by Rob Rufus
My mind drifted down that dark line of thought, when suddenly . . . a figure.
A dark figure stood in the open garage door.
My breath caught. I couldn’t react. The Bee Gees sang on.
The figure moved forward. It was Hana. She wore her jacket over a nightgown, like the first time I saw her. But this nightgown was yellow, not blue. Her hair was tied back in a braid, and she’d washed the makeup off her face.
A dying cigarette idled on her naked lips.
I motioned to the passenger door. She tossed her cigarette.
I turned down the radio. I pulled up the passenger lock.
“Don’t slam it,” I whispered, as she opened the door.
She nodded, and slid into the seat. She eased the door closed.
Once I heard the latch click, I turned the radio back up.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked.
“Not a wink, you?”
“Too restless. I’ve gone through half a pack tonight. I was just burning this last one when I heard the music. Figured it was you.”
“You aren’t afraid of being out after curfew?”
“It seemed like a chance worth taking.”
Neither of us looked at each other.
“Listen,” she mumbled, “I’m sorry about what I said. I was a total asshole. I’m just upset, and, well, fuck. There’s no excuse. I’m just really sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. I should’ve have yelled . . . Plus, you were right. In my book, the real asshole’s the one that doesn’t wanna listen.”
“I think I’m rubbing off on you, Ronnie.”
“Scary, ain’t it?”
“Fuckin’ horrifying.”
We both chuckled. The song ended.
The DJ faded up The Grass Roots’ “Let’s Live for Today.” Hana bobbed her head to the guitar riff and ran her fingers across the dash.
“How come we’ve never gone cruising in this?”
“I’m not supposed to drive it. It was Bruce’s car.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “Well how about this joint? Is it yours, at least?”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “it’s mine.”
“Then light it up.”
“Patience, my dear, patience. This isn’t just a simple joint. It’s a peace pipe, and once we share it, our truce is eternally sealed. Now until forever.”
“That’s all?”
“Now until forever,” I smiled, “then again after that.”
“Deal,” she said.
I slid the joint between my lips. She removed the fiery orange dash lighter. The joint sizzled like a grease trap when she touched the tips together. When I exhaled, I melted into the upholstery.
“Peace,” I said, as she took the joint from my hand.
“Peace,” she said as she hit it.
Then we sat in silence, enjoying the music. Things felt easy between us, as if our spat never happened. We shared the dark and filled our lungs with peace.
“It feels like the world’s ending, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I coughed, “the fall of Rome, part two. I can’t decide if I feel lucky to see it go down, or if I wish I was born in easier times.”
“We’re lucky to be alive while the doomsday clock’s ticking,” she assured me. “Because now the Man’s got nothing over us. See, conformity’s enforced through implied consequences. But consequence is no longer an issue if the world’s ending.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “or maybe I’m just stoned.”
“Maybe both.” She smiled.
“So what will you do in a world without consequences?” I asked.
“Hmm,” she mused, “you know what I’d really like to do? I’d like to blow the ears out of every eighteen-year-old boy in America. I’d like to make this entire generation ineligible for the war.”
“Damn! If anyone could do it, it’s you.”
“Even if it was just in one city,” she continued, “at one school, the word would still get out. Other kids would copy it, and then kids would copy them.”
“Then it would turn into a movement.”
“A movement”—she smiled—“that’s what I really want.”
She passed the joint back to me, and our eyes met. “What about you?”
“I dunno,” I said bashfully, and took a hit.
“You don’t know shit about shit, huh?”
“No, ma’am. I sure don’t.”
“That’s why you’ve gotta go to college,” she said. “Take weird classes, meet weird people, read weird books. You’ve gotta figure out the world around you if you ever wanna figure out your place in it, man.”
“The Hana Hitchens guide to success.”
“Take my advice,” she grinned, “you’ll be as pissed off as me in no time.”
We both laughed. We both took another hit.
“You’ve gotta let go of the DJ thing, that’s all I’m sayin’. It was your brother’s dream, not yours. And what’s a dream without a dreamer?”
“Just another ghost.” I coughed. My eyes watered.
“So let it go, man. Or you’ll never have a dream of your own. Nothing can grow in a shadow, Ronnie. You dig what I’m trying to say?”
I nodded. I scooted closer as I passed her the dying joint. I smelled the smoke on her leather. She exhaled, moving a little closer as she passed it back. We sat like that for an hour. Not speaking. Just listening. Just sharing the dark.
Shoulder to shoulder, so close that our hands almost touched.
seventeen
Definitely Probably Not Dead
Riots rocked the streets of Jacksonville all night. The extent of the damage, injuries, and arrests was not yet known, but the paper said it was bad enough for the National Guard to be deployed. They didn’t specify if their orders were to protect or suppress, but the photos showed a city crushed beneath the heavy boot of authority.
Momma had shown me the article at breakfast. It read more like something that would happen in a foreign land, not right up the highway. Here, it was just another carefree Cordelia Island morning.
