Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  I open the passenger-side door, holding my hand held out to Beth. “Madam,” I say.

  Beth takes my hand. She sits in the car, her legs sliding on the freshly waxed seats. I shut the door behind her. It takes everything in me to be cool, to not skip like a giddy fucking schoolboy over to my side of the car.

  I get in the car, shut my door and stick the key in the ignition. We sit there for an awkward few seconds, each waiting for an icebreaker that refuses to bail us out.

  “All set?” I say.

  Beth seems to want to think about her answer. “Should I be afraid, Hank?”

  “Fear not. The Beast looks ferocious, but I assure you he’s a pussy cat if you know how to handle him.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the car.”

  I flash her just my right dimple. “Neither was I.”

  Per Beth’s request, we pull into the gas station just off the interstate. “You want some smokes?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll just bum a couple off you.”

  Beth leans over and looks at the clock on the dashboard. “Our first official date is twelve minutes old, and you’re already presuming things?”

  “I’m just not a big smoker. If you want me to buy my own pack I can—”

  “Relaaaax.” She smacks my knee with the back of her hand. “I’m just teasing you.”

  I watch Beth as she walks to the convenience store. Her gait is more of a strut, her left foot extending farther out than her right. She enters the store, approaches the counter. She points to the smokes. The bearded, overweight attendant hands her two packs of Marlboro Lights. He says something to her, followed by a toothy grin that screams, I’d give these to you for free if I could, pretty lady. Beth exits the convenience store, grimacing. She gets in the car.

  “You okay, Beth?”

  “I think so.”

  “Creepy dude?”

  “The creepiest.”

  I wait for traffic to clear. As the Beast accelerates onto the highway, I point across the on-ramp to a yellow building to our left. “There’s the historic Waffle House.”

  “Historic?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Best waffle you ever had?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  We drive down the interstate for about ten minutes in silence. Beth seems anxious.

  “So, Hank?”

  “Yes, Beth?”

  “This feel weird to you?”

  “A little. How about you?”

  “A lot.”

  “A couple beers in us, and we’ll be fine.”

  Beth winks. “I’m sure we will be. Where we going in Broad Ripple?”

  “I was thinking Bazbeaux for pizza and then maybe The Vogue for some live music.”

  “Who’s playing tonight?”

  “Peter Wolf.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Nope.”

  “Peter Wolf, as in J. Geils Band’s Peter Wolf?”

  “The one and only.”

  “You do realize ‘Freeze Frame’ is my gymnastics floor music, right?”

  “I might indeed realize that.”

  “You had no clue.”

  “None at all.”

  “You know, you handled yourself pretty well back there.”

  “Back where?”

  “With my parents.”

  “Your mom and dad are cool.”

  “They like you. I can already tell.”

  “Could you tell before or after you left me alone in a room with them for fifteen minutes?”

  “Hey, it was ten minutes, and you held your own.” She punches me in the shoulder. “Besides, a girl like me needs time to get beautiful.”

  “A girl like you needs no time to get beautiful.”

  “Why, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” Beth purses her lips, dips her shoulder. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Yes, I am. Get used to it.”

  Our conversation segues into our tastes in music. Her favorite band is “a three-way tie between Fleetwood Mac, Aerosmith, and Van Halen.” Like a lot of girls, she thinks the Aerosmith front man Steven Tyler is hot. Like a lot of guys, I think she’s nuts.

  “How about you, Hank?”

  “I don’t know. It took me awhile to wean myself off the hairbands—Mötley Crüe, Ratt, Cinderella, Scorpions.”

  “Mötley Crüe’s ‘Kickstart My Heart’ always makes me think of you.”

  “Really?”

  “I picture you playing air guitar at your parents’ house.”

  “Funny, all I think about are Hatch’s mix tapes,” I say.

  “His what?” Beth says.

  Why the hell did I just do that? I mean yes, right now I am picturing Beth having sex with Hatch. But fuck. Can’t I stop being such a douche, and let myself like this girl?

