Dig

by Dan Dillard

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The pre-reunion

  Chris grabbed Rusty by the elbow and yanked him out of the car. It was a friendly yank, not the type of yank executed by a father removing a horny teenage boy from his daughter on lover’s lane. Rusty stumbled into his old friend’s arms and any words he might have said were stifled by a bear hug which lifted him right off the ground and popped his back.

  “Strings, man. I can’t believe you still have this beautiful, badass car.” Chris dropped him and stepped back to look at The Bat again.

  “Good to see you, Chris. Yeah, I think there are still some stains in there that belong to you.” He rubbed his head and then remembered Robyn, who had the door open and was stepping out on her own. Rusty, somewhat flustered, jogged around to help her.

  “I’ve got it. I’m not feeble by a long shot. Hey Chris,” she said.

  “Wow. Robyn Scott—or is it Clemmons? You look hot!”

  “Still Scott. Well, Scott again. I’m divorced. Rusty got in town a couple days ago and for safety’s sake, we agreed to be each other’s date for tonight.”

  “Smooth, man. Just like always. Wait, you’ve been in town for a couple days and you didn’t look me up?”

  Rusty smiled. He had never been smooth with women, or with anyone else. The only smooth thing about him was his playing. He used to be able to make a guitar sing, but he had let it slide. Now he plunked at them, rehashing songs from his youth, taking weeks to relearn solos he had once mastered in a matter of hours, and wishing he still had all of his old recordings, his old notes and the songs he had written. One more thing life had put on the shelf.

  “I didn’t know you still lived here. We haven’t spoken in what? Ten, fifteen years?” Rusty said.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Chris said. He approached Robyn with open arms and she hugged him tight and rubbed the top of his head. Chris looked up as if he could see his shiny dome and grinned. “There’s a little less than there used to be. It’s okay though, I got fat to make up for it.”

  “Where’s your wife?” Robyn said.

  “She’s inside. Found Balls and Ninja…” He cleared his throat. “I mean John and Bill. Some people grew up man. So sad. They actually grew up.”

  John Balls (short for bass-balls, because it was funny when they were fourteen) Walker was the bass player in their little group and Bill The Ninja Fonteneaux was just a friend. He didn’t have a musical bone in his body. They called him The Ninja because he attended six weeks’ worth of karate lessons and claimed the ability to kick anybody’s ass. It was probably lucky for him he was never tested on that fact. Chris was known as Padre because of the Saint prefix on his last name. It was as unfitting a title as calling a fat guy Tiny.

  “Wow, John and Bill?”

  “Yep. Total stiffs. Tell me you’re still insane, Strings?”

  “Rusty, man. Call me…” He watched Chris’s expression melt into something a puppy might whip up begging for treats. “You know what, Strings is fine. Just don’t be mad if I don’t respond right away. It’s been twenty years since anyone called me that.”

  Rusty held his elbow out for Robyn and she grabbed it and leaned in close to whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “Excellent. I’ll find us a table so we can all hang together,” Chris said. “They have assigned seats in there, but fuck that.”

  The three of them walked through a group of old friends posing for a photograph. The faces he recalled, names not so much. The faces looked even more familiar when gathered together in a group, as if he’d always seen them that way and he probably had. A clique which existed in 1985 joined forces again as if they’d never graduated and this was just lunchtime. The bell was going to ring in ten minutes, calling them to class.

  Rusty looked at Chris who was dragging him inside to meet his old crew and realized he was just as guilty. It was fine. It was comfortable.

  They passed through the open door into the restaurant and the cool, dry air was a blessing. There was more déjà vu as he saw more faces and John Mellencamp sang a little ditty about Jack and Diane. A bubbly hostess whose nametag read MANDY and was pinned next to about a mile of cleavage greeted them. She had short, spiky hair which was dyed green.

  “Y’all here for the reunion?” she said.

  “Yes,” Rusty replied.

  “Back again,” Chris said and winked at her.

  “Oh, I remember you, sweetie,” the hostess said. “Follow me over here to the name tags and let’s get you two registered.

  When she turned, Chris grabbed Rusty by the arm and bit his lower lip, obviously attracted to Mandy and her large, twin accessories.

  “What about your wife, Padre?” Robyn said and pretended to wipe some drool from his lip.

  “Fifteen years of marriage says I can look. Can’t touch, but I can look,” he said.

  “Well that’s nice,” Robyn said. “My ex must’ve learned that backwards.”

  Mandy stopped at a banquet table which held a registration book and a series of nametags already filled out. A thin woman in a black, sleeveless dress sat behind the table. Her dark hair was straight, past her shoulders and her nails were long and red. The MY NAME IS sticker on her chest said Abbie Dalton in red magic marker. She had been a recluse in school, a book worm. What a switch.

