The Last Open Road

by Burt Levy

  About 9:30 they started wheeling the cars away while a clot of official S.C.M.A. judges huddled by the starter's podium, trying to puzzle out who should go home with the trophies. Personally, I couldn't see how anybody could judge one of those cars as better or nicer or superior to any of the others. I mean, they were all beautiful. Every single one. And the owners had worked so hard primping and preening and polishing them—the real hard cases going over the damn engine compartments with scouring pads and toothbrushes and Welcher Wax-out cotton swabs to make them as immaculate as humanly possible. In fact, the lengths some of them went to seemed almost silly. But a lot of those concours types took it awful damn serious, and you could tell by the steely look in their eyes and the granite-hard thrust of their jaws that they wanted to win just as surely as any of the drivers entered in the actual races. Maybe even more so.

  I grabbed myself another beer and one of the fine local bratwursts (complete with dark mustard and sauerkraut, natch) from one of the church group refreshment stands, then moseyed down to where they were setting up a twelve-piece dance band from Chicago. But first they announced the concours winners, and suddenly everything made sense seeing as how they gave trophies out to just about everybody. Why, they had almost as many classes as they had cars in the show! Charlie Priddle of course got another big first-place mug (plus a special award for oldest car in the show) and so he was happy as a hyena on a fresh carcass. Tommy always called Charlie "a bloody pot collector," and I was sure beginning to see why.

  The official program listed, and I quote, "Dancing in the Streets" as the main activity commencing at ten P.M. on Saturday evening, and I must admit the band fired up right on schedule. There was quite a crowd left over from the concours—racers and spectators alike—and it didn't take very long before we had fox-trots and waltzes and jitterbugs and even polkas and irregularly shaped square dances going on from one end of Lake Street to the other.

  I'd never seen anything like it.

  I dropped into Schuler's Bar on the corner for a quick refill, and who should I notice over in the back corner but Creighton Pendleton and that blond-ponytail dolly from across the street. I kind of wondered what old Sally Enderle might have to say if she got wind of what was going on, and suddenly it seemed like the most excellent of notions to maybe see if I could find her. So I headed back toward the resorts, working my way through all sorts of frantic dancers and intense, nose-to-nose conversations about oil viscosities and spark-plug heat ranges and proper inflation pressures for various brands of tires. And all the while, that twelve-piece band filled the air with party music and the string of lanterns swayed in the breeze and there was whooping and shouting all up and down Lake Street like 4th of July fireworks going off.

  I eventually found Sally hanging on the end of the bar at Siebken's, working on about her seventh or eighth sloe gin fizz. "Say," she said, looking strangely happy to see me, "you clean up pretty good for a grease monkey."

  I'd forgotten about Ernesto Julio's white silk pirate shirt. "Hey, thanks," I told her, kind of pulling my shoulders back, "d'ya think I can buy you a drink?"

  "Sure. It's a free country."

  So I bought her a drink—another sloe gin fizz—and we shot the breeze for awhile about the concours and the "fashion show" she and most of the other wives and girlfriends attended over on the back steps of the Osthoff. "It was okay," she said, not sounding particularly impressed, "but they didn't have much that I liked." You got the impression that Sally Enderle was pretty damn picky about where she got her clothes.

  "Say," I said, thinking about Creighton Pendleton the Third and that blond ponytail sitting in the back of Schuler's Bar at the other end of Lake Street, "you maybe wanna go outside?"

  "What the hell for?" Sally asked, sounding bored already. She was pretty blasted, no question about it.

  "I dunno. Maybe we could, you know, maybe, uh, dance or something. . . ."

  "You know how to dance?" she said down her nose.

  "Sure," I told her. And I actually did. I mean, you don't grow up in a household with four older sisters without learning how to lead.

  Sally sucked the remainder of her sloe gin fizz through her cocktail straw and thought it over. "Nah," she said at last, "I really don't feel much like dancing."

  "Oh," I said, looking down at where my dirty tennis shoes were poking out from under the perfectly creased bottoms of Ernesto Julio's slacks.

  "Say!" she yelped, jabbing me in the arm. "Y'know what I'd like to do?"

  "What's that?"

  "Go for a swim."

  "Go for a swim?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You mean now?"

  "I mean right now!" she said, slapping her hand down on the bar.

  "B-But," I stammered, fumbling for words, "I haven't got a bathing suit. . . ."

  "So?" she snapped. "Neither do I. At least not with me. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna run all the way back t'the goddam room just t'get one. Not just t'go take a l'il dip. I mean, who the hell needs it?" Sally Enderle was drunk all right, no two ways about it. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. "Lissen," she hissed, "don't be a damn party pooper. C'mon. It'll be fun!"

  My guts went hollow as an echo and all these little alarm bells I didn't even know I had started going off in my head. But I heard myself say, "Sure. Why not?" and next thing I knew, Sally Enderle grabbed my hand and dragged me out into the night. Not that I put up much resistance. She ushered us down the darkened side of Lake Street past the Osthoff, and I guess it should've felt like some kind of dream come true—out there all alone on a perfect summer night with the beautiful, rich, and incredibly sexy Sally Enderle—except I was nervous as hell and also feeling kind of dirty-sneaky rotten at the same time. Like I was somehow cheating on Julie Finzio, you know? Even though Julie and me weren't engaged or going steady or even exactly dating each other at the time.

