SUMMER JAM
(Note - this short story is not part of the novel Whipping Post)
Swinging suddenly off the exit ramp, Sonny Rodgers skillfully down-shifted the transmission of his motorcycle and glided smoothly off the Interstate. The baffles of the new Harley “Cross Bones” screeched with a deep guttural groan.
His traveling companion, Doc Brady, exited like-wise. Unfortunately, caught by surprise with the sudden change of plans, Doc’s exit was somewhat less elegant, particularly given the fact the two bikers were traveling at seventy miles per hour at the time Sonny made his decision to exit. Doc nearly missed the turn and only a split-second sway of the handlebars was what saved him from setting his chunky posterior in the ditch.
As he headed up the ramp, Sonny watched his beefy buddy in the rear view mirror. He chuckled at the awkward choreography Doc was creating in an attempt to keep from dumping his Harley “Fatboy”, including some amusing bumps and lurches through the soft shoulder of the ramp.
As Doc rolled to the stop sign he was spewing obscenities. “You %*$#^! moron. You could have gotten me killed…or worse,” he spat. His safety helmet, if one could call it that as it looked more like an old German “coal scuttle” helmet, had shifted down the backside of his head. The strap had slipped up tightly under his nose. A wad of thick brown curly hair poured from underneath the helmet in all directions.
Sonny, in stark contrast to Doc was tall and powerfully built. He had long blonde hair and a red, three-day old beard. He grinned at his buddy. “I’m thirsty, dude,” he said hoarsely.
They sped west into the town of Allegany looking for a saloon. About a mile up the road at a dead end, Sonny and Doc turned their bikes into a pot-holed, graveled parking lot surrounding a cinder block building. The name “Snuffy’s” was stenciled in large black letters across a dingy white façade. Turning the bike off, Sonny noticed the sporadic blinking of a Stroh’s beer light in the lone window of the front of the building. Odd, he thought, considering Stroh’s went out of business years ago.
The two men made their way into the vestibule. The entrance was no more than a lean-to, seemingly hung on the front of the building as an afterthought. The metal storm door screeched painfully as they stepped up a single stair into an entryway lit dimly by a yellow light bulb. Heaps of empty beer bottles and spent kegs were stacked against the far plywood wall. They entered the tavern through a weather-beaten wooden door.
Gazing around the murky tavern, the two bikers could barely see through a thick blanket of yellowish smoke that hung in the air. Doc detected the sweet stench of marijuana as well. A sparse crowd of patrons gawked back at them, as if unaccustomed to seeing strangers frequenting their establishment. The pair lumbered toward the bar. Sonny stood while Doc plopped down on a backless dilapidated bar stool with a ripped red cover.
The bartender, a long-haired chunky character with a thick handlebar mustache and wearing a faded blue Bad Company T-shirt was standing behind the bar waiting on them. “What d’ya have?” he asked in a gravely voice.
“What ‘cha got on tap?” Sonny asked, drumming his hands on the bar rail to the song “Angie” that was wailing throughout the joint. Because it was one of his mothers favorite songs from the early 70’s, Sonny recognized it and knew it was written by a drug addled Keith Richards concerning a sorrowful breakup, rumored to have been a romance between Mick Jaggar and David Bowie’s wife.
“Stroh’s. Schlitz. Carlson,” the barkeep grunted, conserving words as if each utterance was costing him. Dull eyes stared blankly at Sonny while awaiting a response.
Sonny and Doc looked at each other quizzically. Considering themselves somewhat experienced bar patrons and beer connoisseurs neither had ever heard of a choice of beer quite like what this old hippie was offering.
“I guess we’ll have Stroh’s then,” Sonny answered, throwing a wad of ones and fives on the bar. The barkeep slapped a dirty dish towel on his shoulder and took off to draw the beers. Sonny lit a cigar and watched Bad Company walk away.
Abruptly, Doc grabbed Sonny’s arm with a jerk. “Check that out, dog.” He pointed at a calendar directly in front of them hanging on a nail over the back of the bar.
“Yeah, nice rack,” Sonny replied, obviously uninterested. His attention seemed to be elsewhere. He watched as the bartender returned and set two large mugs of beer before them, grabbed a single dollar bill from the stack and headed back down to the other end of the bar without another word. Sonny looked down at the bills, saying nothing further. Something just didn’t seem right. Two mugs of beer for a buck didn’t make sense, but Sonny decided he wasn’t going to complain.
“Not that you moron,” Doc shot back. “Look at the date!”
Sitting down, Sonny squinted at the calendar, trying to adjust his eyes through the smoke of his cigar. “August…11… 19…73,” he mumbled. What the…,” not bothering to finish his sentence.
As they slurped foam off their beers, the men spun around, placing their elbows on the bar. The bikers proceeded to check out the rest of the tavern. An eye-catching young woman walked by them, dressed in a billowy patterned peasant blouse, bell bottomed jeans that were ripped at one knee and frayed at the bottom. There was a red Budweiser bandanna holding back her long blonde hair. She smiled pleasantly and nodded as she made her way toward a pool table where two scrawny long-haired young men were intensely involved in a game of eight-ball. One of them was lining up his shot while the other looked on. He was holding a small eight ounce bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand while leaning on his cue. Doc turned his attention back to the blonde walking away. He could see a yellow happy face patch sewn on her back pocket and peeking out from underneath the blouse.
In a nearby corner of the tavern was a jukebox standing next to a pinball game that had been “tilted” and left in a state of defeat. Through the enormous and dingy bubbled glass top of the jukebox, Sonny noticed the aging musical appliance was switching songs… replacing one 45 RPM record with another. Sonny could hear the hiss of the needle on the vinyl as the next song, Frankenstein by the Edgar Winter Group, began to play. Stapled to the wall next to the jukebox, Sonny spotted a crisp white cardboard poster announcing the Summer Jam upstate at the Watkins Glenn Speedway. The $10 tickets being advertised were for a concert featuring the Allman Brothers, the Grateful Dead, and The Band. The admission price included parking and camping! Sonny did a double take when he noticed the poster announced the concert was for Saturday, July 28th, 1973.
Finally taking his eyes off the girl at the pool table, Doc looked around the rest of the bar. There was a beaded curtain hanging in front of a hallway that led to the restrooms. From his vantage point he could see that the hallway was lit by the purplish glow of a black light bulb. Just outside the hallway was a black and white poster hung on the wall of running back John Riggins in the familiar #44 jersey he wore playing for the…New York Jets! He then spotted a Buffalo News paper scattered on a nearby table. Although Doc could not read the date of the newspaper, the headline announced the upcoming testimony of John Dean for what was being labeled the Watergate Scandal. Doc slapped a hand to his forehead and ran it down the length of his face in a state of bewilderment.
Sonny looked over at his buddy and took a pull off the cigar. “Dude, you gettin’ the feelin’ we fell into a time warp or somethin’?” he asked. He exhaled a deep plume of blue smoke.
Gulping the rest of his beer, Doc belched and nodded in agreement. “And I’m getting’ the feelin’ we probably should get the hell out of here too. This place is givin’ me the willies!”
Ten minutes later, the two bikers were thundering west on the Interstate, each alone with thoughts of what they had just experienced. They were trying hard to sort it out. As they sped by a billboard, Sonny felt relief course through him. He pointed for his buddy to see the advertisement featuring Jimmy Johnson announcing an upcoming NASCAR race at Watkins Glenn, scheduled for August 29th … 2009.
Oh man, I wish I'd have been to this one!