'HENI WASSEVEN, LARY,WHOI’DPROMISEDTOLOVEFOREVER, LEFTFORTEXAS. HISFAMILYMOVEDOUTOF 'WATERFORD,CONNECTICUT,ANDTHEYTOOKLARRYWITHTHEM.FORALONGTIMEAFTERWARD,WHENEVERLIFEAS MYPARENTS’CHILDGOTAWFUL,WHENADINNERPLATEMYSTERIOUSLYCHIPPEDORJELYSULLIEDTHESIDEOFTHE BREADBOX, ANDMYMOTHERBLAMEDTHESETHINGSONME, ANDMYFATHERPUNISHEDME(AL BECAUSEMY BROTHER,TWOYEARSOLDERANDNOFOL,REFUSEDTOCONFESS), I’DGOREALQUIETONTHEMAL.I’DVOWIWAS BOUNDFORTEXAS.WHENIGOTTOTHATSTATE, I’DASKFORLARY.HE’DTAKEMEIN,ANDLOVEME,FOREVER. Clinton St. Quarterly Art by Fay Jones BYCAROLORLOCK * danced in sexy sync to the jazz jet stream propelling us. “Nice sound system,” I said. “What’d you do?” ‘Tm a musician, a drummer. I’ve played with the best. Here’s my card to tell you the rest.” Ivory fingers snapped to a breast pocket, came back holding a small white card. I took it. “So you dig my sounds. Well, that’s all right. I fixed eight speakers to put the air this tight.” The card told me his name (the Bongo in parentheses), and the words, Decca- Coral Recording Artist, Hollywood, California. A photo showed an earlier Bongo, a dreamy half-profile floating above a suit and tie. “Drums. You play bongos, right?” The picture made him look like an Everly Brother. “Bongos. Congas. Snare. Kettle.” I waited for the rhyme. It didn’t come. “Oh,” I said. The card’s flip-side packed famous names into fine print. Ray Charles, Connie Francis, Nat (the King in parentheses) Cole. The card’s owner had hit the lists with two gold records. “That number at the top rings my phone. For you, pretty lady, I will always be home.” ‘If you’ve got the money, honey . . . ’ sounded trite, even considering. “Here’s mine.” I ripped out a blank check, thinking to fill in the amount, ‘Always.’ “I'm home a lot. You could call me too. I mean if you wanted to.” Boy, did I ever sound dumb. But I was getting desperate. We were grooving exquisitely, but we were moving inevitably along Nineteenth Avenue, approaching the college. Church bells rang all around us. It was high noon, and I was riding shotgun to this bombshell of a , man, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. ‘Nice sound system’? Already used. ‘Far-out car’? This dashboard yawning a mouthful of Day-Glo and chrome. “Pretty dress,” said he. “Pretty dress.” He coughed. “Pretty dress you’re wearing. Sure does keep me staring.” “Thanks,” I said. “You’re looking nice yourself. On your way to a gig?” There. I’d gone and used the one musical term I knew. “I did my gig and I’m heading home.” “This sure is a nice car. Well, here’s the college.” His wrist spun the steering wheel. We slid to the curb. “Wow, you really dig my car? I’d give you a ride, lady, anytime.” Well, Larry, if you’re reading this, forget it. I’m my own mother now. I blame myself for things bigger than jelly on the breadbox, and I’m definitely as helpless as ever. But babe, if you sometimes watch out your window a-wondering where I roam, give it up. You’d best marry that school teacher (the whole town’s noticed how she pines after you). • I have found true love. His name is Bob, Bob Bennett. He is a drummer, so his nickname is Bongo. Bongo loves me more than marzipan. We were meant for each other, as he so perfectly expressed it seven years ago. Although I haven’t seen him in the seven years since, that man will always be the lace to trim the velvet of my heart. I am true to him no matter who I happen to be sleeping with. He was not riding a snow-white steed. He was driving a black Lincoln Continental. I was hitchhiking. It swerved to the curb. I opened the door. He nodded at me. Then I fell, plummeted, perished into a seat as sponge-layer sweet as my grandmama’s lap. Our eyes met. ‘May I please kiss you?’ leapt up to be said. Then the little girl, who had not been entirely true to Larry, said, “Thanks for stopping. Where’re you headed?” to the most beautiful man she had ever seen. “Set my sights for Daly City. Stop to pick up something pretty,” said he. “How about you?” A smile spread across small perfect teeth. A bone-china chin jerked, tossing a curl of dark brown, maybe black, hair away from a tan forehead. The curl bounced back. I remembered that he’d asked a question. “State. San Francisco State. You go past the college?" Another toss to the curl. “We just get behind the wheels and see how it feels.” He was lean. He was trim. He was tan and wiry. “You go to State. Hey, you must rate. What’d ya’ study, honey?” “Writing. Poetry.” He was a wire, a coil, a spring, a jack- in-the-box about to pop. “Wow!” he exploded. “You make the words and I make the tunes. We gotta get together and make music soon.” His fingers snapped. His chin bebob- bled. I heard music. Golden Gate Park glissandoed past. Sun-spattered leaves The time had come for me to open the door. “For sure. This just might be the finest ride I ever hitched.” And now it was over. I got out. “I’m for you, baby. Give you my all. Don’t keep me waiting now. Give me a call.” “You too. Don’t forget. Have a good day. Bye-bye. Take care.” I slammed the door to make myself stop it. Unknown quantities of horsepower accelerated, taking him away, back onto that monstrous anonymous asphalt flatland. I started walking. Then I heard it, the ‘beep-beep.’ I turned to sugar. Bongo had beeped for me. He honked his horn for me, I told myself. And he’ll call. He’ll call me, I told myself. I repeated it over and over like an advertising jingle, and I was on cloud nine and rising. I was not yet in love, of course. Sure, I crammed to bring my consciousness up to date about who was who on the hit parade, and Bongo’s business card did get a little mealy. I examined it daily for traces of reality. I sang to it, snapped my fingers in time to it, set it beside the telephone to tempt myself, drove it from my thoughts just to feel it come crawling back, but I absolutely was not in love. Love, true love, still belonged to Larry, and I did not call. Not for one whole week. Then, with fantasies gone flat as day- old soda pop, I picked up the receiver and dialed from memory. It rang, twice. His voice answered. “The hot cat,” it said, “you are calling,” it was his voice, but tuned tinny by a tape recording, “roams far from home. Leave your name and your number and he’ll truly, surely phone. Begin to speak after the. . . ” click. I’d hung up. He’d know. He’d know it was me, and he wasn't the kind of person who’d call back the kind of coward who’d hang up on his telephone caddy. Still I hoped he would. I knew he wouldn’t. Three days later, when I dialed again, I’d sworn on a stack of macaroons I’d go through with it, even if the caddy answered. It did. I held on all the way through the beep, and left my true name and number in a scared, squeaky voice. I hung up and reached for my consolation prize. When the phone rang, my mouth was already massy with coconut macaroon. “Hello?” I gulped. “Pretty lady! You finally called me. Well, how do you do? I’d give away a Grammy to have dinner with you.” Bingo — it was Bongo, in thirty seconds flat. But, huh? 36
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