Goin' Back Home Again

"Carol," Bob finally managed to croak.

"Well he was, Bob," she said. "Little Eddie Haskell-acting twerp from day one. 'You look beautiful today, Mrs. Harlan,' and 'Are you doing something different with your hair, Mrs. Harlan?' Pathetic, even when he was little."

I smiled. She was right, but most of the parents ate that crap up. Carl was always the best-behaved, the most polite, and the first to offer to help take out the garbage. But when the parents weren't around, he was also the first to blaze up a joint, pull out a bottle of vodka he'd pilfered when someone wasn't looking, and bad mouth pretty much everyone and everything. All in all, he'd been fun and wild and reckless.

"So what're you going to do?" Bob said.

I shrugged, chewing on the last bite of my sandwich. "Don't know," I said with a mouthful of food. Swallowing, I continued. "If it's all right, I'd like to stay here awhile, Mom. Just relax and think. It's hard to think in LA, you know?"

She looked at me, pursing her lips and thinking for a minute before nodding. "Well," she said, "I guess it's okay with me if it's okay with Bob."

My eyes went wide. "Bob?"

"We live together now," she said, reaching her arm across the table and taking his hand in hers.

"You're kidding me, right?" I looked at Bob, and he looked a little uncomfortable. "What about Elaine, Bob?"

"She left me," he said. "Couple of years ago. Your mother and I have been living together for the past eight months."

"And you didn't think to tell me this?" I said to Mom.

"No," she said. "It's none of your goddamned business. And if you cared so much, you'd have called me, Nick. But you haven't. Not once in the eight months we've lived together."

"Yes I did," I argued. "I called you at Christmas."

"It was New Year's Day," Bob said. "That's when we woke up together, and your mom asked if I'd stay for awhile. I figured she meant for a few hours, but she meant awhile longer than that."

I laughed. It was all so clear suddenly. Bob and Mom went out on New Year's Eve, got all liquored up, and ended up in bed together. Frankly, it was a good move for Bob. Though fifteen years younger than Mom, she still looked around his age. Don't mistake me for Oedipus Rex, but I freely admit that Mom's a hottie, and God knows she's the life of every party she attends. So yeah, this wasn't nearly as strange as it looked.

"What's so funny?" she said, getting her dander up.

I ignored her. "So, Bob, what do you say? Can I stay here? I'll try to stay out of your way."

He saw my grin and grinned back at me, then his face got all serious and he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Well son," he said.

I lost it, and the milk I'd just taken a chug of came out of my nose as I convulsed in laughter at the whole merry-go-round that was suddenly my life.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I went to bed immediately after lunch and crashed for seven hours. After waking up, I showered and brushed my teeth, dressed, and went downstairs.

The note on the refrigerator said it all. "I'm teaching a class tonight, and Bob's at the office. You're on your own for dinner. Love, C."

I didn't feel like spending the evening alone in front of a television. To the contrary, the past two days with just me and Walter and the flat plains of the American heartland left me needing a crowd.

Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at The Hitching Rail. I'd worked there, first as a busboy then a cook, while in high school, and the food was easily the best in town. Think Chili's or TGI Friday's, but with homemade food instead of pre-packaged, tasteless, overpriced crap. Judging by the full parking lot at seven thirty on a Thursday night, they were still knocking them dead.

Seeing the dining room full, I made a beeline to the bar and ordered a beer.

"Nicky," someone called out behind me, and I turned. Victoria was striding toward me, her arms held out for the impending full-body squeeze.

"Hey, Vic," I gasped as my body was crushed to her big frame.

"They said it was you, Nicky," she said, now holding my shoulders and standing back to take a look at me. "I didn't believe them, but . . . well . . . I'll be damned."

Then she hugged me again.

Victoria Wentworth and her husband Ron owned The Hitching Rail and had for more than thirty years. Ron ran the kitchen, Victoria ran the dining room. They were both stern taskmasters–I learned early on that perfectionism in all things is the only way to succeed in the bar and grill business–but the high schoolers they hired to fill out their staff became members of a family, and they treated us all like the kids they'd never had. Presents on our birthdays, cards with cash at graduation, and severe tongue lashings for the slightest miscue at work. And they were the only people who ever called me Nicky.

"It's been too long, Nick," she said.

"Four years, I think. You're right, too. That's way too long."

