So that New Year's Eve to come in California became an unending pandemonium just like in Army days, with diverse faces clawing into Nem's vision, obtruding on him from distant shadows. He was submerged in them, in all the elements of perceptible dull realities abrading him into wondering shock.
Tucker's people were pretty regular in their ways and mannerisms. They had their own customs which reflected their class, their upbringing, their allegiance to the values living in this region had instilled in them.
That New Year's Day when they got up for late breakfast in Santa Maria, the lanky and taciturn presence of Tucker's Mom's old man, namely Wilbur, nestled in manly style within his special sofa chair. At rest there with country seriousness written all over him, his hands gripping the armrests like a statuary ruler. Gazing at Nem with uninterested, cold blue eyes while Jack and one of Tucker's sister's daughters played at his feet. It was a domestic homage to tranquility, yet a strained and posed one.
Tucker introduced Nem almost with embarrassment, as if wanting Wilbur to realize etiquette forced him to. Wilbur stared at Nem, not indicating recognition one way or the other. He simply continued to sit rock-like in the chair, his eyes darting carefully about. Tucker's Mom came in, lending some feminine bustle to the male-occupied living room. "I just wonder what we're going to do today," she said, going to the mirror above the fireplace and attending to some hair straightening. " ... what with Linda and her friends going out, expecting her old Mom to watch the kids until they're back! Oh well, can't complain, can we?" She laughed, more of a hoarse exclamation than anything. Fussing, in a hurry with life's particularities was the lot of Tucker's Mom. Yet she obviously enjoyed such preparations.
Tucker watched from the couch, smoking, contented in the ambience. His pot-belly relaxed too, as if officially authorized. He wore a red sports shirt and slacks. His scrunched posture resembled a teen-ager's in a movie house. He was acting younger for the benefit of his brother and four-year-old niece. Tuck was back with his family, where he was wanted and appreciated.
"Where you goin' today, Randy?" his mother asked.
"Oh ... I don't know, Mom." Tucker had a habit of following each of his remarks with a reflective silence. "I thought we'd go over to Juan's again. He's working too hard, involved and everything ... Then I thought we'd catch Will, since I haven't seen the trailer he's been living in. Then -- uhh ..." -- Tucker made a sibilant wheezing sound of dismay, the task now becoming more taxing than he'd figured -- "maybe fool around until the dinner party ... or something ... "
His mother made a humming sound indicating token interest. Another bobby pin was in her mouth. She repaired any recalcitrant hair strands with critical nonchalance.
From his sofa chair Wilbur, big-boned and lanky, stared out the sliding door windows, almost with the air of a patient.
"Well, have a good old time," Tucker's Mom said.
"Oh ... we will," Tucker said. "No questions about that."
Musing laughingly on that subject, the young pair of vets then left. Once behind the wheel of the Mustang, Tucker tried to feel out what Nem's opinion was of the arrangement between the truck driver and Tucker's Mom. Was that a snicker he detected on the little Polack's face, or just a polite attempt at being non-committal? He judged the latter, though still poised and ready to let Nem know there would be no mockery of the matter, and no disparagement.
Almost hostilely with set jaw, tight lips and hard, unblinking eyes, Tucker conveyed this decision to Nem, who sat quietly. He wasn't about to incur Tuck's wrath, and frankly didn't care what the mother did. Why should he? Yet Tucker acted concerned by this very lack of judgment on his friend's part. Putting down Wilbur was all right, perhaps, if done in the right manner -- and not overdone. But of course his Mom was another matter.
"We'll go see Will now, I guess. He's living with some friends of his in a trailer. Out in an area you might like ... more backwoods oriented." Tucker uttered this last part vaguely, leaving Nem to decipher its true meaning.
Will was walking around outside the trailer when they finally arrived, playing with (or more likely voicing instructions to) his cavorting dogs. All three of them obeyed him punctiliously, a fact the bearded trainer was reservedly pleased about. The dogs were large, with russet fur, and looked like hunting types to Nem, though he knew nothing about their breed. They were just dogs.
Will smoothed back his ample waves of brunette hair as his brother advanced. He eyed Nem guardedly, wondering what kind of asshole Tucker had brought with him this time. Suspicion was Will's most discernible quality. He made a habit of showing it to strangers.
Tucker said hello, fresh cigarette in hand, and smiled faintly at his now disgruntled and taciturn older brother, who offered no salutation.
