The Vinyl Underground

by Rob Rufus

  Then we pushed the Bel Air out of the garage. Stars beamed off the hood like spotlights on an intergalactic showroom floor. The car rolled slow and steady.

  “Right or left?” she asked, once we reached the edge of the driveway.

  “Right,” I said.

  I turned the wheel and we lunged in unison. We pushed that hunk of metal all the way down our sleeping street. We didn’t stop until we reached the next block. Then we leaned on the roof of the car to catch our breath.

  “OK,” I panted, “four hours to kill. Where do ya wanna go?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Somewhere on the island I haven’t been. Dealer’s choice, take me someplace special, someplace close to your heart.”

  Her words lingered in my mind for a moment.

  Then I got back in the car. I pulled down the visor as she slid in beside me. The key dropped into my palm. I slid it into the ignition. I took a deep breath.

  “Here goes nothin’,” I said, and turned the key.

  The 409 engine exploded to life. It roared like a beast stirred from slumber, a cry louder than that of King Kong, Mothra, Godzilla, and Richard Nixon combined.

  The Platters were playing on the radio.

  They sang “Sea of Love.”

  Someplace close to your heart, I thought. I knew where to go. Closer to my heart than she could’ve imagined, directly to the center, right where it was cracked.

  ―

  The graveyard was small, only about ten yards in each direction. A rusty iron fence outlined three corners, but the far end was left open, overlooking the marsh. In the daytime you might glimpse a turtle or alligator, or admire the feminine curve of the mainland arching beyond the divide.

  But at night, the marsh life was invisible. It existed only though sound. Bugs, bullfrogs, and unknown noises echoed up at us, muffled only by the Bel Air’s radio, playing “Hurdy Gurdy Man,” who was singing songs of lo-o-ove.

  I parked right against the gate. I left the engine running. The headlights outlined the crooked branches of the live oak that loomed over the boneyard. It looked like a monstrously brittle claw and cast eerie shadows around us. We walked beneath its grasp, and I led Hana to my brother’s grave.

  It was the third one to left of the overlook.

  “That’s it,” I said, and pointed.

  Hana moved her fingers across the letters that were carved into the stone.

  BRUCE ADDISON BINGHAM

  Brother, Hero, Soldier, Son

  July 3rd 1949—August 21ST 1967

  “I put an outfit together for the burial,” I told her. “His favorite jeans, his Converse, his letterman jacket. His shades.”

  “Cool for eternity, huh?” She smiled.

  “That was the idea. But he already had on a fancy uniform when they flew his body home. He had a flag folded over his heart.”

  “The government’s full of ghouls,” she sighed, “spinning tragedies into advertisements for nobility. I can’t imagine how hard that was, man.”

  I touched the cut on my forehead. It still stung like a swarm of wasps. I looked over at Hana. “What if we aren’t much better?” I asked.

  “This about last night? Milo mentioned you had some regrets.”

  “I don’t regret it,” I said, “I just wanna know what you think.”

  “Well,” she said, “I think free will is an American right, at least in principle. But I think living is an existential one, and that trumps everything else. So yeah, maybe we fucked some kids outta their right to play soldier, but we protected their right to exist. They’re free to keep on living, and that’s all the justification I need.”

  With that, she ran a hand through her short hair, and strolled farther down the marsh. I lingered a moment longer, staring at the words on Bruce’s grave.

  We protected their right to exist, I mused. A sadness crept over my heart. Bruce was gone and the draft was gone and soon Hana would be gone, too. Would his dream of being a DJ be all I had left? What was a dream without a dreamer?

  “Just another ghost.” I sighed.

  Then I walked to the overlook, searching for Hana. “I’d Rather Go Blind” came on the radio, and Etta James tugged at heartstrings that were already torn and frayed. I found her sitting against a headstone, looking out at the marsh. I sat down beside her. I leaned against the same grave.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “College, and DJing, and . . . I dunno. I just don’t know what I should do.”

