She finished off her drink, but ignored the fresh one when it arrived. I compensated by downing mine in three swallows and ordering another to keep her company. I followed that with several more. At one point I became dimly aware of someone, a woman I think, squeezing my shoulder and saying, “Hey, stay with me.”
What’d she mean by that? Where’d she think I was going? Women were a puzzlement sometimes. Often, actually.
A drink or two later a barstool scraped and a coat rustled. Someone was leaving. But not me. I started to order another Cutty, then noticed a full glass to my right. It seemed lonely and unwanted so I took a sip. Cutty Sark. What a coincidence. After swilling the rest I glanced at the empty stool and recalled that someone had been sitting there. But who? Didn’t matter. With no one to keep me company I figured I might as well leave.
I called for the tab. Suzie said Denise had already settled it. I asked who Denise was. Instead of answering she gave me a look.
Women.
I struggled to my feet. Now Suzie looked concerned. “You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I checked my pants. Thankfully they weren’t on fire.
I grabbed my wool coat off the rack near the exit, grinned at Miss Clairol and waved goodbye. Or at least flapped my hand.
I paused outside to get my bearings, a difficult task at best. Eventually I recalled parking out back so I made my way there, slowly but unsurely. The lot was nearly empty, making it easy to find the Buick but not to open the driver’s-side door, which took three or four tries. I’d no sooner slid behind the wheel than I realized a near-empty lot meant it must be later than I thought. I checked my watch, whose hands refused to stand still. When they finally did, they justified my worst fears.
1:35 a.m.
It was beyond late—the latest I’d ever stayed out, in fact, including that night at Sal’s. Which meant I’d soon be the late Nate Rubin. Even at my drunkest, I’d sobered up enough to call my parents with some imaginative story about why I’d be getting home later than usual. I couldn’t call now, though, or I’d wake them out of a sound sleep, which might piss them off more than my tardiness. I pictured the headline in today’s News: “Parents Execute Son.” And the subhead: “He Deserved It, They Declare.’” Fortunately, a more heartening thought succeeded that one. If Mom and Dad went to bed after the national anthem, as was their habit, they’d know I got home late but not how late.
Somewhat comforted, I leaned back, closed my eyes and rested for a moment.
#
When I awakened someone was shining a light in my eyes. Turned out to be the sun. Groggy, confused and panicked all at once, I checked my watch again.
8:25 a.m.
Now panic took over. In a frenzy I started the car and proceeded to run a red light, make an illegal turn, nearly hit a parked car and, not least of all, exceed the speed limit all the way home. As I turned into the drive my parents were standing on the porch in their robes, awaiting their beloved son’s return. Mom’s face was pale, Dad’s purple, not good colors for them. I exited the Buick and made my way to the porch in slow motion.
Upon my arrival, Mom threw her arms around me. “Thank God you’re alive.”
Dad pointed at the door. “Get in there. No need to share this with the neighbors.”
I got in there and my parents followed. They sat heavily on the living-room couch while I settled uneasily in the easy chair. The plastic coverings on both couch and chair crinkled (the house was a larger version of our previous home, everything neat, tidy and, from all appearances, unused).
We remained quiet for a moment, the only sounds being those of the grandfather clock ticking in the living room and the refrigerator whirring in the kitchen.
Dad eventually joined in, making it a trio. His sound was a growl. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through?”
His bloodshot eyes, bewhiskered face and disheveled hair offered a clue. It was hard to tell with Mom, though, since now, as always, her hair was neatly brushed, her makeup studiously applied and her posture as erect as a sentinel’s. The only signs she’d been through anything were the worry lines around her eyes.
Her words, though, spoke louder than her appearance. “We’ve been sick at heart all night and this morning. We thought maybe you were mugged or kidnapped or even worse, God forbid.”
“Neither of us has slept a wink,” Dad said. “We rang Sheldon early this morning and asked if he knew where you were. He’s a bit of a dummkopf, isn’t he? Then we called the local hospitals in case you were in a coma, and the police to see if you’d been arrested, because who knows with you these days? We felt relieved to learn you weren’t in jail or in a hospital but we still had no idea what happened to you.”
“Why didn’t you call?” Mom asked.
“Because he’s selfish, that’s why,” Dad explained. “Thinks only of himself. His parents are a convenience at best. God forbid he should inform them when he’s going to be out all night. Maybe he knows he shouldn’t be out all night.” My father shook his head. “I’m at the end of my rope.”
Mom was merely curious. “Where were you? What were you doing all this time?”
My dad shook his head again, only more vigorously. “You were out drinking, weren’t you?”
I must have reeked of booze, because he hadn’t even sniffed me.
My mom sought verification. “Is that true? Were you drinking at all hours of the night?”
“Smell him. You can do it from here.”
“I want him to tell us.”
“Well? Your mother’s waiting.”
Betrayed by my breath, I hoped a confession would earn me clemency. “Yes, I’ve been drinking. I’m sorry.”
This got me no sympathy whatsoever. In fact, Dad stepped up his attack. “A shikker you’re becoming, like that rotten uncle of yours. You think you’ve been deceiving us with those late-night phone calls?”