  “The buffet is in the back and it’s open bar until ten. Afterward—if you make it that long—it’ll be a cash bar. Enjoy yourselves,” Mandy said and walked back to the front to greet more guests. Chris watched her go and shook his head.

  “Hello there! I remember your faces. Robyn Scott? And…Russell Clemmons, right?”

  “Rusty. Hi Abbie. Long time.”

  “Call him Strings,” Chris said.

  “That’s right. The guitar guy. You had a band…what was the name?”

  “The Screaming Priests,” Chris said. “Awesome.” He made the devil horns symbol with his hand and pumped it at her. Abbie returned the gesture with a horse-toothed smile and handed them their nametags.

  “Wear it so everyone will know you,” Abbie said, still grinning.

  “Thanks,” Robyn said.

  Rusty looked around and didn’t see another soul with a nametag on. He stuffed his in the back pocket of his jeans and saw Robyn drop hers in the trash as she walked by the end of the bar.

  “Something with beer in it,” Rusty said to the bartender, an older man with wrinkles as deep as his tan and white hair. “Preferably on draft.” It was loud in the room and the bartender held a hand up to his ear. Rusty looked at the taps and pointed to the one he wanted. Sam Adams Boston Lager. Exotic for him.

  “I’ll have the same,” Robyn said.

  “Jim Beam,” Chris said. “Neat, make it a double. Oh, and give me a merlot as well.”

  Two mugs, one highball and a wine glass appeared on the bar and the three scooped up their prizes. Chris tossed back the whiskey and tapped the bar for a refill. The old man obliged him with a smirk.

  “Jesus. You drinking for two?” Rusty said.

  “I haven’t been out like this in almost ten years, Strings. Don’t judge me.”

  “No worries. I’m just not sure I can carry your ass anymore. And can you stop calling me Strings—at least not in every sentence?”

  Rusty dropped a couple dollar bills into the tip jar and the old barman nodded. Two other couples approached the bar. They nodded as well. Rusty had no idea who they were.

  “Yeah okay. I’m excited is all. But you have fat jokes. That’s funny. Carry me? I’ll be fine. Come on, you two. You gonna mingle or do you want to sit down? My feet are killing me,” Chris said. He walked and talked and Robyn and Rusty chuckled as they followed.

  “I’d love to have a seat,” Robyn said. “And I’m starving!”

  They made their way through another group of relatively familiar people, nodding and smiling until they reached a table in the back corner. It was a round table that sat eight. Three seats were taken.
>
  “This, is my lovely wife Vicky,” Chris said. “I think you know these two bozos.”

  Vicky stood up and shook Rusty’s hand, then Robyn’s. She wasn’t what he expected. Vicky was attractive and well dressed, not the slob his friend had become. It was an oddly perfect match.

  “Chris has told me a lot about you,” Vicky said.

  “I wish I could say the same. I guess I haven’t kept in touch like I should,” Rusty said.

  “We never do. Is this your wife?”

  Robyn laughed. “Nope. We just came to the party together, but who knows, right?” She nudged Rusty who wasn’t really paying attention. He was already shaking hands with Bass Balls and The Ninja. Robyn smiled and introduced herself to Vicky with a handshake. “I’m Robyn Scott.”

  “Good to meet you,” Vicky said.

  Rusty tried to look as serious as he could. “Bill. John. It’s been far too long. Tell me of your travels,” he said. Bill broke first, then the three of them laughed and hugged.

  “I told you they were stiffs,” Chris said. “Grown up and all responsible and shit. It’s nothing some liquor won’t cure, right? How’s the food?”

  Bill flip-flopped his hand in the universal symbol for not bad and sat back down. They took turns approaching the buffet and picking up drinks for the table. Passersby stopped and shook hands and hugged long enough for a brief harken back and then disappeared into the sea of bodies again. The crowd wasn’t very large, maybe sixty people, most of them couples, but it filled the restaurant. Rusty figured on more, but maybe some weren’t coming in until Saturday for the actual reunion, and maybe some didn’t drink, and maybe some just didn’t care.

  The mean feeling had gone, lifted away back when they left the mainland and drove onto the island.

  Leave your troubles at the bridge.

  Or maybe it left when they entered the fantastic world of 1985 and the crooning of Aha as they sang “Take On Me.” Whatever it was, he was happy and relaxed and Robyn looked beautiful.

