Hour 05/07 

1971 | The Threepenny Review

The Moment

By Danny Deriotts

THE TRUCKS SHOULD have wakened him. They began pulling out of the lot across the road at first light, their drivers revving the big diesels as they waited their turn at the gate. The heavy morning air carried more than a hint of exhaust fumes as each passing semi sent a slight tremor through the ground under the kid’s sleeping bag. That alone should have roused him.

But the kid was a city kid. The buses in the garage across the street from his apartment building on West 95th Street came and went all night long. They never disturbed his slumber. No, it wasn’t the roar of the heavy eighteen wheelers that caused him to open his eyes and roll over.

It was the birds.

Their trilling, bright chatter and territorial declamations resounded from the big maples that surrounded the weedy lot. It was that happy clatter that caught the kid’s ear and roused him. He stared up at the lightening sky for a few moments and then sat up, freeing one arm from the damp bag and rubbing his eyes. Dew glistened on what grass there was, catching the morning light as the sun brightened the eastern sky. It was the dawn of the kid’s day off.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Hey, man.”

There was no response from the recumbent figure next to him.

“Hey, Calvin,” the kid said. And then again, raising his voice, “Calvin.”

A groan. “What?”

“Wake up, man. I think maybe we better split.” The kid was looking at a trucker standing behind the chain link fence across the road. The trucker was staring back at him.

“What for?” Calvin’s voice was husky. He cleared his throat noisily. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“That guy over there. He’s looking at us.” The kid indicated the trucker with a jerk of his chin. “Maybe they own this field or something.”

“So what if they do? Fuck ‘em.” Calvin rolled over. “It’s a free country.”

“No, man. I think we ought to go. What if they call the cops?” The kid wriggled free of his sleeping bag. “That’s one hassle I don’t need.”

He knelt and began rolling the bag, brushing off leaves and sticks as he went. He then stuffed it into his knapsack and, with another quick glance in the direction of the trucker, poked his companion.

“Aww …”

“Man, really, let’s go!” The kid slipped into his jacket and stood. “Are you coming or not?”

Calvin raised himself up on one elbow, squinting. “Shee-it!” He got to his knees and pushed his sleeping bag down over his rump. “Alright, alright. Man, you are so uptight!”

THE SQUATTERS WERE an odd pair. Calvin, twenty-two, was a native of Austin and a senior at Texas A&M. He dressed conservatively, wearing chinos and Oxford shirts, often going sockless in polished penny loafers. He was tall and graceful, his dark hair cleanly barbered and kept respectfully short. By any measure, Calvin was strikingly handsome. His companion was almost seventeen, a high school junior from New York City. The teenager’s massive tangle of wiry blond hair branded him as a “hippy” in the eyes of adults, and caused classmates to compare him favorably to a head of broccoli. His couture was typical counterculture: bell bottoms, Army surplus jacket, T-shirt, sandals. An effort to hide his age with a moustache only made him look like he needed a good scrubbing.

It was a Thursday, and the two friends were on a twenty-four-hour leave. They were working at a summer camp in the Berkshires, Calvin as a counselor and the kid as a kitchen aide, and the usual routine on days off was to catch a ride into nearby Pittsfield, shop a little, maybe see a movie. And maybe, if you got lucky, meet a girl. Townie girls were said to be easy, especially with college guys from out of town. That was one reason the kid had tagged along with Calvin – the counselor said he knew a crash pad in the city where they could meet some compliant young women. “Oh, yeah, man, these ladies are some fine hippy chicks – you’ll see!” was what he told the kid.

They had hitchhiked into Pittsfield the night before, after lights out. Calvin said they should find a grassy spot in a quiet part of town and bed down. No need for formal accommodations – they would commune with nature. When the kid looked doubtful, the counselor laughed. “C’mon, man. Back to nature, all that bullshit! A bunch of moss for my pillow, soft ground for my bed, you dig?”

