In its earlier incarnation, the station had been where we always rode our bikes after school to the bright red Coke machine in front. Drinks cost a dime and that vaguely green glass bottle would come banging down from inside, ice-cold and curving perfectly into your hand. We'd stand there with our bikes balanced between our legs, drinking in long bottle-emptying glugs. In between, we'd watch cars pull in and out for gasoline or to be repaired. We'd name the makes if they made the grade. "Fuckin' 4-4-2." "Nice 'Vette." "That Z-28'd kick your ass!" Eavesdropping on the mechanics' conversations as they worked in the garage had taught us the importance of these great machines, as well as all the dirty words a nine-year-old needed to know. At home, the pictures on our walls were of Shelby Mustangs or Cobras, a Chevrolet 327 engine, a tucked-and-rolled custom-leather interior, the drag racers Don Prudhomme or "Swamp Rat" Don Garlits.
"Hello?"
"Patricia, it's Sam Bayer."
"Sam! Is Aurelio holding you prisoner?"
"Better, Patricia, much better! Listen to this . . ."
I told her the idea for the book. When I was finished, there was a long silence that could have meant anything coming from the formidable Chase. She has a strong, impressive voice but when she did speak, it was the softest and most tentative I had ever heard it. "You never told me about that, Sam."
"It happened a long time ago."
"It doesn't matter. It's still a hell of an experience!"
"It is, but what do you think of my idea? Do you like it?"
"I love it and so will Aurelio."
"But it doesn't necessarily mean I'll find anything, Patricia. I'm just going to look."
"I think it could be that big book we were talking about today, Sam. The gods must be happy with you to offer this idea seven hours after we talked. Where are you, by the way?"
"In Crane's View! I just had a California burger at Scrappy's Diner and am going down to the river now to see what I can remember."
"I think it's going to be great, Sam. I'm very excited."
"You never say that!"
"You never wrote anything like this."
I was about to answer when I saw something that knocked me back into my past with the force of a punch.
While we spoke I had watched the comings and goings at the gas station. My window was down so I heard the constant mutter of traffic and street noise outside. Nothing special, until someone nearby started speaking in a deep, dead monotone that part of my brain recognized instantly. It was repeating word for word a Honda Accord commercial I had seen on television so many times that, against my will, I'd memorized the words to it, like a terrible pop song that will not leave your head. I recognized the slogans a moment before recognizing the voice. That voice doing exactly the same thing it had always done when I was a kid – perfectly repeating the words of television commercials. Thirty years ago it had been ads for Cocoa Marsh and Newport cigarettes, Tide detergent and Rambler cars. Today it was a Honda but that made no difference: It was a Crane's View ghost alive in my ear. Shocked, I slowly turned to look for the face.
There he was, still walking in those big glumphing steps, arms swinging too high up from his side, his feet encased in shoes that looked as big as the boxes they'd come in.
"Holy shit, it's Club Soda Johnny!"
"What, Sam? What did you say?"
"I'll call you tomorrow, Patricia. I gotta go. My past just walked by, doing a Honda ad." I put the phone down and jumped out of the car. Johnny was walking toward the school and as always moving so fast that I had to jog to catch up.
He was forty pounds heavier and had lost most of his hair. The rest was a crew cut that made his face look even larger and squarer.
"Johnny! Hey, Johnny!"
He stopped and turned around. When he saw me he only stared.
"Do you remember me? Sam Bayer? I used to live here a long time ago?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. How are you, Johnny?"
"Okay."
"Whatcha been doing?"
"Not much."
Johnny Petangles lived with his mother and grandmother on Olive Street down by the railroad station. He was slow in the head, as they used to say, and worked odd jobs around town. What he really liked to do was watch television. Although I don't think he was an idiot savant, he had one great talent – he could repeat verbatim every television commercial he had ever seen. "And away goes trouble down the drain; Roto-Rooter!" "Take Sominex tonight and sleep . . . ." "Puff puff Cocoa Puffs." Club Soda Johnny's gospel came straight from the blue tube, and slow as he was, he still knew every chapter and verse. Summers we'd be sitting in the town park, bored stiff. Along came Johnny on one of his never-ending marches through town. "Hey, Johnny, do the Clark Bar ad. Do the Chunky. How does the Bufferin one go?" The ads didn't even have to have music or jingles for him to get them right. Even doctors in white coats pointing to charts demonstrating the effectiveness of Bufferin aspirin or Preparation H hemorrhoid cream went right into Johnny's soft head and stayed forever. But because he was demented, the sentences, although perfect, came out flat and totally deflated, sounding like a computer voice. "Char-lie says love my Good & Plen-ty!"
Being near him now was like bringing a bouquet of fresh flowers up to my nose. The smell of nostalgia was overpowering.
He looked to the left and right. Then in an exaggerated gesture, he pulled up his sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. I noticed the dial face was a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. "I have to go now. I have to get home to watch television."
I put out a hand and touched his arm. It was very warm. "Johnny, do you remember Pauline Ostrova? Do you remember her name?"
He narrowed his eyes, touched his chin and looked at the sky. He began to hum. For a moment I wondered if he had forgotten my question.
"No. I don't remember her."
"Okay. Well, it was nice seeing you again, Johnny."
"It was my great pleasure." Surprisingly, he put out his big hand and we shook. His face didn't change expression when he abruptly turned and strode off.
Watching him walk away, I remembered the old Club Soda Johnny, Frannie McCabe, Suzy Nicholls, Barbara Thilly . . . so many others. I remembered summer days in the town park, bored out of our skulls, happy to see crazy Johnny because he was a welcome five-minute diversion. We had so much time on our hands in those days. About all we had was time. Always waiting for something to happen without ever quite knowing what. Something about to happen, someone about to come and save our day, week . . . from just being.
Johnny stopped, spun around and looked at me impassively. "Pauline is dead. You're joking around with me. She was killed a long time ago."
"That's right, Johnny. A hell of a long time."
I drove past Sacred Heart Church, Stumpel Ford, Power's Stationery Store. It's interesting how some shops, no matter how many times they change owners, always stay the same. Most locations go from pizzeria to boutique to whatever every few years. The stationery store in Crane's View had a new owner but was still the place to buy a newspaper, rubber bands, candy. As a kid, my first allowance had been twenty-five cents. Enough to buy a Payday candy bar and a Sugar and Spike comic book there. I'd walk out not knowing what to do first – open the comic or the Payday. Usually I'd do both at once – read, eat, cross the street without looking and not realize until I got home that I'd finished everything.