Eventually Tucker, Nem, and Juan slipped away to The Foxy Slipper to check things out, and also because there were more bar maids there. (Things were slow back at Lancer's before ten o'clock, and the guys were getting tired of the smugly contented atmosphere, even constricted by it. They wanted to cut loose, swill beer and see dancing titty.) At the Slipper things were heating up and the dancers, more than a dozen on hand for the occasion, were grinding it out among whirls of confetti. Tucker commented he'd never seen anything like this elsewhere, they were really going all out, and the crowded patrons stayed clogged together, elbow to elbow, holding beer pitchers and letting the good times roll.
Though the atmosphere was pretty gritty, Juan allowed that the action equaled anything he had seen around Randy's place back in L.A., and the two Santa Marians began to nod their heads half-ecstatically in agreement. Now bacchanalian splendor overflowed, screeching laughter and shouts gurgled forth, smoke coagulated in filmy layers above the bands of colored lights. The girls wearing divergent costumes danced and kicked their way above the narrow center stage platform. Whistles and party horns blared, feet stamped, hands clapped and urgent fingers clawed at the gyrating, silken legs. "More! More! More!" someone behind Tucker was shouting, and soon the trio found itself crowned with plastic dunce caps, courtesy of a roving bar maid in sparkling halter, shorts and high heels, who just wanted to make sure they were having another good time.
"This is more like it," Nem remarked, drinking his beer and lighting a cigarette. Standing at the crowded bar, his eyes absorbed the vivacious and gaudy spectacle. He enjoyed watching the provocative movements of the dancers, their lovely limbs decorated by only the flimsiest of sheer clinging material, fluttering like nylon in a fanned breeze. Nem blew on a party horn and did not at all feel humiliated, perhaps because he had drunk so much, and anyway on a visit like this what difference did it make? You could really let it all hang out and shake, rattle & roll till you passed out or died of uremic poisoning in the men's room.
But such moribund thoughts became completely submerged in Nem's mind now. He was having too much fun watching the action. The girls were efficient behind the bar and wore enticing bikinis; for awhile Nem wagered he might accidentally be on some floating paradise. If only he could touch or make a pass at one of them. That was the sticky part, you could only go so far in a place like this. He decided to douse his chagrin over such a policy with more liberal beer swallows, and soon the heavy current of juke box music had his foot tapping to the overriding rhythm, and once again he felt better, all the complaints seemed miniscule and childish now. What else could you expect from such a place, and why ruin your evening by bemoaning things you can't change or influence?
However, Nem noticed that his misgivings apparently didn't apply to Tucker, who once again was delivering a stoical monologue to a bar maid sporting rabbit ears who appeared only to patronize him. Tucker was hunched forward more than usual, he really looked out of it, and it was direly important that the beer bunny kept listening to him. More important than anything in the world. So the bunny listened, chewing gum, a slightly woebegone look on her face. Tucker was saying something about his family, about his mother who was also a bar maid, and did the bunny happen to know her, by any chance? There were difficulties making one's own life, Tuck declared , and none of it was easy. He was living proof of that, but seemed to be saying he was more than equal to the task. Tuck would persevere, and soon things would be looking up. Didn't the bunny know that, as well as realize she was one cute thing?
Suddenly Nem, inspired by all this, confronted a maid of his own and demanded she kiss him. No longer was he going to take any bullshit. The liquor had finally done its work, overcoming his shyness and the seeds of frustration. Now he was begging the maid, who appeared startled for a second -- then woefully bored, humoring Nem, standing there like a living doll or cardboard figure before ultimately taking his tongue between her dry lips. Nothing much in the way of passion greeted him there before his tongue was ejected immediately.
Nem was undaunted and tried again, leaning with determination over the bar, but his lips only brushed hers, not quite finding the mark. At least he was satisfied by his boldness as Tucker and Juan observed him with guarded wonder, almost impressed he had done such a fool thing. No bouncers were evident, and no one acted terribly offended by what Nem had done, least of all the bar maid who went on with her tasks, oblivious of the whole thing. So Nem intermittently tried to kiss several other females tending bar, and much the same thing happened. He was allowed to kiss only their impassive exteriors, though he mewled and cajoled them in what he took to be a charming fashion, though getting nowhere.
