08 June 2007

Shit from an old notebook # 312

I'm writing this like a Rob Reiner melancholic-cum-sentimental coming of age tale; I'm hearing it narrated by Richard Dreyfuss in his familiar Stand By Me cadence. So read it back that way in your head, ok?

A late 90's white Cadillac whizzes by and I hear Robbie Krieger's inimitable rhythm guitar tone; it's the solo from... my mind is trying to place it; When The Music's Over? No. Then I think it's something off L.A. Woman... No. Finally, after bouncing it around my head and imagining the verse that follows it comes to me; it's Five To One; it's the guitar solo from Five To One. Ok.

I descend into the park with my trusty B on a relaxed leash. She's seemed depressed lately and sick so I figured a good dash through the grass would fix her up and it did. Dogs are so simple. Like old cars. Perfect.

Being in the park at night made me think back to playing catch with my dad in the summer. He'd be home from work early and we'd grab our gloves and go. We'd stay a good hour or so just throwing the ball back and forth; working our way further and further apart, throwing harder. Like clockwork towards the end of our round of catch three dudes would appear.

One dude was really big, he waddled, the other two dudes walked. The big dude always carried a giant Do The Right Thing ghetto blaster. I couldn't make it out or maybe at the time didn't recognise who it was but it was some Led Zep / Black Sabbath derivative like Mountain or Trouble; those big colossal 70's drums; back when drums sounded like actual instruments. It was very ominous in the distance. Suddenly I had one eye on the ball and one eye on these three ritualistically taking their places in one of the dugouts with their boombox blasting and a case of beer. And they'd just sit there and drink and drink. They'd set the radio down on the bench, the big guy sat atop on the bench and they just hung around. It was my dad and I and these three dudes and we had the entire park to ourselves.

And this would happen time and time again; the exact same way; the same three dudes, the same boombox, the same beers, the same pounding 70's drums. Like clockwork. And we were there playing catch with a summer sweat on our father and son brows.

I'd see the big boombox dude later on, I recognised him immediately, working at the local supermarket and he looked exactly the same, just bigger. Same babyface. I wondered what the other two wound up doing and if they still kept in touch and listened to Cactus and Nazareth.

I put B back on her leash and walked back up the ramp where the trees slouch in the heat. I started thinking about all this stuff I'm writing about now and thought to myself I'd write this all down when I got back upstairs.

Just then, that same white Cadillac drove by again and I heard that same Five To One solo, cued up to the same exact spot! That guy must really love that solo. Either that or he couldn't find a parking spot.

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