around us were oozing Miles Davis. That key also brought the table lamps to a level slightly brighter than the darkness of a cocktail lounge. The key activated the automatic ice crusher on the side of the refrigerator. I am certain, without a stopwatch, Bongo had a daiquiri in my hand within forty-five seconds. He ducked down the hall to check his phone caddy. Above Miles’ blues, I heard the whirr of the tape, the beep, the click. Urgent voices gave terse messages. Both paintings above the fireplace depicted Tahitian-looking women. They had flowers in their hair and no clothing on. They were done on black velvet and glowed in the half-dark. Between them, like a sort of shrine, two gold records hung, two discs smaller than the Tahitian women’s breasts. The room’s decor cross-fertilized Swedish-finish flooring, Arabian carpets, Moroccan leather sofas, Old High Style German lampstands, and Woolworth’s lampshades with butterflies on them. Its total effect, though awful, was immaculate. It was impeccable, methodical, and, more than this, closer inspection revealed — yes, unmistakably — it had been labelled. With a Dyno Label Maker. Someone, probably Bongo, had punched out letters onto half-inch blue plastic tape and glued an identification tag on each object. A fit of efficiency? An overdose of Dexedrine? The upper edge of the coffee table said COFFEE TABLE. The table lighter announced TABLE LIGHTER. The lip of the ashtray gave away its true name, ASHTRAY. And below it, labelled idiosyncratically, was the MAGAZINE WRACK. Bongo bounced in the doorway, offering to refill my daiquiri from the BLENDER JAR in his hand. I wanted to ask, ‘Bongo, baby, why is everything labelled?’ but I sensed this was far too personal a question for our first date. I declined the second drink. Even in my cotton-candied stupor, I sensed that if Bongo were planning to come on, it would happen now. It did not. Instead, I was steered through the rooms of his apartment. I got to see the telephone caddy, and witness its whirrings. I met my first hot lather shaving machine, and learned its delicately timed relationship to the sun lamp. The microwave oven alerted the cook it had finished its work by playing a snatch of the Beatles’ song ‘Help!’ from a recorder attached to its back. As our tour wound up I got the clear impression some final item had been ticked off a hidden agenda. I smiled, softly. “Shall we go now?" His beautiful eyes lit, brighter than the blips on a radio dial. He sang, Timing is the thing, it’s true ’Cause timing brought me to you. And we went. To this restaurant where the maitre d’ welcomed ‘Mista Bennett!” Bongo offered me anything, on or off the menu, and bought me a steak. Where he sat across from me now, rhyming confec- tion/selection. He insisted I must want dessert. “No really,” I said, a third time. “I’m full. Why don’t you have something?” “No way. Not I. Gotta watch my weight. Or this beautiful lady’ll never give me a second date.” He hadn’t finished his food, but his chin jerked agreeably when the waiter reached for his plate. “Like to go dancing? Shall I take you for a drink? Tell me truly, gorgeous one, now what do you think?” What, I asked myself, would Bongo like to do? What did this short-circuiting man need that he didn’t have wired? Could I unplug him somehow? “Bongo,” I cupped my chin into my palm. “Know what I’d like to do?” “Anything you say, darlin’. With you all the way, darlin’.” “I’d really like to go for a walk on the beach with you.” He looked peculiar for an instant, then smiled. His fingers snapped for the check. It might work, I persuaded myself, as we plunged into the Lincoln’s depths. No one, not an anxious adman, not a jittery disc jockey, not even a rattled robot, could walk along a beach, at night, under an almost-full moon, in the halo of a sleeping city — no one could stand that and not unwind. It was only natural. We rode. I dreamed. Bongo snapped open the glove compartment and fumbled through cassettes. I dreamed, ‘I can’t give you anything but. .. but what, WHENI CAMETO, I DISCOVEREDMYSELF ATASMALL ROUNDTABLE. AND ACROSS FROMME, IN ASUIT SOSHINY IT OUT-GLOWEDTHE CANDLE I N THE BOTTLE BETWEEN US, A MAN SAT. BONGO. Bongo baby?’ Anything but moonlight. Anything but a peaceful walk, anything but a please-slow-down-Bongo-baby. But I can give you that, and two gold records cannot buy it. “Ellington’s just the man, for our walk along the sand,” said he. The tape tucked into the player. A supple stream of music carried us toward the city’s edge. The music swelled, like perfume filling the air. We parked below Daly City. “Soul-soothing beach,” Bongo said, pushing a button to open every car window. Ellington’s lush brass carried above the surf. “First cut by Decca. Years ago. Runs four five four.” “Four five four?” “Playing time. Each piece has a time. Never changes. Just like yours and mine.” “Oh. Playing time.” “And I’m thinking our time might just be forever.” I smiled. We were working our way down the beach, staggering our pace since Bongo was clearly unaccustomed to bopping across sand. The moon’s light swirled a satin ribbon into the waves. Its glow scattered diamonds through the sand in each place we stepped. Ellington was perfect. Bongo had been right. This beach was right. Possibly, this man, just possibly, this moment of my life, these dunes like cushions around us, huge and smooth as ancient bones, possibly it could become perfect. “You like the Ellington?” “I do, Bongo. It’s beautiful.” “And so are you.” And so was he, the sheen highlighting his high cheekbones. Bongo bopped more gently. We walked, each of our steps edging nearer to balance, to sync, until, just when we almost had it, Bongo jerked. He stood stock-still, staring back at the car. And I had nearly leapt out of my skin. We heard a horrible bleating. A gash cut the surf, the music. The moon bled. “My short-wave calling. Answering service man.” He ran. By the time I got there, Bongo was hanging up a small walkie-talkie headset under the car’s dashboard. w ith your imagination and our quality service, low rates. Out of your closet, into a frame: Posters, prints, photos, and 3638 S.E. HAWTHORNE