by Roland Goity

 

 

Can’t make it there, won’t make it anywhere

Nothin’ but jamokes, whole damn place is a joke

–Aaron Newcastle

 

The buzz around town’s lively. A hornets’ nest of activity that’s anything but stingy. Folks here love it. We’ve never had this kind of attention before, not even close. Rumor has it a crew from MTV will visit soon. They want to see what makes our town tick. 

Here in the foothills we freeze our asses each winter. This time of year, though, late July, it gets so hot that Green Lake,  for which our town is named, might one day come to a boil. Until then, the lake is everyone’s favorite summer refuge: exhausted mothers and their restless children; sweltering teenagers; heavy laborers at quitting time; everyone. And despite the heat, there’s an aura of cool everywhere. While Green Lake may be small in size (not a good place to water ski), it’s big time in stature. More than just a town or lake, it’s the title track and hit song from Aaron Newcastle’s new album. Aaron, if you didn’t already know, is the rock star that critics call the biggest thing since Kurt Cobain.

No doubt there are lots of Green Lakes, but we’re the one in the song. Aaron Newcastle, you see, grew up here. So the tune blasts from jacked-up pickups and V-8s around the town square. Students all over town have claimed the song as their anthem. Shopkeepers play the tune to death, hoping to spur sales by tapping into town spirit. People stand as tall and proud as the lodgepole pines that shade our landscape.

Me? I think the frenzied hoopla is ironic at best. Demeaning, really. But folks ’round here can’t see that. They think Aaron is still one of us. I know better. Aaron was a friend of mine. He hated this town even more than I do. I’m afraid if people in Green Lake actually stop to listen to the song’s lyrics, they’ll gather pitchforks and torches and get marching to New York City, or San Francisco, or wherever the fuck Aaron hangs these days. But that’s a very big if. 

***

“Hey, Lewis! Your girl rang again!” Stoney shouts from the nether regions of the garage. 

I’m halfway through filling Mrs. Reddick’s Buick when he calls. Yes, we still have full-service gas stations here in Green Lake. And no, it’s not that we don’t have cell coverage yet. Just that Stoney has rules against cell phones at the station. Afraid they’ll blow the place up or something.

Two minutes later I break change from the three twenties Mrs. Reddick hands me. Then she lurches her sedan out of the lot and onto the street, and I wipe my brow with a greasy shirtsleeve. It’s hotter than usual today and the gasoline vapors make a strong impression, make my eyes squint, my nose itch, create an unpleasant taste on my tongue. Still, there are few better jobs or bosses in Green Lake. Barely three years here and I get ten dollars an hour. Could be worse.

Stoney stalks from the garage and approaches, a man on a mission. He looks more skunk-like each day; his sideburns are slowly turning ash white while the rest of his receding hair remains raven black. “Take a break. Henry’s working on Old Man Jackson’s truck, but I’ll get him to watch the islands,” he says. “And call Lydia back. Your hot little number is burning up my phone line.” 

I nod vaguely. Lydia’s only going to nag me about picking up the redwood bench at the nursery. It’s a present for her mother, who’s the closest thing we have to a socialite in this town. The woman’s birthday was last weekend, so her gift is already a bit belated. Lydia thinks the old birthday girl hates me, more so since her unexpected pop-in three weeks ago after her book group or some such thing. Since no one answered her knocks, she came round to the back door and saw me, trousers at the ankles, giving it to her daughter from behind as Lydia moaned like an ailing sea lion, leaning against the dryer in our laundry room. Lydia said her mother was mortified, was practically speechless on the phone when Lydia called to apologize. But, as I remember, Pearl, her mother, seemed to dawdle for quite a while before closing the door and rushing off. Perhaps she wanted to be next.

Anyway, to keep the boss happy, I prepare to skip across the street to the payphone outside the convenience store and pretend to make the call. As I start, Stoney’s hairy-knuckled hand lands on my shoulder. “Pretty amazing about Newcastle, huh?” he says. 

“You mean about ‘Green Lake’?”

“Uh, huh. They played it on the radio just a few minutes ago.”

“Guess we’re on the map now,” I say.

“Yep, guess we are,” Stoney says, wearing a goofy smile, oblivious to my sarcasm. He’s suddenly wired with nervous energy. His leg shakes as if someone’s dropped a rattler down his pants “Tell me, Lewis. You guys were buddies, right?”

“True story.”

“Still?”

“Who knows? Aaron’s gone all city slicker, thinks I’m a country rube.” 

“You are destined to be a Green Lake lifer. He’s right about that,” Stoney laughs. “Reason I ask is his band is playing the Capitol area month after next. The missus is all excited about it and I promised her we’d go. But the good seats sold out in minutes and I ended up empty-handed. Haven’t told her yet.”