Mom smoothed her wrinkle-free robe. “I don’t understand. You’ve been drinking at night when you borrow the car? Where do you get it, the alcohol? You’re not of age.”
My dad volunteered an answer. “He gets it in bars that sell to minors because the owners are more interested in money than morals, or, God forbid, in a young person’s welfare.” He sucked in some air. “I’m telling you the world is going to hell, and it began with that goddamn rock ’n roll.”
“Al!” Mom almost raised her voice.
“I’m sorry but he makes me so mad sometimes, I have to curse.” To me he said, “Am I right about where you got the alcohol?”
I was too tired to lie. “Yes.”
Dad loosened his belt to give his stomach more breathing room, then gave me a fixed stare. “Well, what should we do about this?”
I shrugged rather than list my preferences, which did not include torture or execution.
“You don’t know?” he said. “Well, I know. We ought to disown you. You’re no longer our son anyway.”
“Al, stop it!”
“It’s true, whether you like it or not. No son of ours stays out drinking all night.”
“Al, I’m going to leave the room if you keep this up.”
“What? What’d I say? I’m telling the truth.”
And that’s what hurt, as the truth often does. I was no longer their son, at least not the one they were used to. Hell, I was no longer me. Exactly who I was these days I couldn’t say. What I knew for sure was that more than ever I wanted to escape, to be anywhere but here, in this home, in this city, on this planet. Maybe I’d do it—run away and join the Navy. That would leave me on this Earth, but until they perfected space travel I had no choice but to remain.
I gazed out the window at the house across the street. Mrs. Aronson, a buxom widow with two young children, stepped out the front door in a tightfitting housedress. She stretched, took in a lungful of air and, with her back to the street, bent over to retrieve the morning Free Press. Since whoever I was now had at least one thing in common with who
ever I was before, I stared for a moment before turning back.
“Nice of you to join us,” Dad said, parroting the teachers I’d known.
Instead of rebuking him for the sarcasm, Mom asked me how my grades were. I’d have preferred a rebuke, of either him or me, since my grades had hit rock bottom, or at least close to it. I’d surely receive enough failures and incompletes this quarter to lower my grade-point average to a D and earn me probation. If I didn’t boost it to a C by the end of next quarter I’d be suspended.
So I had no choice but to fudge. “They’re okay.”
Dad looked skeptical. “What’s that mean?”
“It means they’re okay.”
“You’re failing, aren’t you?”
“No.” Not yet.
“Oi.” My dad rubbed his face, giving it a healthy pink glow. “I don’t know if I can believe anything you say these days.”
“He wouldn’t lie to us, Al.”
Fortunately, Mom insisted on misjudging me.
The conversation gradually trailed off, my punishment undecided. But I’d come closer to a decision of my own, which was to abandon ship.
Chapter 36
1961
The New Year had barely begun when I realized my grade-point average would not magically revive itself, nor would it receive any help from me. So I made a firm decision to jump ship. In contemplating what to do next, besides run for cover after telling my parents, I couldn’t shake the idea of joining the Navy, of sailing the ocean blue and seeing a part of the world more interesting than Detroit, which meant seeing any other part of the world. I was well aware that if I enrolled in the military and the United States went to war someone might try to kill me. But truthfully, what were the chances? The country’s last major conflict had been with North Korea a decade ago. It had since traded insults with Russia, products with Japan and ambassadors with Germany but no gunfire with anyone, so my new life promised to be less dangerous than missing a Daily Post deadline.
This cavalier attitude toward military service lasted until mid-January, when I realized I might have lost my mind. First of all, I hated taking orders, and according to rumor the military was inclined to issue them. Second of all, I hated uniforms, which is one reason I quit the Boy Scouts, the other being I hated tying knots, another possible sticking point if I joined the Navy. I didn’t hate water, but I wasn’t especially fond of it either. I could barely swim and had never sailed a boat, not even in the bathtub.
And yet after devoting still more thought to the subject, I ended up where I began, in favor of enlisting. The deciding factor was the draft. Though the country had taken a respite from war, the Selective Service Board still mailed out notices, mostly to unmarried men my age who weren’t enrolled in college. I might have avoided service, at least for a while, if my grades were satisfactory. But, as I said, they fell far short of that, which made me a sitting duck for the draft board.
What happened to Ernie Schwartz brought this point home. His mother informed my mother at a Hadassah meeting last week that her son had received a call to duty after dropping out of Detroit City College. The schmuck probably didn’t realize he could have avoided service by staying put, but then again, his grades—like those of someone else I knew—may have been in the toilet, leaving him little choice.
Anyway, I figured if military service was inevitable I may as well enlist rather than sit on shpilkes, or as the goyim would say, pins and needles. Having made up my mind, I announced my decision to friends, family, neighbors and a few other interested parties, giving them enough time to dissuade me.
If that’s what they wanted.
