Headway

Digital Papercut Literary Journal

Once my mother discovered the public was permitted access to the Air Force Base thrift facility, the family thrifting tradition began.

“Start a collection,” she would say and so we did. Toys, trading cards, books - specifically any title in a series, i.e. first edition Nancy Drew. A wise investment per my mom, “Oh, those will be worth money one day.”

Heavy sigh.

Years later, we’ve donated many of these “dear things” back into the thrift store stream. We positively reinforce ourselves by imagining someone’s thrilled face upon finding a long searched for item from our donations.

Much remains though. A once avid collector of McCoy pottery, I avoid the knick-knack aisle altogether.

The Nancy Drews remain shelved, along with the Trixie Beldens and a couple of worn Hardy Boys.

We still thrift with firm boundaries in place. But … you never know what you might find.

This past weekend, I forgot to avert my eyes at the racked records.

Vinyl. The Achilles’ heel.

One can never own too many J. Geils Band “Live” Full House albums.

Nothing takes a person back faster than music.

The needle drops. I’m at a party on the riverfront. I’m fifteen. My friends scatter. I walk directly to the guy switching out the albums. “Who is this band?”

True story.

“Headway” creatively pieces together this solid memory.

Today though, I’d work as a writer to harness the reaction, the feeling, in particular the J. Geils Band build of anticipation, hurling listeners toward the best live track cut ever in the band’s Hard Drivin’ Man.

“ … you heard of the Philly freeze? We’ve got the Detroit Demolition here for you tonight!”

Marker 2:19 - Magic 3:07 to end.

@kevincharles4505

5 years ago

This album got me thrown out of three dorm rooms, two home owners association, and a retirement home.:):):):)

Digital Papercut Literary Journal published “Headway” online 9/30/2014. The journal is no longer online, so a good reminder to always save a copy.

Trigger warning for language and all sorts of seventies paraphernalia.

And, the fictionalized protagonist has magically aged up to age sixteen.

Enjoy and thank you for reading.

Rock on.

Photo by Tyler Sakil on Unsplash

Headway

It’s 1973 and I’m at some kid’s house on the river. Somebody said his name is Joe and he’s fifteen. His parents are off on a cruise to the Bahamas or Jamaica, I don’t really know, other than it’s some faraway island with a name that drips a’s.

The word is out. Joe invites two people over and those two invite two people, who pick up a couple more on the ride over and the next thing going down is people too cool for Joe are tapping a keg in his parent’s professional grade- kitchen. Party time.

Vinyl scratches in the background. I like the song and squeeze past a pack of kids to check out the band. J. Geils Live. Full House.

A guy wearing tie-dye shoots me a peace sign from the sectional couch. He’s old, maybe thirty. He nods his head to the bluesy beat and mouths the lyrics my way. I take that to mean “great album” and head in the opposite direction, looking for the ship I sailed in on.

The place is standing room only. Ten, maybe fifteen more kids flow through the open door. Joe looks seasick. I feel for him, having been victimized by party crashers at my sixteenth birthday, but (surprise, suckas) my mother was around and ran the shit for brains off waving a spatula, keeping up with the etiquette-impaired at a good strong pace, singly out boys she’d known for years when they looked back to see if she were gaining on them. “Steven McCarty, is that you? Lou Edwards? The very idea!”

Those same guys are here, standing around, dogging chicks. Word is, my mom’s street sprint so impressed the bashers, she became a celebrated phenom of sorts, saving me from a social stigma bestowed only upon the lowliest of teenage pariahs. I slip past them, how’s your mom, they ask and I laugh my reply, running the mile in six.

I spot my ride out on the back deck, talking to some guy. Crap. She’s doing it, the running fingers through her hair thing, coquettish flirting she thinks is sexy but what I’ve come to know means, it could take awhile to get her out of here. My parents have me on a short leash and one minute late typically draws weeks of restriction, non-negotiable.

Left behind to watch the house and feed the cat, Joe’s maiden voyage on the seas of trust and responsibility is sinking fast. He stands on the dining room table holding a broken lamp and is yelling something, but I can’t make it out. Zeppelin’s on full blast and the crowd is moving in sync with the Immigrant Song. I squeeze through, bobbing back and forth between listing bodies. The ocean parts to reveal an island of people standing around the IT girl of my high school-- the homecoming queen, the star student, the head cheerleader. Her name is Kim and she is jabbing motion sickness pills from foil packaging with her fingernail. Her cling-ons wait for the cheap over-the-counter high, already high on her.

“Slumming?” I ask. She looks up and a glimpse of my best friend from fifth grade is there behind the aqua eyes, the same girl who drew paper dogs and held field trial events with me in the library after school, awarding ribbons to the most deserving faux canines. I recall she was wild about border collies. “Every chance I get, “ she said, back to poking pills.

I move past her. “Wait! Wait up!” She catches me. “C’mon, sorry. It’s just, these people suck. Really suck. If they only knew how much I detest them.” I learned a long time ago to listen and not say too much to this girl who was once as much my shadow as I was hers. “Listen, I’m late,” I say to her, thumbing toward the deck. “Gotta head out. You know, my parents.” I alternate circling index fingers around my ears, the universal sign for crazy. “Still certifiable.”

She looks past me and back. “Isn’t that same chick that almost got us killed a couple of years ago, trying to beat the train to get you home on time? Oh my God, it is. How can you get back in the car with that bitch?”

“Don’t say that,” I say. “She’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad??? She’s a first class asshole. Still doing the hair thing?” She rakes her nails through her ringlets and gives the roots a good yank. “But God, when she slammed on the brakes and that train roared past, it was damn funny stuff. I’ll never forget the look on your face.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Well, now it’s funny. Not so much then.”

“And you beat curfew. That’s the fucking punch line.” Someone calls Kim! and she turns to me and says, “It’s good seeing you. Way too long, you know? Call me.”

“I will,” I say, but know I won’t.

“Gotta get back to my minions. God, I hate them. Later.” She turns and I want to call her back, tell her to be careful, that I worry about her, but lose her in the crowd as the cops rush the front door.

Joe is sobbing into a nautical blue throw pillow as I run past, running as fast as my mom to get home to where I know my parents are watching the clock and betting against me.