I looked around the place, recognizing most of the customers. A few of them nodded to me, and I nodded back and smiled.

"Looks like nothing much has changed, Vic," I said.

She beamed. "Nope, still the best damned burger in town." She grabbed my arm and pulled me along. "Come on, you've got to drop in and say hey to Ron. He's a little busy now, but I know he'll be glad to see you."

Sure enough, there was Ron in the kitchen, his white shirt and faded jeans somehow spotless amidst the grease and smoke and sauces being prepped, plated, and pushed onto the counter in a well-oiled routine. Barking orders like a drill sergeant, it took him a minute to notice us. He started to yell something to Victoria, then stopped, his mouth agape.

"Nicky?"

I nodded. A big grin split his face, showing the two teeth he'd lost in a bar fight in Singapore, and he strode around the steam tables. Bowling the two line cooks aside, he swept me into a hug that would've put a boa constrictor–and Victoria–to shame.

"Goddamn, son," he whispered fiercely, "it's good to see you again."

Then he, too, held me off at arm's length and eyed me up and down.

"You look like shit," he said. "Too gaunt. And when's the last time you slept?"

I tried to laugh it off. "The California lifestyle, Pops," I said. "Too many salads, not enough steaks."

He laughed at that, a bellowing laugh from deep in his billowing belly.

"Fuckin' pussies, eatin' a bunch of shit not fit for human consumption. Well we'll fix you right up," he said. "Won't we sweetie?"

Victoria nodded, grabbed my arm, and ushered me out the door.

"Gimme a half-pound cheeseburger with extra bacon," he shouted to the cooks as I left.

"I've got a surprise for you," Victoria said, patting my forearm as she led me to a small table far in the back.

"What's that?" I said.

She nodded toward the waitress station, and I turned. Some long-legged redhead with a great ass was filling a tray full of sodas. My eyes went wide when I guessed who it was.

"Is that . . .?"

"It sure is, Nicky," she said. "Just started back a couple months ago."

I said nothing more except my thanks as Victoria dropped me off at my table before turning back and hovering over the other tables.

Just as in the bar, I recognized quite a few of the people in the dining room. It was neat seeing some of those I'd gone to school with trying to feed their kids between bites of their own food, and the whole room looked just like any other thriving diner in middle America, which is to say everyone looked happy at the end of a long day and content to eat a good meal with friends and family.

A throat cleared beside me and I turned and looked into the most beautiful blue eyes God ever created. Aimee Standish, in the flesh, and she had changed very little in the past ten years. Same long, thick red hair, high cheekbones, and tiny dimple on her chin.

"Hey, Aimee," I stammered.

"Hey," she said, looking around the room at her other tables before turning back to look at me. "Vicky says you've already got a burger coming, so I just need your drink order."

No smile, no recognition, no nothing. Just impatience to get my order, get it back to me, and get back to her other tables.

"Please," I said, holding up my nearly-empty of Miller Lite.

She nodded, jotted it down on her pad, and left. I watched her stalk away, then watched her weave back to my table, put down a fresh beer and yank away the empty, then set down bottles of ketchup and mustard. "Burger'll be up in a minute," she said, then was gone.

Ah, Aimee Standish, my unrequited high school love. She'd been in my class, and I'd long tried to get her to recognize my existence. She never had, going so far as to look at me like I was crazy when I fumbled my way through inviting her to the Homecoming Dance.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like she was a snob or anything like that. Lord knows we had enough of those in school, the ones that settled only for the quarterbacks and track stars, the wrestling champions and the star outfielders. There was no way a middle-of-the-road nobody like me was going to get noticed by any of them regardless of my bloodline and my father's latest appearance on The Tonight Show.

No, Aimee wasn't one of them at all. Rather, she'd been the class brain, the valedictorian who held herself aloof from nearly everyone. Sometimes you'd see her chatting with a group of the other brainiacs, probably sorting through some geometry proof or discussing chemical reactions, but she usually just strode to and from class with occasional stops at her locker in between, eyes straight ahead, rarely recognizing anyone around her.

We were Seniors, and I was a cook at The Hitching Rail by the time she hired on as a waitress. I'd stand in the kitchen during down times, watching her shuttle to and fro between the tables, the kitchen, and the waitress stand. She rarely said a word to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary to clarify an order or answer a direct question. She'd keep a faint smile on her lips, nod a lot, then hustle her ass off.

