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  Copyright 2011

  Paul Hawkins

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  He was my friend - he was everyone's friend. He was big and quick and his laughter was easy and contagious, but when we got that car running toward the end of summer, I knew he'd be leaving soon.

  I remember the hot nights when we'd all get out of work late, after eleven, and mill around outside the warehouse beneath the unshielded streetlight which made the sky behind it look pitch black. The narrow sidewalk and the street proceeded past old businesses down further along rows of anonymous tall brownstone tenements and past those too up over the crest of a hill toward the intersection of two busy streets where the neon lights of late-night bars and all-night eateries began to congregate, and from there a murmur of activity edged itself upon the threshold of our hearing, far too faint to be understood but plenty loud enough to captivate the restless curiosity of our freshly liberated minds.

  Bill was new, and these were the early weeks of summer when none of us knew quite what we wanted to do, but didn't want to just stand around and maybe miss the chance to do it, so nobody was particularly eager to simply head home, and so we stood singularly restless after our long shift in the warehouse, waiting for someone to toss out that scheme which would ignite the darkness for us and propel us through the welcome breezes temporarily intent upon some ridiculous adventure.

  We all stood and waited, that is, except for two people. One of them, of course, was Mr. Walters, our night manager. He was short and kind of fat, gruff and impatient, emerging from his air-conditioned office only to bark orders at employees. He always ended his criticisms with the reminder that you could easily be replaced, and this truly scared a lot of the people who weren't like me and actually already had families to take care of. It used to worry me, too, because I kind of suspected the little butterball would actually do it. But just recently I'd realized that even if he did, I wouldn't mind.

  He was always buttoned into a dark-colored suit that was too small. He drove an old car but he smoked expensive cigars and somebody said he was a second-string relative in the local mob interest, and he acted mean enough to make you think that he had something other than that size 5'4" body bucking for him. But every night as he left the warehouse and passed through our congregation he'd stuff his hat down on his head and mutter 'bunch of hoodlums,' so we figured that either he really wasn't in the family at all, or else he felt that being in it put him way out of our league.

  He parted our company predictably enough, with the usual few brave obscene gestures being flashed defiantly behind him. But the other party-pooper's departure was less gladly received, though no supplication seemed able to dissuade her from heading home. She was Cathy Moore and I had known her from those few years my parents could afford to send me to parochial school, but back then she sure hadn't looked like this and I wouldn't have had a clue what to do about it even if she had, but now I watched her leave just wishing I could think of one clever and persuasive thing to say to keep her with us a little longer. Instead, I said:

  "You're not going home so early, are you?"

  To which she replied:

  "Why, what were you planning on doing?"

  I was stumped. She was like that, polite but proper, like she had some higher calling. Not snobby, but kind of like she had dying parents to take care of at home and we'd really just be wasting her time.

  "I've got an idea," Bill said. They all looked at him - except me.

  I looked at Cathy looking at him, and I'd glimpsed her glimpsing him like that before, and I had the sinking feeling that there was something glowing behind her eyes that I could never inspire, and I turned my attention to Bill, to hear his plan for the long summer.

  "We could go to the beach," he said. "Past all the piers, down South, outside of town. It's not crowded there - just sand and quiet roads. My uncle used to take me to places like that when I was little. He'd say it was too hot to sleep but my mother'd say she could sleep just fine, so my uncle would take me and we'd go down to the beach and eat the food he'd packed - then he'd go to sleep and I'd sit there for hours afraid to wake him up, looking out the windows of the car at the deserted beach, and looking out over the dark ocean watching the lights of far-away ships appear and disappear again. It was kind of scary - that's part of the fun about it. We could bring lots of food, and blankets to sit on, and stay up scaring each other with ghost stories."

  Mark and Betty, the current night crew romantics, nodded eagerly. If I'd been asked, I would have had to agree. But it was Cathy who spoke next.

  I'd been watching her watching him, and Bill hadn't seen her coolness start to thaw but I had, and neither of them would know how much my future religious convictions would pivot on that critical moment when I gaped in genuine astonishment ready to hear her say "That sounds great!" only to witness her aloofness reestablished with a single shrug, followed by the question, "Where's the car?"

  Bill's smile went into a slow decline.

  "You'll need a car to do that," she continued. "Who's got one?"

  We were silent. We knew the answer - so did she. Bill laughed for a moment, unable-to believe how such a little thing could spoil his plan. But of course it could. The rest of us began to rattle change and pace around, to break the quiet in our way of saying it was a nice try. And Cathy? Why of course she had to go.

  We watched her walk away, and I don't suppose anyone was sadder to see her go than Bill was. His eyes followed her the longest time, almost hypnotically as though by staring at her retreating figure he could make her turn around. My skepticism had been reconfirmed, but I watched her too just to see if she might.

  "C'mon you guys," Carlene said rowdily, "Let's go."

  Carlene had a way of rallying people, and she was practically one of the guys in a friendly sort of way, so our group dropped into step behind her and began the journey toward the neon lights. She was a boisterous spirit and at the forefront of the group she'd already engaged Ricky and Eddie in that joking sort of conversation that escalates itself as its participants become absorbed in the crossfire of teasing one another. But as the volume, warmth, and tempo increased up front, I found Bill and myself trailing behind, lagging together in a brotherhood of spoiled adventurism. I turned and looked at him. He shrugged. "She always like that?" he asked.

  "Always," I affirmed.

  "There's gotta be something a guy could do about it," he pronounced, more to himself than to me, as though he were already plotting.

  "I think she's just that way," I said, trying to seem sympathetic but also trying to discourage him because I'd known her so much longer - it'd hardly be fair.

  He looked at me and vaguely smiled politely, as though he regarded my resignation as an understandable weakness meriting tolerance though not imitation. His mind was cooking now and I had to quicken my step to keep up with him. I regarded his assertive profile suspiciously, but when a grin flashed just for a second across his face in the course of contemplation I begrudgingly admitted to myself that I'd probably end up liking him, even though he apparently possessed that enviable, inimitable magnetism the ownership of which was usually sufficient to move me to classify another male as 'the enemy.'

  We found our way down the narrow grey lane of sidewalk to a really small hamburger place, its bright red and white interior glowing through its wide front window. There was a long counter inside, and a few booths, and back in the back through a curtained doorway was a smoky poolroom. We walked in and the only people there were the cook and the waitress leaning across either side of the counter talking to one another. When we came in they looked up like we’d distu
rbed them. We came to this place a lot and they knew who we were - so they continued their conversation.

  Eddie and Rick and Carlene sat together at some stools along the counter. "Whenever you get the time," Carlene sang, stacking the napkin holder, the ketchup, and the salt precariously.

  "Yeah yeah," the cook said in thick accent, though his hand waved them off.

  Betty and Mark were currently caught up with each other and they retreated to the diner's furthest booth to resume their affections - they were at that stage where they had to be kissing all the time. It was unclear whether they'd abandon their current preoccupation to eat, or even breath.

  "Wanna shoot some pool?" Bill asked.

  "Sure," I said, and we walked through the curtain into the dimly lit room where the smooth green felt and the notched dark wood of the table retired comfortably in