No moment of silence was held at school for Dr. King, so Mr. Donahue held one himself. Sixty seconds of quiet reflection. Sixty seconds in which he had to send out three students because they wouldn’t stop giggling.
As the day went on, I realized most of my schoolmates were completely unfazed by the assassination. The day-to-day cliques just gabbed about their standard Friday gossip, as if the cold-blooded murder of mankind’s bastion of love was less interesting than what Jeannie Shepard wore to the baseball game. The killing was too high profile for anyone to be oblivious. This was active indifference, and it disgusted me—mostly because I saw more of myself in them than I wanted to admit. I was thankful for the clarity I’d gained the night before, but now I had so many thoughts rolling through my brain it was getting hard to focus. I needed time to process it all. One more new realization might cause my head to overflow.
In an effort to avoid learning I decided to ditch. Lunchtime came, and I went to my locker to grab my things. I cut down the hall toward one of the least guarded exits. When I turned the corner, I saw a J. V. wrestler standing near the fire alarm wiping tears from his eyes. His name was Ernest, and he was one of those misguided Stink Wilson worshippers. I’d written them all off as racist assholes, but maybe I’d been wrong about him.
“Hey, man,” I said, stopping.
“Oh,” he whimpered. “Hi, Ronnie.”
“You gonna be OK?”
“Yeah, it just . . . God, it seems so unfair!”
“I know.”
“They should be hung for this! They should be tarred and feathered and hung in the street!”
“I understand how ya feel, but that wouldn’t fix anything.”
He scoffed, then ble
w his nose on his T-shirt. “I just don’t get it,” he sniffled. “Why would a Chicago outfit do this?”
“You mean the Outfit?” I asked. “Holy shit, I hadn’t even thought of that! But it makes sense, I heard the mob was also involved in Kennedy’s assassination—”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Martin Luther King,” I said. “Isn’t that what you’re talkin’ about?”
“No, the P&P! I’m talking about the mill, you idiot! They laid a bunch of guys off! My daddy, my uncle, both my cousins—for all I know, they’re gettin’ canned right now!”
“Wait,” I stammered, “where’d you hear that?”
“Suzie told me.”
“Suzie Dean? How would she know? She must be messin’ with you—”
Ernest shook his head like a child in need of a nap. “She heard it on the radio when she was in the nurse’s office. WQRX. The DJ said the P&P announced they’re scaling back production and blah blah blah blah.”
The fluttering in my stomach hardened into a solid mass of anxiety.
“Tell me the blah blah part, too. Did they say why they’re scaling back?”
“Ask your friend,” he sneered. “Her dad’s the one doin’ the firing. Stink knew the V. C. would try somethin’ like this! It’s all because of them, because of her!”
“Stink’s an idiot. I can’t believe you’d listen to—”
“He knew MLK was gonna get iced for startin’ a race war! Think Stink’s an idiot now?”
“Jesus,” I sighed, “y’all don’t even know why you hate what you hate.”
I walked away. A wave of exhaustion washed over me as I pushed through the side exit. My head was killing me. It pounded, pulsing in code. A warning. I was just too tired to read the message.
―
The downside of working weekends was that every once in a while I had to stand in the lobby while something premiered I was dying to see. That Friday, there were two of them (Planet of the Apes and 2001: A Space Odyssey) so I was doubly annoyed to be stuck taking tickets. I wondered if Milo could screen us an after-hours double feature, but the idea fizzled as soon as I hit the lobby to clock in.
“Hey, Ronnie,” Susanne called, “have you seen Milo?”
“I saw him at school. Why?”
“He ain’t here yet.”
She leaned over the glass counter of the concession stand as I approached.
“He’s not here yet? He’s always here before me.”
“Not today,” she said, “and Mr. Dori is freakin’ out. He’s been running the projectors himself all afternoon, sprinting back and forth like a nut job . . .”
She trailed off as Mr. Dori trampled down the stairs, rushing into Viewing Room 1 without breaking his stride. Susanne looked at me and shrugged.
He came back out to the lobby a second later. There were sweat rings under his arms and neck; everything but his bowtie was damp.
“Didn’t mean to be rude, Ronnie,” he panted. “Had to make sure the projector was centered.”
“That’s OK, Mr. Dori.”
“Did Milo come to work with you?” he asked—not panicked, but close.
I shook my head.
“Was he at school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shoot,” he huffed. “He isn’t sick?”
“Not that I know of. Have you tried his house?”
“A few times.”
“Well, I wouldn’t sweat it,” I shrugged, “he’s probably just runnin’ late.”
“Maybe,” he glanced at his watch, and groaned theatrically. “Time to switch reels! Do me a favor, give Milo a ring every hour. Use the phone in my office. Keep calling until he gets here. If you reach him before he gets here, tell him to get here!”
“Will do, sir,” I said with a straight face.
But as soon as he was back upstairs, Susanne and I burst out laughing.
“Riots all through Jacksonville, half our town’s laid off, but his biggest worry is still gettin’ the projector centered,” she snorted.