  He found out Chris had a fourteen year old son and the St. Claire’s were staying with another friend from school named Leah who was married to one of Smithville’s only physicians, Dr. Joseph Sacks. Chris worked in insurance which was funny in itself, and after another shot, he became the life of the party. Just like old times.

  Bill’s wife came back and introduce herself. Chris called her Mrs. Ninja. They owned a small restaurant a few hours up the coast and had no children. John’s wife—who Rusty knew Chris would’ve introduced as Mrs. Balls—was a financial consultant . She wasn’t there.

  “Where’s your wife, man?” Rusty said.

  “Oh, she’s back at home with the kids. Two boys, seven and ten. I was actually in the area for a business meeting today so I thought I’d come tonight and say hi. Glad you made it, Rusty.”

  “So are they coming in for the reunion tomorrow?”

  “No. I have to get back in the morning. It sucks, but I’ll have to miss the actual reunion,” John said.

  Rusty didn’t think he meant it when he said it sucked. He didn’t think John was comfortable there at all. Or maybe he missed his family. It made Rusty think about how uncomfortable he was in Chicago and how at ease he felt there in a room full of familiar strangers. He hadn’t felt at home since he moved away the first time.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol.

  They talked about jobs and what a difference twenty years made when it came to their perspectives on life. They talked about how different things were back in the day and if they’d only known then what they knew now. They talked about how much things hadn’t changed and that they still all felt like the same clumsy, stupid eighteen-year-olds who had graduated back when parachute pants were bitchin’ and the internet was something hinted at in science fiction movies. The more the alcohol flowed, the more philosophical the conversation became.

  Rusty looked around and laughed at the imagery. It looked like one of a dozen parties he’d been to on the beach back then. The same little groups of four or five. The same faces in mature packaging, better clothes, dyed hair, real jewelry. Everyone was a tad heavier and with some life mapped on their faces, around the eyes mostly. They looked tired. It was what he noticed above everything else. They looked tired. Jobs, children, community ties, deadlines, affairs, divorces, dad’s club sports, cub scouts, girl scouts, recitals and lessons for the past fifteen to twenty years. Somehow, they had all figured it out and made it this far.

  He grew quiet and let the background turn into a dull hum. The buzz of conversation and the buzz of cold draft beer synched and before long, he was just scanning the room, moving his eyes from face to face trying to place them all in the yearbook. Vicky started prodding Chris to slow down his drinking around 8:00 pm and John and Bill excused themselves around 9:00 pm, John for travel and Bill because he was tired and because Mrs. Ninja wasn’t very friendly. Rusty would’ve guessed she was embarrassed by Chris’s antics.

  Chris had changed the most physically and the least in personality and when he was outside on the walkway to the pier noisily puking over the rail into the sand, Rusty felt like he’d actually been transported back to their senior year. Thankfully, Chris had a wife to take care of him and didn’t need his help. Double thankfully, Rusty was upwind.

  “I’ve got him,” Vicky said. “If he has to pass out here and sleep in his own vomit, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Are you sure?” Rusty asked.

  “I’m sure. I apologize about this. I’ll feed him some aspirin and let him sleep it off. Then we can do it again tomorrow night, right?” She had an exasperated look on her face, but there was a good sport behind it. Rusty liked Vicky St. Claire. He liked her a lot.

  “Definitely,” Robyn said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  As if to punctuate their agreement, Chris bellowed again, adding to the puddle.

  Robyn had her shoes off and Rusty had to jog a few steps to catch up to her as she walked toward the pier. Fishing poles poked over its edge and every so often the lines would glint in the lights that lined its length. The waves crashed onto the beach and the wind was a steady force, making his hair feel sticky. He’d missed that feeling.

  “Did you enjoy all that magic?” he said, almost shouting over the sounds of nature.

  “I did,” she said. “I think I’ve had enough for one night, but I really did.”

  “Me too,” Rusty said.

  Their hands found each other just like they had in the car. There was no nervousness that time.

  “Hey, do you want to walk out on the pier?” Rusty asked.

  “Sure. They terrify me, but sure.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess it’s because you can see the ocean through the cracks. And it moves. It always made me nervous.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Rusty said and tugged her back toward the ramp. She went along with him, smiling the entire time. They walked out past the fishermen and spectators and saw all manner of creature hauled up on lines from spot to sheepshead to small sharks. When they reached the end, they looked down the beach at the lights on all of the rental homes. It was like a sign, pointing them onward to bigger and better things. Rusty liked how she felt up against him. For a moment, he squinted into the wind. Then his arms were around her. Then she turned and they were kissing.

  “I don’t want to go back to my crappy motel room,” he said.

  “Come on, Strings,” she said. “I know a better place.”