“Let’s see what I can do,” I say, antsy to get going, and turning my eyes to the parking lot across the street. “Got a phone call to make, remember?”

“Just wondering if you think you can make something happen. Otherwise I’m up shit creek,” Stoney confesses. 

“No problem. You can plan on it,” I say, now backpedaling for the street. It will be a problem, of course, but one I’ll worry about later. 

“Hot damn,” Stoney exclaims, and gyrates his hips and pumps his arms as if he’s learning to water ski. 

***

It’s 10 am on a Tuesday, one of my days off. I’m walking around the kitchen in my boxers, cup of coffee in hand, and thinking I should drive out to Capitol City (a ninety-minute haul) for a good chunk of the day. There you’ll find things that inhabitants of Green Lake tend to forget about, like gilded theaters, quality bookstores, venerable museums. You know, culture. 

My undertaking, in this case, will take me to their downtown library, five stories of footstep-echoing hallways and maze upon maze of aisles with every book you can possibly imagine. And computers, too. Here in the sticks we have no dedicated lines, no cable, no wireless. That’s what Lydia says anyway; it’s the reason why we don’t have a computer. But once I set foot in the library there are dozens of PCs, all wired to the Internet, ready for use.  My latest research involves television and the creative arts, jotting down names, addresses and phone numbers. I’ve learned there are some pretty interesting jobs out there that people actually get paid to perform. Such a concept is relatively new to me. 

I inhale the cup’s aromatic fumes and start to daydream about power meetings and coffee breaks in some distant land when the phone rings. It’s my mom, whom I haven’t spoken with in weeks, calling from her doublewide.

“Guess who came by this morning, Lewis. MTV studios!” she exclaims, as if she just received word she’s won the lottery. 

“The Aaron thing?” I ask reflexively. “Heard about that.”

“A guy was here, scouting us out. Know what he told me? They might do something bigger than their regular feature.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to feign interest. I’ve noticed a cocktail-hour tint to my mother’s voice. Her excitement is no doubt fueled by the booster shots she’s added to her O.J.

“They’ll be contacting you. Might have me put in a word, too!”

Right as she says this my phone beeps; a call is waiting. Perhaps it’s the MTV folks already. I wish my mother goodbye so I can answer. But it’s just Lydia, wanting to know when I plan to head to the nursery to pick up the bench.  

***

I drive to town for the belated gift. It’s not going to be the easiest task. I’m one of the few people in Green Lake who doesn’t drive a pickup. A Japanese hatchback is what I got, so it will take some configuring with the bench and the bucket seats. But before heading to the nursery, I first decide to grab a Reuben sandwich at my favorite hole-in-the-wall, Abe’s Counter. Abe’s sandwiches are really fine pieces of work, so I savor my order once it arrives. In between bites I sketch a few things on the restaurant’s paper placemat with a pen I’ve brought along. I’m developing a storyboard for my latest characters: Spinner and Wesley. They’re anthropomorphic cartoon dogs and detectives, a highly effective crime-fighting duo. 

When I was in high school, Aaron Newcastle and I played in a band together.  I pounded away on drums; he sang and played lead. But I considered myself more of an illustrator than a musician, and spent far more time with pens and brushes than I did practicing with the sticks. It was no surprise when Aaron and the other band members surrounded me in the school parking lot after class one day to tell me they had found my replacement. No biggie, really, it was okay with me. I felt I’d been freed to pursue what I really wanted—and needed—to do. I was actually relieved.

Since then, of course, Aaron’s continued singing and I’ve continued drawing. The difference these days is a matter of scale. He’s a big-time rock star and I pump gas. It’s not quite an equal standing, but I haven’t given up yet. 

After finishing off my sandwich and my sketches, I fold the paper placemat and slide it in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I leave a dollar tip on the table and make a dash for home, interested in what might be in the mailbox.

It won’t be until well past closing that I’ll remember about that damn garden bench I was supposed to get, and realize I’ll have hell to pay. 

***

The following afternoon, back on the job, a faded red Pontiac Grand Am pulls in. It’s Pearl, Lydia’s mother. She’s all dolled up, as if she’s the belle of the ball: thick lipstick, hair sprayed stiff, a slick-looking dress with puffy sleeves. “Fill ‘er up!” she says, her voice so loud pigeons scatter from the roof of the garage.

I force a smile, and offer a subdued “Hello, you look nice…” She tells me she’s been at a city planner’s luncheon as I get to work gassing the car. Her outfit’s hilarious. I feel like asking if it’s the same one she wore in the town theater’s production of Bye, Bye, Birdie. The odds, I’d say, are fifty–fifty. 

