1
A red MG came racketing around the corner. It passed, stopped, and
reversed, one front fender swinging freely.
"Where you going?" The driver had wild eyes and a two day growth.
"Woodstock."
"Get in, get in." Patrick lowered himself into the small seat, holding
his AWOL bag on his lap. "Whisky in the JAR," the driver sang to
himself shifting through gears. "Musharingumgoogee . . . WAK for the
Daddy-O . . . " He turned and shouted over the engine, "Where you
coming from?"
"Wiesbaden."
"Germany?"
"Yes," Patrick shouted back.
"WAK for the Daddy-O . . . Good beer, the Krauts." They flew off bumps
and jolted around curves for five or six miles. Conversation was
impossible. They passed a golf course, rolling and open before a dark
wall of mountain, then climbed a hill by three gas stations.
"Woodstock!" the driver shouted, stopping at a narrow triangular green.
"Thanks for the ride."
The sound of the MG diminished in the distance as Patrick looked around
at trees, a neatly painted white church, and a row of stores. He walked
in the direction that the MG had gone until he reached a field about a
mile from the green. He turned back and stopped at a house that had a
large porch and a sign announcing "ROOMS."
An older woman answered his ring. Her hair was white, elaborately piled
above her head.
"I'd like to rent a room--if you have any vacancies."
"Hmmph." She was shorter than Patrick but seemed to be looking down at
him. "This is a quiet house."
"Yes, ma'am."
"No smoking."
"Yes, ma'am."
She opened the door and showed him a corner room with a matching bed
and bureau and a small rocking chair. "Bathroom down the hall." He paid
for a week and signed the guest register. "O'Shaunessy?"
"Yes."
She handed him two keys. "I lock the front door after dark." Patrick
nodded and retreated to the room. He unpacked his clothes and a
paperback copy of The Origin of Species which he placed on the bedside
table. He lay on the bed a few minutes adjusting to his new home, then
left, closing the door silently behind him.
In town, he decided to try the Cafe Espresso. He walked down wide stone
steps, crossed a patio, and entered an open door. Two people at the end
of a small bar leaned towards each other, laughing and talking in
lowered tones. At the other end of the room, a young man was practicing
on an upright piano.
Patrick sat at a window table and waited until a tall woman emerged
from the kitchen. She wore bead necklaces, a tight gray jersey, and a
wrap around red and orange Indian print skirt. A thick blonde braid
hung to her waist. Patrick ordered rice and vegetables and watched her
hips move to a gentle repeating melody from the piano. The player
varied the tempo and the emphasis, working further into the piece,
exploring its edges without losing its rhythmic heart.
A man in his thirties with a round face and curly hair came in and sat
at the next table. He placed black and white stones on a Go board,
studying each move.
"That is Go, isn't it? I've read about it," Patrick offered.
"Go is an ancient Japanese game," the player said without looking up.
"It requires intelligence and concentration."
"That leaves me out," Patrick said. The couple at the bar walked out.
As the woman passed through the door, she looked back at Patrick and
smiled. Her eyes were gray, her shoulders half-turned, her weight
evenly balanced. She was about 21, his age. He smiled back, surprised.
Women didn't usually pay attention to Patrick. He was compact, medium
sized. He had reddish-brown hair and a square face with high cheekbones
and traces of freckles. His blue eyes were set deeply behind thick
eyebrows. He had been called "cute" a couple of times. Mostly he got
sympathetic smiles as women pushed past him, going for the tall, dark,
and handsomes, or the ones with money, or the major losers. It was a
mystery to him how people got coupled up.
"My name is Eve," the waitress said in a luxurious voice as she bent
forward with his plate. She had goddess breasts and smelled of
patchouli.
"I'm Patrick," he said and choked. "King of repartee," he added,
regaining his voice. She smiled as if she had known him deeply in
another life, and then she swayed away into the kitchen. The Go player
remained immersed in study, an air of relief emanating from his face.
Perhaps he was recovering from the attentions of dark beauties with
trust funds. Don't be jealous, Patrick told himself. When the gods want
a good laugh, they give you what you want. "Try me," another voice in
him said. "Long dark hair."
He ate dinner and began to confront the next problem. He had a few
travelers checks in reserve, but he'd always found work before he had
to cash them. He had paid for his own flight back to Wiesbaden.
"Come on, Pat, let me pay," his father offered.
"Nope."
"You're a hard case, Patrick."