  “You’re going to college,” she assured me. “Don’t you think your brother would want you to do your own thing? I mean, Raspy Ronnie doesn’t exactly seem like a stand-alone celebrity DJ to me.”

  “I guess. But letting go of it just, it doesn’t feel OK. It—“

  I shuddered, unable to finish the sentence.

  She took my hand in hers. Neither of us looked at each other.

  “I just don’t feel OK,” I mumbled.

  “Me, either,” she said, and then gripped my hand harder, “but we will. We can be OK, Ronnie. We can get out from under it. I have to think we can.”

  “Yeah,” I said, squeezing back, “OK. We can.”

  I turned my face to the heavens and unfocused my eyes.

  The stars became a kaleidoscope of diamonds.

  “Maybe free will isn’t just an American right,” she said, speaking softly. “Maybe it’s, like, an existential one, too. Your brother, all the kids who never got a say in their life or death . . . maybe they’ll get a say in whatever comes after.”

  “But I thought you believe in reincarnation.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “but what if there’s an option? What if we can choose to take the ride again, or we can go the other way—out into the universal spirit, or whatever the fuck the afterlife is. Maybe it’s like, Do you wanna go back, or do you wanna go out? One last act of free will. No death can be in vain if it’s the start of a new adventure.”

  I sat very still. I didn’t reply. I let the thought sink in.

  “It doesn’t make it OK,” she whispered, “but it gives me a little hope. If they can choose to live again, then maybe we can, too.”

  “Maybe so.” I nodded, and kept my eyes fixed on the stars.

  “Cry to Me” came on the Bel Air’s radio. Solomon Burke’s voice glided over the cemetery on invisible waves. A breeze picked up off the marsh and sent a rustling through the branches above us. Hana squeezed my hand tighter.

  I turned to her. She smiled.

  “Dig that universal spirit, Ronnie. It’s groovin’ all around.”

  ―

  We didn’t talk much for the rest of the night. We just drove.

  We kept the windows down and the radio turned all the way up as we pounded the A1A onto Route 17 onto Highway 9, and then farther—onto unnamed stretches of backroads, sandy veins zigzagging across the hide of northern Florida. The 409 ran smooth and fearless underneath the stars. It provided us with an unearned sense of protection, as if our problems were deflected as long as we were cradled inside.

  I kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. Hana dangled a cigarette between her fingers and propped her feet on the dash. The radio played a roadhouse jam, “Love Me Two Times” by The Doors.

  The clock read 4:33 a.m. in green.

  I veered onto Imeson Way. A sign said the airport was coming up ahead. Hana turned the radio down to a whisper.

  “Ronnie,” she said seriously, “I really need you to take care of my records.”

  “Don’t you get it? The last guy who asked me to do that went to Vietnam, and never came back to claim ʼem. If you pull the same shit, it’ll ruin music forever! Between you and my brother, every song in the world would be a funeral march.”

  “You’re delusional,” she scoffed. “I told
you fifty times that I’m not going to Vietnam, dipshit! I’m just an intern, Jesus Christ. For a guy hung up on free will, you sure don’t have a fuckin’ problem trying to deprive me of mine.”

  “What? You know I don’t wanna do that.”

  “Then you’ve gotta let me go,” she said. “But you’ve gotta keep my records so I stay on your mind whether I’m in Chicago, or Vietnam, or Timbuk-fuckin-tu. Maybe it’s selfish for me to want all that, but I don’t really care.”

  A plane thundered overhead before I could reply.

  Both of us shut up.

  Farther down the road, the terminal came into view. The sun wasn’t out yet, and Imeson Airport was poorly lit. But I could see the control tower flashing in the dark. I slowed the Bel Air to a crawl. The road veered onto a roundabout that circled the front of the airport.

  I pulled up to the front entrance.

  Reluctantly, I shifted the car into park. The hum of unseen engines was like the phantom sounds that once haunted my ears.

  I turned to her.

