August 1, 1965

   

       When I opened the car door, the water lapped at the threshold and offered to cover the floor mats.  When I pulled the door closed, the bottom edge of the door did indeed paddle a small wave into the car’s interior.

      It was sometime between one and two a.m. Sunday August 1, 1965.  In May of that year, I graduated from high school.  In June, I turned 18.  Most Saturday nights since June, I had exercised my rights of majority by drinking a beer or two at the local pool hall.

     On this particular Saturday evening, Larry drove over to our place and we took my recently purchased black with white top four door 1955 Chevy with a newly overhauled V-8 engine to town.  After 49 years, some of the details have escaped me, but at some point during that evening, I became aware that we were in for a late night.  Larry’s birthday was August 1, 1944. 

      It was his plan to celebrate his 21^st birthday by having his first legal drink of spirits exceeding 3.2% alcohol.  We would have to wait for the midnight hour to strike before he could realize his intentions. 

     The chosen venue was the Merchants Café, a very popular night spot in those days which catered to the night crowd with a bar and live entertainment—a band, no dancers.  We whiled away the time at the pool hall, quaffing a beer or two, maybe even indulging in a game of pool.

    The pool hall closed sometime before midnight, so we drove around a little, but like the sirens singing, the Merchants beckoned to us with the sound of the music and the crowd noise, and the cars lining the streets adjacent to the Café.  So we parked and entered the din. 

     I’m not sure how I got in, maybe because they were a café and served food, minors were allowed.  But I was by Larry’s side when he approached the bar shortly after midnight and ordered a drink.  The lady barkeeper asked to see his ID. 

     She held it up to see it better, looked at it carefully, looked at Larry, looked at the clock, maybe the calendar and let her jaw drop.  She laughed and showed the driver’s license to her fellow barkeep who shrugged, sniggered briefly, and went on about his business.

     “Well, since it’s your birthday, you get one free drink!” she said.  I don’t remember what Larry ordered.  As I was not going to be a paying customer and there was a press of thirsty patrons at the bar, I retreated to make way and thus failed to witness Larry’s first legal drink.  It was apparent he would be served and the triumph was complete from my point of view.

      There were quite a few locals I recognized in the place, two in particular.  One was Fred, a local mechanic and farmer who did triple duty as our school bus driver in the struggle to support his wife and six kids. 

     I met Fred in the line waiting for the restroom.  Fred recognized in me a fellow indulger and suggested that I show up to my job working for a strict tea-totaling neighbor in my present condition.  We laughed at that, but then Fred had a sobering thought.  I might lose my job for that trick.  I would not be able to afford to go to college. 

      “Don’t do it, John,” Fred said, confusing me with my brother.  Every time he saw me the rest of that night he repeated, “Don’t do it, John, don’t do it.”  He probably lost track of what I wasn’t to be doing, but he knew I shouldn’t be doing it.  I promised each time he admonished me not to do it.

     Somewhere along the line, I grew weary of the noise and smoke and acknowledged to myself that I would receive no more liquid refreshment this day.  I retired to my car, parked across the street from the Merchants to wait for Larry.  Exactly how long I waited, I don’t recall.

     The next thing I remember was Larry exiting the bar.  He wasn’t walking.  Nor was he being dragged out.  He was in the company of the second local I recognized in the bar that night, Clayton.

     Clay, like Fred, had a big family to support.  Clay had had a heart attack in his forties.  His doctor advised him not to indulge and to find a job less physically demanding than farming.  His presence at the Merchants this night exemplified his adherence to the doctor’s advice.  One of the less strenuous jobs he held after giving up farming was moving houses.

     The story was that on one of his house-moving jobs, Clay grew tired of waiting for a power company crew to show up to lift electric lines so he could get the house he was moving safely under the wires.  Clay took matters into his own hands.  That is, he took a 2 X 4 in his hands, crawled up onto the roof of the house.  When he contacted the wires with his 2 X 4, the jolt blew him off the roof to the pavement far below.

     The story says when the doctor examined him, the doctor was pretty sure the electrical shock, powerful as it was, had stopped Clay’s heart.  He was still alive, and apparently well, because the collision with the earth when Clay fell restarted his heart. 

     Clay was a short, stalky, powerful man.  He carried Larry out to the street gutter as easily as a kid carries a Raggedy Andy doll.  Larry looked like Raggedy Andy.  Except I have never seen Raggedy Andy in the throes of the “dry heaves”.

     When folks found out it was Larry’s birthday, they wanted to buy him a drink.  Apparently, he had accepted everyone’s generosity.

    “Let it go, Larry,” Clay kept saying.  Larry’s knees were on the curb, the rest of him hanging over the gutter.  Clay stooped over Larry, holding on to his left arm, reaching underneath Larry to pat his belly with his right hand as he encouraged Larry to empty the contents of his stomach.

     How that all ended I don’t recall.  Larry ended up in the back seat of my car.  Even though his car was parked in our yard, I felt duty bound to take Larry to his home.

      Off we went into the country.  We made it about 14 miles before I dozed off and the mobilized portion of our trip came to an end.

     We had three more miles in front of us.  They would be accomplished by two-footed locomotion, in the early morning darkness.  Happy birthday, Larry!

     to be continued