by Peter Seth
As I stood up to get Stewie’s attention, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I thought it was one of the Doggies, and I turned around, ready to snap – and it was Rachel. Right up close to my face.
“Hi,” she breathed.
“Hi!” I said. “My God! How have you been?”
“Not so good,” she said. Her face was puffy and her eyes were red from crying. “You think we can go outside for a minute?”
I spun out of my seat, and we were outside almost instantly.
“How have I been?” she said, her arms crossed, shivering in front of me on the balcony outside the Rec Hall. “I’ve been better, I can tell you that. I’ve been on the phone all day long, off and on, with my mother and my father. First, my mother; then, my father. Then, this judge! Then both of them again. It looks like the divorce is being finalized, and they’re both being predictably, almost perfectly horrible. I knew this was going to happen. Fighting about all this alimony money and child support money and this little thing and that little thing, and then blaming it all on me! Like it’s all my fault they hate each other’s guts!”
“Oh, baby,” I murmured.
I put my arms around her to stop her from trembling.
“Listen,” she whispered urgently. “Take me to Bailey’s tonight!”
“What?”
“I want to go to Bailey’s,” she insisted. “Take me there tonight. I’ll meet you in the parking lot after ‘Taps.’ Borrow someone’s car.”
“But won’t you get in trouble?” I asked.
“I. Don’t. Care,” she said, staring straight into my eyes. “All my life I’ve heard about Bailey’s; now I wanna go. I’ve got to get out of here tonight. Please?”
I could tell that she had been through a heartbreaking day, and this was a kind of test to see if I would help her when she really needed it.
“OK,” I said. “Sure. Of course.” I could tell that was what she wanted to hear, what she needed to hear, and so I said it. “The parking lot. After ‘Taps.’”
She turned and ran down the balcony, to go around the Rec Hall and back to the other side. I was instantly excited by the thought of taking her to Bailey’s, even though C.I.T.s weren’t allowed off campus, so the possibility of her/us getting into trouble if we were caught was more like a probability. Still, at that moment, with Rachel so unhappy, what she wanted mattered more to me than anything. So I decided to make it happen for her. Dale had called her “a loose cannon.” Maybe she was. But maybe that’s one of the reasons that I was so attracted to her. I was/am such a self-controlled, level-headed, take-no-risk kind of person. Maybe just what I needed was a loose cannon in my life.
Record of Events #10 - entered Saturday, 11:14 P.M.
≁
We lost the counselor basketball game to Tioga by twelve points, which was actually a good thing. If we had won, there would have been a big Mooncliff celebration at Bailey’s. After a loss, there was less of an impulse to leave campus and celebrate.
As Stewie and I walked the Doggies across campus and back to the bunk through the dew-soaked night grass after the game, I started to put my scheme into effect.
“Hey, man,” I said, “you going into town tonight?”
“Nah,” he said. “Marcy has O.D.”
“So,” I asked innocently. “What’re you thinking of doing?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe go down to the Rec Hall and play some ping-pong. Beat the Munk’s ass again, with his fancy Chinese grip.”
“OK,” I said. “Then how about you let me borrow your car?”
“Aww, man! . . .” he said, stopping in his tracks. “The Super-Coupe?”
I hadn’t asked to borrow it all summer, but this was the time.
“Look, Stewie, I’m a great driver,” I pressed my case. “And I’m only going into town.”
“Awwww, mannnnn!” he repeated, and started walking again. I stayed with him.
“I haven’t asked you all summer, and it’s –”
“OK!” he said suddenly, before I had to push any harder.
“Great,” I replied.
“What am I gonna say: ‘No’? You’re my dude.”
“Thanks, man,” I said. “You’re the best.”
“You gonna take, uh, you-know-who into town?” he asked in a lowered voice.
“Perhaps,” I hedged.
“OK,” he said with a note of doubt in his voice. “But take care,” he continued. “I mean with the upholstery. No spills, if you understand my drift. There’s a blanket in the trunk.”
“Thanks, man, I owe you.”
He snickered and said, “You are completely wacko . . . And I don’t know nothing about this.”
≁
With the keys to the Super-Coupe jingling in my pocket, I hurried across the campus as the last notes of “Taps” played from the P.A. system. Stewie had said, “Get out of here!” and I was happy to oblige. I signed out at the Main Office and fortunately nobody was there to ask me for a ride into town. I don’t know how I would have lied my way out of that one.
Thank goodness there were a couple of floodlights illuminating the parking lot because the rest of the night was pitch-black. Stewie told me that he’d parked his car at the far end under some trees to “minimize solar damage.” I walked down the long, wide center row, wondering if Rachel was there already; hoping, really. I couldn’t call her name: someone might hear me. But I didn’t see anybody. Maybe she couldn’t get away. Maybe Estelle or Sara or Harriet or somebody kept her back. I just had to trust that she would be there, as she said she would, just as I would want her to trust me.
There was Stewie’s Plymouth – I have a hard time calling it “the Super-Coupe” with a straight face – right under the trees, just where he said it would be. I felt for his keys in my pocket. I would get the car and drive it toward the Main Office. Maybe she would see me there: How could she miss this big, bright turquoise thing?