Noticing my fascination one night, Ron had told me, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

That, of course, led to the Homecoming rejection, and I went back to tell Ron about it. He just nodded and turned around without a word. Thinking he found me as pathetic as Aimee had made me feel, I put it out of my mind.

A week later, though, Ron came up behind me as I again stood at the kitchen door and watched Aimee. "Victoria says she's shy," he told me. "That's why you almost never hear her say anything. Says her parents forced her to get this job to overcome it–her shyness, that is–and Vic thinks she's coming around."

I nodded. At this rate, there was no doubt I'd be collecting Social Security by the time I managed to engage her in a full conversation.

The conversation never came, though. Ten months later, the weekend before we both took off for our first semester of college, I managed to get a "Hello, Nick" from her. That was the first and last time she'd ever said my name, and I still remember my unbridled joy at thinking she knew my name.

And truth be told, through the years I'd occasionally flash back at the smile on her face when she spoke to me–and just me–that one time. My heart still flutters thinking about it.

CHAPTER NINE

"So what's the story with Aimee?" I said to Jimmy Schultz. We were sitting at a table in the bar now, drinking beer and catching up on high school. Jimmy had been the star running back in high school and was now an insurance salesman in Grant City, working out of his father's office on the main drag.

"Still got the hots for her, huh?" he said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and followed her with his eyes. "Yeah, who wouldn't."

We both watched her for a minute before Jimmy spoke again. She was tall, about five eight, with long, slim legs, slightly flaring hips, flat tummy, and breasts on the smaller side. All around, a very alluring package.

"Met someone in college," he said. "Engineer, I think. Only met him once, tell you the truth. They were having lunch here 'bout three years back. Anyways, he was a lot like her, only more so. All quiet, wouldn't say 'boo' to anyone about anything." He took a long pull on his beer.

"Guess they got married right out of college," Jimmy continued. "Had a little boy. They lived somewhere in New York or something. She was teaching, I guess, and he was engineering. Then, 'bout a year ago, she's back in town with her little boy in tow. Don't remember his name, but he's a cute little shit. The wedding ring was gone, and apparently so was Albert. Word was he took off with a co-worker. A male co-worker, if you know what I mean."

He was looking at me when he said the last, but I'm pretty sure my poker face hid my thoughts. "Guess that doesn't surprise you so much, living in California now and all," Jimmy said, snickering.

"So what's she doing now?" I asked, trying to get this conversation back on track.

Jimmy laughed at this. "Well," he said, drawing it out, "she's an English teacher at the high school. Then she works here Thursdays and Fridays. I think her folks watch the young 'un."

"She seeing anyone?" I asked.

"Whoa, boy," Jimmy said, turning and looking at me full. "You're married to one of the sweetest babes in the world. Save some for the rest of us, would ya?"

I smiled, which apparently reassured him. He turned back and watched Aimee, speaking as his eyes followed her. "Anyways, the answer is no, she's not seeing anyone. God knows we've all tried. Hell, she's shot me down more times than I can count."

"Then why do you keep asking?" I said.

"Just tryin' to wear her down," he sighed.

We both finished our beers, and I went to the bar to get us another. No such thing as cocktail waitresses in Grant City, Illinois. Never had been, never would be.

"You see Teddy at all?" I asked, setting a new bottle in front of Jimmy.

"Sure," he said, finishing off the dregs of his last bottle before gripping the new one. "All the time."

"Where's he living?"

"Foster Road," Jimmy said, "nice place just north of the Jenkins farm."

"What's he doing with himself nowadays?"

Jimmy looked at me, disbelief on his face. "Jesus, Nick, when's the last time you talked to him?"

I avoided his eyes as I answered. "Six years ago. At the Grammys. We had a couple of beers together after we collected for song of the year."

Jimmy put his bottle down firmly and stared at me, mouth agape. "What the fuck, you two were closer than ticks all throughout. You tellin' me you haven't even seen him in six years?"

I nodded. "It just . . . I don't know . . . he didn't really have much to say the last time," I explained. "Then we got so busy–you know, life and all."

He nodded, but his eyes told me he couldn't believe it.

"Well," Jimmy said, "them royalty checks he got and keeps on getting have set him up. Nothing fancy, mind, but he's got a real nice place now. He's married, too."

My raised eyebrows told me this was a surprise. Jimmy grinned.

