Taking Off
Chapter 2: In the Historic Downtown Plaza
TAKING OFF
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Already the teaching of Tlön’s harmonious history (filled with moving episodes) has obliterated the history that governed my own childhood; already a fictitious past has supplanted in men’s memories that other past, of which we now know nothing certain—not even that it is false.Jorge Luis Borges  HUS
IT WAS that, late in the afternoon of the Friday following my receipt of
Cyn’s note, Albertine and I found ourselves seated side by side aboard
a Long Island Rail Road train bound for Babbington, where, for me, it had
all begun. Albertine was with me because she and I are together whenever
it is possible for us to be together. We discovered long ago that
the point of our lives is to be together, so we try to avoid all individual
experience, within the limits of practicality and gracious living.
This practice has brought us as close as any two people can be, I think.
It also allows her to keep an eye on me.
“I have no idea what the ‘Historic Downtown Plaza’ might be,” said Albertine, who knows the town as well as I do. “I picked up this brochure in the station,” I said, handing the brochure to Albertine. “It promotes excursions to Babbington. The writer attempts to explain the Historic Downtown Plaza, but the explanation doesn’t succeed in clarifying it.” The brochure was titled “Babbington: Gateway to the Past.” It bore the logo of the Babbington Redefinition Authority, and it described my home town in the following manner: The delightful town of Babbington is the Central South Shore’s nostalgia center—or, if not precisely its center, not far off the mark. Babbington offers fine accommodations, restaurants, its own historic charm, and many fascinating attractions and diversions.“‘The perfect starting point for your passport to the past’?” said Albertine. “What on earth does that mean?” “Oh, it’s just somebody’s attempt to squirt a little of the flavor of foreign travel onto a visit to Babbington,” I said. “That somebody has confused passport and passage, I think.” “Probably a fellow graduate of Babbington High,” I muttered, rescuing the poor pamphlet from her before she picked any other little nits of illiteracy from it. “Sorry,” she said. “I forgot how touchy you are about—” “Here we are,” I said. “Let’s find out why my town needs me.” |
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| ALBERTINE AND I found the Historic Downtown Plaza easily enough.
It was a T-shaped stretch of Upper Bolotomy Road and Main Street at the
center of town. Two blocks of Upper Bolotomy and four blocks of Main
(two to the east of the intersection and two to the west) had been closed
to vehicular traffic, though there were cars parked at the curb.
I admired some of these as I walked along, because they were handsome examples
of the cars that had been the objects of my adolescent car-lust when I
was in high school.
“Wow,” I said in exactly the tone of awestruck reverence I would have used when I was too young to drive. “Watch where you’re going,” Al cautioned me, taking hold of my arm and steering me away from a collision with a vintage lamppost. “Did you see that car we just passed?” I asked. “A 1956 Golden Hawk. Two-hundred-seventy-five horsepower and Ultramatic Drive.” “But not much of a back seat,” she said with a wink and a leer. With a sigh for days gone by, we went in search of the restaurant called Legends. It would have been hard to miss. It announced itself with a large neon sign that bore its name and the slogan “Portal to the Plaza.” A smaller sign beside the door offered “Our Incomparable Happy Hour” Monday through Friday, 4:30 p.m. to 6:30 p.m., featuring free hors d’oeuvres and “special drink prices.” The restaurant was just at the northern limit of the plaza in a space that had been filled by a large grocery store when Al and I were kids. The interior had been turned into a miniature shopping mall, with skylights overhead, giving it some of the feeling of a suburban shopping mall, but on a compact scale. Legends occupied the center, and the surrounding area was filled with shops, kiosks, and pushcarts stocked with souvenirs, gewgaws, and “antiques” from approximately the time when Albertine and I were spending Saturday nights in the back seat of her parents’ Lark sedan, parked among the concealing rushes at the edge of Bolotomy Bay. A small group had gathered at the circular bar for the incomparable happy hour. They all seemed to be regulars. They sat and drank. Now and then they spoke to one another. One of their number was addressed by the others as “Judge.” The free hors d’oeuvres on this evening were potato chips and a bowl of clam dip. “Amazing,” I said after sampling the dip. “This could have been made from my mother’s recipe.” A younger woman came in, apparently stopping by after work, climbed onto a barstool, crossed her eye-catching legs, and ordered a Tom Collins. “A Tom Collins,” I whispered to Al. “When was the last time you heard anybody order a Tom Collins?” “Nineteen sixty-one,” said Albertine, “in the summer, the night we crashed that party in—” “Shhh,” I said with a finger to my lips, and we settled into the poses we assume when indulging in silent eavesdropping. The happy-hour drinkers were talking of an approaching storm, Hurricane Felicity. Thousands had been evacuated from the New Jersey Shore, one of them noted. Tens of thousands more were without power in that area, according to another. Weekend plans were off, announced the woman with the Tom Collins. “Hurricane Felicity,” I whispered to Al. “There was a Hurricane Felicity when we were in high school, wasn’t there?” “There was,” she said. “Al,” I said, “this place is—” |
“Did you see that car we just passed?” I asked. “A 1956 Golden Hawk. Two-hundred-seventy-five horsepower and Ultramatic Drive.” |
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TAKING OFF
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Copyright © 2006 by Eric Kraft Taking Off is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogues, settings, and businesses portrayed in it are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. St. Martin’s Press will publish Taking Off in the summer of 2006. For information about publication rights outside the U. S. A., audio rights, serial rights, screen rights, and so on, e-mail Kraft’s indefatigable agent, Alec “Nick” Rafter. The illustration at the top of the page is an adaptation of an illustration by Stewart Rouse that first appeared on the cover of the August 1931 issue of Modern Mechanics and Inventions. The boy at the controls of the aerocycle doesn’t particularly resemble Peter Leroy—except, perhaps, for the smile. |
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