by P. F. Kluge
Our heart-to-heart talk didn’t come off. When I got home, the house was empty—Doris, kids, and all. I moved from room to room feeling like a burglar, till the phone rang.
“You’re home,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“Pennsylvania. Stroudsburg. Looking up an old friend who called me at school.”
“From college days?”
“Yes, kind of. Where are you?”
“At my parents. The kids finished school today. Remember?”
“High school doesn’t end till Monday,” I answered lamely. “How are they?”
“Riding horses and watching television. Fine. Why not ask how I am?”
“That was next. How are you?”
“Not so good, Frank. Look, if there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that we can’t go on the way we have been. Agreed?”
“If you say so.”
“If I say so … are you putting it on me?”
“What do you want, Doris? A unanimous vote?”
“I want a talk.”
“That’s what I was hoping for tonight,” I said. “I know you couldn’t have guessed. Look, after Monday, I’d like to hit the road a while, just sorting things out. Travels with Charley, minus dog. After that, I think we can … settle things. Okay?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Anybody asks, tell them I’m taking a summer refresher course someplace. Penn State, say … just don’t tell them where I am.”
“All right.”
We talked a while longer, about kids and bills and relatives. We talked amicably, the same way people separate amicably, a normal-sounding conversation hollowed out by the knowledge of what was happening to us.
You know how, when they bury someone, they pile the dirt high, leaving behind a mound of soil and flowers? And how, with time and rain and frost, that mound dwindles down to flat earth? And how, later on, you find a hole in the ground, or maybe a puddle, deepening as walls collapse and cave in down below? Our marriage was something like that: it just settled into the ground.
Oh, I can show that Doris was the first to flirt, the first to stray, the first to fall. But that’s just for-the-record. Down deep, I know that it was mostly my fault. She had a way of leaping into the future, planning, anticipating, pressing forward. What’s that TV serial called—Search for Tomorrow? That could be her slogan, and for years she tried to make it mine. She cared about where I taught, how much I made, whether I’d get to be an assistant principal or maybe move over to the local prep. She cared about where we lived, about trading up into bigger homes and better neighborhoods. In short, she cared about our advancement through life.
Only I wasn’t coming along. Her discontent led her to look ahead. And so, while I kept waiting for the life I led to feel right, she drifted off. And I couldn’t blame her. I couldn’t imagine anyone coming home to watch me brood.
Where would she be tonight? A seminar for real estate agents? Having coffee with a college friend? Heaving her flanks in a motel? No matter. No fault. We were headed in different directions. Doris rushed into the future. And I pointed my car west along the turnpike, headed into the past.
Two days later, I found Sally.
Months before, Doc Robbins had clipped an advertisement in a music trade magazine.
EDDIE WILSON’S ORIGINAL
PARKWAY CRUISERS
with Sal Amato
“Let the Good Times Roll”
523–681–4285
“Don’t be so surprised,” Doc had said. “We got guys calling themselves Drifters, Platters, Coasters. Sometimes they got one or two original members, sometimes uncles and cousins, and sometimes they’re all a bunch of stand-ins. Happens all the time on the oldies-but-goodies circuit.”
I checked into a Holiday Inn outside Columbus, Ohio, in the late afternoon. I took supper down the road, not wanting to risk an encounter with Sally before I’d seen the show. It was dark when I came back to the motel, driving past a sign that made me wince. At the bottom it read: “Original Cruisers—Tonight.” Up top, in much larger letters, “CONGRATS TO JUNE GRADS.”
There were shows at eight and eleven, with disco tapes in between. I lingered in my room, reading through the visitors’ guide to the capital of the Buckeye State, killing time as nervously as if I were appearing on stage myself. I bet Sally wasn’t nervous. How could he be, doing two or three shows a night for half his lifetime? And I’ll bet he didn’t brag about every show being new and different. Not Sally. He’d boast about their sameness, about keeping standards up, quality control. No, Sally wouldn’t be jittery—does an assembly-line worker fidget when the next car comes down the line? He was probably piling away a mountain of Italian food this minute: soup, pasta, meat and vegetables, dessert and coffee. I remembered that no matter where we were, no matter how rushed for time, Sally always ordered a hot meal.