#
I shared the news with Sheldon as we meandered across campus, which I still visited on occasion for reasons that escaped me. The mercury had been hovering in the mid-forties, practically a heat wave for January, so massive amounts of snow had turned to slush or puddles. My friend, perhaps upset by my announcement, tromped through one of the latter and splattered us both. But instead of apologizing, he said, “No fucking way.”
“Yes, fucking way.”
“But why, for God’s sake?”
I recited my reasons.
“That’s it?”
“That’s not enough?”
“C’mon, you’re halfway to graduation. How difficult can it be to raise your grades?”
“Extremely difficult. Almost impossible. Besides, as I’ve said, I hate college.”
“Jesus H. Christ” was all he offered in return.
Meanwhile I turned fanciful. “Maybe I’ll change my mind and get a degree after I’m discharged.”
Displaying his more charitable side, Sheldon said nothing. So I continued. “Anyway, a degree’s not important to me right now. I can write a novel without one.”
“I see. But you gotta admit you’ll need a job while working on War and Peace, and how you gonna get one without a degree?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Yeah, how?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get work.”
“As a grocery clerk maybe.”
“Better than that.”
“Like what? Tell me.”
“As a reporter, on a newspaper.”
“Without a journalism degree? That might be a problem, so it was my turn to shut up. “I hate to say this,” Sheldon went on, “but you’re an idiot.”
He didn’t hate to say this at all, seeing as he’d said it many times before. Still, I filed his comments away for future reference.
#
I entered The Cottonpicker eager to escape the snow and cold. Winter had returned with a vengeance, solidifying the slush and freezing the puddles, to say nothing of me. So I was still shivering as I headed for our usual spot at the far end of the bar.
Wonderman grinned as I took the stool next to him, then signaled Roy for a couple of beers. The bartender went through his usual headshaking routine but brought us two Pabsts.
Wonderman took a swig. “So whass goin on, man?”
I told him.
He popped a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chewed slowly and washed them down with more beer. Finally he responded. “Man, you don’ wanna do that shit.”
“Yes I do.”
“You’ll hate the Navy.”
“How do you know?”
“I was in it.”
“But see, that’s what gave me the idea. When you said you were in the Navy.”
I got out my Luckys and lit up. Wonderman bummed one and did the same.
“Man, don’ be tellin me I planted that notion in yo head,” he said. “You’ll de-spise the Navy more’n we coloreds de-spise what’s-his-face, Faw-buss.”
I didn’t care for the Arkansas governor either, though the only thing I knew about Orval Faubus was that he’d raised unholy hell over blacks and whites attending the same schools. No doubt he’d also protest Amanda and I integrating, making him a double asshole.
“Did you?” I asked.
“Did I what?”
“Despise the Navy.”
“Almost.”
“See, you didn’t.”
Score one for Clarence Darrow.
“But you ain’t me,” Wonderman pointed out.
“How am I different from you, besides the obvious?”
“But see, thass what counts, man. What you just said, the ob-vee-us. Thing is, I’s used to bein treated like garbage.”
“I can take it.”
“No you can’t. You think you can, but you can’t.”
I put out my half-smoked cigarette. “Why not?”
“You sensitive.”
“And you’re not?”
“Not like you. You feel evry little thing, man. Someone look at you cross-eyed, you hurtin.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true, ifn you believe it or not. And in the military, they do more’n look at you cross-eyed.”
“Like what? What more do they do?”
I prepared myself with a long draft of beer.
“They be givin you orders alla time, yellin’m in yo face. And if you speaks up or somethin, they gives you more orders, yells’m even louder.”
“But—”
“The mens givin them orders, officers and such? They be dumber’n this damn thing.” He pointed at his cigarette and, while he was at it, took a drag.
“You’re exaggerating.”
I was giving him a hard time because I didn’t want the rumor to be true—that I’d be taking a lot of orders, and not all of them from geniuses.
“Wish I was zaggeratin,” Wonderman said. “Then them four years wouldn’ta seemed like forty.”
“You’re still exaggerating.”
What the hell? I was fighting a war before even enlisting.
I glanced around at nothing in particular and noticed the snowstorm had slowed business. I looked for Lola May but she was nowhere in sight. Not that I missed her.
I grabbed some peanuts and munched. “Anyway, why’d you join the service?”
“Cuz they drafted my black ass, thass why. You think I stupid enuff to volunteer?”
“So now I’m stupid.”
“See what I means? I’s tellin’ you, don’ do this shit.”
“What about all those ports you visited. You got to see—”
“Aw, man, don’ be givin me that join-the-Navy-’n-see-the-world jive. After while, you seen one port, you seen’m all. Beer thass half water and girls what give you the clap.”
“Really? The women are—”
“Skanky, and other things which I won’ mention, seein as I don’ wanna zaggerate.”
#
I informed Harry of my plans because I owed him the courtesy before quitting. I wasn’t really interested in his opinion, so I told him while he was tallying the register, making him less likely to open his mouth.
“So you’re gonna join the Navy and see the world,” he said, proving—to my regret—that he could talk and count at the same time. “Good for you. Live a little before you get married and have kids and go outta your goddamn mind.”
“You’re not going to discourage me?”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Well, because—”
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 17