The kid did dig, so he slept with his friend under the stars. Spontaneity was one of the things he liked about Calvin. At first, he was put off by the Texan’s appearance when they met during the camp’s orientation week. Calvin looked too straight to be trusted, and his accent made him seem hopelessly square. But then, toward the end of the week, on an excursion into Stockbridge to do laundry, Calvin had scored a couple of six packs and turned the wash-and-dry party into a real party. The camp staff members took over the village’s small launderette, getting pleasantly drunk while the washers churned. The highpoint of the evening came when Calvin climbed into one of the laundromat’s storefront windows and, under the spotlights, pretended to be a store manikin. His stiff poses and maniacal grimaces were comical enough, but when he unzipped his fly and yanked out his dick, everyone doubled over. The kid sat down on the sidewalk, tears streaming down his face, trying to catch his breath between paroxysms of mirth.

Since then, Calvin had become the camp’s stealth hipster, a prankster and subversive whose diffident Texas demeanor concealed a cool, piercing wit and a willingness to try anything. The campers loved him, and so did the younger staff members. The administration held him in high regard, too, seduced by his genteel mannerisms and his habit of addressing his betters as “sir” and “ma’am.” But the Texan was a master of subterfuge. He revealed his true self only to those deemed hip enough to dig. And the kid did dig.

The two friends walked over to East Street and down through Park Square toward the center of town. It was a little past seven a.m., but the summer day was already getting underway. A steady stream of cars circled the park and worked its way slowly through the lights at the South Street intersection. Calvin and the kid crossed against traffic, weaving around vehicles until they reached the far sidewalk. A few blocks down they found a diner and entered to the welcoming smells of frying bacon and coffee. After a moment’s hesitation, they chose an unoccupied booth across from the service counter.

“What’ll you gents have?” asked the waitress as she pulled a pencil from her hairnet. Her apron pocket was full of orders and her manner was brusque – the morning rush was just beginning.

“Well, ma’am, I believe I’ll have a Western omelet,” said Calvin, working his cowboy drawl. “And, if you’d be so kind, a slice of fried ham? And maybe one of those muffins over there on the counter? Corn meal, I believe?”

“Western, ham side, corn muffin, OK. What to drink?”

“Black coffee will do fine, ma’am.”

“What about you, young man?” The waitress looked expectantly at the kid.

“Uh, just coffee, I guess,” he said slowly. Then he brightened. “Do you have any jelly donuts?”

The two friends ate in silence, concentrating on their food. When he had cleaned his plate, Calvin pushed it aside and took a sip of coffee. He looked at his companion and smiled. It was a smile that could charm the sour off a lemon, and it was one of Calvin’s most appealing features.

“Man, you are one scruffy son of a bitch!” he said, laughing.

“Yeah, you sound just like my mom,” the kid grimaced. “How about you – ‘Mr. Love It or Leave It’ conservative?”

“That’s my thing, little brother,” Calvin said. He added with a wink, “But if scruffy works for you, hey, that’s cool.” He looked at his watch. “It’s early yet. Let’s hang out in the park before we visit my friend. And his ladies.”

BY MID-MORNING, the day had warmed considerably. The gentle breeze at daybreak had all but disappeared, leaving the air thick with humidity. It was uncomfortable to be in the sun for longer than a few minutes, and it felt like rain even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Calvin and the kid sat on a bench in the shade of an oak tree near the fountain in the center of the square. The kid had taken off his coat and had bunched it up on his knapsack, using it as a pillow. With eyes closed, he drowsed lazily, stretching his legs out in an effort to get comfortable. Calvin, at the other end of the bench, watched the traffic and yawned. He’d rolled up his sleeves and had slipped off his loafers.

“Man, this is too much like Austin. Damn, it’s hot!” he said. After a pause, he added, “If it wasn’t so early, I’d be into doing some coastin’.”

“Hmm … yeah,” murmured the kid without much enthusiasm. Calvin had introduced a few staff members to “coasting” on the changeover weekend between sessions at camp. They were in the dining hall that evening and the Texan was unusually quiet. When asked if he was feeling OK, Calvin just stared glassy eyed for a moment and then pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. He explained that he was high – on cough medicine. He drank most of the bottle right after dinner and now he was pleasantly adrift –“coasting” he called it. The staffers looked at one another in disbelief. High? On cough medicine? Was that a joke? “No,” said Calvin. “Codeine, man. It’s got codeine in it. Trippy shit. Robitussin AC, you dig? Gotta be AC.” The rest of the evening Calvin sat quietly buzzed, his beatific smile broadcasting the benefits of the narcotic.