  Sally led me through a little gate in a chain-link fence and down a steep, narrow flight of steps toward the beach. You could hear the sounds of the street party and a loud bunch of drunks on the front porch of the Osthoff fading behind us, and down below, the water was lapping at the shoreline and you could see the reflection of that fat harvest moon floating in the water like a bucket of quicksilver spilled toward the horizon. We were having a little trouble with the steps on account of it was so dark and we were both pretty bombed, but we finally made it down to the bottom. Sally leaned her head next to mine and whispered, "Last one in's a monkey's uncle!" directly into my ear, then ran her tongue up and down the lobe for emphasis. Geez, where do women learn that stuff, anyway?

  But there was no time to think, because Sally was already unbuttoning her blouse and shimmying out of her shorts. I yanked Ernesto Julio's silk shirt up over my head (I even think I heard a little rrriiipppp when I did it) and fumbled to get out of my shoes and pants. There was a splash behind me as Sally took two quick steps and dove headfirst into the water. And I stood there for a second with my thumbs hooked into the waistband of my Jockey shorts, wondering if I really wanted to take them off. "C'mon," Sally urged with a nasty taunt to her voice, "don't be chicken . . . ."

  "H-how's the water?" I stammered while my head, heart, and fingers fought each other back and forth for control.

  "Just dreamy. C'mon. Jump in."

  "Sure I will," I heard myself say.

  "Right. Sometime before Christmas. Haw!" She rolled over in the water and took a couple slow strokes toward the swimming raft parked about fifty yards out from shore. "C'mon, chicken. What've you got to lose? Bock-ba-bok-bok-bok!" Sally could do a particularly humiliating chicken cackle.

  So I stripped off my shorts and dived in after her. I mean, why the hell not, you know? The water was pitch-black and icy cold, and it occurred to me, as I followed her out toward the raft, that I'd never been an especially good swimmer, and that this was exactly the kind of situation your parents, teachers, camp counselors, and church clergymen warn you about while you're
growing up. I mean, all I needed was to drown out here in this cold, black water while skinny-dipping seriously drunk and butt naked with somebody else's rich girlfriend. If Julie or her uncle or mom, or even my dad ever found out, they'd kill me. In fact, they'd take turns . . . .

  I was about full up with lake water by the time we got out to the raft, but at least I wasn't cold anymore. In fact, the water felt all warm and velvety around me. Sally was hanging off the corner of the raft, and I kind of hand-over-handed my way along the edge until I was right there next to her. "So," she said, turning around so I could feel her up against me, "you made it."

  "Yeah," I gasped, trying to move in a little closer.

  "Not so fast, bub," she said, pushing me away.

  "Huh?"

  "I said not so fast. You understand English, don't you?"

  "Uh, sure I do, Sally. I just don't, y'know, don't exactly understand, see . . .

  "It's simple," she whispered through a wicked, teasing smile. "I'll let you do anything you want to me—anything at all—if you can just do one simple thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Beat me back to shore!" she laughed, and took off full steam ahead toward the beach. Well, there was no way I could catch her—no way at all—but I must admit I gave it about the best damn try of my life. In fact, I was probably two or three heartbeats from full cardiac arrest by the time I finally crawled out of the water and lay back gasping on the sand. "Aw, poor baby," Sally cooed, kneeling over me and kissing me teasingly on the forehead. She was still stark naked, and as I looked up at her fabulous body and felt the water droplets falling off it, something hot and strong and desperate rose up inside me like the gathering swell of a great wave. I reached up and put my arms around her neck and drew her down into a kiss. She let me do it, too. In fact, she even helped a little. But then she stopped me. "Not here," she whispered, "we don't have a towel or a blanket or anything, and I don't want to get sand in my thing."

  "Huh?"

  "C'mon," she whispered urgently. "Follow me."

  And so I did. We wrestled on about half of our clothes and scrambled up the steep wooden staircase and across the street to the deep shadows around the far-side door of the Osthoff, then up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall to her room. Or Creighton Pendleton's room, to be more precise.

  It was a hell of a nice room—nicer by far than the one Tommy and I had—and even with the lights off, I could see well enough to check it over while Sally went into the can for a few minutes to do whatever it is girls like Sally do before they plan to have sex. Then she came out, pulled her blouse up over the top of her head, shimmied out of her shorts, and jumped under the covers. "So," she said evenly, looking at me standing there in the middle of the room like a damn cigar store Indian, "you planning to come to bed or what?"

  "S-Sure," I told her. "But I think I gotta use the can first. You think it's OK?"

  "Boy," Sally laughed, "you really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you?"

  "Uh, well, geez, I . . ."

  "Go ahead," she laughed, shaking her head under the covers, "and put a hustle on, willya? I'm cold."