“How’s Stoney?”

“Doing all right,” I tell her. “He’s gone for the day. Left early to fish south side.” She nods and I turn my eyes to the escalating numbers in the gas pump’s display. Small talk isn’t my forte, plus she’s got the fact of her long overdue birthday gift hanging over my head. The automatic shut-off kicks in and I wait a few beats before putting the hose back in the pump, and heading over to her open window. “Forty-seven twenty-six, I’m sorry to say.”

Pearl hands me her card, which I take over to the reader. “It’s good that Stoney can count on you, Lewis. You’re rock solid here,” she says. “Just think, someday you might be running this place. Stoney’s not exactly a spring chicken these days, you know.”

At first I figure I won’t respond, just wait for her to start the car and head out. But she hesitates with the key, and I give her a taste of my mind against my better judgment: “I don’t see myself here much longer, Mrs. Hodges.”

“Oh no, Lewis. Stoney likes you,” she says, waving her bony hand at me and tsk-tsking. “Green Lake, Stoney’s; your future’s set. Now about Lydia, I’m not so sure…”

I turn my back to her and start for the shadows in the garage where Henry’s bouncing a whitewall, clenching my hands and holding my breath until I hear the Pontiac’s motor vroom. 

***

It’s Saturday, practically noon. The sun is starting to bake and I’m thirsty. I’ve just spent two and a half hours setting bender board around the perimeter of the lawn. I picked the stuff up at the nursery this morning bright and early at 8 am. And guess what? This time I remembered to pick up the redwood bench for Lydia’s mother. I managed to bring it ’round back, too, and have situated it off the lawn, under our towering old apple tree. It looks good there. Maybe we can get Pearl to agree to keep it there. 

When I come back inside the house I hear music playing, Aaron’s latest, at a rather modest volume. Then I find Lydia, flopped down on the couch in her underwear, painting her toenails. She’s likely nursing a blue-ribbon hangover. Last night I met her at her friends’ place for a barbecue. It was a festive gathering. When I arrived people were doing body shots and Freddy Simcox was licking Lydia’s armpit before slurping tequila from her navel. I drove home a few hours later with Lydia twisted halfway out the passenger-side window, experiencing the dry heaves.

“You know, Lewis, this album really ain’t that great,” Lydia informs me.

“Oh no?”

“Freddy pointed out how some of the songs seem mean-spirited. Aaron’s a douchebag, Freddy thinks. Those were his exact words—douchebag.”

Not long ago the sight of Lydia lounging half-naked on the couch on a muggy day would have sprung me on top of her like a cocker spaniel in heat. But not these days. Lately she’s become more of an energyzapper than anything else. It’s ridiculous. Even now, for instance, I watch her devote more attention to her toenails than she ever has to planning her own future. When the envelope arrived from California the other day and my eyes lit upon opening it, she didn’t even bother to ask what it was all about. So, for now, I haven’t even bothered to tell her. 

I lean against the wall and listen to the last cut on Aaron’s album. His voice isn’t really anything special but he still plays a mean guitar. When the music finishes, I wander into the kitchen and empty half an ice-tray’s worth of cubes into a tall glass before filling it with water from the sink’s tap. I drink most of the water down at once, swirling the cubes in what’s left as I return to the living room and see Lydia with her feet propped up on an arm of the couch, admiring her just-completed artistry. Soon she directs her gaze to me and frowns. 

“Stop that,” she says. “That rattling sound is giving me a headache.”

“I picked up the bench for your mom.”

That perks her up. She swivels her legs to the floor and perches on the edge of a cushion, as if she might actually disembark from the couch. “Where is it?”

“Out back. In the shade under the tree.”

“Great,” she says. “Shall I call my folks and see if they can come for lunch? We can surprise Mom then.”

“Sure,” I answer over my shoulder, on my way to the back door for another look at the lawn.

Once outside, a resounding thwack suddenly stops me in my tracks.  A thigh-thick branch from the apple tree plummets onto Pearl’s new bench and practically splits it in two.

“Hey! What was that?” Lydia shouts from the living room.

I shake my head in resignation, and don’t even bother to answer. But all is not lost. At least Lydia’s parents won’t be coming over for lunch.

***

“Ernie Banks…yep, he’s here, too.” 

Days later I’m on the phone with a card dealer in Capitol City, but not the kind who deals poker hands. He’s a purveyor of baseball memorabilia and collectibles. Until now I never realized there was a gold mine in my shoe closet: the entire 1954 Topps collection, a year when Banks, Hank Aaron, Al Kaline and Tommy Lasorda were rookies. Early edition cards of Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson and Willie Mays are likewise among the set. This is all great news.