We’d gotten along okay. Of course he resented me, but no more than he resented everybody else. Like the other newcomers, I diluted his partnership with Eddie and his paycheck, and what the hell was this paint-by-numbers guitar player doing onstage anyway? But as Eddie drifted off, Sally came to need me. He needed someone to listen to him. Life for Sally was a series of beefs, blowups, bum raps. Sally thought he was the quiet strong man of the Cruisers, the team-player, sacrificing himself so that Eddie could look good. And what did he get for it? Nothing but dumped on! His counsel was ignored, his warnings went unheeded, his reasonable requests shunted aside. Mind you, he wasn’t the kind of guy who went around saying “I told you so,” but, “Jeez, if that Eddie would only listen once in a while, life would be so much easier!” Sally lived for the day that Eddie would come to his oldest partner and his best friend (whether he knew it or not) and, having grown tired of “freaks and jerkoffs,” he’d say, “Okay, Sally, you were right, we’ll do it your way for a while.” Sally prayed for that day and prepared himself and, well, you know what happened. Ninety miles an hour on a wet road, the cops said.
Sally! The last time I’d seen him had been the worst day of his life, till then. In the morning we’d buried his best friend in Vineland. And in the afternoon we all died a little.
The Cruisers attended Eddie’s last rites as a group. We called at the parents’ house, went to the church and the cemetery together, and left in Sally’s car. I supposed that he’d drop us off at the bus station or something, and we’d all go our separate ways, trading addresses and phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. But Sally had other plans.
“Need a drink, damn it,” he burst out after we’d driven twenty mournful miles. He turned into a roadside restaurant that just happened to be named Amato’s Villa Napoli. That’s when I knew. “On me, you guys,” Sally said.
It was all on Sally, of course, or on Sally’s uncle, who owned the place. Everything on the house—nothing too good for Sally’s best friends. They’d set the table in the back room. I can still see it: a godawful room-length mural of the bay of Naples, a tiny bandstand with an accordion on a chair, and a couple of chubby naked statues that pissed whiskey sours at sixty bucks an hour during big weddings.
Before we knew what was happening, they were bringing out the food: trays of hot and cold antipasto, soup, pasta, veal, and chicken.
“Hey, let’s eat, you guys,” Sally urged, as he stuffed a napkin into his shirt front. “Chow down. Anything you need that ain’t here, just ask. They’ll make it special. These are my people. But remember, leave room for dessert.”
Sally attacked the food, hearty and jovial.
“Hey, Wendell,” he called out. “Guinea soul food! Bet you never seen the likes of this in Newark!”
“Nope,” Wendell answered, staring at an artichoke.
“The best in the world,” Sally said. “I grew up on this stuff. Now you see why I get homesick in some place like Ohio. Hey, dig in, everybody. You leave anything, these Italians take it personal. Kenny, you better watch out for the garlic. It’s an aphrodisiac.”
“Thanks, Sally,” Kenn
y responded. He tried to be decent. “Like they say, ‘Close your eyes and you’re eating in Italy.’”
That’s how it went for an hour and a half: heavy food and Sally’s jokes to match. I never was less hungry than when I sat down that day at the Villa Napoli, and I’m sure the others felt the same. Sally had miscalculated disastrously. Still, we tried our best. I guess we knew what Sally was trying to accomplish. And we knew it was doomed. That didn’t help our appetites.
I prayed. Over anisette and tortoni, I prayed that the meal would end quietly. Hit the road. Meet again someday, okay?
“Okay,” Sally began. “Let’s talk. This morning we put Eddie in the ground. He was your friend and my friend. Mine first. I got nothing to prove in that department. Understand me? My thoughts and feelings inside? Anybody got any doubts along those lines, say so, and we’ll clear it up right now.”
He was like a plucky kid daring anyone to invade his territory. The territory was Eddie.
“The question is … and Eddie would want us to ask it, with no delay and no screwin’ around … what next for us? The question is …”
No, don’t say it, Sally, I pleaded as I stared at an unfinished piece of veal.
