Noonish.
The summer of 1988.
I wasn’t really ginchy with the sun, even back then. Headache thing. I’ve got this chronic migrainic fuckery going on; and a pretty good trigger for the headaches is sunlight. Nonetheless, I’m out there laying on the grass, staring sunward, protected only by a pair of Gargoyles, with Mary laying on one of my arms. Headaches be damned.
‘You know what I want more than anything in the world?’
I might have tried guessing. But there was that boyfriend issue she had. So I shrugged at the back of her head.
‘Fries.’
So that was probably a trick question too.
‘They don’t have fries here, do they?’
‘Nope,’ I said, ‘Not that I’ve ever seen. They use to have these fried cheeseballs; but they were yummy, so someone outlawed them.’
‘Someone in this town must have fries.’
So, now I’m thinking once again about the Park Inn across the street. Except the Park Inn contains bartendresses with whom I’ve got a certain history. And that might actually be awkward. So I don’t suggest the place next door.
‘Let’s just go find something,’ she says.
So, we do.
Remember the Dodge Omni? Hers was beige. Man, did that thing suck.
She Omnis about, looking for restaurants in downtown DuhMoines, of which there were approximately zilch. I suppose, thinking about it now, that there was the place at the top of the Ruan Building. But the DuhMoines Club was never really a place to get fries. They may have had them, but they also had this general hundred-dollar-per-plate policy going on. No fries are that good.
We end up at the Starlight. A restaurant in a hotel over on Second. Not the Park Inn. Safe. And we get fries. And the first thing she does is mixes catsup and mustard into this icky orange abortion on the plate.
‘What. It’s good. Try it.’
I did. It was good. You can learn things from a crazychick.
Yum; fries; yum; catsupy abortion; yum; a cigarette or three; yum; we should go.
See, she’s not done with school yet. She’s got a class at four thirty. It’s now going on two. I don’t get it either; there’s some time left.
‘Which class?’ I ask.
‘History.’
‘That’s just one class?’
‘Western Civ, some year to some other year. Taken it yet?’
‘Nope. History irks me.’ [I know: it’s a bit ironic to admit that in an anecdotal book]
‘I know it’s all mediaeval, whatever it is. But you have to take it before you can get to the more recent shit: America and world war two and all. So I’m just working toward that; Elie Weisel is my hero. I wrote him a letter once, and he answered it.’
‘You’re jewish?’ It was possible; it just hadn’t occurred to me.
‘Catholic.’
‘So I was close.’
‘What are you?’
‘None of the above. I don’t believe in fairytales.’
‘How do you know it’s a fairytale?’
‘Paul Bunyan told me so. His ox verified it.’
‘You never believed in it?’
‘Nope. But then, I’d heard about Santa Claus before I ever heard about any deities. I don’t think I believed in Santa either. Reindeer don’t fly; snakes don’t talk; oxen aren’t blue.’
‘So you believe in nothing.’
‘In the sense that I lack belief in anything. English is goofy, a bit.’
‘Huh.’
‘Oops.’
‘What.’
‘You stopped loving me. I can tell.’
‘Who said I’d started?’
‘You did. Vonnegut fan. Hi there.’
‘Oh. That. I just meant…you remembered that?’
‘It’s something I do. I remember things. Usually. If they interest me.’
‘And that interested you?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘Ah. Well, you shouldn’t be. You should be in my car, heading back to school. Maybe you could sign up for History with me. You said you hadn’t taken it. It’s a core class, you know.’
Quick show of hands: is you could sign up for History with me a pickup line? In any case: I fell for it. ‘Can you give me a quick ride out to about Fifty-sixth?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve got about five bucks on me. And maybe a hundred in the chequebook. I’d need plastic.’
Welcome to slackerhood….