Cough syrup was easily purchased at the camp commissary, so the kid and a few other kitchen aides soon tried it. After gagging down most of a bottle, he felt little more than nauseated for the first hour. Then he began to feel groggy and more than a little dizzy. Having trouble following the conversation in the room, the kid retreated to his bunk and was soon snoring soundly. He woke the next morning with cotton in his head and a foul taste in his mouth. Because he missed the breakfast shift, he had to work on his night off and had to go an extra week without washing his clothes. Coasting, he decided, wasn’t really his thing.

But dope was.

The kid liked marijuana, liked the way it sharpened his senses and made everything seem integrated and harmonious. Simple gestures became hilariously funny or deeply profound under its influence, and the camaraderie it engendered seemed truly heartfelt. It also increased his appetite and made eating a sensual pleasure nearly as satisfying as sex. There was that aspect, too – dope was made for sex. Though he had only made love a few times, being stoned not only increased his endurance but it made the experience unbearably intense. He was convinced it also made him a better lover.

“Man, you coast,” the kid said, opening his eyes and stretching. “I’d rather get stoned.”

Calvin turned and looked at him. “You got some shit?”

“Yeah, just a few joints. For the girls, you know?”

“Well, don’t forget to share, little brother.” The smile.

IN THE EARLY afternoon, the counselor and the kitchen aide made their way over to the crash pad. Located just a few blocks west of downtown in a run-down frame house on Goodrich Street, the “pad” was a dingy second-floor apartment up a narrow staircase and off an unlighted hallway. Calvin rapped on the door while the kid surveyed the odd pieces of furniture that cluttered the hall. Flies buzzed against a far window.

“Hello?” Calvin knocked again, and then tried the knob. When the door opened, he pushed part way in. The kid could see a living room furnished with castoffs similar to those that lined the hallway. “Hello? Raymond? Hey, Ray, it’s the guy from the summer camp. Remember me?” Calvin listened for a moment. “Is anybody here?”

From another room came a muffled voice. “Yeah, who is it?” Footsteps followed, and then a heavyset young man emerged from a darkened bedroom into the light of the living room. His sweat-stained T-shirt had the familiar portrait of Ché over the slogan “¡Venceremos!”

“Hey, man, I am so sorry to disturb you, but I’m a friend of Raymond’s,” Calvin cooed, a Texas gentleman once again. “Is he here by any chance?”

“Raymond? Naw, I don’t think so,” the perspiring revolutionary replied. From the bedroom came a woman’s voice. “Who is it, Bunky?”

“Two guys looking for Ray, babe.” There was a pause, and then the voice came again. “Raymond’s not here. He took Jana and Christie over to New York. To that dealer guy’s place.”

Bunky shrugged. “Sorry guys.” He turned toward the bedroom.

“Uh, would it be OK if we crashed here for a while?” Calvin asked. He smiled and the revolutionary was powerless to resist.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Why not?” he replied. “Make yourselves at home.” He padded back into the bedroom.

Calvin looked at the kid. “Chunky Bunky says we can stay, dude. So at least we’re out of the heat.”

“Shit, Calvin, no chicks!” the kid said, unable to hide his disappointment. “You said there’d be girls here. Now what’re we gonna do?”

“Why, make ourselves at home, man. What you think?”

THE CRASH PAD was funky, but it was cool. It had two other bedrooms in addition to the living room and Bunky and Babe’s hideaway, and a bathroom, occupied at one end by a grimy shower stall. There was a kitchenette with a sink full of dirty dishes and a stack of empty pizza boxes in one corner. The whole place smelled of moldy carpeting, aged plumbing and stale incense. But it wasn’t nearly as hot inside as it was outside.

Having eaten nothing since breakfast, the kid popped open the refrigerator. Its compressor rattled to life after a moment, filling the kitchen with a drowsy hum. Even though the light didn’t come on, he could see that in addition to a number of Chinese takeout containers and a few rotting vegetables, the fridge contained a fresh loaf of Wonder Bread and, best of all, a six pack of Rheingold beer. He grabbed the bread and broke off a couple of beers, placing them on the cluttered kitchen table, and then opened one of the cabinets above a counter.