  “I’ll look after your records,” I said, “but only ʼtil I come see you in Chicago. And if you’re not in Chicago, if you’re in some war zone, I’m sellin’ ʼem all.”

  “What’ll you do with the money?”

  “Take out an ad in the Tribune and tell everyone what a lying, selfish asshole you are.”

  “Front page?”

  “Naturally,” I said.

  She smiled. “That’s fair, I guess.”

  She reached over and took my hand.

  “Nothing can grow in a shadow, Ronnie. Don’t forget it while I’m gone.”

  I nodded. She squeezed my hand once more, then let it drop.

  “Need help with your bags?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “don’t get out. I don’t wanna have a weepy crybaby goodbye.”

  “Shit,” I scoffed, “we ain’t gonna have a weepy goodbye—”

  “Whatever you say, sweaty eyes.”

  That got both of us laughing. Our giggles tapered off into a comfortable, comradely silence. Hana looked down at her lap. My eyes stayed fixed on her.

  “Hey,” she said, “I’m sorry I called you a dipshit.”

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Sorry for being one.”

  Her eyes turned back to me.

  “Peace?” I asked.

  “Peace.”

  “We don’t have anything to smoke this time.”

  “Well,” she smiled, “then this will have to do.”

  She leaned over and kissed me. My shoulders eased while the rest of my body simultaneously filled with life. Her lips branded me with her strength, with her courage, with the moment, with our moment.

  But then, the moment was gone.

  Hana got out of the car and onto the pavement before I’d even opened my eyes. They refocused in time to see her walk into the terminal—one bag per hand, both feet rushing forward, strutting fearlessly toward whatever waited for her beyond the coming horizon.

  She was gone.

  But the heat of the kiss remained.

  Burning. Burning.

  Now until forever.

  Then again after that.

  twenty-four

  Profiles in Courage

  I stopped for gas at the Texaco just west of O’Neill. I went into the diner to get a coffee, and then headed back onto the A1A toward home. The stars faded back beyond the beyond, and the first tinge of blue brushed across the morning sky. I’d flipped the radio off at the airport, and now I just listened to the engine and the wind and the wheels on the road.

  The drive cleared my head. I felt surer of my decision to go to California with Milo. There was no reason I couldn’t explore my options out west before fall semester. I would plan on college but keep myself open to other possibilities—if the answer really was blowin’ in the wind, maybe I needed to go drift for a while.

  I turned off of the highway and veered onto the bridge that stretched over the marsh. Both lanes of traffic were empty. I turned my head to the open window. The air smelled swampy, salty and old.

  I couldn’t look away from the horizon, or the coming sunrise that preceded itself with a trail of fiery light. I leaned back and dug all the beauty around me.

  Then the bridge arched downward, to Cordelia Island.

  Before I knew it, I’d merged onto Main Street. It was strange driving through my town as it readied itself for the day; seeing family breakfasts through kitchen windows, shoeless men jogging out for the paper, women in bathrobes taking dogs for a piss. These were my neighbors at their most genuine, just trying to get by, same as everyone else.

  Where did their hatred hide in the morning hours, I wondered.

  Maybe hate takes more than coffee to roust, or maybe it never sleeps?

  I pondered on it pointlessly until I reached my street. Then my thoughts turned to more pressing matters, like how to keep my parents from knowing I took Bruce’s car out of the garage. I assumed they were still at the breakfast table, so I figured I could push the car into the garage, the same way I’d taken it out. If I entered through the front door, I could just pretend I’d spent the night at Milo’s.

  My plan seemed pretty good until I saw Dad standing in the driveway. He was leaning against the open door, sipping a cup of coffee. The sight of him shocked my system; I was unable to react, reassess, or abort. The car kept moving forward, as if the wheels ran on the steel tracks of a terrible rollercoaster ride called GROUNDED FOR LIFE. The car turned into our driveway, coasted to the edge of the garage, and stopped.

  The ride was over.

  I sat perfectly still, unsure of what to say. Then a Dad-sized shadow spread across the hood. I could smell his aftershave through the window. I cleared my throat and summoned the guts to turn and face him.

