“We ain’t doing ourselves no good,” said Virg, “just sitting here and moaning. So let’s have another drink, then I’ll crank the car for you, and we’ll be on our way.”
“You don’t need to crank the car,” said Hank. “You just get into it, and it starts up by itself.”
“Well, I be damned,” said Virg. “You sure have got it trained.”
They had another drink and got into the Model T, which started up and swung out of the parking lot, heading for the road.
“Where do you think we should go?” asked Virg. “You know of any place to go?”
“No, I don’t,” said Hank. “Let the car take us where it wants to. It will know the way.”
Virg lifted the sax off the seat and asked, “Where’d this thing come from? I don’t remember you could blow a sax.”
“I never could before,” said Hank. He took the sax from Virg and put it to his lips, and it wailed in anguish, gurgled with light-heartedness.
“I be damned,” said Virg. “You do it pretty good.”
The Model T bounced merrily down the road, with its fenders flapping and the windshield jiggling, while the magneto coils mounted on the dashboard clicked and clacked and chattered. All the while, Hank kept blowing on the sax and the music came out loud and true, with startled night birds squawking and swooping down to fly across the narrow swath of light.
The Model T went clanking up the valley road and climbed the hill to come out on a ridge, running through the moonlight on a narrow, dusty road between close pasture fences, with sleepy cows watching them pass by.
“I be damned,” cried Virg, “if it isn’t just like it used to be. The two of us together, running in the moonlight. Whatever happened to us, Hank? Where did we miss out? It’s like this now, and it was like this a long, long time ago. Whatever happened to the years between? Why did there have to be any years between?”
Hank said nothing. He just kept blowing on the sax.
“We never asked for nothing much,” said Virg. “We were happy as it was. We didn’t ask for change. But the old crowd grew away from us. They got married and got steady jobs, and some of them got important. And that was the worst of all, when they got important. We were left alone. Just the two of us, just you and I, the ones who didn’t want to change. It wasn’t just being young that we were hanging on to. It was something else. It was a time that went with being young and crazy. I think we knew it somehow. And we were right, of course. It was never quite as good again.”
The Model T left the ridge and plunged down a long, steep hill, and below them they could see a massive highway, broad and many-laned, with many car lights moving on it.
“We’re coming to a freeway, Hank,” said Virg. “Maybe we should sort of veer away from it. This old Model T of yours is a good car, sure, the best there ever was, but that’s fast company down there.”
“I ain’t doing nothing to it,” said Hank. “I ain’t steering it. It is on its own. It knows what it wants to do.”
“Well, all right, what the hell,” said Virg, “we’ll ride along with it. That’s all right with me. I feel safe with it. Comfortable with it. I never felt so comfortable in all my goddamn life. Christ, I don’t know what I’d done if you hadn’t come along. Why don’t you lay down that silly sax and have a drink before I drink it all.”
So Hank laid down the sax and had a couple of drinks to make up for lost time, and by the time he handed the bottle back to Virg, the Model T had gone charging up a ramp, and they were on the freeway. It went running gaily down its lane, and it passed some cars that were far from standing still. Its fenders rattled at a more rapid rate, and the chattering of the magneto coils was like machine-gun fire.
“Boy,” said Virg admiringly, “see the old girl go. She’s got life left in her yet. Do you have any idea, Hank, where we might be going?”
“Not the least,” said Hank, picking up the sax again.
“Well, hell,” said Virg, “it don’t really matter, just so we’re on our way. There was a sign back there a ways that said Chicago. Do you think we could be headed for Chicago?”
Hank took the sax out of his mouth. “Could be,” he said. “I ain’t worried over it.”
“I ain’t worried neither,” said Old Virg. “Chicago, here we come! Just so the booze holds out. It seems to be holding out. We’ve been sucking at it regular, and it’s still better than half-full.”
“You hungry, Virg?” asked Hank.
“Hell, no,” said Virg. “Not hungry, and not sleepy, either. I never felt so good in all my life. Just so the booze holds out and this heap hangs together.”
The Model T banged and clattered, running with a pack of smooth, sleek cars that did not bang and clatter, with Hank playing on the saxophone and Old Virg waving the bottle high and yelling whenever the rattling old machine outdistanced a Lincoln or a Cadillac. The moon hung in the sky and did not seem to move. The freeway became a throughway, and the first toll booth loomed ahead.
“I hope you got change,” said Virg. “Myself, I am cleaned out.”
But no change was needed, for when the Model T came near, the toll-gate arm moved up and let it go thumping through without payment.
“We got it made,” yelled Virg. “The road is free for us, and that’s the way it should be. After all you and I been through, we got something coming to us.”
Chicago loomed ahead, off to their left, with night lights gleaming in the towers that rose along the lakeshore, and they went around it in a long, wide sweep, and New York was just beyond the fishhook bend as they swept around Chicago and the lower curve of the lake.
“I never saw New York,” said Virg, “but seen pictures of Manhattan, and that can’t be nothing but Manhattan. I never did know, Hank, that Chicago and Manhattan were so close together.”
“Neither did I,” said Hank, pausing from his tootling on the sax. “The geography’s all screwed up for sure, but what the hell do we care? With this rambling wreck, the whole damn world is ours.”
He went back to the sax, and the Model T kept rambling on. They went thundering through the canyons of Manhattan and circumnavigated Boston and went on down to Washington, where the Washington Monument stood up high and Old Abe sat brooding on Potomac’s shore.
They went on down to Richmond and skated past Atlanta and skimmed along the moon-drenched sands of Florida. They ran along old roads where trees dripped Spanish moss and saw the lights of Old N’Orleans way off to their left. Now they were heading north again, and the car was galumphing along a ridgetop with neat farming country all spread out below them. The moon still stood where it had been before, hanging at the selfsame spot. They were moving through a world where it was always three A.M.
“You know,” said Virg, “I wouldn’t mind if this kept on forever. I wouldn’t mind if we never got to wherever we are going. It’s too much fun getting there to worry where we’re headed. Why don’t you lay down that horn and have another drink? You must be getting powerful dry.”
Hank put down the sax and reached out for the bottle. “You know, Virg,” he said, “I feel the same way you do. It just don’t seem there’s any need for fretting about where we’re going or what’s about to happen. It don’t seem that nothing could be better than right now.”
Back there at the dark pavilion he’d remembered that there had been something he’d heard about Old Virg and had thought he should speak to him about, but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what it was. But now he’d remembered it, and it was of such slight importance that it seemed scarcely worth the mention.
The thing that he’d remembered was that good Old Virg was dead.