It had been a good visit, but Patrick was ready to go after a week. "I
thought I'd try Woodstock, New York," he told his father. "You used to
talk about it."
"My old stomping grounds," his father said. "I have a friend there,
Heidi Merrill. Haven't heard from her since her husband died. She has a
son. Look her up for me, Pat--give her my best."
"Will do."
Patrick checked around the cafe for a pay phone, wondering whether
there was a listing for his father's friend. No phone. On his way out
of the cafe, he changed his mind and ordered a beer at the bar. The
room was filling. A Van Morrison album had replaced the piano player.
Attractive women crowded around guys who wore hammer hooks and Stanley
tapes like jewelry on their belts, totems of a better way.
"Feels good to stand up," he said to the guy next to him. "This is a
happening place."
"You just get here?"
"Yep. Any work around?"
"What kind of work?"
"Wash dishes, construction, paint houses . . . "
"Hey Parker, you need anybody?" A heavyset fellow came over. He had a
pleasant ironic expression.
"For what?" There were white paint stains on his button-down blue
shirt.
"Says he's looking for work."
"Patrick O'Shaunessy." Patrick extended his hand.
"Parker Ives." He looked Patrick over as they shook hands. "Ladders,
Patrick. Wasps," he said.
"No problem."
"Good. Meet me in the News Shop at 8; we'll see how it goes."
"Tomorrow?" Patrick asked.
"And tomorrow and--yes." Parker drained the glass of beer he was
holding. "Tomorrow." He put his glass on the bar and left.
"Parker's all right. My name is Claude, by the way."
"Aieee, Claude! A thin blonde with green eye shadow and exaggerated
cherry red lipstick put her arms around his neck.
"Excuse me, Patrick."
Two young women entered and came over to the bar. One of them bent
over, removed a sandal, and shook it. She had waist length dark brown
hair and was wearing Levi's and a blue chambray shirt. She had long
legs and long arms that made interesting angles out from the crouching
curve of her hips. "There," she said, straightening. The top three
buttons of her shirt were undone. Sensitive, Patrick thought. Her eyes
were unusually clear, light hazel with flecks of gray and green. Her
blonde friend was shorter, narrow waisted, and well built. The blonde
caught him looking. Patrick, reddening, thought he saw a flash of
understanding. She was a thinker, might even have read a book lately.
In Patrick's second year at Florida State, a biology professor named
Ted Williams had turned him on to science. Patrick was an Army brat; he
had lived in Florida, the Philippines, Panama, and Germany. He spoke
passable Spanish and German. His parents were readers. Patrick had been
around books all his life and felt as though he were ahead of the other
students. Once he found a direction--that he wanted to learn more about
science--he decided to go right at it. He didn't have to be a
university student to read the books. It would be cheaper, and,
besides, people were on the move. Work was easy to come by.
His father, raised in the depression and caught up in World War II, had
stayed in the army. "Never underestimate the importance of a good
billet," he had told Patrick more than once, an edict laid on him by
Sergeant Donald, a mythic presence from the days before Officer
Candidate School. Patrick's father never tired of quoting Sergeant
Donald as they moved from base to base.
His parents were patient and generally good humored about military
life. They escaped into books. When Patrick announced that he was
dropping out, his father seemed to think it was fine. "Don't burn any
bridges, Pat. You can go back to school later, if you want. Or come
work with me." His father was about to retire from the Army and was
planning to settle in Florida and work for himself as a handyman. When
his father wasn't reading, he enjoyed fixing things; he looked forward
to becoming a sort of anti-hero--Major O'Shaunessy to the rescue, the
tools, the truck, the little boxes of washers and screws and finishing
nails, the retirement checks punctually in the mail.
Patrick's mother fussed about Patrick's eating habits, but she wasn't
really worried. Patrick's sister, Molly, had earned a commercial
pilot's license before she settled down in Atlanta to teach English,
married to a hard working good old boy. Patrick, his mother felt, would
find his own way if he ate right and got enough sleep. Both parents
suggested books for his reading list.
Patrick was well along in the list. When he finished books, he mailed
them to Molly for safekeeping. Building the library, he would tell
himself as he doled out postage money. Another few days and he would
send the Darwin.
He was still looking at the blonde. She smiled slightly, and he said,
"I'm Patrick."
"Amber," she said. "This is my friend, Willow." Patrick nodded at them
both and moved a step closer.
"I like this place," he said.
"First time in the Depresso?"