Article 73015 of talk.bizarre: Path: gorn!scorn!uunet!uunet!olivea!decwrl!decwrl!netcomsv!mork!richh From: richh@netcom.com (richh) Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.prose,alt.butt.harp Subject: RICHH: BOYS' NIGHT OUT Message-ID: <#5cmrxg.richh@netcom.com> Date: 20 Jul 92 19:21:15 GMT Followup-To: alt.prose.d Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services (408 241-9760 guest) Lines: 276 Xref: gorn talk.bizarre:73015 alt.prose:1873 [] "Boys' night out," my mom had said, "Take your father out on the town. You three don't mind about me. Make it a belated birthday present for your dad." Sounded reasonable, so we decided to take him to the Palm, his favorite restaurant in town. He's retiring this Christmas, after fifty years as a journalist. I had a feeling he wanted to talk about that, to my brother, especially. He'd given up on me years ago. What happened was a local newspaper had offered me a job as columnist, which is almost unheard-of in the newspaper business. I'd turned it down and we'd had a fight. "It's just not for me, Dad." "No more. The gravy train ends here." "Dad, I'll get some kind of job. It's not a big deal." "Well, I'm glad you're so confident. That confidence won't pay the rent I'm afraid..." And on it had gone. Nothing was really resolved and I was left with only this vague feeling I'd somehow disappointed him. He had worked as a journalist full-time since his sophomore year in college and there was always the feeling that if you did any less, couldn't put yourself through college, weren't self-sufficient, that somehow you fell short. I can take a lot: criticism, anger, hate--but I have no mechanism to cope with the knowledge that I've disappointed someone I love and respect. At the Palm, my father started off drinking double Scotches. Glenlivet, neat. He's normally a teetotaler. "Dad, slow down," said Howard, "We've got all night." "Howard," said my dad, ordering another drink, "how's the angry shicksa?" I spit some beer out. Truth is, Howard was missing her very much. "Karen? She's fine. Working at some record store in the Village." "And you, Richard? Heard you have a new lady friend." "Yeah yeah yeah." "Oh really?" "She's a babe," said Howard. "From Ohio." My father was born in Ohio. I caught him up on my new lady friend, we ordered and ate. My father asked my brother what he planned to do with his English major, if he planned to go on for his doctorate and teach. "I've been getting good feedback in my writing classes..." "*Another* writer? What this family really needs is a good lawyer. Or, or--" "It's in the genes, Dad. Can't fight--" "So what do you have planned for your old man tonight?" "There's a local bar near us that has a band play every Thursday. We were thinking we'd go, see what's up, play it by ear from there." "All right." The weather was on our side that night. We'd been in the middle of some kind of heat wave for weeks, but that night it had let up. Apparently, it had rained a little why we were eating. On the way to the car, a fine mist of water vapor washed over us. Far from unpleasant, it was cool and sweet and encouraging. We all tacitly agreed that it was a good omen as we slipped into my father's Lumina and headed West through the city. "You can't beat live music," said Howard, as the band finished tuning up. "Hey, Howard," yelled the guitarist, "Howard, dude! Long time, man." The guitarist, brown hair to the small of his back, blue eyes, fingers longer than Arsenio's, was a friend of my brother's from high school. They'd both been in a band together then--played at a few parties, then dissolved. Howard walked up and shook the guitarist's hand and they semi- hugged. I explained to my dad what was going on. He nodded and sipped his Tanqueray and tonic. "Rich," said Pat, the bartender, "Kamikazes?" I looked at my dad, he nodded, I nodded back to the bartender. "Three. Thanks." Howard returned and joined us at the bar. "That's Vince Martello. You remember him, Rich, doncha? You know him, Dad. His dad's the police chief over in Hamilton townsh--" "Sure," said my father. "Bill Martello. Comes by the paper every few weeks." "Yeah," said Howard. "I hope he's been practicing. He asked me if I wanted to jump in for a song. I said sure. We'll see what they come up with. Hey, remember Permanent Damage?" The kamikazes arrived and I set my beer on the bar. We all clinked our glasses together and said "Salut" and downed them. My dad said, "Don't you boys let me get drunk. Your mother would have a connip--" "Taken care of," said Howard. "We told mom you'd be spending the night at our place." "Thanks, Son." "Permanent Damage?" asked my dad, who was wearing a black Polo shirt, blue jeans and loafers. He looked ludicrously preppie and collegiate. My dad's in his early seventies, though he looks about thirty years younger. "Permanent Damage. That was the band I played in up at Cornell." "Played?" said Howard. He was right. I couldn't play an instrument or sing all that well, but I could help out with a lyric in a pinch and I knew where to get the best dope. So, they would give me a tambourine or a maraca or something and let me sit in. "Wow," I said, as the band started in on "Hot Rod Lincoln", a cool blues standard, "Permanent Damage. We had a good name if nothing else." Our first name was "Bloody Stool". We'd sat around one day and mimicked the characters in Spinal Tap as we talked over our name: Me: Bloody Stool. I like it. None of that "The" stuff. Nothing finite. Bloody Stool is more evanescent, ephemeral. Guitarist: It's a process. You don't know where it begins. You don't know where it ends... Drummer: Especially if it's halfway into that part of the crapper that leads to the sewer already. It could stretch on for yards..." Bass: Bits of corn... We were kind of a cross between the Violent Femmes and the Stray Cats, only we weren't a trio and we only played blues. And jazz. And Dead covers. The band in the bar, a trio, sounded great. They'd just gotten back from a mini-tour of Europe and even their between-song banter was entertaining: Bassist: Hey Ed, you remember Atlantic City? Back in the sixties? Steel Pier? Drummer: