Red Pebbled Plastic Glass

When I was eight years old, my Aunt Carolyn dropped by for a visit. Aunt Carolyn was not like her older sister, my mother. She was unmarried, an Air Force veteran, working a cushy job for the government. She was a nation-trotter, a quick-laugher. She was the first person I ever knew who possessed and used credit cards. Her life was a bullet, shot far from us.

Her red Chrysler pulled up out front on a cool Friday night and she left the car running while she trotted to our front door and shoved it open. I was listening to an Exotic Guitars lp on Mother’s radio/record player and looked up as Aunt Carolyn beamed and bellowed at me.

“Hey, duckbutt, wanna go have some fun?”

This is the same sort of question, framed by the same sort of smile, that these days would make me feign illness or at least plead a prior commitment. It’s the sort of question/smile that I’ve come to understand very well. It usually translates as, “Hey, wanna get your ass in a really big crack?” But I had eight years in my account. Naturally, I wanted some fun. So I called for my mother. When she peered into the room, I asked her if I could go have some fun with Aunt Carolyn.

Mother looked from her youngest sister to her youngest child. Hesitated. Frowned. Sighed. Frowned again.
“Well, okay. Don’t keep him out late.”

“Don’t worry.” She snapped her fingers at me, and I ran to get my jacket.

When we pulled into the parking lot a short bit later, I had to fight to keep from hooting. Pizza! We walked across the pounded-down shingle strips that topped the parking lot and went inside, Aunt Carolyn steering me by the favored nape-of-the-neck method. Good sounds and smells blew into us, and we took a booth. I liked booths.

Music memory has always been a natural gift of mine, and I can recall that Peter Noone was crooning “There’s A Kind of Hush (All Over the World)” on the juke when we sat down. I knew that Aunt Carolyn would pony up some quarters shortly, and that I would receive the honor of selecting some of her current favorites. I jiggled my legs under the table as my aunt placed our drink order: Falstaff for her, Dr. Pepper for me. She then gave me three quarters, which would pay for nine songs. I can’t remember what she asked me to play for her, but I remember that I chose “The Horse” by Cliff Nobles and “Tijuana Taxi” by Herb Albert for my own. Always the instrumentals.

When I came back to the booth, our drinks were on the table. Also, a man was standing there. Smiling. At Aunt Carolyn. He sat down and then leaned over and kissed my mother’s sister. On the mouth. This frightened me, and it must have shown, because when they broke the kiss, both adults looked over at me with nervy smiles.
“Oh, hey, duckbutt…this is Bill.” She was watching me real close. “He just got back from Vietnam.”

I said nothing. Bill looked at my aunt, gave a sorta-smile, and then stuck out his hand. “Put ‘er there, duckbutt.”

I didn’t like that, and I didn’t put ‘er there. I slid across the naugahyde and stared at my Dr. Pepper in its red pebbled plastic glass while Aunt Carolyn and Put ‘Er There Bill talked and laughed. I kept track of their laughs. There were lots of them. Aunt Carolyn sprinkled a bit of salt into her beer, and she wrapped the bottle in a paper napkin. At times, Bill touched her chin or her shoulder as he entertained her. After a while, he turned to me – “Here, duckbutt, this is fun” – and did a few slight-of-hand tricks, including the one where it looks like the tip of the finger gets pulled off. One thing about Bill – he was quick to recognize and then dismiss an unappreciative audience.

The pizza didn’t taste very good that time. Even the red pepper flakes and the customary snowdrifts of Parmesan cheese I sprinkled into the shallow cups of the pepperoni slices didn’t help it. All the rest of our songs passed unnoticed on the jukebox, cents never to be recovered.

Not long after the adults finished their post-meal Pall Malls, they called it a night. Aunt Carolyn deposited me on the front seat of her car and then walked Bill to his car, parked on the other side of the restaurant. I blew on the window and drew tic-tac-toe diagrams in the silver patch of breath while I waited for her to return.
I can still remember how Aunt Carolyn’s lipstick glowed on the filter of her cigarette as it perched in the Chrysler’s ashtray. I can remember the drive back to my house, and the sound of “Love Is Blue” on the AM radio. I can remember her asking me if I’d had fun.

And I can still remember the gold band on Bill’s left ring finger. Precious metal winking at me while he performed his tricks.

~ S.K Orr