Following the sound of a flushing toilet, Calvin came into the kitchen. He went over to the sink to wash his hands, then thought the better of it and rubbed them on his pants. “What are you looking for?” he said as the kid moved to the cabinets over the sink.

“Peanut butter,” he said. “I’m gonna make me a sandwich. See what I found in that old fridge?” He nodded toward the table.

“Ho! Refreshment,” said Calvin enthusiastically. “I have definitely worked up a thirst on this our day of rest!” He pulled the pop-top on a can, making a satisfying hiss. “Cheers!” he said, holding up the beer.

The kid returned the salute with a jar of Skippy. It had no top, but its contents looked potable. “You want a sandwich, too?” he said to his friend.

“You making? Sure,” came the reply. “Ah, Skippy – fuel for the counterculture! Don’t go to the demonstration without it. Bring the troops home and send the Viet Cong PB&J!”

“Ain’t no J, man. Just PB.”

“Am I complaining? Serve it up, garçon!”

TWO SANDWICHES and four beers later, Calvin and the kid were thinking about sharing a joint. As the kid patted his pockets for matches, the counselor produced a bright yellow Zippo. “No sweat, little brother, I’ve got fire,” he said, passing the lighter over. “My daddy’s, from when he was a Seabee in the South Pacific. Had it plated twenty-four carat gold.” He laughed. “Best way to spark some of that Acapulco gold, man!”

The afternoon had taken on a pleasant vibe, and though there were no females present, both young men were feeling more than a little contented. The Texan took one last deep toke, exhaled and pushed his chair back from the table. He considered his companion and then slapped his thighs. “You know what, man? I believe we need to stroll.” When the kid stared blankly, Calvin elaborated. “We need to go on a walk, little brother. See the town. Take the air. Stroll, dig?”

After stuffing the empties into one of the pizza boxes and leaving a dollar bill on the two remaining beers in the refrigerator, the friends quietly closed the apartment door behind them, eased down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. It was still hot, but now there was a little breeze and the trees that lined the street offered ample shade. At the corner, they turned right onto Church Street and headed up hill to Pittsfield’s main drag. At South Street, they turned left. The stroll had commenced.

There were blocks of shops big and small. The pair passed windows displaying everything from deli meats to leather goods to women’s hosiery and men’s hats. A record store window filled with the latest releases delayed them for nearly half an hour while they debated whether Ginger Baker could outplay Elvin Jones and decided that Jimi Hendrix was cool while Alvin Lee was not. Farther down the commercial strip, an Army-Navy store drew the kid inside. While Calvin waited, the boy looked through the racks for a pair of paratrooper boots like those another kitchen aide had gotten from his brother in Vietnam. On one of the last blocks, they passed a laundromat, a place where camp staff occasionally did washes. As they walked by, Calvin suddenly elbowed the kid.

“Hey man, let’s go inside,” he said. “I wanna get a pack of cigarettes from the machine.”

“But you don’t smoke.”

“Yeah, I do sometimes.” Calvin said, and added with a smirk, “Usually when I’m a little toasted, you know?”

The counselor pulled open the glass door and held it for his friend. The laundromat was warm inside, the soporific drone of its big industrial dryers underscored by the vaguely floral scent of fabric softener. A vending machine stood next to the storefront window and Calvin leaned over it, coolly surveying the cigarette brands displayed above its knobs.

“You got any change, man? All I got is bills.”

The kid dug into his jacket pockets and after a moment came up with a few quarters. He held them out to his friend, but Calvin wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was broadly grinning – beaming that irresistible smile toward the storefront window. The kid turned to look.

There, on the other side of the glass, stood two girls, both smiling back.

The kid blinked. He hadn’t seen them on the street a moment ago. They must have just walked by. And Calvin had caught their eye. As only he could.

The girls looked at each other and giggled. The kid couldn’t hear them over the hum of the dryers, but he could see they were jazzed. Calvin nodded. They nodded back. He shifted his weight, turning to face them. With a little shrug, the Texan glanced toward the door and then back at the girls. He raised one eyebrow. Then smiled again.

More giggling. The bigger girl said something to her friend and then pulled her toward the door. The friend resisted, her eyes moving from Calvin to the kid. But then, brushing back a loose strand of hair, she too entered the laundromat. The pneumatic closer slowly shut the heavy glass door, hissing softly. For a second, no one spoke.