Nem sat back down, reflecting on how close he'd come. The kisses had all been the same, dry and impersonal, with no spark of passion. It was a disheartening mess. The hours dragged on, everyone kept celebrating more raucously than ever, all the collective blunders were excused in the holiday spirit, and Tucker was condoning what Nem had done, if silently.
So it went. The cluttered bar with its damp surface was a streamlined walnut altar on which so many sacrificial toasts were offered. The gamy air with its effluence of sweat, smoke, and private odors swept indiscriminately over the throng to proclaim itself. Here and there a resting dancer with vapid expression, so facilely beautiful and exotically dressed, and still comfortable with her extreme femaleness, sat in her swing chair. Yet guarded nonetheless, not about to give any easy favor to her disgruntled male audience. Thus Nem, Tucker, and Juan -- bloated with heavy drink -- looked on with a bovine strickenness, though the night was young.
"We should be going over to Denise's," Tucker ventured, "and see how Mom and everybody's doin'."
Juan nodded in his agreeable though sulking manner, and the trio slowly departed through the debris-glutted aisle. There was no reason to look back on the remains of one definitely impersonal celebration which had thoroughly claimed their energies.
Back at The Lancer Bar they found the place considerably more populated with a crowd of over-40 celebrants, which depressed Nem. Most of Tucker's family and friends were still evident, and Tucker's Mom was sitting with her off-and-on boss, Denise, a dry-skinned woman with a brilliantined permanent, her wrinkles seemingly encased in cosmetic rouge.
"Hey -- here come the boys!" Tucker's Mom said, nodding so that her pendent ear-rings sparkled and bobbed. Immediately she pecked her son on the cheek and inspected his condition in rather cursory fashion. Noncommittal, she finished saying something to Denise (who in circuitous ways managed to take another order for a round of drinks), then lit another cigarette with slightly nonplused satisfaction. "Well, did you boys have yourselves a ball?" she asked with fading cheerfulness, attempting to dispel her real feelings.
"We were hopping around," said Tucker dryly, "seeing what else was happening." The collective onslaught of drinks inside him slurred Tucker's remark.
"Well," his Mom said, "you missed a total wipe out here, I'll tell you that. Wilbur had to leave it got so bad." She laughed in her huffing manner. "If it wasn't for that damn ulcer, I'm sure he'd be here till dawn. But you know Wilbur."
To hell with Wilbur, Nem thought, feeling disagreeably drunk.
"Well, what are you boys drinking?"
The remainder of the New Year's day evening hours disappeared with a filtering slowness for Nem, who felt a vomitous urge to collapse against the vinyl upholstered furniture. With an act of magnificent will he did neither. He simply pretended to be sitting there and nursing the same drink for the next three hours. Vaguely Nem remembered that Will had returned with his entourage of Mexican friends to say hello, and that somebody had shaken his hand with a freak clasp, interlocking thumbs until a slight snap of cartilage greeted their guest's ears. Had his thumb been broken? Nem inspected it ruefully, as if his most prized possession was rendered defunct.
The faces kept coming and going, with people dropping by Tucker's Mom to say hello and chat, like this were the Stork Club and she some renowned celebrity. Tucker was now comatose-looking, but cemented to the chair in his familiar posture he occasionally shifted his weight to flutter an eyebrow in recognition, indicating everything was all right. His steady pattern of drink consumption had not altered in the least.
Nem admired yet loathed Tuck's stamina, and felt totally miserable at this point. His head swooned and ached. His throat tasted like a briar, courtesy of Marlboro. And his stomach gurgled, upset, quite devastated. Why had he come? He remembered other occasions back in the Army when he'd enjoyed himself more, yet with less abuse of his bodily functions. Nem knew he couldn't function under this stress, yet to the others it was routine, and it was his unfortunate shortcoming that he couldn't measure up.