"Jenny Leyden," he said. "They got a couple of little girls, both the spittin' image of Jenny. He's teaching at the high school, too. Also English, just like Aimee. I think they're pretty good friends. You always see them chatting when he's around here."

"So he drops by here sometimes?" I said, looking around to see if Teddy was there now. He wasn't.

Jimmy's head jerked toward a poster on the wall. I read it. Mustang Ranch/Friday July 17/Live from 9:00 to 1:00. Teddy's face was at the center of the band photo in the middle of the poster.

I laughed. "That fuckin' prick," I said. "He quits LeadFoot because he didn't want to do it, and here he is in all his free time playing in some bar band."

Jimmy just shrugged. "Maybe he's just happier this way."

It took me a minute to realize that Jimmy had hit the nail right on the head. Teddy had never wanted fame and all the attendant issues that fame created. No, Teddy just wanted to teach somewhere and maybe, if he had some free time, play some music for the fun of playing music. Then I remember the last time we'd seen each other, drinking beers at Spago, shouting other over the noisy crowd trying to hear each other, Teddy fidgeting nervously the whole time in the crush of bodies seeing and being seen. He'd been a fish out of water in a situation I'd long since gotten used to.

So there it was. Teddy just wanted a normal life, a life like his Mom and Dad before him with a wife and kids and a satisfying job with a little bit of music on the side for some fun. He knew what fame would bring, knew it before any of us, and he wanted no part of it.

Then came my first–and long overdue–realization: Teddy had it better than I did. Way better. Plus, he's the one that finally got to play with Jenny Leyden's perfectly perky titties.

CHAPTER TEN

"You look like someone hit you in the face with a shovel," Walter said as we strolled back home in the silent darkness.

"Just got a lot to think about suddenly is all," I said.

"Don't tell me Jimmy Schultz finally had something intelligent to say," he said.

"No," I replied, "it's not that. Wasn't really that intelligent, truth be told. Just common sense, which I seem to have pretty much lost lately."

I turned halfway down the block and faced Walter. "Mom was from around here," I said.

"Sure," Walter agreed. "Tyler, fifteen miles down the road."

"And you were from Chicago."

"Oak Brook," he corrected.

"Close enough," I said. "Chicago, ritzy suburb. No difference. But she was also . . . I mean her parents, they were just small town folk. A pharmacist and a housewife."

He nodded. "So?"

"But your dad was an editor at the Tribune. And your mom was a socialite. Came from old packing house money if the stories you told are to be believed."

"They are," he defended. "Still, your point?"

I started walking again before answering. "My point," I said, "is that you two were doomed from the start. She's a small-town girl from a typical small-town family. You're a big-city boy from a rich, influential family. You spent your whole life around people who were famous and glamorous; Mom spent her time at soda fountains and necking with her boyfriends at the Bijou."

He nodded, catching on. "So we were doomed from the start."

"Well," I said, "your behavior didn't exactly help things. I mean, it's bad enough to have so little in common. You seem to have exacerbated things by sleeping with every starlet you laid eyes on."

"Jimmy came up with all of this?" Walter said.

"No. I did. It's just what Jimmy said led me to thinking."

"So what did he say?"

I shook my head. "It's not what he said. It's that I didn't think of it first."

"And that is?"

"What he said was that Teddy had exactly what he wanted. He had the small town dream. And I damned near choked on my beer at such a stupid thought, at such small dreams, until I realized that I was looking at it from the Hollywood point of view. From the superstar point of view."

I stopped again and looked at Walter. "Walter," I said, "I've forgotten all about those dreams. Teddy's got money from the royalties, but he's happier about his family and his career and his little bar band than I am with my superstar wife, my mansion, ten times more money than him, and no family." I snorted. "Hell, my best friend's a fucking ghost that I didn't even like when he was alive."

Walter had been following me intently until the last. Then a hurt look came over his face and, before I could apologize, he was gone.

He did that sometimes, disappeared in a flash when I said something that pissed him off. He always came back though, his feathers all ruffled and looking for an apology, which I usually gave early on.

Walter had first appeared to me after a show in Dallas about a year after he'd been killed. I thought someone had spiked my water bottle when I turned and saw him sitting there, watching me with that glint of humor in his eyes. I'd dropped some acid in the band's early years of fame, though, and this was like no trip I'd ever taken before. For one thing, he was too realistic, and the conversation that had ensued was too rational.