“Jane!” Hank shouted.”
A loud horn cut the air, and Jane disappeared behind the string of cars whizzing past Hank’s vision. As each car passed, he felt the air current brush against his face. The last car sped by. Jane was still frozen in her tracks clutching the base of the tripod. Looking both ways, he ran toward her. She was shaking.
“Are you alright! Why didn’t you move? You had plenty of time.”
“I just froze. If it hadn’t been for the tripod, I might have had it. I could feel myself being pulled in. Don’t tell Jack. He’ll lose it.”
Pharo set his fishing rig down and perched on the bank of Rosedale Lake. He opened the cooler and cracked open a can of beer. Tying the fishing hook to the end of the line with a cinch knot, he attached a bobber between the stop knot and slip shot. With a wide sweeping arch, he cast the line into the lake and sat down beneath the tree. His mind wandered:
I am not going to fight a war in Vietnam. Ali refused. Where do I go? Maybe Puerto Rico. Canada? White bread. Not going south anytime soon. It was a French war. Why did we step in? Communists. Chicken Chow Mein. I am not coming back barbecued in a bag. No way.
“Pharo!” a voice called out from behind. “How about a beer?”
Pharo reached into the cooler and handed Zareb a beer. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah, I slept it off. What time did you leave?” Zareb asked.
“I left when the band quit,” Pharo replied.
“The horn players were amazing, from Philly. I would have stayed, but my dime ran out,” Zareb lamented.
“You were fugazy anyway,” Pharo observed.
“Not that bad,”
“Fugazy,” Pharo repeated.
“Catch anything?”
“I haven’t been here long. If you keep talkin’...”
“Sorry man.” Zareb stood up, “I’ll stop by later.” Pharo set his eyes on the ripples in the lake. A cool breeze swept the bank helping him forget. He watched and waited.
The Merry-Go-Round bar was crowded in the late afternoon. Jane tended drinks at one end of the bar. The jukebox blared. The older clientele sipped beers from the tap, their paunch bellies hanging over their belts. Younger couples flirted. Another group of young men roared at the basketball playoffs on the television. Jane stood encircled behind the oblong bar. Jack Molloy sat at one end with a cigarette fixed between his two left fingers, a glass of beer bubbling in the glass, his left-hand gesturing, and his eyes fixed on the television screen.
“Jane, another one,” a patron called out. Jane took the glass and filled it from the tap. She set the beer in front of him. “Why do you wear your hair so short?” he asked. “Are you trying to look like Twiggy?”
“No,” she replied.
“It looks good,” he continued, “Are you a dyke?”
“No,” Jane replied.
She grabbed the dollar bill and walked to the register. Returning, she placed a quarter on the bar before him.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?” the patron asked.
“No, I’m an artist.”
“Artist! Can you paint my picture?”
“No. Sorry.”
“You’re a starving artist?”
“I studied art in Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“My father lives in Chicago.”
“You’re a long way from Chicago,” he pointed out.
“My father graduated from Princeton. My mother is from Princeton.”
Jane moved away to the next customer. She scooped ice into a shaker, added vodka, placed a pint glass on top, shook then strained a chilled martini that she garnished with an olive. She moved over to Jack.
“We dropped the footage off at Photo Haven.”
“I am on the wall there. I need to make a payment,” Jack said.
“We shot a few alleyways and abandoned storefronts.”
“I have a student from the construction team who is willing to build a screen for the June assembly. We need to visit the art supply store. What was that canvas you suggested?”
“Pre-gessoed canvas,” Jane answered.
“We’re going to need all the light we can to hit that screen from the second row. When that curtain opens slowly to reveal a huge monolith of a screen, the width of the stage.”
“We’ll need to measure the stage,” Jane replied.
“I’ll drive you over during fourth period. Kitty has been on my back about the yard. She wants me to do the gardening.” Jack lifted the golden beer to his lips and sipped. The bar door swung open.
“Malloy! You drinking your lunch again?” Ben greeted.
“Boss…sit down,” Jack replied to the high school janitor. “Everything locked up?”
“Done for the day.”