PORTLAND 238-0358 HOURS: Mon. - Sat. 10-5 “Signal’s from my stockbroker. Gotta place a call.” I got in. The car started. We swerved onto Highway One, spattering sand. The beach, the moon, the moment, shrank to nothing behind us. When the cassette clicked to a stop, and the radio came back on, Bongo’s fingers started snapping. I gave up. As we pulled into a gas station so he could call New York, I was thinking about Larry. Would Bongo loan me plane fare to Texas? A few yards away, my d^te jitterbug- ged inside the telephone booth, hung up, and made a face at me througti the plexiglass before he stepped back out onto the pavement. He turned a tricky step, got in, and slugged the key into the ignition. He looked at me. I continued staring out toward Texas. My gaze must have been registering on the Coke machine. “Wanna canna pop?” “What? No, thanks,” I said. “Baby, oh baby, you make me feel so alive. How’s about if you and me just drive?” “Sure,” I said. We veered back onto Highway One. Possibly due to the moon, rising softly above my right shoulder, I found the strength to make one more try. “Your first name’s Bob, isn’t it? Could I call you that?” His chin took a tuck. He sang, See when they ask for Bongo They want action on the set ’Cause when they ask for Bongo They know just what they’re gonna get. The ditty tumbled out like he’d said it • many times. He paused. “But I guess I wouldn’t mind Bob. Not if your pretty lips said it.” “No,” I heard myself saying. “I think I’ll call you Bongo.” Because I finally understood. His smile confirmed it. I settled deeper into my seat. “Wow, that music’s fine,” I said. Even in the dark, I knew that, ever so slightly, his hands were loosening their pinched hold on the steering wheel. He glanced over at me, just to be sure, and Air Power You won’t blow it with Iwata and Paasche airbrushes. We have what you need to do it right. 820 S.W. 10th Ave. Portland, Oregon 223-3724 ART MEDIA then he looked to his left, scanning the highway and the city and the ocean, like an airline pilot might check out a cloud bank. Just exactly the way I’d imagined Larry watching a tumbleweed roll over the dunes. Because we were impeccable. We were finally, truly, in sync. He was BONGO. I was GIRLFRIEND. He was driving. I sat beside .him, lost in his pleasure-vault, his car. We were gliding southward with the moon over the ocean to the right of us, then we took a turn-off, found the highway again, and we were sliding northward, the beaches passing at precisely fifty miles per hour at our left and then another turn, another tape, another intro and south again. Our talk turned and returned, a tape loop, back upon itself. We were meant for each other, he was saying, I was so groovy, so beautiful. I was lowering my gaze, looking shy, and whispering, “Wow.” Because I was beautiful; in that one moment of my life, I existed completely in the eye of my beholder, as in the eye of a hurricane. I was doing what was right, for this time, this place, this man. It was a love. Just by being there I filled his need. We talked about his music, about my school. He guessed I read a lot of books, and I said, “Oh, some," which cued him to say I was everything he’d ever looked for in a woman. Then he said we were meant for each other. It made me feel warm on all the interior surfaces, even when he said it, for maybe the twenty-fifth time, as he pecked a good night kiss on my forehead. We stood at my door. He added that, “We could be all the world to each other.” I smiled, a smile so tiny, tight and shy it made my cheeks ache. I took that glow inside with me. There was no question of inviting him in. I took our love to sleep with me and woke up still feeling it the following morning. Its warmth is still with me now. I am hanging onto that, as I am hanging onto the gift which Bongo sent to apologize for our never getting together again. Of course we tried,- but for all our phone calls, the double and triple checking of dates and doings on both our calendars, we never managed it. Yet the very day I was catching a jet that would take me away from Bongo for these seven years and probably longer, I found a handmade greeting card in my mailbox. On various occasions, most of them lonesome winter evenings, I have counted between four and nine different handwritings, in different colors of ink, on that construction paper card. Most of the glitter has been worn from the surface, but the cartoon of a wacky, buzzed-out, cross-eyed little character is still visible. The cartoon’s balloon says, WHY DON’T I HEAR FROM YOU? WRITE, PHONE OR CABLE. ... It is printed on blue plastic tape. Then when the card opens there is a picture of that same kooky-looking idiot, but now he is lying down on what looks like a shrink’s couch. Lines have appeared around his poppy eyes, and he is frowning. The caption continues, BEFORE I BECOME EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE, with two thick, black exclamation points. “Never forget me and you’ll never lose me,” one scrawl says. The one below, which is nearly illegible, I like to read as “Have a beautiful trip(s)!” “Intimate friends are hard to come by —” has a p.s., in parentheses, “(forever, huh?).” There are other messages, but I like Bongo’s poem best of all. He typed it on pink paper. You ask me who I am? Yet anyone can see I’m just the shell of a man I used to be. They say I’m trying to kill myself, living like I do; Yet if I stopped being myself, as with death, I would be thru. The blue plastic tape has lost all its glue, but I treasure that dumb card. It is absolute evidence that somewhere there is a man named Bob, Bob Bennett. He is a drummer, and he is just as helpless as I am. When he was younger, a woman who he’d promised to love forever left town. But that’s cool too, because if she ever has to, if she ever throws in the crying towel for keeps, she will come and she will find him. (And, p.s. to Bongo baby, if you’re reading this — forever, huh?) Carol Orlock is a Seattle writer who has appeared in Ms. and Calyx. Fay Jones is a Seattle artist and purveyor of fine spirits. 46 Clinton St. Quarterly
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