The Blues & Billie Armstrong 43
UP ON THE ROOF
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
I was still of that age where adults and even older teens sometimes ignored my presence, assuming the troublesome details of their grownup lives were beyond my comprehension. “I think the parade is about to start,” I said, and sat down.
Down the hallway were the two doors to the restrooms, marked INBOARD and OUTBOARD respectively, which had thoroughly confused me as a little kid.
Toward the end of the hall, a left turn up a narrow stairwell led to a tiny, hot and stuffy attic which squatted right over the kitchen and served as Molly’s office. We all carried cups of soda up the stairs—except Sonny, who brought a small cooler of beer. He showed the way and opened a window for us to duck through and step out on the roof.
This part of the roof was flat with a grainy rubbery surface. It had apparently started out white, but that was some time ago. Sonny had furnished the area with some colored lawn chairs and a few coffee-can ashtrays. Our little beach in the sky.
Nate showed up and whistled from the parking lot till Sonny spotted him and sent me down to let him in—with a stern reminder to make sure and lock the door afterwards.
Twilight edged toward night. Everyone was quiet at first, subdued after Hank’s ambush visit. Alice and Billie moved two chairs and sat apart from the rest of us, huddled close and low-talking.
Nate updated us on the vandalism at The Music Box and the Lupoyoma Police Department’s so-called investigation. Chief Timmons had taken a quick tour of the damage and said right away it looked like the work of some drunk and rowdy carnies. Nate showed him the bright orange words on the front of the store and asked if that looked like carnies. And Timmons said, “Some of those guys are veterans, you know, maybe they heard about your little stunt the other night. You made that bed yourself, young man.” Nate said his parents didn’t burn anything, they didn’t deserve this. Timmons said, “We’ll file a report and ask around, but the carnies are a tight bunch. Hard to get a straight story out of them.”
“That was it,” Nate told us. Timmons got in his car and left.
“It wasn’t the carnies,” I said, and that came out with surprising authority.
“How do you know that?” Sonny said, and I told about running into Timmy and Trey at the carnival and the orange spray paint I saw on Timmy Bilderback’s shoe.
Nate said, “So, you think Timmy did it?”
“He’s just about mean enough,” Alice said.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “but I went to school with Timmy since first grade, and he can’t spell for shit.” That got a couple laughs.
“He follows Trey around like a stray pup now.” Alice said.
“Well, I went to school with Trey, and he’s dumb as a bag of hammers,” Nate said, and that got more laughs.
“So, think about it,” Sonny said. “Who do they both look up to?”
And Billie said, “The cops won’t do shit if Hank’s involved.”
They all grunted and sighed and nodded in some sort of group shrug. I sipped root beer from the waxy cup with sketches of fish and ski-boats and imagined what I would’ve said to Hank when I stood up with my mouth open in the restaurant: what’s happened to you, what’s wrong with you, who are you? Or simply, I saw you. But no.
Nate brought other news as well, and this hit me in the gut; a friend of his had been killed in Vietnam, a boy he’d known since the first grade. Two soldiers in uniform had shown up on his family’s porch that day. He was just nineteen years old. His name was Ricky Withrow.
“Oh man, that’s Robyn’s brother,” I said. I was standing near the edge of the roof and nearly lost my balance, closing my eyes to a wave of shock.
“That’s right,” Nate said, “He does have a little sister about your age.”
“Jesus, I can’t believe it. She’s been really worried about him.”
“You okay, Archer?” Billie said.
“It’s so wrong.”
“This motherfucking war,” Sonny said, and there was another round of grunts and nods.
The parade started up and I let myself be distracted by the unfamiliar view from the roof—out over the bobbing, nattering heads of the patio crowd, across the shallows of the lake to the lighted boats putt-putting by in a line with lights glowing and banners flying.
