Chapter 3
“The Boombox” was an aptly named dance club occupying the corner of 15th and Simon. Aptly named because it was loud and it was little more than a big box. The walls were gray and dusty, the bar area screamed 1970’s with it’s wood paneling and shag carpet, and the dance floor could have been a stunt double for the old Boston Garden with it’s parquet pattern and it’s numerous dead spots. It looked like an airplane hangar dressed as the Partridge family bus. Despite the obvious lack of charm and class, “The Boombox” held the distinguished honor of being the place to go in town, thanks mostly to the fabulous house band and the dozens of eccentric regulars who called it home.
I arrived just after 10pm and situated myself at a small table to the left of the stage. I scanned the room for Jeremy and Charles, and was pleased to find them on the opposite side of the stage talking to a couple of girls. I was more pleased with the fact that they were on the other side of the stage than I was of actually finding them. Jeremy was an idiot, but despite his idiocy, women seemed to find him irresistibly charming and smooth. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he dressed well, and drove an expensive little sports car. Charles, on the other hand was shockingly handsome. He looked a lot like Tom Cruise, only he was much taller and his features were much darker. Everyone, including Jeremy, thought he was Hispanic, but with a name like Charles Callahan he could only have been Irish. Charles liked to pretend he was Hispanic and he would claim to be Carlos, an Argentinean actor on holiday in the U.S. The girls rarely cared who he was, they just wanted to be seen with him. He and Jeremy were quite the scamming party hounds.
As I waved to them, Jeremy waved back and immediately shared my traumatic warring past with the awestruck girls. Within seconds, the quartet was winding its way towards me. I thought about trying to escape, but after all, I had come because of them. At least I should greet them and hang a little while.
As the group neared my table, I recognized one of the girls. It was Linda Morales, a girl who lived with her mother in the apartment complex across the street from me. I hadn’t seen her in quite some time. Her mother said she had gone away to study, so I was anxious to see how she was doing. As she approached, I realized the plague was already busy at work. Jeremy must have carried it with him, infecting people as he went along.
“Carl, Jeremy tells me you were in the war,” she commented with confusion.
“Well, Jeremy is always telling stories. I wouldn’t believe a whole lot of what he says,” I halfheartedly offered.
Without heeding my caution, she continued, “You must have been very young, perhaps only 4 or 5.”
My eyes suddenly lit up. I saw that the conversation had a realistic chance of being logical. After all, the improbability of a four-year-old being an officer in the Vietnam War was too great to ignore. However, before I could interject, the lanky Latin beauty concluded her thought. “Wow, that mission must have been super top secret.”
Jeremy and Charles both nodded in astonishment. The other girl just stood still looking cross-eyed at the fan above the table. Obviously the plague afflicted her in quite a different manner. To salvage the evening, I decided to give the savages what they wanted.
“Oh, very top secret,” I began. “The Army referred to it as Operation Baby Boom, but we all knew it only as Mama.”
The listeners stood mesmerized, hanging on my every word. It was really quite liberating and empowering. I weaved my tale through the jungles of Southeast Asia, and through the streets of America’s Capital. Oh, it was fun. As I prepared my final embellishments, a surge of nervousness swept over me. I became suddenly self-conscious and awkward. I noticed that in addition to the four bleary-eyed dolts that were watching my every move a number of other sets of eyes had suddenly directed their gaze in my direction. Two well-dressed men at the bar stared at me intensely as I finished off my story, and a gaggle of silk shirted goons on the opposite side of the dance floor took a sudden interest in me as well.
It was like a giant three ring circus and I was P.T. Barnum.
Again the attention was flattering but altogether too uncomfortable. In fact, the stares were really quite sinister. “The plague couldn’t possibly have affected that many people,” I thought. “They are all too far away.”
As I stood stunned by the instant attention and confused by its inexplicable cause, a long slender hand reached suddenly across my chest from behind and gripped tightly to my arm twisting me around. A firm, desperate kiss greeted me as I turned, and found myself looking into the deepest, most enchanting green eyes I had ever seen; eyes that wept as they held me captive by their beauty.
“They’re here,” she cried. “They are going to kill me. You’ve got to help me John, you’ve got to.”
“Who’s going to kill you? Where?” I asked as I started to go into shock. “Who’s John?”
The last question was a fair one I thought, but I soon discovered that the answer would have to wait. The enchanting eyes froze in terror as the silk-shirts started to cross the dance floor towards our table. Once again the enchantress’ eyes leaped to meet mine and before I knew it I was hopelessly drowning in them.
“Please, John, please help me!”
I glanced again to the dance floor. The silk shirts seemed to be approaching in slow motion. One of them reached the tables and started throwing chairs out of his path. I realized that not only the enchanting eyes were in trouble, but my squirrelly pale brown ones were too. Like it or not, I was John and people wanted to kill the girl in my arms.
I again looked at her terror-stricken face. She needed me. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth.
“Let’s go!” I screamed, and before I knew it, we were running hand in hand through the maze of tables that led to the service entrance at the back of the club. As we reached the door, I again checked the progress of our pursuers. They were just passing our table. As they did, I saw Charles strike one of the guys with a swinging chair to the midsection, and I heard Jeremy yell with sheer delight, “Whoa, this is way too cool.”
They were idiots, but there were also the only friends I had.
In the alley, my companion stopped and looked anxiously both ways. “Where are we going to go?” She cried. I could tell her day had been no better than mine. I had no idea where we were going to go, but I knew we had to get there as soon as possible.
I again grabbed her hand and began running feverishly through the alley towards 15th Street. We emerged on the street and, as we did, the sound of breaking glass greeted us. Our beloved pursuers were lovingly launching bullet-like projectiles towards us in hopes of ending our precious little lives. I threw the girl behind a parked car and went running into traffic. It was time to put the plague to some positive use. A little red sedan skidded to a stop as I leaped out of its way. The owner emerged from the car screaming and yelling and waving his fists, but when he got close enough his demeanor changed almost instantaneously.
“I’m very sorry Mr. President, I had no idea it was you. Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, sir, but I need to use your car. Very important government business.”
The man gave me his keys on the spot. I got in and waved my hiding companion over immediately. She jumped in just as another bullet pierced the rear window. I floored the gas pedal, and as I sped away, the silk-shirts waved their guns in the air and cursed at the top of their lungs. Amidst the curses and gun waving, a lone stranded motorist stood erect, saluting his commander-in-chief.
posted by Cool Dad @ 12:09 PM
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