“Pour Ben a beer,” he motioned to Jane.
“I am a little late. The principal was in his office with someone. I waited for his car to leave.”
“You’re the eyes and ears of that school, Vinson,” Jack said.
Ben sat next to Jack and lifted the beer sipping the foam.
“Jack always sneaks into the janitor’s room to eat his lunch.” Ben said to Jane.
“The teachy lunchroom gets too crowded,” Jack complained, “They chatter on about the sales at the mall. I go there to hide,”
“You’re doing a great job with those kids, Jack,” Ben complimented.
“The students do all the work. We make our flop-flops. We go in knowing we’re going to fail, but we work for the June assembly. There’s no pressure.”
“It’s a great little club you have there in that side room. What do you call it? Nutroom?”
“The Filmnuts hide out there during their free periods. They play the music very low, or they’ll run the dailies in the back room. Jane keeps everything under control. She’s my assistant.”
Pharo carried two trout over to the park bench. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket setting the fish down on a newspaper. He severed the fish head behind the gills, removed the tail, slit the fish open lengthwise from the bottom, then eviscerated the entrails. Carefully, with sharp precision, he ran the sharp blade along the skeleton. Wrapping the filets in newspaper, he placed them into the cooler. He walked to the edge of the lake and threw the fish guts into the water.
“Pharo!” his friend Jackie called out from the path.
“Yeah.” Pharo replied.
“Got fish?”
“Yeah, for dinner.”
“Got a fish for me?”
“No, I don’t have a fish for you.”
“Come on, brother. Lay one on me.”
Pharo smiled, “I’ll gladly smack you upside the head with a fish. Go catch your own fish.”
Jackie smiled. “Ain’t got a pole. Meet tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Pharo replied.
“We’re going to Hub City.”
“One of these nights, after they wise up, they’re going to nail your ass.”
“No, Pharo. They don’t care. We just wait for them to head up front, then run in and grab a case. They don’t even miss it. You in?”
“I’m not getting caught stealing beer. I’m eighteen. I’m legal.”
Hank placed the narrow black case on his bed and lifted the metal latches, Opening the case, he lifted the Fender Telecaster from its plush resting place. He wiped down the long maple neck with a cotton cloth emblazoned in red with the logo ‘Fender’.” He plugged one end of the cable into the guitar and the other end into his used Fender amplifier. Flipping the power switch behind the amp, the red beaded glass lit up red on the front panel. The vacuum tubes warmed up slowly until the strummed strings faded in and flooded the room with sound. Clicking the toggle to the pause position, he reached under the bed and grabbed t
he “Big Muff π” distortion effects box. He plugged it in between the guitar and amplifier using a second guitar cable. He switched the pause button back to the off position. Stepping on the toggle button on the box, the amplifier screamed a thunderous growl as he strummed power chords. The sustained roar folded into the high-pitched wail of feedback that likely could have loosened Uncle Phil’s dentures.
“TURN THAT DAMN THING DOWN, NOW! YOU’RE GOING TO WAKE THE DEAD!” Hank’s mother yelled from the bottom of the steps.
The Wednesday night film club meeting had started, and Hank sat behind a large sheet of plywood spread across three classroom desks. Film projectors rested on the plywood. Two slide projectors, one on each side of the room, were aimed at the large screen that covered the backwall of the classroom.
“Tonight, we’re going to practice the opening for the June film festival. We’ll be using last year’s opening as practice,” Malloy instructed. “Tchotchke, you’ll fade the lights.”
Leonard Tchotchke spent his free time in the Audio-Visual basement working for Mr. Angelo. He had a rudimentary understanding of basic electronics and wiring. Tchotchke installed a light bulb socket above the nutroom door. The wigwag, which he named it, lit up red when a recording session was in progress. He also refused to wear socks because as he explained, “Einstein found them useless.” Jane sat behind the two center projectors, with Dede Allen on her left, and Hank on her right.
“Ok, we’re on a ten. Bergman, are you ready on the sound?”
“All set,” Bergman’s voice echoed from the control desk.