The kid could see that the bigger girl was older, maybe fifteen. She was wearing a halter top busy with paisleys and white hip-hugger bell bottoms. Her bare midriff showed tan lines, her cobalt hair framing her round face with a tangle of tight curls. She was full-figured for her age, almost plump.

Her friend, by contrast, was slight. Her oversized Oxford shirt, tied smartly at the waist, set off her long brown hair as it draped over her shoulders. She wore shorts, cut-off jeans hemmed in wide cuffs, and flip-flops festooned with plastic daisies. Her bangs and cat’s eye glasses gave her a cute, girlie look. The kid thought she might be thirteen.

Calvin was the first to speak. “Well, hello, ladies,” he purred. “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. I’m Calvin, and this is my friend –”

“Hey, man, are you guys doing a wash?” said the plump girl, interrupting. “Do you have any leftover change?”

“Leftover change?” said Calvin, for once at a loss.

“Yeah, uh, me and my friend, we were hoping you could, like, help us out.” The girl looked quickly at her companion and then back at Calvin. Smiling coquettishly, she gestured with her hands. “Could you maybe buy us some … cigarettes?”

“Cigarettes? You ... no, no, sorry, you’re too young,” Calvin replied, regaining his composure. “You ladies shouldn’t be smoking. Not at your age.”

“C’mon, man,” urged the girl, flirting. “I’m gonna be eighteen next month, and Betsy’s nearly seventeen. I got an ID to prove it.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have an ID,” laughed Calvin. The Southwestern lilt, derailed by the girl’s unexpected request, had crept back into the Texan’s voice. “Smoking is, as you must know, a most regrettable habit. I’m trying to quit myself.”

The older girl seemed not to hear. “We were looking for something to do, you know, and I was like, ‘Betsy, man, I wish we had something to smoke. I could really use a cigarette’.” She moved closer to Calvin and looked up at him. “Then we see two nice guys doing their laundry, and I go they’ll help us, I just know they will! Right, Betts?” She looked encouragingly at her friend. Betsy nodded hesitantly, looking again from Calvin to the kid.

“Well, well. It is difficult to resist a request from a lady. Especially one so insistent,” crooned Calvin, looking into the teenager’s eyes. “If you and your friend weren’t so grown up, I might be inclined to say no. But, let’s see what we can do …”

He held his hand out for the kid’s quarters and then turned to the machine. After a moment, he dropped the change into the slot and yanked one of the selection knobs. A pack of cigarettes dropped with a satisfying thump into the machine’s trough. With dramatic flair, Calvin retrieved the smokes, pivoted and held them out to the girl. He smiled and said grandly, “Voila!”

“Oh, wow!” The big girl held out both hands, cupping them together expectantly.

But the Texan jerked the cigarettes back. “Un-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not giving you the whole pack.” He slipped the cigarettes into his shirt pocket. “But if you’d like to step outside with me and my friend, I’ll be more than happy to share.” He smiled and gestured toward the door.

The girl frowned and was going to say something, but then laughed and grabbed her friend’s arm. “C’mon, Betts, I really need a cigarette!”

THE FOURSOME SAT on the low brick wall that fronted a funeral home parking lot a block down from the laundromat. The older girl was talking with Calvin, smiling coquettishly and giggling whenever he said something amusing. She was on her second cigarette, taking deep drags and occasionally following them with fits of coughing. Betsy, an unlit cigarette in her hand, sat next to the kid. She was watching the passing cars. Every so often one would honk in recognition.

“How come you don’t talk?” she suddenly said, not looking at the kid.

“Huh?” He turned and stared at her. “I … I guess I don’t have anything to say.”

“Don’t you like me?” she said, meeting his gaze. The kid could see his reflection in her glasses.

“Like you …? Yeah, I guess,” he stammered. “But … I don’t even know you.”

The big girl interrupted with another bout of coughing. “Like, where are you guys from?” she managed to say after a moment. “You’re not from here. I can tell. You’re from somewhere down south, right?” She reached out and rested her hand on Calvin’s thigh.

“Texas born and bred, ma’am,” said the counselor with a slight bow. He placed his hand on hers. “My friend here and I are just passing through. He’s going to college in the fall. Princeton. On a full scholarship.” He paused, and then leaned close. “I’ll be entering med school myself. Once I get back from Europe. Visiting friends in Paris and London, you know.”