Later, thank the gods, the place had closed and all of Tucker's family got in their cars and drove to Mambo's, their favorite all-night diner. They arrived more or less at the same time and squeezed into tables nearby each other. Nem could tell this was something of a ritual with them -- you just couldn't finish out a night's drinking without going to Mambo's. All the personnel in the place knew the Tucker family, either by first name or face, and Tucker's Mom said hello here and there. She brightened considerably when her daughter Linda, missing from most of the activities at Denise's, showed up later with her young daughter in tow, more asleep than otherwise.
They all ordered eggs, sausage or pancakes with fruit juices and coffee. Tucker ate slabs of buttered toast, then devoured waffles with measured rapidity. Will consumed a thick platter of scrambled eggs and bacon, as did his swarthy cohorts. Tom and his wife took care of the sausage orders. Linda and her husband were relatively content with side orders of cheesy or confectionery variety. And Tucker's Mom had a plate of shredded potatoes and soft-boiled egg with rolls. Everybody was eating ravenously, yet with a displayed etiquette making the whole meal communal in flavor.
Nem settled for coffee only, making no excuses for his liquor-sieved system. Not that anybody cared ...
After the long meal they sat there as before, talking and smoking. Tucker's Mom spoke with Linda and caught up on how the baby was doing. "She's over at Lillian's," Linda explained, somewhat testily, as if accused of abandoning the poor thing. Lillian was Linda's mother-in-law, and unarguably a top-flight nurse. Then Tucker's Mom engaged Linda's little daughter in a one-way conversation, asking cute questions which she had to answer herself while her granddaughter smiled dreamily. The child had been sleeping throughout the day, and her mother had ended up carrying her around.
Nem made a silent vow right then he would change his whole life, get back on the right track, getting things straight. No bullshit this time. By the time he finally got to sleep, collapsing on the narrow bed he occupied in Will's old room, this vow was becoming an obsession with him, and it was all he really wanted to remember. Even obliterating the fact Linda had taken his arm in hers when they were all walking through the parking lot, all very innocent and high school-like, as if she were attempting to fulfill what he missed. It was a nice gesture, but it made Nem uneasy, since she was attractive. Did she think he wouldn't feel bothered to be arm-in-arm with such a young married woman? It was almost a joke, like she was saying, "Now you have a sweetheart, and shouldn't feel so lonely, Richard ... "
Yet Nem did remember Linda had the cutest face, that nature had by far made her the most attractive present, far exceeding the Tuckers and himself.
"Now you won't be so lonely," she laughed again.
Such had been Santa Maria, and for the remaining two days Nem would see more of a town almost perpetually hallowed under the pale sunlight. Tucker continued giving Nem the grand tour, taking him everywhere. His friend was like an innocent bystander, a sensitive instrument via which Tucker could gauge the reactions of another artistic sensibility in his home town, and compare them to his own. Even if he sometimes patronized Nem in an unspoken way.
This town had a clear and untroubled air, Nem gave it that much. There was abundant and leafy brown vegetation that all but hugged the ground. Nearby the prosaic town center was more touching than the usual city department stores and supermarkets. The bucolic aspect highlighted the essential quality of the town, Nem knew, where good old American values were nursed beneath the ground too, seemingly hidden, before emerging to bloom and express themselves in curious hypocritical form. Somehow the virtues of middle America were transplanted here, but how successfully? Or maybe they were indigenous to the area all along.
Nem could only wonder. Something about Tucker's tour made him cautious, the way Tuck wanted Nem to see all these virtues as truly being Home. At another time Nem would ponder all this, however obliquely, and wonder if all this insistence on the righteous family myth wasn't an inherent fallacy ... After all he was like a rolling stone, with no direction home ... Upon reconsidering the failed hippie ethic, Nem nonetheless could envision a different lifestyle for the town, making it more accessible in some way, rather than some pretense for outmoded patriotic pride. The people didn't seem half as worried about it as Tucker anyway, keeping certain matters under their hats. There wasn't anything so extraordinarily different here from the suburbs of L.A. where Nem had grown up. But Tucker couldn't see that. This was his home, and therefore it had to be more virtuous, more significant somehow.