"Brought me a friend here. This is Richard Nem."
Will looked just above Nem's right shoulder. Nem was about to raise his right hand and say How but thought better of it. Instead he stood here feeling like a moron, as he always did around Tucker's surly brothers.
"So what brings you out here, Randy?" Will said gruffly, not about to play host.
"Thought we'd drop by ... Check out how the other half lives."
Will grunted, dropping the stick he'd been letting the dogs fetch. His opinion of Tucker, Nem thought, was a rich one indeed, somewhere between acceptance and chagrin. For what else could you expect from good ol' Randy? Not much, apparently. Will appeared prepared for any off the wall nonsense from this hardly dynamic duo. To him the pair looked like it was about to split away into fresh farts he would perforce be downwind of.
"Get your hand off my dog, Randy. He'll bite your thumb off."
"Frisky devil, isn't he?"
"One mad dog more like it, if you test him."
"I'm used to terriers," Nem said, realizing he shouldn't have spoken. "My folks used to have one ... "
Will Tucker ignored that, staring away.
"You be over at Denise's tonight?" asked the younger Tucker, already knowing the answer. Will nodded, slightly accessible. He liked to be played up to, treated like the elder. A boss, and somebody with a future. Patronizing his brothers was something Tucker enjoyed. He loved to prove to them (or try to) how smooth he really was, how sophisticated and debonair, all due to the fact he'd been living in the big city. He invited Will and whoever he chose to come out to L.A. and see his new apartment, whenever his brother got the chance.
Will shrugged slightly, licking his lips, an ear still poised. He loved it when Randy tried to con him, sure that such talk could only lead in that direction, the reason why his kid brother acted so unctuous yet knowing all at the same time. He said he and Tom (and Tom's wife, of course) wanted to see Hollywood, and Tucker immediately exclaimed that he'd be only too happy to take family and friends on a tour during the new year.
"Well okay, Randy. We'll take you up on it. How's that car of yours been holding up?"
From there the two brothers proceeded to discuss cars and mechanical problems in general, lamenting the state of things, the rising costs of repairs, eetc. Nem felt like an accessory cog, mostly watching the dogs. He was wary of Will, yet wondered about him too, since Tucker informed him of the dangerous duty this brother had pulled in Nam, driving armored carriers and anything else with wheels. Will looked the part: tough, unflinching, never betraying any compromising emotion, always presenting a facade and manner of absolute hardness.
Briefly there was a tour of the slovenly trailer, in which two of Will's Mexican friends dozed, all of it proverbially hip yet straight arrow. A stereo set-up was on high volume with rock music blaring from huge speakers. Empty wine bottles were discarded into a bagged heap, along with scattered ashtrays overflowing with butts and refuse. Will began cleaning up things a bit, listening with one ear while Tucker carried on for his benefit. The Mexican friends yawned, smoothing out facial creases and coming back into it, though hung-over with tired demeanors.
" ... and then she asked if I wanted to marry her," Tucker was saying, "handing me all this jive about her family, that she had to be careful."
"Where'd you meet her?" said Will, interested.
"At Larry's, where else?"
Then the brothers continued to sporadically discuss the merits of local women, since they were the remaining unmarried Tucker males.
"Yeah, she was something else," Tucker concluded, in an undertone implying he'd struck it big.
"I'll bet she was, Randy ... "
"She was. Really," laughed Tucker, though his brother snorted.
After that Tucker and Nem went to pick up Juan, then went to the beach where they set up the colorful geometric blocks and watched Juan photograph them again. This took up most of the afternoon, and Nem was considerably bored. He wasn't really having much fun. He was glad when they had dinner back in town and started drinking again.
Nem could never take drinking to a deadend excess like Tucker could. Drinking with Tucker was now becoming a down experience. Sometimes Nem got tired, and felt becoming a drunk meant a loss of one's individuality. So while they were drinking again on New Year's day, Nem told Tucker that he smoked and drank too much, that he really should exercise more discipline over himself. Maybe even quit.
"Oh really?" said Tucker, aloofly nursing his habitual Chivas Regal, more interested in the plethora of football games on T.V.
They were inside The Lancer Bar, and friends and members of Tucker's family kept circulating in and out. It was early evening, and Nem felt maybe his timing was wrong. Who was he to criticize anybody on a night like this?
