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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Independence Day
The chair was
uncomfortable, hard in all the wrong places; I would never have
bought a chair like this .... and what was I doing here anyway? I lost my interest
in Fourth of July's years ago, and I don't like the idea of being held hostage
on my own street just because the younger generation decided to have a block
party.
My distress surely
must be visible. People avoid me .... "can I get you something Mr. Buschman,
Coke or a beer maybe?"
"No thanks, Phyllis." She is wearing a halter and much of her upper
body is bare to the sun. There is too much of her for this humid afternoon.
Phyllis can not stand anyone not having a good time, and as a result, she rarely
has a good time herself. (Get away from me) I thought. If they'd just leave
me alone, my mood would pass. Here, in this happy crowd of couples there is
an unspeakable sense of loss and jealousy that only widows and widowers can
understand.
Holidays are the hardest times. Christmas is the worst, but the Fourth of July is no bed of roses either. When we were young, the Fourth of July was the apex of the summer trajectory, the high point. The kids were eager for the beach, eager for a cookout, eager for just about anything; but after the Fourth, the bloom wore off the rose, and summer lost much of its bloom as well.
There's a new generation of Westlake Villagers now. I remember some of them as children, but there are others, people of varied colors and textures, bringing with them rites of passage that are strange to me.
But we have the Fourth of July in common, yes, everybody celebrates the Fourth of July. There is an Indian couple sitting across from me. The wife is wearing a diamond in her nose and the baby in her lap is wrapped in a crocheted blanket. Her husband is a man I know as Ramash, a surgeon at Highview Hospital. Our customs of worship may vary. Some of us may eat pork; some may not. Some are convinced that after death they will return as farm animals; others are content with one life. But all of us share our independence from Great Britain.
"Hey, how
you doin' wordsmith? I thought all reporters carried a notebook." It was
"Old" Dick Donahue -- he brought back old times too.
"Hi, Dick. I'm not a reporter, I'm a featured writer. One of those beers
for me?"
"Well, no. Actually they're both mine, but if you ask me real nice I'll
let you have the one I started."
He sat in the hard plastic chair next to me and rolled his eyes. "Y'know,
I seen these chairs in K-Mart last week. $4.99! I was thinkin' about buyin'
a couple for Edie and me -- glad I didn't. There ain't nowhere in hell anybody's
ever gonna make somethin' comfortable to sit on for $4.99.
I took his beer and stood up. "When it comes to old asses and new chairs,
Dick, you know more about them than anyone I know .... let's walk."
We talked about
the custom of block parties. Long ago somebody got the idea of calling the police
department and getting permission to close the street for a summer party. The
police would set up temporary barricades, and if you lived on that street, you
were held captive for a day. Our street, Hyacinth, was closed all the way from
Nickerson to 14th -- a good half mile.
The beer was a little warm for my taste. My four-legged friend Corky spotted
me with it and fell into step with us as we walked over to watch the kids competing
in the one-legged race. Corky paid them no attention, he had his eyes on my
beer.
"Look at Dick," I reminded him, "he's got one too."
Corky gave Dick a quick glance and a single thump of his tail, then turned back
to me. A thirsty Bassett has eyes that would melt the heart of a Turkish rug
salesman. He knew I was the easy one, not "old" Dick. Dick would drain
it dry -- then get a nickel back on the can. It's got to be the Irish in him,
and I am forced to sympathize with any animal indentured to an Irishman.
I couldn't stand
it. I poured some beer in a plastic container that was still coated with the
scum of salad dressing and put it on the ground for Corky. Before he set to
it, he gave me an unmistakable look of affection that revealed the ancient bond
of brotherhood between us. Corky was not my Bassett nor would he ever be, but
at that moment he was closer to me than the people he lived with.
Other dogs, strangers to the party, were playing one-legged race with the children.
Occasionally, children and dogs would tangle up and fall in a heap. Charlie
Pinter's spaniel was caught hoisting his leg against a pink and white bassinet
and was sent home in disgrace. A cursory examination disclosed that the baby's
wetness was self-inflicted.
Then came Stacey
-- Stacey Pomerance. She had left our employ at the Guardian
to seek greener fields in Fortunoff's. There, she is the captive beauty who
patrols the china department, and there she has met Murray Feldman the apprentice
buyer. They were made for each other. Both of them would dwell forever on the
outermost skin of life, nothing profound would ever touch them. In time they
would have wraparound sofas, a canopied bed and a giant microwave oven. Their
lawn would be mowed by Salvadorans up for the summer and they would float in
majestic silence in their built-in swimming pool.
"Hi! Mr.
"B." Happy fort-jew-lie. This here is Murray." She turned to
Murray.
"Murray I told y'bout Mr. "B," din't I? He's a real pisser,"
To me, she added, "Murray and me got engaged; we're intended -- looka the
ring he gimme', it's a real diamond. Got it at cost from the store."
"Season's greetings, Murray, and congratulations, you're getting a rare
young lady in Stacey. She's left a big vacuum back at the Guardian."
"See, Murray -- dint I tell'ya? I was an assistant editor there. I wasn't
no cleaning lady."
There they go. Murray has the whipped look of a man chained to a beautiful woman.
This is not his neighborhood and he seems anxious to get away, but Stacey of
course is on home ground, and wants to exhibit her prize apprentice buyer to
her friends. She will quickly grow fat I fear, and spend long tortuous afternoons
at the spa, while Murray roams the world of china for Fortunoff.
The weatherman
has pledged himself a twenty percent chance of rain late this
afternoon and fog by nightfall. Prudence would dictate a postponement of the
fireworks display, but those in charge are all for a go at it in spite of the
weather. No one wants to baby sit the skyrockets until the weekend.
I wander, like Wotan from scene to scene. Old one eyed Wotan, to whom everyone was a stranger and no one could be trusted. This is the third year without her, and the wound has yet to heal -- numb to the touch, but yet to heal. It does not seem fair to call this "Independence Day."
©Harry Buschman 1998
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