As they drove along a dusty, nearly unpaved road Tucker pointed out a curious dwelling -- a fairy tale-like cottage -- of passing interest. "That's the Widow's Walk. It has a story behind it, of course. Quite romantic and 19th century ... " Tucker described a protruding ledge which extended around the entire abode. "That's where the widow used to walk, waiting for her sailor husband who apparently was lost at sea."
"I've heard about something like that before," Nem said, mildly interested.
"Did you? Well there it is ... "
They whizzed on by the place, wind blowing through their hair, and Nem remarked how the place looked at the mercy of the profuse forms of vegetation surrounding it.
"That's only one of the interesting sites we have around here," Tucker said. "Believe me, this place is full of them. Lots of fertile land around here too."
"Yeah, it's really beautiful land," Nem said, trying to placate his guide. The radio droned on intermittently with a static buzz, and Nem could hear snatches from a popular rock song. Then a commercial jingle was heard: Get your life together! ... Get your love act together, for now is n-o-w! ...
"For winter," Tucker was saying, "this is pretty decent weather, huh? Not as cold as you would expect."
It was plenty cold, thought Nem, but why spoil an illusion? Then Nem realized he and his friend shared a complicity between them: they would nurse each other's dreams and illusions as long as a mutual respect and liking existed for one another. Or as long as they could respect this very illusion. Nem was always ranting how they should break away from the corporate bullshit, how they should get mad and fight the system, like it used to be in the '60s. Nem felt that his buddy was cut off from important feelings, anger being one.
"You've got a father problem," Nem suddenly announced, thinking he was being constructive, though a worse time couldn't be more imagined, "and I've got a mother problem. That's why we're such straight freaks, a new category for the selfish '70s. Once we lick our problems -- "
Tucker looked at Nem like he was a new kind of crazy. Tuck was being forbearing in his own psychoanalytical way, while Nem was thinking about Tuck's Mom, of all the damned people, and the influence she had over her brood. Over the long New Year's extravaganza, when they'd return to Tucker's house after the partying, Nem remembered one time bumping into Tucker's Mom as she came out of the only unused bathroom. She was wearing a bra with her skirt still intact, her eyes half-shut and tired, so tired she might not have realized she was slightly undressed. Nem was startled and excused himself extensively, but the woman didn't seem to mind, or even notice him, when she sidled on past and closed the door.
Now Nem was thinking, fantasizing despite himself as they sped along in the brilliant red Mustang, wondering about the attraction mothers had for him, or vice versa, thinking of his own with subdued alarm: how this intimacy between mothers and sons could be dreadful indeed. But how to escape it and all its sickening ramifications? Nem sat there thinking, the answers far from him.
"Whatever you say," Tucker responded drolly, making Nem out to be an addled expert. There was a protracted silence between them as they continued driving around.
Just as long as you don't think you can Father me, Nem thought, just so you can control me ...
Suddenly angry, Nem turned and lit a cigarette. The hell with it all. The hell with everybody. Who did Randall Tucker think he was, anyway? Some kind of official leader while he, Nem, was simply his vassal scum? Someone to instruct and guide through the years of post-military infancy? Nem wasn't that stupid, he could see what was going on, though nobody around Santa Maria did, treating him like a lost cub in the woods.
"Tomorow we'll be going back," Tucker announced later, interrupting the silence, "just as soon as some things are taken care of ... And then it's back to L.A."
Nem sighed while wondering what held their friendship together for so long, now that it was ending.
Peter says, "In all honesty I'm still wondering who the heck 'Peter Magliocco' is & what he did." His latest chapbook, This Junkyard Heaven, is available from Pudding House Publications, and reviewed by Charles P. Ries. This story is from his forthcoming novel, Hiawatha Rocks, coming from Bookman.