“Alright, then,” I tell him, “I’ll be by late afternoon.” When I hang up, I jump in the air and shout, “Fuck yeah!” But then I wonder if a cadre of body guards may need to accompany me when I pay him a visit. The cards being worth a small fortune and all. They’re part of my father’s legacy, but he explained their value to me and that I shouldn’t hesitate to cash them in when the moment was right. 

And now is as good a time as any. I’m heading west and not stopping until I reach Los Angeles, well Burbank more specifically. I got a job offer from the animated arts division of a cable television network, an opportunity I accepted in a heartbeat. We’ve only met on the phone, but if that’s good enough for the head of the animation team, it’s more than good enough for me. My dog detectives were a big hit with him. And, although I’m pretty much starting on the bottom, they expect me to gear up fast. I can’t wait.

The network is putting me up in a nearby hotel until I find some permanent housing, so I won’t need to dispense of every Hall-of-Famer. Just enough to provide a comfortable cushion until the paychecks start rolling in. Besides, many of my relocation expenses will be reimbursed, I’m told. The whole setup is pretty cool.

Almost as cool as Stoney, who yesterday spent hours tooling away on my car, all gratis. He joked that I could drive all the way to Tierra del Fuego now should I decide to.

I haven’t told Lydia of my plans yet, although it’s high on my to-do list.  It will be a little more difficult than notifying Stoney, that’s for sure. I never let her know that I was “seeking other opportunities.”  She’ll be shocked. 

***

While most of Green Lake is off at church, I finish packing my little hatchback with all the essential belongings. The rest I’ve left with Lydia: for her to keep, donate, or do away with as she sees fit. Along with a check for my share of next month’s rent. The place is Lydia’s, you see, although technically owned by her parents. I paid a fair rent while I lived with her though, and now it looks like Freddy Simcox will get his first month free. I hadn’t stowed the last of my possessions in the car before Freddy arrived and made himself comfortable: taking calls at the house and swinging by with a week’s worth of clothes and his pet turtle. What’s more, his resin-infested triple-chamber bong is the new centerpiece on Lydia’s coffee table and she didn’t say a word.

Fair enough, I guess. Those two ragged on me without letup as I boxed my wares, providing commentary but not bothering to help, even as I took load after load out to the car. Lydia’s been on my case since the mishap with her mother’s bench, as if I planned its destruction and was somehow in cahoots with the old rotting apple tree.

I’m Public Enemy Number Two around here these days. Fact is I’m not quite the most reviled guy in town. Again I’m lost in the shadow of my old friend and bandmate.

Green Lake residents are really drinking up the Haterade, and the electricity in town surrounding the Aaron Newcastle phenomenon has lost all wattage. 

The MTV documentary is on hold; that’s the word my mom got when she managed to reach their assistant producers in New York. (With her finger on the pulse of the proposed blockbuster, she was anxious to know why they hadn’t called.) Mom then started an impromptu phone-tree and in minutes pretty much the whole town was deflated by the news. Then, in Friday’s paper, a not-too-flattering feature on Aaron appeared, and how his climb to fame and fortune has been at the expense of his old hometown. The music reporter guy went into a highbrow critique of what the song, “Green Lake,” was all about. An ode, he said, to those backward, backwoods towns where one’s hopes and dreams fade quickly into cynicism and dismissal. The song suits Green Lake to a tee if you ask me.

Still, it’s understandable why folks here aren’t taking too kindly to locals leaving on the premise of making it elsewhere. With a few exceptions—Mom, Stoney, Henry, and maybe the Hampton twins and the widow Mrs. Ellis from down the block—people in town aren’t exactly wishing me well. In fact, I get the sense that a few of them hope I’ll fall flat on my face and return to Green Lake with hat in hand. They think a little schadenfreude is in order after the beat-down from Aaron’s hit single. 

So Aaron Newcastle and I have something in common again. And, interestingly, I received a bubbled envelope from Aaron in the mail this week, the first I’ve heard from him in god knows how long. He sent me a demo CD (of tracks not on the new album) along with a hand-written note. Aaron wondered how things were at his old stomping grounds, or more accurately, “that old dump.” His letter was brief and perfunctory but relatively friendly. He tried to downplay his newfound fame and fortune, but wrote that he’s got carte blanche for all the sex and drugs he can handle. (Hey, I figured as much.) There was no mention, however, of his reappearance in town, or even the upcoming gig in Capitol City. Not that Stoney’s wife or anyone else cares anymore. 

I get in my car, fasten the seatbelt, and release the parking brake. I turn the ignition. What should suddenly blast out of my car radio? The town’s dreaded eponymous single of course. 

I roll out the driveway and turn right for California, singing and humming along to “Green Lake,” word for word, note for note.