“Tchotchke, we’ll fade slowly on a two. We’re on a nine. Dede, Hank, are you in place?”
“Ready.”
“We’re moving to a six. Slide projectors, all cued?”
“Ready”
“All right then we’re on a four, three, lights fading on a two, cue sound, one and fade!”
The opening jazz version of Also Sprach Zarathustra filled the room. The filmnuts waited for the sound cue. When the drums began a steady beat, Malloy called ‘hit’. The screen was flooded in a collage of still and moving images. The opener played for four minutes as outtakes of film students were shown making their short films. A few students were recognizable, others had graduated high school.
The lights came up. “Problems? Comments?” Malloy inquired.
A student entered and stood observing the commotion from the back of the room. “This is our new student whom I borrowed from the wood shop. He’s going to build our monolithic screen for the festival. This is Pharo,” Malloy said.
Hank swallowed hard, he’ll ruin everything, he thought to himself. The football field, the blows to the head, Pharo’s temper; it all came rushing back to Hank’s memory. He tried to avoid eye contact, pretending that he wasn’t there.
“Who would be available next weekend to shoot at the Washington Crossing open air theater. We’re making a film with the soul dancers. I have my scout recruiting the dancers. The word is out. If you are available, give your name to Kubrick, and we’ll make a list. Anyone with a car who is willing to transport students, put your name on the transportation list.” Hank approached Jane as the reels of film were whizzing back, rewinding onto their reels. “I’ll drive people,” Hank said.
“Would you like to run a projector? We’re going to look at the rushes from the alleyways.” Hank opened one of the sealed yellow cardboard boxes. He spooled the film through the sprocket of the projector and waited for Malloy’s cue. The slow motion black and white alleyways swept across the screen, followed by shots of abandoned row homes, closed businesses, and a shot of railroad tracks, a light approaching from the far-off distance. “Turn it off,” Jane nudged Hank. He hit the switch, and the screen went dark. Hank was worried about Pharo. Did he remember? Would he lose his temper again?
On Saturday, Hank picked Jane up at the Tower and proceeded to the Village. “We’re picking up Andrea, Jakoda and Pharo,” Jane said.
“Pharo! I had trouble with him in gym class, He went off on me.”
“He’s nice,” Jane reassured Hank, “We spoke to him, and Jack is paying him to build the screen.”
When Pharo climbed into the backseat of Hank’s Buick, their eyes met, “Hi,” Pharo greeted and smiled. “Hi,” Hank repeated. The Buick turned off River Road and entered the park down a winding path that led to the outside stage. Several cars had already arrived, and Andrea, an amiable young girl with an Afro, introduced her friends.
“This is Kade, Ratchet, Buzzy, Jakoda and Buck.”
“Hi, I’ve seen a few of you in the halls,” Hank answered.
Walking over to the girls huddled around a wooden bench, she continued, “This is Darlene, Vanessa, Kenya, and Bootsy.” Bergman pulled up in a Ford truck, followed by Malloy in a Chevy station wagon with “Mario’s Pizza” painted on the driver’s side door. The group assembled on the open-air stage, and on Malloy’s countdown, the music was cued, and the group danced to soul music booming from Bergman’s 8-Track player. A second group of students captured the action with super-8 cameras.
“Cut! OK.”
Jakoda approached Jack and they spoke for a few seconds. After a brief interaction, Jack spoke to the camera people. “We’re going to do one more take. Jakoda will be dancing on top of the roof at the back of the stage. On my cue, he is going to jump from the roof to the stage floor. We’re waiting for camera people. Be sure to film Jakoda when he jumps.” The music cued and the dancing resumed. At Jack’s cue, Jakoda sprung from the roof, landing on his feet, bending at the knees, and rising from the stage floor like a graceful cougar. After the shoot, Jane invited Hank, Pharo and Dede to her apartment to sample the music she was considering for the film. Pharo asked to stop at the package goods store on the way to the Tower. He also picked up a few vinyl records.
“Do you mind if I bring my guitar up to your apartment? I’m worried it might get stolen,” Hank asked Jane.
“Bring it,” she replied.