“I know,” I said. “I’m just glad the weekend’s here.”
A customer approaching the counter nodded in agreement.
He smiled at Susanne. She smiled back. Then he ordered some Junior Mints.
It was after nine o’clock and Milo still hadn’t shown. It wasn’t like him to miss work, but the opening-night crowd kept me too occupied to dwell on it. The lobby was nonstop packed until the late shows started. Only then did the place begin to thin out.
I took tickets from the stragglers like a seasoned expert. I got handed a ticket, ripped it, and gave back the stub. I got handed two tickets, ripped both, and gave back the stubs.
Then, a guy came to the counter without a ticket and threw off my rhythm. I looked up, annoyed. But it was my dad. I was surprised to see him there; my parents usually gave me a heads up if they were coming to the movies.
“Hey,” I said. “Are you here for the Charlton Heston one? There’s still a few seats left. The previews have already started, but if ya hurry—”
“No. I actually came to talk to your boss.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s Milo,” he said, but then hurriedly added, “he’ll be OK. Don’t worry. But there was an, uh, incident after school today.”
Mr. Dori saw us talking and came over. He looked dead tired. “Ronnie,” he panted, “everything OK here?”
“Yeah, Mr. Dori. This is my dad.”
“Are you the manager?” Dad asked, extending his hand.
“Owner,” he corrected. “Frank Dori.”
“Buford Bingham,” Dad said.
They shook.
“I’m afraid I come bearin’ bad news,” Dad said. “Milo’s mother asked me to let you know that he was hurt in a scuffle on his way home from school, and that’s why he missed his shift. He suffered some broken bones, so he may not be able to come back to work for a while.”
Mr. Dori got lightheaded. He grabbed the counter for balance.
“What the hell—?”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. A sudden nausea washed over me, as if I’d been kicked in the gut. I clamped my mouth shut, convinced I’d puke on the ticket counter if I continued speaking.
“We should get to the hospital,” he said. “I’ll fill you in on the drive.”
“Go! Go!” Mr. Dori urged. “Just please make sure he’s OK!”
I nodded to Mr. Dori. I left the ticket counter unattended and followed my dad away from those damn dirty apes on the screen, through a door that led toward much more brutal monsters.
―
“What happened?” I asked as Dad pulled out of the back lot.
“Your mother and I were finishin’ supper,” he said, steering us toward the hospital, “when she noticed a cruiser parked across the street. So we walked next door to see if Gladys knew what the fuss was about, and we found her on the porch, crying. I guess the sheriff talked to her before goin’ to speak with the girl’s parents—”
“Wait,” I snapped, “they went to Hana’s house, too?”
He nodded. He kept his eyes on the road. “She was ambushed by some kids after school, probably on account of the mill. Milo just happened to be walking with her, wrong place, wrong time kinda thing. Your mother drove Gladys to the hospital, but first she begged me to tell your boss Milo’s not playing hooky. Said he loves that job, doesn’t wanna get in trouble.”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Who would do that to the two of them?”
“I don’t know. But the kind of guy who’ll mess with a woman, it don’t get much lower than that. Proud of Milo for jumping in, though. Hell, I wish he woulda shown that sort of moxie on the wrestling mat!”
I didn’t laugh. Dad clammed up.
Soon, the giant mercy cross atop Lib
erty General loomed ahead of us—a colossal empty gesture made of sleek, red neon. Dad followed it like a beacon. He pulled up to the front entrance. He slowed. He stopped.
“Room 312,” he said. “Visitin’ hours are over, but if you take the stairs no one will notice you. I’ll wait in the lobby. Take all the time ya need.”
Room 312. I knocked, but no one answered.
I opened the door slowly. The overhead light was off, but the blinds had been left open—the light from the rooftop crucifix spread a choppy red glare over everything. I could see that the bed nearest me was vacant. A white cloth divider cut off the other half of the room. It reminded me of the ones from the draft exam.
I stepped inside and eased the door shut behind me.
I crept past the empty bed. I peeked over the room divider—
My knees buckled.
I grabbed ahold of the divider until I felt steady. I took a deep breath. Then I forced myself to look back at my best friend lying in the bed beside the window.
I’d never seen anyone I cared for in such a state. By the time they’d shipped Bruce home, he was a clean, dead husk of himself. Milo, however, was still very much alive, and looked to be in an incredible amount of pain. His entire left arm was in a cast, bent at the elbow, dangling above him in an elevated sling. His lips and nose were swollen. Two of the fingers on his right hand were in splints. An IV pumped who-knows-what into his arm. The drugs must have been top notch; otherwise no one could sleep like that.
His glasses were off. He looked so tiny without them. I saw them sitting on the sink. I picked up his specs, and carried them to the bed.
“Milo,” I whispered, leaning over him.
Nothing.
I shook his good arm. He groaned a little.
“Milo,” I whispered, louder.
He opened his eyes—just barely. I slid the glasses on.