“Oh, wow, groovy!” the girl replied, suitably impressed. “My boyfriend’s overseas, too. But, like, he’s in Vietnam. He writes me nearly every day. We’re getting married next year.”

“Well, he’s a very lucky young man,” said Calvin. “I’m sure you must miss him terribly.”

The big girl giggled, her curls bouncing seductively. She pulled her hand away and took another cigarette from the pack. Calvin produced the gold lighter and held its flame out to her.

Betsy moved closer to the kid. He could smell her skin, a teasing blend of soap, freshly washed clothes and female essence. She flicked her hair over one shoulder with her free hand. “That sounds so cool,” she said.

“What?”

“Going to Princeton. You must be really smart.”

“Oh, man,” the kid groaned, looking away. “That’s just a bunch of BS. Calvin made that up. He does that.”

“So you’re not going to college,” Betsy said, sounding disappointed. After a moment, she said, “She doesn’t really have a boyfriend. In Vietnam. Or anywhere.”

The kid looked back at Betsy. He could see that she was wearing a hint of eye shadow, her blue eyes clear and inviting. He suddenly realized that she was quite pretty.

“Hey, you guys,” said the big girl. “I got an idea.” She slid over, bumping hips with Calvin. “We could, you know, like really have a smoke. I mean, not just cigarettes?”

“Whatever do you mean, little sister?” said Calvin, knowing exactly what she meant.

“No, really. I know somebody. With you guys it would be so cool!” She giggled and leaned forward, catching her friend’s eye. “You want to, right Betts?”

“I guess,” the younger girl replied.

“Of course you do, silly! Calvin, we’ll meet you and you friend at the caboose later tonight.”

“The caboose?” Calvin asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s like where all the kids go to get it on.” She giggled. “You get it on right, Cal?”

“Ma’am, I am a righteous get-it-on dude,” the counselor replied. He slipped his arm around the girl’s waist and pulled her close.

“Oooh, that tickles!” she squealed, pushing him away. “OK, you guys, here’s where you should meet us …”

THE CABOOSE WAS an old train car, left over from the days when the Boston and Albany Railroad ran freight haulers through Pittsfield, heading west for transfer to the Hudson and New York City lines. The car was parked in a vacant lot, a former reefer yard, not far from where Calvin and the kid spent the night. It had been sitting there since the late 1950s, abandoned when the B&A was phased out, and its red paint was pealing, its big steel trucks streaked with rust. Someone had spray painted an obscenity coupled with a peace sign on one of its sides and nearly all its windows were broken or missing. The crew door was partially off its hinges, offering a glimpse of the car’s trash-strewn interior, and a filthy mattress straddled the tracks beneath its carriage. The derelict rolling stock was a sad sight.

But because the caboose was far back in the lot and partly hidden by stacks of oil drums and railroad ties, it went largely unnoticed from the road. That made it an ideal location for teenage mischief.

Calvin and the kid walked slowly up the broken sidewalk on the lot’s far side, looking for a gap in the chain-link fence. The day had cooled and light was beginning to fade as the setting summer sun colored the western sky with bruised reds and oranges. The kid’s jacket was tied around his waist, his knapsack slung over one shoulder. He watched as Calvin stopped every few yards to examine the fence, pushing aside the tangled ivy vines overhanging it.

“Hey, man, here it is!” he exclaimed suddenly. “A hole, just like she said.” He held back the vegetation and gestured, affecting a British accent, “Right this way, sir. Your teen queen is waiting.”

“Man, you are crazy,” said the kid as he swung his pack around and ducked through the gap. Calvin followed and the two friends found themselves standing amid a cluster of wooden barrels filled with scrap iron. “C’mon, this way,” said the counselor, climbing over a pile of rotting pallets. They moved out into the open field, carefully avoiding the broken glass that littered the ground. “There it is,” Calvin said with satisfaction.

The counselor and the kitchen aide made their way over to the other side of the lot. In the deepening twilight, the caboose cast long suggestive shadows, its dark windows like so many sightless eyes. The only sound came from crickets beginning their evening song.