  “Don’t mind me,” I say.

  “So you don’t listen to Crüe anymore?”

  “I listen to them plenty, but I think Guns N’ Roses Appetite for Destruction might be the greatest album ever made.”

  “If only Axl would get his head out of his ass,” Beth says.

  “Exactly,” I say. “And I did the grunge thing like everybody else, but I think the Seattle scene takes itself way too seriously, and I don’t regard the music as either mind-blowing or life-altering. If I had to pick one band I’ve just never stopped listening to, it’s Metallica.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Not a Metallica fan?”

  “Afraid not. I’m right there with you on grunge, though. Our generation is supposed to worship the stuff, but I like some Soundgarden, maybe half of Pearl Jam’s Ten, and the soundtrack to Singles.”

  “You’ve just described my grunge playlist almost to a tee. Give me a few Chris Cornell vocals, a little bit of Ten when I’m in the mood, maybe some of the old late-eighties Seattle stuff—Mother Love Bone, Green River, Mud Honey—and that’s about it for me.”

  “And Alice in Chains, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say. Goddamn, she’s into Alice in Chains? Since when? Even her taste in music turns me on.

  “Favorite singer?” Beth asks.

  “Well, it sure as hell ain’t Steven Tyler.”

  “Hey now.”

  “Okay, Freddie Mercury.”

  “Freddie, huh?”

  “What’s wrong with Freddie?”

  “That seems too, I don’t know, predictable for you.”

  “Fine, it’s Chris Risola. You happy?”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Lead singer for Steelheart.”

  “One-hit wonders.”

  “If that,” I say, “but the man has got some pipes.”

  “Not that I don’t love obscure hairbands like any self-respecting eighties chick, but what are you into lately? Been to any good concerts?”

  “GNR and Metallica about a year ago was the last real kickass show I went to. I’m looking forward to Jimmy Buffett in September. Nothing else comes to mind at the moment. How about you?”

  “Well…” Beth bites her lip. “I’m told I went to a good concert this summer.”

  “Ahh, one of those shows. Got pretty tore down?”

  “That’s what everybody tells me.”

  “Which one?”

  “Lollapalooza.”

  “Rage Against the Machine, Primus, Alice in Chains?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wasn’t that like…”

  “Last Monday, yep—a day that shall live in infamy. I even have a stack of pictures back home from the concert. I wore these low-rise cutoffs and a tiny bikini top to show off my new tattoo.”

  She lifts her shirt up. A daisy-like flower curves around the left side of her navel, just below her well-defined six-pack.<
br />
  Beth could have been a belly dancer.

  I do my best to prevent the car from swerving off the road. “A flower? That’s cool.”

  “The flower is actually just decoration. The stem of the flower is an Indian symbol for my sign.”

  “Leo?”

  “Very good, Hank. You’ve done your homework.”

  “You know we were kinda together in high school, right?”

  “Kinda together?” Beth says. “Is that what you call it?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “But I will have to take a look at some of those photos—you know, strictly for research purposes.”

  “Be my guest.” Beth pulls down her shirt, making the roads safe once again for cars in my general vicinity. “Of course, those photos are mixed in with the pictures of me urinating, vomiting, and passed out on the lawn with my hair matted to the side of my sweaty, alcohol-swollen face.”

  I laugh. “Hold me back.”

  “Yeah…” Beth laughs, too. “That’s what I thought.”

  The drive north between Empire Ridge and Indianapolis is the Indiana most people picture—fields of corn and soybeans visible all the way to the horizon broken up by the occasional barn, an oversized billboard, a gnarled tree, an industrial park, a full-service truck stop, and of course, the omnipresent tracts of trailer homes.