“… what would Eddie want us to do?”
He glanced around the table, as if he wanted to allow time for the question to sink in. And to let us appreciate the fact that he was already planning for the future.
“Okay,” he said. “We got a good basic group, but we’re gonna need a lead singer. I say, let’s not rush it. We’ll bring in guests and give ’em a shot. Candidates. No permanent replacement till we find somebody who’s good. Somebody enough like Eddie so’s we hold onto the old crowd. But different, too, so’s we can build on what we had.”
“What’s Doc think?” Kenny asked.
“Doc who?!” Sally retorted. “The show-biz whiz who booked us into an amateur night in Newark? Doc, who put his name on our records as producer because he went out and rented some tape recorders? That Doc? The Doc who missed Eddie’s funeral this morning? Is that the Doc you mean? Listen, I’ll do everything he did and more and I’ll do it for free! I got better connections, anyway. What would you guys say if I told you I was already in contact with the number-one supper club in Cherry Hill, New Jersey? Or that I had conversations with Claude Richards about a television spot whenever we’re ready? And how about a solid month’s work in the Catskills, right up to Labor Day? How’s that sound?”
Again, he waited, clearly wanting us to be impressed by what he’d done for us. But no one said a word.
“I’m telling you guys, we got to move now!” he insisted. “We can’t just … die. We got to take our shot now, before they forget us. They forget fast, you better believe me. So what do you say? Do we get on with the music?”
I’ll never forget that moment. I sneaked a glance around the table, and every one of us was sitting with his head bowed, like students who didn’t want to be called on.
“I don’t believe this!” Sally shouted, slamming the table so the dishes rattled. “It’s like I’m pullin’ your fuckin’ teeth. Do I get a response from you guys? What d’ya say? A little table talk? Dinner conversation? You, Hopkins. How about it?”
If anyone had to go first, I’d just as soon that it was Kenny. Still, I felt for him.
“No, Sal,” Kenny answered softly.
“Beg your pardon,” Sally fired back, mockingly cupping his hand to his ear. “Could you speak a little louder, please? These drum solos you been playin’ must be going to my brains.”
“Sal, I said no,” Hopkins replied, holding his ground. “I hope you heard me.”
“Sure I did, but could you—”
“I’ve made other plans, is all.”
“Other plans, huh? That’s nice. You mind telling me? In case somebody asks me what ever happened to you, I don’t want to look any dumber than I have to.”
“Doc arranged it for me,” Kenny said. “During Lakehurst. I mean, Eddie was looking out for himself. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Sure,” Sally said. “Why the hell not? I’ll bet the good doctor found you something choice.”
“A cruise ship. Caribbean. They need a musician. It sounded like fun.”
“Count on Doc to—”
“Just remember that I set this up before Eddie died. It’s a decision that has nothing to do with you, Sal. Understand? I was just waiting for a chance to tell Eddie.”
“Wow, I feel better already,” Sally said. Irony wasn’t his style. It came out nasty, and it hurt him about twice as much as his intended target. “Well, Wendell, my man, your turn at bat. Want to tell me what ship you’re shippin’ out on?”
The silence was painful. Even Sally felt it. When he spoke to Wendell again, he was patient, almost gentle.
“Hey, Wendell? You know I ride you. I crack Amos and Andy jokes. I tell stories about Rastus and Lorenzo. I drive through Newark, I drive fast, with the doors locked and the windows up. Because that’s how they do where I come from. But, no lie, I really want to know which way you’re headed.”
“I always liked you, Sally,” Wendell said. “And thanks for the meal.”
“It was nothin’,” Sally said.
“I’m gonna have nice memories of you guys,” Wendell said. “And of Eddie.”
“Which means?”
“Thanks,” said Wendell. “And so long.”
“But, Wendell,” Sally persisted. I think he was more curious than hurt. “Where you gonna go? How many mixed groups are there? I mean, there’s us and the Del Vikings and who else?”
“There’s black groups,” Wendell said. Sally seemed surprised that Wendell would even consider them. It was like moving from Short Hills back into Newark.
