I was feeling like a kid again—full of expansive, rubber-legged cheer. I demanded another drink, using a simpering tone that I thought was funny. The bartender’s face beamed like I was the wittiest drunk he’d met all night. It pumped me up; I pitched him a brash thumbs-up sign. But he’d turned away. He was all business as he grabbed a bottle, dumped Scotch into a shot glass.    

 
We’d boarded a bus at the hotel where we lived and worked that summer, and then taken it to a bar at the edge of town. There were a few dozen of us, and the place was crowded.  

The establishment had one of those slowly revolving bars; if you sat on a stool by the counter, the floor beneath you moved, took you on a circular path. The walls were lined with red brick. Heavy wood tables and chairs were scattered. About 20 feet from the bar was a pool table, and beyond that, a dance floor, where patrons frolicked in a waterfall of flashing blue lights.

    
The bartender delivered a Dewar’s and water, my favorite drink. I liked the hot metal taste, how its fumes steamed through my nose. I was convinced that the challenges of drinking Scotch fortified me, helped me be a man. But I was leaning heavily into the bar, like a pile of flab. If they had moved it, I would’ve collapsed. Really, the drink was turning me into a zombie.  

                                                                                          --- 
   
The place had a big sound system. Stevie Wonder was blowing his harmonica. The music soared, as lively and nimble as a dancer flying over walls. At the same time, it struck me as haunting. In the background of the song a baby cried. It dug deep. Emotions flushed through me and left chills.

           
I closed my eyes; I sensed the floor moving. I was close to tears, and rapture. I grabbed my drink, tossed down half, chomped on the ice. My stomach and teeth stayed firm, as they do when you’re 21.

Stevie’s harmonica was fading. I didn’t want to let it go; but rolling up behind was another great song, “My Sharona.” It was the big hit of that summer, done by a group called The Knack. While Stevie made me daydream, “My Sharona” shook me up, made me want to move.  

My pulse kicked and I watched the dancers leap and twist, bug-eyed, their long hair whipping. The blinking lights alternately froze and blacked them out, like they were in a series of photos, caught in peculiar positions. I grinned because I knew most of these people, and I was sure we were all going to be friends for life.  

I lit a Camel, and finished my drink. The song’s vocals began. The bass and guitar accelerated; the drums crashed. The singer built to a scream. I saw the dancers get more excited; and their figures began to blur.  

           
I waded among them. I bathed in the blue light. I spazzed, spun, jumped, barely balanced, but adrenaline kept me upright. I eyed the ladies. I was friendly with most, but hadn’t touched any yet.      

 
The better-looking ones bewitched me. They danced like fire, like they were out of their minds. Their torsos writhed. Light bounced on their angel faces. They had looks of sweaty, boiling concentration.  

 
“My Sharona” kicked into its guitar solo. I felt the top of my head blow off.    

I caught the eye of a friend of mine, Martin, who seemed to be dancing with no one in particular. Martin had spiky blond hair and a rugged face. We smirked at each other, and I watched Martin’s feet fly toward the ceiling.    

  
I lifted my own feet, mirroring Martin. But it soon became apparent that he did have a partner, a woman named Jenny. He turned to her, leaving me alone. I was too stupid and drunk to care. I kept stomping around—with so much zeal that I must have been desperate for it never to end.

                                                                                                ---

​

Sweat steamed off me as I went outside. I went behind the tavern, where a grassy field sloped down to a pond. Tall, deep woods lay alongside. The air was hot, the sky full of lights. The moon and stars pulsed like mirages, looked like they radiated with heat.  

I followed the slope to the water’s edge, and then sat on the ground. I heard people splashing, though swimming wasn’t allowed. I smiled at the blatant mocking of rules. Of course, nobody had a clue that in 24 hours Garrison would dive in and break his neck.          

I took a joint from my wallet and lit up. I heard music leaking from the bar.  Heard muffled talking and giggling. I couldn’t see anyone clearly out here; most people were by the trees, their figures in shadow. I smoked, and watched light from the sky rippling on the water’s surface.  

            
“Do you have any to spare?” Rhonda asked.

She’d snuck up on me. I hadn’t noticed her coming. But I’d noticed her before, on the dance floor, one of the bewitchers.

 
I said, “For you, anything.”

I was being straight when I’d said that I hadn’t touched any woman here. At that stage in life I hadn’t touched any woman. It embarrasses and angers me still, after all these years.    