  There’s no shortcut to Broad Ripple, so I chose the scenic route. We jumped off the interstate at Meridian Street on the north side of downtown Indy. Crossing 38th Street, we entered the old-money North Meridian Street Historic District. Smaller Arts and Crafts and American Foursquare homes gave way to massive pre–Great Depression revival mansions—Tudor, Colonial, French, Mission Style. The cozy exposed rafters, low porches, and deep overhangs recede into more intimidating facades of stucco, three-story columns, and tiled roofs.

  We reached the end of the historic district just past fifty-seventh Street, hung a right at Westfield Boulevard. Westfield runs east-to-west, parallel to the old canal. No more than twenty yards wide, the canal is a beloved relic of what was to be a part of the four-hundred-and-fifty-nine–mile long Central Canal project extending from the Wabash and Erie Canal at Peru, Indiana, through Indianapolis, and back to the Wabash and Erie at Worthington, Indiana. Abandoned in 1839 when the state went bankrupt, the canal’s mere eight point twenty-nine miles of waterfront is now the exclusive domain of joggers, cyclists, fishermen, and flightless geese with bad tempers and even worse bowel movements.

  We followed the canal along Westfield to College Avenue, the western boundary of Broad Ripple. The canal ends just east of here, dumping into the White River at the river’s widest point anywhere in the county—hence the name, “Broad” Ripple.

  Broad Ripple is the closest thing Indianapolis has to an eclectic village with its shops, art galleries, outdoor cafes, and unintentional allusion to a Grateful Dead song. Save for the McDonald’s on the east side of the village, corporate America concedes the place to less-than-household names like Grateful Threads, Artsy Phartsy, The Jazz Cooker, The Village Idiot, and Bazbeaux.

  We find a parking spot only steps away from Bazbeaux, where I’m taking Beth for dinner. I pull into the spot. A goose guarding its nearby nest lets me know what it thinks about that.

  “Oh shut up, you stupid goose,” I bark, walking round to Beth’s side of the car.

  “I love the vibe up here,” Beth says.

  “Yeah.” I offer her my hand, help her out of the car. “If I end up staying in Indy, this is where I want to live.”

  Bazbeaux Pizza operates out of an old house perched on the banks of the canal, right next to the fire station. The two main dining areas are a rickety front porch of warped cedar and exposed nails in the front of the restaurant and, in the back, a tacked-on garage that masquerades as an indoor–outdoor café in the summer months when the owner raises the doors.

  “Please follow me.” The Bazbeaux hostess is attractive—tall, long legs, brunette. My exact type. It strikes me right at this moment that Beth Burke is the only petite blonde I’ve ever dated.

  Smoking still has its privileges in Indiana. The day they outlaw smoking in this state is the day I’m handed an election ballot that isn’t just a list of overweight and balding white Republicans running unopposed. We bypass a line of people waiting for nonsmoking tables. The hostess seats us near the back of the garage. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

  Beth grabs a menu and glances around. “This place is cool.”

  “You’ve never been to Bazbeaux?”

  “Nope.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “Well, I’ve lived most of the last four years of my life in Champaign, Illinois. Between school, work, and gymnastics, I just haven’t had a whole lot of free time.”

  Our waiter interrupts us. He’s a young kid, younger than us at least. “Can I get you two something to drink, maybe a salad, or appetizer to start out with?”

  Beth scans the menu. “I don’t know what I’m in the mood for.”

  I haven’t even looked at a menu. I grab Beth’s hand. “You trust me?”

  She squints, contemplating an answer. “Sure…for now.”

  “Yeah, Carl is it?” I eye the waiter’s nametag.

  “Call me C.B.”

  “We’ll have a bucket of Rolling Rocks, two house salads, and a large Pizza Alla Quattro Formaggio.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Already stopped trusting me, have you?”

  “Maybe I’m allergic to something on the pizza. Ever think of that, smart guy?”

  “What are you allergic to?”

  “Poison ivy, ragweed, and bee stings.”

  “Rest assured there’s no poison ivy, ragweed, or bee stings on the Pizza Alla Quattro Formaggio. How do Romano, cheddar, ricotta, mozzarella, provolone, bacon, and mushrooms sound?”

