Part 02
Ron swung around his black leather
swivel chair to face his books, lining the entire length of his white
windowless wall in his small studio apartment. His books. His
possessions. The possessions that possessed him. He respected, no,
revered his books.
He often thought that each book spoke
to him. That as he entered his apartment they would start speaking,
first one, then another until all their voices blended into a
frightful racket. He would beg them to be still, but the clamor would
continue till he took one from the shelf. That was the only way he
could silence their noise. He loved his books.
The voices spoke to him and he
listened, heard. He was not afraid to listen, really fearful. He knew
the words could not hurt him because, because they were words.
Abstract beings. Abstractions of abstractions.
As he set down a novel, he thought he
heard a character yell, “Stop the world! Stop the world!” It was
only words.
Rising, Ron walked to his bathroom sink
and opened the medicine cabinet. He was going for his toothbrush and
paste. Pepsodent. A tune flashed through his mind. How did it go?
Yes, that was it:
“You’ll wonder where the yellow
went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent…”
Damn! Those jingles really do work he
thought.
After flossing, he removed the shirt he
was wearing and put on a lighter, double-knit short sleeved one. It
was hot. Tucson, Arizona can be very hot in July. Extremely hot. His
swamp cooler, an evaporative air cooling system offered him little
relief and, after walking the entire span of his room, he picked up a
set of keys from the walnut coffee table. His books were silent for
now. They knew better. He was going out.
Closing the door behind him, Ron Powers
let warm, dry night air into his lungs. Waiting in dispassionate
silence at the curb below, the yellow 66 Volks was his second
favorite possession. Theirs was a good relationship he thought as he
walked down the stairs toward the car. No Question. Yup, he knew what
turned her on.
“Don’t I baby,” he said.
He patted her on the roof and got
behind the wheel. Lighting a cigarette he started the car and pulled
out into the street. On his way. Moving. He hadn’t decided where to
go, but that didn’t matter. He just had to be outdoors. Motoring. He
needed air and relief from roast room. He drove.
He turned right onto Speedway
Boulevard. Heading East. Traveling down the ugliest street in
America. At least a former Mayor of Tucson had planted that label on
Speedway. Ron liked the noise, the clutter, the traffic. Everyone had
their own ideas about repulsiveness he guessed.
Reaching Swan Avenue he decided to turn
right and truck on down to Twenty-second Street and Ed’s College Bar.
Ed’s was a place to relax, to drink a few beers, to shoot a few games
of pool or to listen to the music coming from the jukebox. Ed’s was
not a place to meet women. In fact, the only women in Ed’s were the
barmaid, who for some reason were all married. Why was that? Ron
didn’t know.
Passing through the doorway of the bar,
Ron remembered Ed was fairly liberal and hardly ever had a bouncer at
the door to certify the age of his customers. Sure came in handy when
Ron wasn’t old enough to legally drink. Ron liked liberals. No
bouncer sat in the doorway.
After adjusting his eyes to the dimly
lit and smoke filled main room, Ron saw the U-shaped bar in front of
him. All the seats around it were occupied and Ed himself worked
busily, taking and serving orders. Ron found an empty round table for
two near the left rear wall. Several large globs of water formed a
half-moon shape on the table top. Small bits of paper were piled up
in one corner. Leftovers from a label peeler. The ashtray was full.
He thought he saw lipstick on some stubby filters. Don’t tell me this
place has gone kinky he mused to himself.
He removed his package of Lucky Strikes
from his breast pocket. He sat there tapping one end of his cigarette
against the table top, he’d managed to find one semi-dry spot, and
waited for the barmaid to notice him.
Fast service was not an attribute of
Ed’s College Bar and he’d almost finished his smoke when the waitress
approached. She removed a small square napkin from her tray, placed
it on the table and, while leaning over, slid it directly in front of
him. Naturally, the paper coaster had instantly turned into a sponge,
soaking up the residue liquids.
“Beer?” She asked as she
straightened herself up.
“Draft,” he replied.
“Pitcher?” she asked, re-stacking
her napkins into a neat little pile.
“Ah… no. Well… Yes. Sure, why
not?” he said.
“Light?” she asked, turning to
leave.
“Dark,” he said, calling to her as
she left.