For the first time, I noticed it was the same sad little parade as the year before, and the year before that, my whole Lupoyoma life. Rotary Club, Lions Club, Yacht Club, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, 4-H, Grange and Future Farmers, the Chamber of Commerce and the Junior Chamber of Commerce, the VFW, American Legion, and on and on. As each float was announced over the PA, the occupants waved like desperate pageant contestants and the rowdy crowd cheered and jeered according to their allegiances.
Nate had scored a pint of Southern Comfort somehow, and he walked around the roof spiking our sodas. Sonny popped another can of Hamms. I got the vibe that he didn’t want to play chaperone or cop, but he did shoot me a look when Nate poured some of the liquor into my cup, a watch-yourself look that suggested caution.
Percival J. Terwilliger’s cabin cruiser was the last boat in the parade and one of the biggest. My father and Darlene stood in the cockpit behind glass. Strings of red, white and blue Christmas lights hung from the deck railing. A single white spotlight shone on a figure standing at the rear of the vessel—Private Hank Timmons saluting the crowd like he was posing for a recruiting poster. The final image of the 1970 Lupoyoma Memorial Day Lighted Boat Parade.
There was a mix of establishment applause and anti-war boos from the crowd below and a moment of tense silence up on the roof. Sonny shook his head, crushed an empty beer can in his fist. Nate stood and gave a mock salute. In a loud preachy voice, he said, “God Bless America and all the ships at sea!” Some folks down on the patio overheard and laughed. We laughed too. Except Billie. Sitting ten yards but a million miles away and staring out at the lake, she said, “I gotta get out of this place,” her voice hollow and resigned.
I felt the hunger of the darkness, how the many colored lights twinkled so hopefully on the boats, but in a wider view the lights were so small and the night swallowed the world.
Billie and Alice went off to the bathroom together like girls do. They took turns folding themselves through the window of Molly’s office and headed for the stairwell and the INBOARD sign. They didn’t come back for a while.
The big barge the fireworks were launched from had been tugged into place in front of Library Park a hundred yards out on the water. Sonny stood up from his lawn chair. “Show’s about to start. I better go check on those girls.”
Eventually all three of them clamored back through the window and onto the roof, Alice and Billie talking excitedly, Billie waving a piece of paper, arms flailing the air like normal Billieness. “Freedom!” She said. “I hold freedom here in my hand!”
“Is it a joint?” Nate said. “If it is, spark it up!”
“No, silly, it’s not a joint. It’s the pink slip to my car!”
“We will not be sparking it up,” said Alice.
“Yes, don’t set important paperwork on fire!” Nate said.
“Wow, so you paid if off?” I said.
“Not quite, but Sonny said close enough for now.”
“But remember, I’m not giving you the keys tonight,” said Sonny. “Tomorrow, when I know you’re sober.”
“In that case, let’s party!” Billie snatched the bottle from Nate, took a big slug and handed it to Alice. Turned out Nate was the one who produced a joint, handed it to Billie and she lit it up with her one-hand matchbook trick.
The patio crowd murmured impatiently, and out on the lake dark figures moved around the barge prepping the fireworks show. We pulled all the chairs back together in a semi circle and sat in the mostly dark passing the joint around.
When Billie passed to Sonny, he said “You’re definitely not getting the keys tonight.” And he passed it along after taking a short hit.
“I guess you’ll be leaving Lupoyoma now,” Alice said, wistful, as if it had just sunk in.
Billie sorta pshawed the notion. “Well, not yet, not until I’m eighteen anyway—I don’t wanna piss off the parents.”
The first firework sounded off. The low pop of the launch, the crowd’s sudden inhale, the airy whistle as the rocket climbed the sky, then the gunpowder crack and the shower of yellow-red stars lighting up the drifting clouds. And in the flash I saw how Billie’s face had transformed. There were new plans in her eyes, maps and highways and calendars, and she seemed to be nodding in rhythm to an inner voice.
The crowd cheered and oohed and aahed, and I took a hit from the joint and drank root beer Southern Comfort from the waxy cup. Not bad.
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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