  So I went in the bathroom, closed the door, and damn near jumped out of my skin when I saw Creighton Pendleton standing there in the mirror right behind me! But it was only his blue Dunlop driving suit, draped over a hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Boy, did that scare the shit out of me!

  Naturally it took me forever to get my body to cooperate and let some of the excess beer out, and when I finally flipped off the light and went back into the bedroom, it was like the temperature had changed. But Sally knew what to do about that once I got into bed with her. No question she'd had a lot of experience at this sort of thing. But for some reason, it was all so unreal —like I was watching a movie or something and not actually there in person, staring down at the beautiful Sally Enderle with her chestnut hair plastered down all wet and stringy over the pillowcase, listening to the sounds of the party winding down a few blocks away and wondering if I was going to hear the telltale thump-thump-thump of Creighton Pendleton's footsteps down the hall and the icy-fingered click of a key sliding into the lock. Here I was, exactly where I'd hoped and yearned and fantasized about being one day— never for one single second believing it could actually happen!—staring at the illuminated alarm clock dial on the nightstand while I humped away like a bored cocker spaniel, wondering why I didn't feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

  I left that room as soon as it was over. Maybe even a little before. I mean, you know how everybody says you're supposed to feel all melty-soft and dreamy afterward, and maybe just lie there and smoke a couple cigarettes, watching little phantom neon lights pulsing and flickering on the insides of your eyelids and listening to the sounds of the street-dance party filtering in from two blocks away. But I didn't feel that way at all. In fact, I felt kind of sick to my stomach and clammy all over, not to mention seriously worried that old Creighton might pop through the door at any moment. In fact, maybe that's what Sally had in mind all along. Maybe I was just the sacrificial lamb in this deal. Or maybe it was enough that I helped her muss up the sheets and left a few telltale wet spots behind. Hell, there was no telling what she had in mind. Worst of all, I couldn't stop thinking about Julie. I mean, it made no sense at all! Wouldn't you know it, just then the band swung into a slow, jazzy version of "Your Cheatin' Heart," complete with a long, mournful saxophone solo. Before it was over, I'd put Ernesto Julio's torn pirate shirt back on and beat it out the door. Sally didn't even roll over to say good night.

  I crept down the side staircase, kind of sneaking along in the shadows, and headed straight over to Siebken's. But the place was so loud and boisterous it made my head pound, and the truth was I didn't much feel like talking anyway. So I left half a beer on the bar and headed off down the street. The crowd had dwindled down like toward the end of a big family wedding, and the band was mostly trudging through slow dance numbers and sappy old big-band tunes from the forties. I went into Schuler's to see if maybe Creighton and the ponytail were still there, but of course they were gone. So I ordered myself a snifter of brandy—just like Tommy would have—but the bartender wanted to see some I.D. before he'd pour a drop. Naturally I didn't have any in the pockets of Ernesto Julio's pants (or any that exactly said I was twenty-one in the pockets of my pants, either), but I'd gotten so used to being served when I was with the racing people that I got a little indignant about it. So the guy threw me out, you know? There was nothing to do but head back to the quiet little bar under the steps at Siebken's. But I stopped along the way and asked the bandleader to play "Your Cheatin' Heart" one more time.

  "We just played it five minutes ago," he said with a forced smile.

  "Yeah, I know. But it's for someone, you know, special. . . ."

  He didn't look too convinced.

  ". . . And I just gotta hear that sax solo again."

  Well, that of course got the sax player looking at the bandleader like a sad beagle puppy, and he eventually caved in. "Okay, we'll play it. Right after the next song. It was a request, too." And he tapped the music stand with his baton and the band took off into "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific. They played it really lush, and as I walked slowly down Lake Street, looking at the leftover partygoers talking softly and slow dancing under the warm, yellow lantern light and the sports cars from all over parked nose to tail up every available driveway and down every side street, I realized it really was an enchanted sort of evening, even if I was personally feeling a little lost, confused, soiled, and melancholy.

  Your cheatin' heart . . . will tell on youuuu . . . .

  That's the last I heard as I headed through Siebken's empty dining room to the quiet little bar under the stairs. It was full of people I didn't really know, but that was OK because the walls of that place always seemed to absorb all the chatter and you could somehow be alone with your thoughts even with a lot of other people around. I had a couple snifters of brandy, but
they didn't seem to do much, and then I decided to take myself a little walk down past the Osthoff and that steep wooden stairway Sally Enderle and me had taken down to the beach only a few hours earlier. It felt like some kind of dream—like it never even happened, you know?—but I could tell from the hollow, empty feeling in my gut and the smell of her coming up from Ernesto Julio's shirt collar that it was true, even if it didn't seem like it. The band had stopped playing over in front of Schuler's and you could tell the party was finally breaking up, and the night was getting all black velvety quiet again.

  But I wasn't ready to go to bed. So I walked on up past the Quit-Qui-Oc Golf Course and then farther up the road to the sharp right into Hammil's Hollow, and, honest to God, I just kept walking and walking all the way around the whole damn six and a half miles. It took me more than two hours. But I hardly felt it, because I had things to think about. Only I couldn't. It was like trying to wrap my fingers around something made out of the predawn mist.