Hank opened the trunk and removed the hard case by the handle.
The group settled around the table as Jane moved to the box of record albums stacked in a plastic dairy carton.
“I want you to hear something,” Jane said to Pharo. “I want to use this piece for the beginning. She pulled the vinyl disc out of its sleeve and moved the phonograph needle onto the spinning disc. The sound of a jazz flute filled the room playing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.
“What kind of music is that? It’s not dance music,” Pharo remarked.
“We’re going to use several pieces of music and cut to different rhythms.”
Pharo’s brows furrowed. He popped bottle caps and handed everyone a beer.
“The slow-motion shots will look great with this music.”
“Think so?” Pharo replied in a doubtful tone. “I brought music too.”
“We’ll play yours, but let me show you what I like,” Jane pleaded.
After the music finished, she placed another vinyl record on the spinning plate. Moving the needle to the beginning of her selection, Afternoon of a Faun. A slow upright bass and flute began the passage which floated into a conga rhythm accompanied by electric piano. Hank, Dede and Pharo sat listening, sipping cold beers. “Here’s another one I’d consider for the ending,” Jane said. She loaded the vinyl and placed the needle. Go Up Moses sounded through the stereo.
“I want to capture the feeling of struggle and the beauty of survival using forms. I’d like to express the beauty of dance in contrast to the pain and the suffering. We’ll dissolve the dancers over the empty storefronts and alleyways. Soul,” Jane explained. By the third beer, everyone began to feel at ease. “Let’s play some of my tunes,” Pharo suggested. He handed Jane an LP, and she placed it on the player. The modern funk boomed:
You are bad, bad, Cougar,
Cause in the dark, you’re a mover
With your streetwalk ways, always someone pays
Cause when you dance you manuever,
Break down, break down,
Kick the dust up, gal, get down.
Pharo stood up and began to groove to the music. “Can I see your guitar?” he asked Hank. Hank opened the case, attached the strap, and handed the instrument to Pharo; he put it around his neck the wrong way, backwards. Jane laughed and interjected, “Wait a second.” She walked over to a hope chest and grabbed a long silk scarf and wrapped it around Pharo’s neck; it hung down to his knees. She grabbed a pair of sunglasses and placed them over his eyes. Pharo continued to strut and bounce at the knees, strumming the upside-down guitar. “You look like Jimi Hendrix!” Hank called out and stood up to groove with him. Everyone began shaking it to the rhythm of the music.
Hank excused himself and headed for the bathroom. While washing his hands, he noticed Jane’s facial powder and eyeliner on the sink. He took the powder puff and puffed his face, then drew exaggerated brows over his own with the eye pencil. When he returned to the room, Jane saw him and burst out laughing. Another record album plopped onto the spinning plate and the groove continued:
Hey, hey….party all the way,
Gettin’ down in T-town,
Movin’ ‘round in T-town
When the energy began to wane, and the vibe began to fade, the music stopped.
“I know. Why don’t we go to a diner dressed this way?” Dede suggested.
“I’ll do it.” Hank agreed.
“Do you want to eat something?” Jane asked Pharo.
“The Trent diner. They’re open,” Pharo suggested. “Here Zchivago,” Pharo said handing Hank his Fender guitar. They cleaned up their act, then rode the elevator to the parking garage.
Chapter Five:
The Red Firetruck
The winter was uneventful except that old man Schreiber’s dog bit the mailman and had to be quarantined resulting in a burglary, President Nixon refused to hand over the Watergate tapes, Daylight Savings Time commenced four months earlier than usual, and Samuel Byck attempted to hijack a plane and crash it into the White House. He committed suicide when police stormed the plane. The price of gold rose from thirty-five dollars, when Nixon took the currency off the gold standard, to one-hundred and fifty-six dollars. The value of paper money was no longer tied to the precious element. The minimum wage rose to one dollar and sixty cents. Inflation continued to spiral out of control all around the world. The Kootenai Native American Tribe declared war on the United States, but they were assuaged when permitted to erect a toll booth along US highway 95.
Pure Dirt Page 10