“I don’t know about this, Calvin,” the kid said quietly, once they’d reached the train car. “Really, man – look at this place. What are we doing here?”

“Man, you are so uptight,” said the Texan. “What do you think we’re doing here? Don’t you want to get it on?” Calvin laughed.

“I don’t even know what that means,” the kid muttered. “I mean, those girls are just kids. You know they’re not gonna get it on. They’re probably not even gonna show.”

“Listen, man. This is a sweet moment, you understand?” Calvin grabbed his friend by the shoulders, his eyes suddenly narrow. “It’s a moment for those girls. It’s a moment for us. They’re young, yeah, OK. But they’re cute, and they think we’re cool. We excite them. So we’re here to make the moment complete. For them. They’ll never forget us because of it, you dig? Never.”

“Yeah, I guess … but getting it on?”

“Is whatever happens, man. Dig! Those little chicks have their whole lives ahead of them. For them, we’re just one night out of thousands. But we’re an important night. We’re the night two guys from out of town gave them a tumble. What could be better? They’ll carry that always.” Calvin said nothing for a moment, and then poked the kid in the chest.

“Shee-it, motherfucker,” he said, flashing his smile. “You’re gonna carry it always!”

STREETLIGHTS BORDERING the lot soon flickered to life. In the darkness, their cold blue light sparkled in the glass litter. A few pools of oily rainwater caught the reflection of the rising moon, and every so often a distant bullfrog burped, his nocturnal commentary adding an irregular beat to the crickets’ ceaseless song. The kid, perched on the edge of the dirty mattress, sat in silence. His friend, leaning against the caboose’s big knuckle coupler, pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and shook a cigarette free. He patted his pants for the lighter.

“What time is it, man?” said the kid. After a moment, he grumbled, “Really, dude, nobody’s coming.”

“Patience, my young friend,” said Calvin, lighting his smoke. The sudden burst illuminated his handsome face, making it momentarily grotesque. “You gotta have faith. Getting it on takes a little effort, you know.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be getting it on with a hamburger,” said the kid. “I’m starving, man.”

“Yeah, OK. But they’re coming, little brother. It’s their moment, like I said. We’ll smoke their weed, maybe flirt a little and … who knows? Then we’ll take the ladies out to dinner.” Calvin blew smoke, flicked the ash off his cigarette and turned to smile at the kid. “Cool out, man. Have a cig.” He passed the lighter and offered the pack.

The crickets stopped.

From nearby came the sound of crunching glass.

Calvin beamed. “See, man, didn’t I tell you?” he whispered. Pivoting in the direction of the approaching footsteps, he called out, “Hello, ladies! It is indeed a beautiful night, don’t you think?”

The tall Texan was suddenly blinded by the white glare of a light. The harsh beam moved from him to the kid and then back again. Calvin squinted, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. The kid stood up.

“Hands where I can see them,” said a voice in the darkness. “Don’t move.”

The light grew brighter as the police officer approached, his flashlight held at shoulder level. The radio on his belt suddenly squawked, picking up garbled chatter. “You men have identification?”

“Really, officer, there’s no need for this,” Calvin said, shielding his eyes. “We were just waiting for some friends –”

“Your identification, sir.” The cop’s tone was hard, professional. The kid could see that he was young, not much older than Calvin. In the half light, he could also see that the officer had his hand on his gun.

“Really – we’re just a couple of college students,” Calvin said quietly. He stepped toward the cop. “We work for a local camp –”

“Turn around. Hands behind your back!” barked the officer. “Now!” With his free hand, he grabbed the counselor’s arm and jerked him around. The kid could hear the sound of handcuffs clicking shut. The cop’s light moved to him. “You. Stay where you are.”

Out of the darkness came a second voice. “Everything under control, Williams?”

“Yes, sir, sergeant. Looks like these two are trespassing,” said the officer. “This one started to give me a little trouble.”

Stepping into the flash’s ambient light was another cop, an older man. The kid could see that he had a cluster of service ribbons pinned over the badge on his shirt and there were stripes on his sleeves. He was much heavier than his partner, and he was holding a night stick.

“Well, well. Trespassing, eh?” The sergeant stepped over to Calvin. “You know you’re on private property? What are you and your friend doing here?” he asked affably.