Rhonda sat, then I handed her the joint. I watched her lips pucker. She had a sweet face and tangles of lively hair. But her body was her real claim to fame. Her tummy was flat, her round breasts pushed out and up. “Mmmm,” she said, blowing smoke. “You always have good stuff, Mark.”

I agreed that, yeah, it was some really good shit. When the roach got tiny, I flicked it into the water. Rhonda cooed, slurring words, said I shouldn’t have done that, it wasn’t good for the environment.

“I think the material degrades,” I said. “What d’you call it?  Biodegradable.” 

“I suppose you’d know,” Rhonda said. “You’re like an expert, right?”    

I squeezed her hand. “I’ve been growing the shit for years,” I said. “You pick up a few things along the way. How ‘bout you? Got any hobbies?”  

Her fingers skimmed my arm, gently making circles. I got excited. I also had to take a mammoth piss.   

“Dealing with men, I guess,”  Rhonda said into my ear.  

I was flattered. I liked the “men” part. I put my hand on her waist. Only the wispy cotton of a t-shirt covered her skin. I felt her ribs and probed. This was sort of like penetration, I thought, almost like fucking. Almost. 

“Sounds fun,” I said.  “I’ll help if I can.”      

 
“Ha ha,” Rhonda said.

“I gotta piss,” I said.

     
“Ho.  Thanks for sharing.”

  
I stood and swore I’d be right back.

   
I staggered under a spinning, dizzying sky along the water’s edge. Through my squint the stars looked blurry; the moon was egg-shaped. I reached a cluster of bushes. I fumbled with my zipper. I thought of Rhonda and tried to focus; if I hurried back, wonderful things might happen.     

As best as I can recall, my zipper was about halfway down when I tumbled, and I went crashing through leaves. I wound up with the top of my head on dirt, branches bracing my upended body.  

                                                                                                 ---

​

The following night I was feeling lonely, drinking Dewar’s and water when Garrison dove into the pond. I didn’t know anything unusual was happening until the ambulance arrived. I hurried outside, where twirling emergency lights enflamed onlookers’ stricken faces.  

We watched paramedics wheel Garrison on a stretcher across the field. I heard people say that when Garrison had gone into the water, he was chasing a kid, Sherry, 16 going on 25. Supposedly she’d been nude. I went back inside and resumed drinking.  Behind the bar, liquor bottles glowed tauntingly at me.    

Martin grabbed the next stool. We nodded at each other. Martin had short sticky hair, out of fashion back then. It showed he didn’t give a damn. His blue eyes came at you hard; his chin was strong. Veins jumped from his arms. He had it all working his way, and I needed some of that to rub off on me.  

The bartender served him vodka. After Martin lifted the glass and tossed the drink down, I offered him a Camel. He accepted and we lit up.

“Well he ain’t dead,” Martin said. “The sheet wasn’t over his face.”

   
My next swallow of Dewar’s and water made me shudder. Martin ordered another drink. Stevie Wonder played, as on the previous night, but not very loud. The bar floor took us slowly around.  

“Garrison broke up with Rhonda,” Martin said. “Then he started dogging that little cunt.”

“That explains it. Guess I was too drunk to wonder what was going on,” I said.  

“Rhonda was drunk too, Mark. Shape she was in, she’d’ve fucked a monkey. Did she fuck you?”   

“I don’t think so,” I admitted. “Before anything happened, I went into a coma.  She was gone when I woke.”      

 
Martin laughed. “You dumb ass.”  

I heard the beginning of Stevie’s harmonica. I sipped my Scotch. We drifted past glowing bottles.

“You may not get a chance like that again,” Martin said. “You wanna get laid, try Sherry. She’s easy. You pass out, she’ll be sucking you off when you wake.”

Martin finished his vodka, clapped me on the back. He stepped off the moving floor, strutted away, probably in search of Jenny.  

A glinting pearl of light was sinking through the amber liquid in my glass. It looked as beautiful as Stevie was sounding, like a rainbow, or a sunset pouring into the sea. But I realized I hadn’t had enough to drink, because I wanted to cry.          
                                                                                             ---

Sherry was short, even for a teenager. But her tits and butt were out of proportion to her height; they were voluptuous. I guess that gave her enough allure to pretend she was 10 years older than she was.    

Sherry worked in the hotel’s kitchen. Her room was two floors beneath mine in the building that housed the help. I’d always thought she looked good, but she seemed too young to mess with.  

Now I was seeing her differently. I had desperate cravings. As we walked toward our quarters one afternoon, I invited her to my room to get stoned.    