“Hey!” someone called me from behind.
I spun around and saw this little guy with a moustache in dark clothes and a black ski cap coming out from between a couple of cars. It took me a second to realize that the little guy was Rachel.
She smiled mischievously, declaring, “Hey, man!” her hands on her hips. “Well, what do you think?”
I was speechless.
“I’m going to Bailey’s in disguise!” she whispered delightedly. “I took a fake moustache from backstage when I helped with the make-up for The King and I. And now, even if someone sees us, they won’t know who I am!”
She beamed with pride at her idea.
“Wow,” I said, still recovering from not recognizing her. She’d really surprised me, which is hard to do. I usually think that I can anticipate most people’s behavior, but she really threw me with this one.
“Let’s go!” she said. “Before I lose my nerve.”
“OK . . .” I said. “Man.”
She sat very close to me as I drove the Plymouth out of the parking lot and down the road out of the Moon-shak. I was very careful to do everything perfectly in the Super-Coupe. Driving a strange car is, well . . . strange, and I didn’t want to make a mistake with Stewie’s pride and joy. But something else was at the back of my mind.
“So you’ve been planning this for a while,” I said. “If you swiped that moustache before.”
She paused a little and said, “Maybe.”
“Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?” I teased.
“No,” she said, cuddling closer, but I could tell that she was lying. And she knew that I knew that she lying. But it all didn’t matter; we were out and together.
I kept both hands firmly on the wheel – ten o’clock and two o’clock – as I felt her next to me. I hadn’t driven since the end of June, and it felt great to be moving again. But I had to be careful: Stewie’s car had g
ood power, and the twisty, unlit two-lane blacktop that led to Boonesville demanded all my attention.
Rachel turned on the radio and leaned back against me.
“Go faster,” she said, and I tried to oblige. She turned up the volume – the song was “Nowhere to Run” by Martha and the Vandellas – and moved in closer. I kept my eyes on the road as the forest whipped by on both sides. At that moment, when we were free – alone, with speed and music and the night all to ourselves – I could have, should have driven on forever, to Canada maybe, and avoided so much future tragedy. But Stewie would have wanted his car back, and my curfew was midnight.
Bailey’s itself was nothing. I mean, it really was a shack. A big shack in the middle of a gravel parking lot off to the side of Route Zero in the middle of nowhere, with neon beer signs in the windows: “Schaefer” . . . “Rheingold” . . . “Rolling Rock.” But when you walked into Bailey’s, when the door swung open and you got that first sweet/stale whiff of cigarettes and beer and sweat and perfume, when you looked into the smoky darkness and saw the drinkers at the bar and the bumper-pool shooters in the back and the dancers jockeying around the jukebox blasting some prime, primal Stones, you knew that you were in someplace special. Somewhere you could relax and just be yourself, disguises notwithstanding. Not that there weren’t hundreds if not thousands of bars or honky-tonks like Bailey’s all over the U.S. of A. It’s just that this was our honky-tonk, our place – where we felt comfortable and could be ourselves, away from the authority of Jerry or Harriet or any Marshak whatsoever, if only for a few hours. And, to tell you the truth, it was the only Boonie bar that actually welcomed the counselors from Mooncliff and the other camps in the area. Tioga, Blue Lake, Deerhead, etc. The rest of the Boonie bars were strictly for the locals.
So when we walked in, my small friend with the moustache and I, the first thing I did was stop and scope out the room to see if there was anyone there from Mooncliff: anyone who might recognize me, much less Rachel, much less Rachel in disguise. Or, for that matter, anyone who might notice that the guy next to me was a girl. But, fortunately, no one noticed me or us at all.
“What do you think?” I asked her.
“I don’t see anyone,” she muttered.
“OK, let’s go.” I put my head down and went straight for the farthest, darkest corner of the place. At first, I held out my hand to take hers.
“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed at me, slapping my hand down.
“Sorry,” I whispered, pulling it back quickly. “Force of habit.” Two guys holding hands would be highly suspicious in Bailey’s. It wasn’t that kind of bar.
There was a vacant booth in the corner beyond the bumper-pool table, and we went for it. I moved into one side, and she took the other. We looked at each other, excited and nervous, across the worn wooden tabletop.
“We made it,” I said. “I think. So far.”
“This is great,” she trilled. “I can’t believe I’m here.” She pressed her fake moustache back on; it was peeling off a little at the edges because she was smiling so widely.
“So . . .” I said. “What do you think of the legendary Bailey’s?”
“I think I love you,” she said simply. I wanted to immediately reach across the table to hold her hands – well, I wanted to do more than that – but I couldn’t even touch her.
“Really?” I said. “That’s very nice . . . Joe.” She still had the ski hat on, concealing her hair, and that stupid moustache, but she was Rachel underneath. “I love you too,” I whispered back to her.
Which I could tell that it was the right thing to say because she practically purred.
“What if I came over and sat on that side with you?” she said. Even in this dark corner, the look in her eyes burned right into me. And she knew it.
“I think that could be very dangerous,” I said.