Calvin turned slowly. As he moved, the kid saw his face change. The Texan began to smile – that radiant, beatific smile that could seduce at a glance.

The sergeant stared at his captive’s face for a hard moment. Then he moved. He brought the night stick up, gripped it in both hands and thrust it into Calvin’s stomach.

“Don’t you fuckin’ smile at me, boy!” he shouted.

Calvin coughed in pain, doubled over and fell to the ground. He was no longer smiling. The sergeant regarded him with a bemused smile of his own, and then said to his partner, “Search them. See if they’ve got any drugs on ’em.”

The officer turned out the kid’s knapsack, unrolled his sleeping bag and then went through his pockets. “This one’s got what looks like a marijuana cigarette,” he said, holding up one of the kid’s joints. “What do you want to do with them, sir?”

The sergeant looked at his partner for a moment, thinking. “Looks like they were planning a pot party with a few local females. Underage girls, no doubt. Get ‘em high, rape ‘em.” He looked at Calvin. The Texan was hunched over, sitting against one of the caboose’s rusty trucks, staring at the ground. His tan chinos were dirty at the knees and the side of his face was ashen with dust. “Looking for some white pussy, weren’t you, boy?” He kicked Calvin’s foot.

“Yessir,” said Calvin quietly. He coughed.

“No pussy tonight, right, boy?”

“Nosir.”

“No sir. Fuckin’ right,” growled the sergeant. He turned to his partner. “You get rid of the kid. I’m gonna take this nigger downtown.” He hauled Calvin to his feet. The counselor stood stooped over, his hands cuffed behind his back. His friend was surprised by how changed he suddenly looked.

“Listen, man, he wasn’t doing anything,” the kid protested. “We weren’t gonna rape anybody! We were just waiting for a couple of girls. They said to meet them here. That’s all. Really!”

“Officer Williams, tell this young fella to shut his mouth. For his own good,” said the sergeant menacingly. “And give me the evidence.” He took the reefer from the officer and dropped it into Calvin’s shirt pocket. “Let’s go, Sambo. Move your ass!” He shoved the Texan toward the gate at the other side of the field. There was a patrol car there now, its lights flashing.

“You … you can’t arrest him!” the kid shouted as the sergeant and his captive disappeared in the gloom. “He’s innocent! He’s … he’s my friend!”

“Shut up!” said the officer. “You wanna join your pal? Keep it up!”

“But you … you can’t do this, man” the kid said, his voice catching. “I mean, it’s not right.” He was near tears.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” the officer said, his tone patronizing. “What’s right has got nothing to do with it.”

OFFICER WILLIAMS drove his captive over to the bus station and released him in the parking lot. As the kid was getting out of the patrol car, the cop suddenly leaned over and held out his hand. Not knowing what else to do, the kid took it. “Best of luck to you,” said the cop, giving his hand a firm shake. He smiled and added, “You keep out of trouble, OK?”

The kid went inside and bought a ticket for Lenox, the town nearest the camp. From there he could call somebody to come pick him up. While he waited outside for his bus, he thought about his friend. He had no idea what was going to happen to Calvin, but he knew it couldn’t be good. And he knew there was nothing he could do about it. What he also knew was that he felt ashamed. And more than a little relieved. Relieved that he’d gotten away with it. Whatever it was. Even though his friend had not.

The sodium vapor lights ringing the bus lot buzzed, each playing host to a cloud of buzzing insects. The kid watched them as he waited. The blue light was their all-consuming desire, even though it was hopeless, unattainable. Shivering, he pulled on his jacket. The day’s heat had yielded to cooler night air.

Something in a side pocket got the kid’s attention. Reaching in, he felt Calvin’s gold lighter. Instinctively, he held it up and sparked the flint. The bright yellow flame illuminated the kid’s face, and he stared, unable to look away. What did Calvin say? You’re gonna carry it always. Yes. And in that moment, he knew he would never see the smiling Texan again.

As the kid pocketed the lighter, one of the big semis from that morning passed by the bus station. It was probably headed back to the truck barn a few blocks down, he thought. He felt the ground tremble slightly as it passed. Not long afterward, his bus pulled in and, grabbing his pack, the kid climbed on board.

Danny Deriotts is an author and former newspaper editor in New York’s Hudson Valley region.