to a crawl to avoid the pedestrians walking in the tight alley. My mind was beginning to shut down now; I was very tired. Make sure to lock the van, I murmured to myself. Yes, I mentally exclaimed, an open parking space. I whipped the heavy vehicle into an opening in the pay lot where I rented a space. I pulled the emergency brake on, shut down the engine, grabbed my calendar, and locked the door.
I trudged down the alley, trying not to look anyone in the eye for fear I’d recognize someone and have to speak. I looked up at the clatter of delivery men slamming empty cases of green Rolling Rock beer bottles into a parked beer truck.
The streets were busier now. The town was coming alive. I crossed the street and passed between the beer men at the entrance of the Rathskeller. I climbed a short series of concrete steps, unlocked the steel door of the apartment building, then labored to climb the two flights leading to the third floor. I shuffled down the hallway to the steel door of my apartment. In a few seconds, I was kicking off my snow-covered shoes and disrobing. I flopped into my bed, and the room went dark.