Tucker's Mom came in and soon everybody was drinking together at tables which had been pushed together. She was a great favorite of the owners and even worked for them as a waitress occasionally. "Just to keep my hand in," as she put it. Tucker's Mom wanted to please everybody, though she only worked certain days per week. She enjoyed being part of this atmosphere, and sat drinking like a queen with her children, in-laws, and friends gathered around her. The bar was a kind of cocktail lounge with walnut paneled stained walls, glittering oornaments and plushly designed accouterments. Everybody was having a great time, though Tucker's Mom acted livelier than necessary at times. She couldn't stand any lull that might occur during a night out, and would immediately begin to talk if the conversation died down or things were a little strained. Maybe she wanted to show off her skills as a bar maid, Nem thought. He felt sometimes she asked him more questions than were necessary, making him uncomfortable though sometimes he tried to cover it.
"Randy tells me you're a folk singer?" Tucker's Mom said after the juke became silent and you could hear without shouting.
"Not yet really," said Nem, a bit flustered, playing with the edge of a napkin. "I play a lot. I haven't found the right gig yet -- "
"Well maybe you can play a few numbers for us sometime," she said, cigarette upraised, totally sociable.
"You should hear him, Mom," said Tucker, his shoulders hunched in that perennial drinking posture. "He's fantastic. With Indian chants and everything ... "
"Oh really?" said Tucker's Mom, looking at Nem who cringed all the while. "My cousin had musical ability, could really sing some hillbilly standards, or I think that's what you call them. Ruined his voice though. Played professionally for awhile, in a band, and traveled around all over -- "
"Ah, tis the life," Tucker said, having had a few. His eyes gleamed dully and his heavy movements were accentuated. But he'd never let on when he reached the saturation point, though he believed he drank his best after that.
"Well, it's a musical world, Randy, that's for sure. God knows I'd get edgy without it." The fact was she was edgy anyway, despite the music playing intermittently.
Nem still hadn't heard Wilbur speak one word since he'd met him, though they'd been in the same company most of the night. He now sat resolutely uninterested. The entire Tucker family had eaten dinner at a steak palace earlier, and Nem had been treated to his free even though he'd made every effort to pay. Tucker's Mom asked him if he were enjoying his "steak," maybe to make him remember he didn't pay for it. Again Nem felt annoyed, tampered with and somehow bothered. Yet he did his best to show her how grateful he was, and even smiled across the table and nodded enthusiastically at Wilbur, who acted morose in his fashion, watching Nem almost with a glimmer of interest now, like the young fool might be trying to eat shoe leather.
Perhaps they were trying to take him in, Nem thought weirdly. Draw him away from whatever vestige of loyalty he had towards his own family, and this was all merely a test.
Nem found the steak palace to be definitely gaudy and gilt-edged. Fat little Jack, sitting besides Nem, kept trying to bother the ungrateful guest in various ways, finally knocking over Nem's water glass. It was no bother, Nem kept maintaining, though his french fries were soaked. Never had he endured such a curiously excruciating dinner, nor stared at by such a large brood. (Later he would realize the in-joke: they were acting like he was eating his last supper.)
Nem tried to brighten, feigning a brightness he didn't possess, not wanting to further dampen the evening. After all, a new year had begun. Better things were coming, even if McGovern had lost.
"Nem, you're drinking too much yourself," Tucker said, when they had all gravitated again to The Lancer Bar. Yes, maybe it was true? Tonight Nem believed he should really tie one on, get it all out of his system. He swigged back 7 & 7s, Rum and Cokes galore with dogged persistence.
Only recently his resolve to cut down was made after recovering one morning from a gruesome hang-over. He suffered terribly during those devastating after-effects, remembering how dope never left a hang-over. Once again he yearned for that time in Germany, near the latter part of his service, when he smoked hashish regularly and was considered "a good head." Now it was different, though he knew Tucker's brothers smoked marijuana, except for Tucker himself, of course. They were hostile about the subject, freezing Nem off like they would a nark.
Nem brooded that the last true friend he had, J.J., was gone. They had smoked many a bowl together in Deutschland, partaking of a magically potent elixir only a privileged few could know. But now Nem had devolved into the mundane Lancer, where a straighter life style and culture depressed him considerably.
"Drink up," Tucker's Mom said to Nem with glittering laughter, "let's not spoil the party!"
And so it had gone, a pattern Nem could have predicted, an endless re-play of nights gone by. The same conversations between Tucker and Nem were football, Tucker's family, and their undefined plans for the future ...