  “She give ya any trouble?” was all he said.

  “Uh, nope,” I sputtered. “She ran real good.”

  He smiled and patted the roof. He didn’t look the least bit angry. I was half-convinced I was hallucinating, and I wondered if the lack of sleep had finally caught up with me. I hesitantly unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car.

  “You look good in that thing,” he said, but then his words trailed off and his eyes drifted away. He sighed and shook his head.

  “You sore at me?” I finally asked.

  “Nah,” he said, “just mad at myself, son. Just mad at myself.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and he squeezed.

  “You oughta take the Bel Air to school today,” he said, changing his tone.

  “Really?” I stammered.

  “Riding with your old man must be gettin’ stale,” he said, “now come on, speed demon, your eggs are gettin’ cold.”

  ―

  Country ham. Eggs over easy. Three more cups of coffee.

  Zero questions from my parents. They didn’t ask where I took the car, who I was with all night, or why. We just sat together as a family and ate a normal sleepy Monday breakfast.

  The caffeine didn’t hit me until I went upstairs to change for school. I felt exhausted and wide awake all at once, a dazed and jittery zombie. I pulled on a fresh shirt, brushed my hair down, and threw a stick of gum in my mouth. Then I grabbed my backpack and hurried away from my bed’s sweet siren song.

  I shut the door behind me, but then froze.

  The term paper! I never finished it!

  I tried to think. I tried to think. I tried to think.

  I went back into my room and sat down at my desk. I scanned the notes scattered across it, hoping a quick political narrative would pop out at me. I was sure I’d have to ask for an extension, or partial credit . . . but then I stopped.

  “No,” I said out loud, “no more politics.”

  I turned away from the books. I got up and walked back into
the hall, then into Bruce’s bedroom. I unzipped my backpack and dumped the contents onto the hardwood floor. Then I looked to the shelves and my special vinyl collection.

  I put all fifteen 45s in the bag, then hurried downstairs.

  I didn’t bother closing the door behind me.

  I went through the kitchen and kissed Momma goodbye, then shot Roy a smile on my way into the garage. It’d been so long since I’d walked in to find it empty—so I paused for a moment to admire how good the Bel Air looked in the sunlight. The sun made the paint job warble like an eight-cylinder mirage.

  “Holy hell!” Milo squealed.

  I smiled and continued outside. Milo was standing at the edge of his porch, looking at the car in disbelief. When he spotted me, he trampled down the steps and stumbled across the yard.

  “It’s alive!” he yelled.

  “Yeah,” I laughed, “it’s alive!”

  He tossed his backpack through the open passenger window.

  “You not walkin’ to school today?”

  “Walking’s for dogs, baby,” he said, in his best Robert Mitchum.

  I rolled my eyes. We climbed in.

  Then I turned the engine over, revving it up a few times for show.

  Milo clapped wildly at the sound of the roar. We backed out of the driveway and headed down the street. Both of us looked over at Hana’s house as we passed it, but neither of us said a word. When we reached the next block, Milo boosted himself halfway out the window.

  “I wish I had my camera!” he hollered.

  “Get back in here, idiot,” I snapped, “your glasses are gonna blow off.”

  “Sorry, dear,” he said as he slid back inside.

  He turned on the radio. The DJ was doing his thing.

  “. . . gettin’ you down? You got a case of those Monday blues? Well don’t y’all fret now, ʼcause summertime is just around the bend. I’m talkin’ sunshine, beach babes, and, heck, maybe even a few Beach Boys.”

  The first bars of “Sloop John B” built under the DJ’s introduction.

  “Aw, man”—Milo smiled—“I love this song.”

  “Me too.”

  We drove past the rubble of the school auditorium. Police tape ran across all three windows. Milo and I gawked at the sight but stayed quiet. Then I pulled into the student lot, which was nearly deserted. The few kids there seemed to recognize the car. I admit, I got a kick out of how they stared.