  “Perfect.” Beth reaches over and squeezes my hand. We giggle.

  C.B. shows a conscious disinterest in our cutesiness. “What kind of dressing you want on those salads?”

  I cut him some slack. “What kind of dressing do you have, C.B.?”

  “Uh…” C.B. looks at the ceiling. “We got ranch, blue cheese, thousand island, ballsmatic.”

  A laugh leaks out Beth’s nose. I look at her. She knows I can’t leave this one alone. It’s fucking gift-wrapped for me.

  “What was that last dressing?”

  “Ballsmatic.”

  “Yeah, I think we’ll go with that.” I hand C.B. our menus. “Beth, you okay with ballsmatic?”

  She nods, biting her lip.

  C.B. brings us our ballsmatic salads and a bucket of Rocks in short order. I’m tempted to ask if the ballsmatic is freshly squeezed. I extract two green bottles from the ice, then hand one to Beth. I hold my beer aloft. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Beth clinks her bottle against mine. She takes a sip of beer, douses her cigarette. “I don’t know about this, Hank.”

  “About what, the beer?”

  “About us, you dummy.”

  “What’s there to know?”

  “Nothing. And that’s what scares me. You know my secrets. I know yours.”

  “You don’t know all my secrets, Beth.”

  “I know some of the bigger ones.”

  “Like what?”

  “Allow me to reintroduce you to our hometown. When you drive into the city, the first thing you see is a billboard that says, ‘Empire Ridge: Your Fucking Business Is Everybody’s Fucking Business.’”

  There is no such billboard, but I see her point.

  “C.B, it’s about time!”

  Our waiter’s timing is impeccable. He places the large Pizza Alla Quattro Formaggio on our table. We eat the whole thing. I order us another bucket of Rocks.

  Beth has matched me beer-for-beer. The second bucket of Rock
s is down to only two beers. Stomachs full, heads spinning, we savor our post-meal cigarettes. I’m not what you’d call a “real” smoker. I smoke when I drink. I buy one pack a week, if that. I can take it or leave it, which annoys the hell out of my smoker friends and most especially my ex-smoker friends. That being said, the post-meal smoke is still one of life’s simple pleasures.

  The waiter gives us our bill. I tip him thirty percent, a fair commission for adding ballsmatic to my vocabulary.

  “Ready to head over to the Vogue?”

  Beth stands up. “Can we stop by the car first?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Why the sad face?”

  “You want me to be Pocket Man.”

  “What?”

  “Pocket Man.” I open the door at the front of Bazbeaux. “You’re going to put that cute little purse of yours back in the car, and then ask me to hold your driver’s license, your lipstick, and either your cash or ATM card for the rest of the night.”

  Beth takes my arm in hers, steps out of the restaurant. “And just how do you know that?”

  “Because I’m a guy, and as a guy, I know girls are genetically incapable of taking a purse into a bar where there’s live music or dancing. You, of course, won’t put these loose items in your own pocket, because you want guys to look at your ass, unblemished by the random bump of a wallet or cosmetic application device.”

  “That is totally false.”

  “Totally true.”

  “False.”

  “True.”

  Beth rolls her eyes and stops just short of the car. She hazards a look over her shoulder, at her ass. “Okay, mostly true. I have noticed the bruthas like looking at the junk in this trunk.”

  I shake my head. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘Beth, your butt’s not that big’?”

  “Yes, Hank.” She smacks me on the arm. “Yes, it is.”

  Of course, Beth has always had one of those out-of-this-world gymnast butts—an Olympic podium–worthy piece of rounded perfection that at this moment could only be improved upon if Beth were wearing a multi-layered silk skirt fastened low on the hips with a pearl-encrusted belt and matching gold pasties. Or if she were naked, obviously.

  “Beth Burke, you have a nice butt.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s not that big.”