 
Near my window I kept marijuana plants in three ceramic pots. A couple of desk lamps shone on the plants and a small oscillating fan on the windowsill cranked back and forth, airing the leaves.

Sherry inspected them. “Impressive,” she said. “How long does it take ‘em to grow?”

I sat on a sofa, loading a pipe. “About three months. I brought ‘em here from school. They ought to be ready to go before the end of summer.”

She picked up the fan, turned it toward her. “Oh, that feels good.” Her brown bangs fluttered.

I lit the pipe. I held in the smoke, released it gradually. Sherry had replaced the fan and was looking through my albums. I stood, walked over and handed her the pipe.     

Sherry inhaled with a hissing sound. She came up to about my chin. She couldn’t have weighed 90 pounds. She wore shorts and a sleeveless jersey. The smoke curled past her round violet eyes. She stared at me with a bright, unexpected hardness. I felt myself blushing, my adult smirk cracking.        

           
“Speedwagon,” Sherry said. “Can you put ‘em on?”

I was relieved to look elsewhere for a moment. I set REO Speedwagon on the turntable. We smoked some more, standing, tapping our feet. Sherry wagged her ass a little.    

 
She commented on the high quality of the pot, especially as it was homegrown. I said that it was a female plant; females are more powerful because of a higher THC count.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Just like brains.”

We kissed for a while. The guitars of REO Speedwagon thundered. “Do you know where your woman is tonight? Do you know if she’s sleepin’ alone tonight? Well you may be right you may be wrong when you say you trust her alone. But this rock ‘n roll road has led you far into the night.”

I pushed my hands beneath the waistband of Sherry’s shorts, straightened my fingers and palmed the soft curve of her ass.  
I pulled her tight. Her flesh steamed my blood, turned the music to white noise.  

She said something.  

I couldn’t understand. What did it matter what she said? To hell with her. I was virile. I squeezed her butt. I strained against her, starving. She repeated herself.   

“Is that your mom?”

“What?” I cried. “What the hell?”  

She was looking past me. “Is Missus Moss your mom?”

I turned my head, followed her eyes. There it was on a shelf, a framed photo of my parents. My father’s arm was draped around my mother; both were smiling.  

 
I felt shocked, as if I’d never seen it before. Why in Christ was that thing up there?    

          
I released her and then turned down the music.        

“I had her in fifth grade,” Sherry said cheerfully. “She still there?”

I turned the stereo off. The abrupt silence chilled the hairs on my arms. I explained that my mother had passed away.  

It couldn’t have been too long after Sherry had been in her class. Which must’ve been just five or six years ago. Which today seems like nothing. Even then, it hadn’t seemed that long ago. When Sherry had been skinny, probably with braces.       
“No,” she said, blinking, her mouth slackening to a frown. “She was a nice teacher.”

I backed away. “Yeah,” I said. I sat on the couch. “That’s what I always heard.”

Sherry left a few minutes later, to “go party.” Guess she got over the news pretty quick. But she didn’t go before patting me on the cheek, rubbing me in sympathy, which I might have taken some comfort in. Instead, I felt only self-disgust, crushing the life-changing pride I felt I’d earned just moments ago.    

        
When I was calmer, I walked to the shelf. I lay the picture of my parents face down, gently. I walked to the other end of the room, picked up one of my potted plants and cradled it in my arms. I lifted it over my head. It weighed about the same as two bowling balls. I hurled my arms down, releasing the pot. It hit the tile floor, sounding like a car crash as it shattered into pieces, and I sensed that was just how the bones of a woman might break if beaten down with the same kind of rage.

                                                                                                        ---

 

Later, I took the bus to the tavern, and then sat on a barstool drinking Dewar’s and water. I saw Martin and Jenny go by, arm in arm. I didn’t raise my head to face them, and they didn’t see me. Soon the dance floor was crowded; blue lights flashed and “My Sharona” blasted. I was looking at the dancers and noted Rhonda prowling around, facing some big guy I didn’t know. At last accepting the insults for what they were, I fantasized about taking a beer pitcher off a table and smashing it into the scumbag’s head. And while I was at it, I’d get Rhonda and Jenny, too.  

I watched the bottles glide past. I ordered another drink and then choked it down, feeling the fumes rush through my nose and burst out like a snort of blood.    

​

I decided I was finished drinking. I got up, went outside, and waited for the next bus back.

​

                                                                                                 THE END

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