Before my time. Guitar: I remember. The best was the dancing chicken. Drummer: Chicken? Guitar: You go into this booth and there was a chicken in a big wire cage. You fed nickels into it and the cage would be electrified and the chicken would go crazy, dancing and flapping. Drummer: Guitar: I can just see Ed, feeding a month's allowance in, begging strangers for nickels. Can you spare a nickel? Nickel?? Heh, heh, a nickel kind sir? Heh, heh. Chicken dance. Chicken dance good. Guitar: That was before all this animal rights stuff. You'd never get that today... Bass: Remember when people cared more about fisherman than whales? Then, they started to play again: [ Poor Lone Ranger Been acting stranger Ever since the day that Tonto died ... Poor Lone Ranger, po-or Lone Ranger Hasn't been the same since Tonto died. ] There was a small dance floor in the back and we saw a few couples there, moving about. More kamikazes and I could tell my dad was fast reaching his limit. He was tapping his right foot on the shoe of this noseguard-looking-like guy who was standing in front of him and to his left a bit. I hooked my instep around his calf and moved his foot to safer ground. Howard headed to the men's room. A girl who'd been standing in the corner, her back against the cooler, came over to us. "Hi, Rich! Dance with me?" She was another local--a regular whom I'd left with more than once. Friendly, but loud, especially after a twelve-pack of tall boys. I put my left hand on my dad's knee. "Sorry, Sheila. Here with my dad. Boys' night out." "Hi Mr. H!" she said, hugging him and introducing her ample top-parts to his chest, "you've got the funnest sons." My dad cringed. Funnest. "Thanks," he said, touching the back of my neck, "you've got quite a pair--" Howard returned. "Hi Sheila." "Howard, you'll dance with me, right?" Howard looked, pleading, towards the band. Tommy said, "In the crowd tonight we have the singer from my very first high school band. He has very graciously offered to sing for a song. You're in for a treat, folks. This kid can sing. Howard?" Howard set his beer on the bar, stepped up behind the mike, and pulled out a black comb from his back pocket. Sheila grabbed my upper arm. "Ooh, I love when Howard sings!" Howard combed his hair back a couple of times, replaced the comb and said, "I think we're going to slow things down a bit. This one goes out for my dad... " The band played the intro and Pat dimmed the lights. Lovers moved close on the dance floor and my dad ordered a beer and a shot. Howard started, his voice eerie and supple and lithe. [ A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper: "Go to sleep, everything is all right" ] My dad clearly approved. All or lives he'd told us the story of the night he'd spent with Roy Orbison's wife. We never believed him, of course, but there *were* all those details... [ ... In dreams...I walk with you In dreams...I talk to you In dreams...You're mine ... ] Sheila swayed in front of us as Howard gave it all he was worth, his voice cracking at just the right times to make everyone want to take him home. The way he moved from whisper-soft to hitting notes that I was certain moved the cool, still air outside all the way to Center City was really something. It made me think maybe he'd chosen the wrong profession. The band played softer and softer until Howard was singing near a capella except for the drummer drumming as lightly as he could. People crowded the tiny stage, the dance floor filled, and I felt my dad's arm creep behind me to my shoulder. Its weight felt good, reassuring and right. I looked over at him and tried to read his mind. Was he thinking about my mother, that alleged dalliance with Roy's wife, or another, someone unnamed--a woman who'd only made a cameo appearance in his life? I couldn't tell, nor would I ask. Sometimes privacy is the most-desired gift. [ But just before the dawn I awake and find you gone I can't help it...I can't help it If I cry I remember That you said goodbye To end all these things And I'll be happy in my dreams Only in dreams In beautiful dreams ] It was over, Howard fought his way back to his seat at the bar. That was it for the band. It was late and anything else would be anticlimax, so they started packing up their gear. "That was great, How," I said. "Really really great." "Haven't done *that* in years." "I thought the comb thing was a nice touch," said my dad. "Shall we?" "Yeah. Dad's way past his limit." We left some money on the bar and headed out. Howard was exhausted and he sat down on the couch and turned on MTV and muted it. I led my father into the guest bedroom. He was very tired as well and more than a little drunk. I helped him strip down to his boxers and he slipped into bed. He said, "Thanks for the night out, Son. Let's do it again soon." "Sounds good to me. Get some sleep." I kissed him on his forehead and headed out. In the doorway I turned around and said, "Hey Dad, look at this." I pulled an envelope from my pocket and walked back over and handed it to him. I turned on the bedside lamp and he pulled out the letter. "The Ohio Quarterly?" He thought for a moment and then said, "Good magazine. Well, okay. Okay! Was it something I've read? What's it about?" "It's about you, actually." I turned out the light and closed his door. I could still hear him saying "Okay" as I headed to the couch. Howard was still on the couch. I sat down and as soon as I did he leaned sideways and rested his head on my lap, the way he used to sleep when we were young. It reminded me of all the times we drove to Florida. On MTV was Guns and Roses. Still muted, I flipped to VH-1. Springsteen was singing "Rosalita." Howard would be asleep soon so I slid a throw pillow behind my head and ran my fingertips through his hair and watched the E Street Band. We stayed like that all night and I marvelled at the way the hairs grew on the back of my brother's neck, just below the hairline: hair sweeter than clean summer rain and softer than a good night kiss. RICHH -- David Bedno drseuss@seuss.org http://www.seuss.org http://www.madphotographer.com Responsible for: The Dr. Seuss Web Page and MadPhotographer.com