c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-25)
By the time that my New York friends arrived home, I had crunched through a bag of Party Club potato chips, and downed the entire 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. My mouth tingled with an aftertaste of barley malt, hops, and aluminum. While my stomach growled for something more satisfying. I guessed that going out to eat might be of interest, later in the evening. Perhaps even enjoying a meal at Pudgie’s Pizza, a favored local spot for affordable grub. But when I saw the couple turn into their driveway, it was not in the wood-sided, Ford Pinto wagon that I remembered. A tidy workhorse, which was painted an odd shade of blue-green, and boasted a plaid, cloth interior. Synchronicity had taken over, instead. They now rode in something decidedly more familiar, and even, amusing to behold.
Paul and Mollie were in a newer version of my bland Chevette.
This unexpected confluence of driving choices made my jaw drop. I emerged from a stand of evergreen trees, where I had taken refuge to stay anonymous, shaking off snack crumbs and pangs of disbelief.
“YOU GOT STUCK WITH ONE OF THESE DAMNED THINGS, TOO? OH SHIT! WHAT A HOOT!”
Whenever I visited, weed and alcohol tended to dominate our activities. Generally, my cohorts would suggest that we break out a selection of vintage guitars, set up amplifiers and microphones, and plug in some sort of recording equipment. At first, this meant that a cassette deck would always be running, somewhere in the house or outside. Later, that method of documenting our jam sessions was upgraded, with a video camera. During warmer months, our performances could be heard booming from the hilltop. We were not self-conscious about causing a public disturbance.
But as I sat on a lawn chair tuning up for our noisemaking escapade, the sight of those twin, GM econoboxes had me stunned.
Paul played his familiar Telecaster, a blonde, maple-necked axe with a white pickguard. A signature appliance that I somehow deduced might have been made in the latter part of 1968. He often spoke whimsically about buying the black-market instrument from a nefarious fellow, lurking by the Chemung River. The purchase cost him $100.00, in cash. A fantastic bargain, even in yonder days.
I found a Kay bass to accompany him, a thick, woody plunker with two knobs and a metal pickguard. The sort of relic that seemed rare in real-world terms, yet commonplace among his arsenal of interesting junk. His skill on the fretboard was considerable, after many years of playing in local bands. So, I normally attempted to follow his lead, and occasionally, to improvise riffs with my own limited experience.
We plucked away for a few minutes, channeling Blues progressions and such, but our creative zeal was lacking. Finally, my shaggy pal put his tone pole aside, and gestured toward the door by his kitchen.
“Hey, we ought to give Migrant a call. If I’d known you were coming, he could have been here already. That guy always has a song in his head!”
This suggestion made me slightly uneasy. Yet also awakened a sense of curiosity about what he might have to offer.
Pat Kelly had been a neighbor around the corner, and a childhood vandal in the Riverside district of Corning. He and Paul literally grew up together, with each of them etching out a different arc of life. One took the path of higher education, learning to perform scientific tasks relating chemistry and biology. The other rambled around as a petty thief, persistent rogue, and eventually, a foreign traveler. Thus, his nickname was carved in stone.
When working together, these mismatched performers called themselves Fora and Maya.
I knew that the Migrant spoke fluent Spanish, was gifted as a shoplifter and con artist, and was able to spit out lyrics that were completely random, and usually based on personal experiences.
While we waited, I ended up riding back down the hill for Utica Club and Piels beer, to fortify my numbness. Mollie was also slightly inebriated, but steady at the wheel. I had to blink once or twice, to be certain that we were not in my own car. The ride was rough, and incredibly familiar.
Patrick took several hours to appear, with a stained shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and his mustache curled at the tips. When he rattled in from the road, it was at the helm of a two-door Chevy, very much like the pair already in place. I gasped audibly, as he tucked in, behind my little mule, and began to cackle with a note of mental illness dribbling from his lips.
Our trio was now complete. All of us had the same tacky, tin sedans. They were crammed into the narrow drive, like an alleyway behind a repair shop, filled with automotive casualties.
Paul lifted his callused hands as if at a prayer service. He declared that this visual omen had not appeared by chance. It meant we were about to receive a Rock & Roll epiphany. Something he welcomed with a sip of blackberry brandy, and a cannabis doobie twisted up fat and long.
“THIS IS IT! WE’RE NOT JUST PAUL AND PAT ANYMORE! NOT FORA, MAYA, AND SPECIAL GUEST, ROD! NOW, WE’RE THE THREE CHEVETTES! I DIG IT! I DIG IT! WE ARE THE THREE CHEVETTES!”
My eyes were burning from clouds of marijuana smoke. I lined up empty beer cans on the beige hood of my vehicle, until they spanned the distance like members of an honor guard. Eventually, a gentle breeze sent them rolling down the natural incline, into a deep ditch by the culvert. None of my contacts paid attention, however. We were far enough out of the city environment to be free of property inspections, and watchful eyes.
Migrant found a set of bongos, and tapped out a rhythm that matched tuneful chords, lazily strummed by our talented, hippie friend. He rocked from side to side, in the manner of Ray Charles or Stevie Wonder. Then, started to wail about past sexual conquests, and tall, cool cans of Budweiser. I wondered timidly if anyone in the area was close enough to decipher the meaning of his demented, musical rant. Though I guessed that even if they were offended, only someone with a brave heart and strong constitution would approach our shoddy venue, without a police escort.
Mollie stood in the background, holding her camcorder on one shoulder. The patience she carried, as always, was worthy of praise. Nothing ever seemed to knock her off balance. She was like a den mother, watching over capricious children. While fumbling my way through the song, I saw her nodding like a metronome, keeping the beat.
I guessed that she must have been very, very stoned, indeed.
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