Just then, a squat waitress in an apron approached our table, interrupting us.
“So, what’ll you have, fellas?” she said as she dropped a basket of snack mix in front of us.
We looked straight at each other and did not laugh.
“Uhhh, two Rolling Rocks,” I said, in a voice deep enough for the two of us that almost made Rachel crack up.
The waitress looked down at us, paused for a torturous moment, then said, “Two Rocks, it is.”
She walked away from the table just before we imploded in stifled laughter. Rachel grabbed a handful of the snack mix, ate a piece, and threw a piece at me.
“Hey!” I said, catching it against my neck. I instantly ate it, whatever it was: some salty pretzel-like substance. “Yech.”
She giggled, “I can’t believe I’m actually here, after hearing about it all these years. After the kind of day I’ve had . . .” She looked away for a moment, somber thoughts suddenly clouding her mind.
“Yeah, well . . .” I said sympathetically. I didn’t want to press her. If she wanted to talk about what was going on with her parents, that was up to her. She was the one under pressure; I was there to help and support her.
“I was on the phone with my mother three times and my father twice. Can you believe it?” she said grimly. “They even made me speak to the judge!”
“A judge? Wow,” I said. I really did feel sorry for her. (Sorry, Your Honor.)
The waitress put the beers on the table between us, along with two little napkins.
“Anything else?” she said. “Kitchen closes at eleven. You can pay me when you’re ready.” And left without so much as looking at us.
I picked up the mug of beer and toasted Rachel.
“To you,” I said.
“No,” she said. “To you.”
“To the Super-Coupe!” I said. Which satisfied us both, and so we drank carefully through the foam.
“You know,” she said, wiping off her mouth. “I don’t really like beer.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” I said. “Watch your – !”
She half rubbed her moustache off, but I warned her quickly enough, and she smoothed it back on.
“Ohmygod,” she said, pressing her upper lip, looking around to see if anyone noticed. “Is it still there?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Harry.”
She gave me a smirk and said, “I thought I was ‘Joe.’ Don’t I look like a Joe?”
“Frankly, no,” I shot back. “We’re lucky it’s dark in here, and everyone’s half smashed.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said. “This stupid table between us. I can’t stand it. Let’s get out of here. Pay her, and let’s go.”
She got up, and I got right up with her. Fortunately, I was getting used to her sudden changes in mood and desire, and was ready to keep up with her. I dug into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet as Rachel walked away from the table. I threw some bills on the table, making sure that I left a good tip for that wonderfully oblivious waitress.
As I went after Rachel, I noticed a couple of counselors from Mooncliff at the bar whom I hadn’t noticed before, a couple of the Junior girl counselors. I ducked my face, pretending to scratch my cheek, so I don’t think that they saw me as I dodged around a waitress and followed Rachel quickly out the door.
The night air instantly hit me hard and cold. Where was she – in the dark?
“It stinks in there!” she said in a loud voice. “Yuck!” She was standing off to the side, down the steps, in the parking lot.
“Sssshhh!” I tried to quiet her.
“It smells like a smelly, old ashtray!” she said. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
I rushed down off the porch, to keep her from talking.
“Ssshh!” I said. “That’s what all bars smell like!”
“But that’s disgusting! Double yuck!”
“Stop it,” I said. “You sound like a girl!”
“I am a girl!” she
said. She stripped off her moustache and ripped off her ski cap. She shook her head, sending her long hair flying in the night air. That stopped me right there: it was incredibly sexy, like something a Bond girl would do.
“Yes, you definitely are,” I said and held out my hand for hers. She grabbed it, and we ran to Stewie’s car. It was cold, and we needed to be together after all that wasted time, separated by that very stupid table. As I ran, I tried to reach into my pocket to get Stewie’s keys, but it’s hard to run and reach at the same time.
“Hurry!” she said, shivering. “It’s cold out there!”
“I know, I know,” I said, finally digging out the keys and looking for the right one. I thought about Marcus’ crack about “raging hormones” and had to stop myself from laughing out loud.
“W-w-what’s the matter?” she stammered, stamping her feet to generate some warmth.
“My fingers won’t work,” I said, separating the keys and trying to pick out the ignition key.
“Here it is!” I opened the driver’s side door and let Rachel dive in, just missing the steering wheel. I scooted in after her and slammed the door. I jammed the key into the ignition and revved up the engine.
“It’s fur-eezing!” she wailed, rubbing her hands together and moving up close to me.
“It’ll heat up soon,” I reassured her, checking to make sure that I had the heater on high.
I turned to her, relieved to see her non-moustached face and flowing hair again.
“It’ll heat up now,” she said.
We fell into each other’s arms, and . . . and the rest is personal. Extremely personal. (The memories of those moments and moments like them are just about all that I have left to myself. Almost everything else about Rachel and me has been excavated, dissected, and displayed by the judicial system and the media, in tandem, for all the world to ridicule and/or enjoy. Can’t some things be private anymore?) Let’s just say that when we surfaced some time later, the windows of the Super-Coupe were all clouded, and we were where all lovers want to be. I didn’t know what time it was, so I turned on the radio.