“How about you?” Sally said to me. “Mr. Entomologist.”
“Sally, I keep telling you. Entomologist is a Bugman Etymologist is a Wordman.”
“Words—bugs—who cares? I don’t suppose you’d care to spend the summer in the Catskills.”
“No thanks. There’s too much I’d miss.”
Sally nodded, understanding me to mean that I’d be missing Eddie, which was just as well. Had I gone I would have missed him, even though, just then, I was wondering about Joann Carlino and how she was spending this funeral after noon.
That’s how the Cruisers disbanded. Sally delivered the valedictory, pushing his plate away from him, planting his elbows on the table, putting his hands over his face, just like he was about to say grace for us.
“You fuckin’ guys,” he said. “You clowns. You piss me off.”
He covered his eyes. He was crying.
“Looks like an eat-and-run situation, don’t it? Well, no body ain’t gonna keep you where you don’t wanna be. I ain’t beggin’. Unless this was beggin’. Which it was.”
He pushed a napkin around his eyes and stared at us, as if he wanted to remember what we were like.
“Nobody asked what am I gonna do.”
“Your turn, Sally,” I said.
“I’m gonna miss you guys. But do me one little favor, okay? Don’t come back at me a month or a year from now There’s gonna be some kind of a band called the Cruisers. And I’m gonna be the leader of that half-assed outfit. And I’m gonna give it my best shot. So I’m askin’ you nice to stay away. Okay? No droppin’ by to say hello, no old-timers day or auld lang syne. Because I’m not too sure I could handle that. Deal?”
We all agreed. And I guessed we kept our word.
• • •
I sat in the lobby of the Holiday Inn, just outside the lounge, waiting for the lights to dim so I could enter unobtrusively. Posted on the wall was a glossy picture of the Cruisers: Sally and four white kids who didn’t look like anybody.
“Trying to spot which one is you?”
Elliot Mannheim, equipped with tape recorder and girlfriend, was preparing to catch the show. He seemed glad to see me. And his girlfriend seemed impressed. Susan Foley wasn’t the Mannheim type. He was intense, urban, Je
wish. She was the sort of tall, full blonde who might be from Wisconsin, California-bound.
“You were an original Cruiser?” she asked.
“From beginning to end—right, Mr. Ridgeway?”
“I’m not so sure,” I answered, pointing to the lounge. “I guess it hasn’t ended. I was a Cruiser for one year. There’s a man in there who’s been one for nearly twenty.”
“What brings you out?” Mannheim asked.
“Same as you. Curiosity.”
“We’re sitting ringside,” Mannheim said. He peeked inside. “Not hard to arrange. But we’d love to have you join us. It would add a dimension.”
“Please come,” the girl said.
“Not now,” I answered, with a twinge of regret. It had been a while since a young woman had found me interesting. But she probably wanted to talk about the Cruisers, about what Eddie was like or, God forbid, the details of the crash.
“Sally doesn’t know I’m here,” I told them. “If he spots me it could be disconcerting for both of us. And he’s just crazy enough to call me up onstage. So I think I’ll just sit at the bar.”
“You’re not going to leave without saying hello, are you?” Mannheim asked.
“No … I guess not.”
“Then we’ll see you in Mr. Amato’s room, after the show. It’s two-oh-three, in back. I’ll be taping an interview. Be great if you could join in, have a dialogue with him. A Cruiser reunion after twenty years!”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, drop by anyway. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
“No, please. Don’t.”
“Okay,” Mannheim conceded. “It’ll be a surprise.”
“But you will drop in,” the girl insisted. Oh hell, I thought, for sure she’s writing an Ohio State thesis on music of the 1950’s.
“Sure,” I relented. “I’ll be there. See you later.”
I waited a moment more after they left. The lounge was darker now, and some guitars were being tuned. The microphone growled and squeaked like a metal pig being forced down a slaughterhouse chute.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Holiday Inn is proud to present a group that’s been bringing us hits for twenty years. A big hand, please, for some Jersey boys who made good. Eddie Wilson’s Original Parkway Cruisers!”
