Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
But, he said, just as some people speak casually of Hell on Earth when their lives are filled with misery, one might also speak of Purgatory on Earth—as a state of deep, sorrowful regret and guilt, which can only be relieved by facing and correcting all the evils we have done. The good Reverend never said how long the process might take.
“I’m so excited!” Darlene stood at the open front door in hip-hugging shorts and sleeveless top, oversized plastic sunglasses, everything bright green, her signature color.
And then the quivering Jello hairdo— that bottle-blonde Annette Funicello flip.
Ten minutes earlier my father had said, “You about ready?”
“In a jiffy,” she said.
He’d gone out to warm up the Plymouth then. He was still sitting there now; I could see him out the window, drumming fingers on the steering wheel.
Then she was flustering out the door, both arms laden with purses and totes of various sizes and who knows what contents. “Can you get the door, Archer? Thanks, hon. Now, you’re gonna be okay, right? Billie said she’ll come straight home after work, so don’t worry, you won’t be alone all night. And don’t stay out too long. You know things can get a little crazy on holidays like this. Have fun and stay away from firecrackers, I know how boys are. And we’ll see you in the morning at the pancake breakfast. Okay, toodles!”
Yes, she really did say, “toodles.” I closed the door before she could say anything else. My father gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, no doubt with great concentration restraining himself from leaning on the horn. It was perhaps an indication of how Billie came by her own verbal capacities.
It was Sunday afternoon, and this time Old Man Terwilliger had given my father the keys to the Chris-Craft for an overnight excursion. But the boating privileges came with a catch: my father would fill in for Terwilliger as pilot in the annual lighted boat parade, flying the Call & Record banner, after which he and Darlene would attend the big schmooze-fest (Laurette’s term) at the Lupoyoma Rotary Club. Only then would they be free to set anchor somewhere offshore for a romantic night under the stars in this wooden castle on the lake.
The Plymouth pulled away from the curb out front, and I went back to my room, my transistor radio, and the Giants, who were playing a double header against the San Diego Padres. I pulled out the old scorebook and scribbled through the games, a familiar comfort, and somehow a way of being alone but also connected. To my mother, of course. And my father. And Alice and even Robyn now.
In the first game, Mays, McCovey and Bobby Bonds all homered, McCovey twice, and the Giants won handily six to one. In the second game, the Giants scored seven times in the fifth inning and held on to win seven-six. They had clawed their way back to fourth place. The beginning of a historic comeback? Hey, you never know.
Before she left the house that day, Billie had also left me a note, torn from her sketch pad and scotch-taped to the window sill on my my side of the wall. Her handwriting looked like her, the letters rounded and full or curvy with the arms stretched out at odd angles. Come to the cafe at seven thirty, got a surprise, B.
So bidden, I headed out after the Giants game, by way of the carnival.
I would have cut through the park, but the lawns and picnic tables were already crawling with people claiming territory—spreading blankets, unfolding lawn chairs, and strategically placing ice chests and strollers, everyone vying for a view of the upcoming boat parade and fireworks display. By comparison, the meandering crowds on the midway were much less threatening.
I ran into Alice Terwilliger in front of the Tilt-a-Whirl, which was tilting and whirling directly across the street from the library. She said she’d also received an invitation from Billie, although by phone instead of paper. Come by tonight, I got a good spot for us.
“It’s gonna be packed,” I said. “Maybe she reserved a table on the deck.”
We agreed to walk together and I thought about asking Alice why she quit as team scorekeeper, but I figured I already knew and I didn’t want to open that five-pound can of worms, as Grandma Junia might say.
Further down the midway, we were spotted by Timmy Bilderback, tagging along with none other than Trey Morgan, who stood at one of the sucker games pitching baseballs at fake milk bottles. Timmy tugged at Trey’s shirt and pointed our way. We kept walking.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Trey called. “What’s your hurry? You can’t slow down and say hello?”
Alice scoffed. “I don’t think so.” We walked on.
“Alright, I see how you are.”
“Stuck-up,” Timmy muttered. In his white tee and 501s he looked like a mini-Hank Timmons.
“Who’re you, the redneck’s apprentice?” Alice said. And we stopped.
Trey put a calm-down-I-got-this hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “Well, where’s your hippie girlfriend then? She’s a helluva lot nicer than you.”
Timmy smirked, petulant, arms crossed, a manufactured look of invincibility.
Alice didn’t answer. Neither did I, struck dumb by jumpcut memories flickering in the drive-in theater of my mind—Billie’s eyelids fluttering, Timmy wrestling her arms, his face a primal snarl.
“Well, you tell her Hank’s looking for her,” Trey said. “We’re having a big sendoff tonight at my place after the fireworks and all that. He ships out tomorrow, you know. She oughta come by. We’re getting a keg and we’re having Wallbangers again, too. She likes those.”
“And more quaaludes!” Timmy said, loud enough that Trey gave him the shush sign, but sarcastically, indulgently.
It was all a big joke to them, and I was seething inside but didn’t say a word. I wasn’t afraid of Trey, even with his tough-guy sneer, his shoulders cocked back and tense, those oily jeans and the black t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, the curled brim of his ratty Texaco ballcap tilted up like a let’s-take-this-outside challenge.
But I had to pretend I didn’t fully understand, like I didn’t get the insinuations about Billie and quaaludes and the rest. Everyone knew I’d been at the trailer and barely stumbled home, but I hoped no one knew that I was looking through the back window that night. And I hoped no one ever would.
But Alice didn’t have to play stupid. “Yeah, booze and pills, that’s the only way you’ll ever get laid,” she said.
Trey grinned, cold and unfazed. Alice waved a hand dismissively, turned and started walking away.
“Hey, Timmy,” Trey said. “How many hippies does it take to screw in a lightbulb? …Three. One to screw it in and two more to share the experience.” He laughed at himself.
We walked. Trey spoke louder.
“Timmy, what’s the difference between a hippie and a trampoline? …You take off your boots when you jump on a trampoline.”
“Good one, Trey!” Timmy said.
Alice stopped and turned and moved toward Trey, arms wagging a big smarmy double peace sign like a wacky Nixon impersonation. Then she slowly turned her wrists and morphed the peace signs into fuck-you fingers.
Meanwhile, Timmy slipped a firecracker from his pocket, lit the fuse with a Zippo and threw it down on the ground between us. Blam! Alice and I and some other folks nearby all jumped and put hand to chest. It was then I noticed the slash of orange paint on one of Timmy’s sneakers.
I had an upset feeling in my stomach again, an angry roiling more like bees than butterflies. But Alice started walking away, and I hurried to catch up. “Come on,” she said. “I think I’d like to find Billie before Hank does.”
And I forgot myself and said, “Yeah, me too.”
The Blues & Billie Armstrong is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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