Summer People by Aaron Stander Page A

The summer people drank light beer, gin and tonic, or gin and bitter lemon, and white wine—sometimes white wine and soda with a slice of lime. Jack remembered that in the old days— for the most part these were the children of the summer people he had served earlier—their parents and grandparents drank martinis, Manhattans, Scotch, bourbon, and tap beer.
    The left end of the bar, near the TV, was usually occupied by Roger Grimstock. He was there every afternoon and evening through most of July and August and had been for years. Roger had frequented the Last Chance for years, first as a minor, standing in the parking lot at night trying to get someone to buy for him, and then as a college boy bringing in the other summer kids. In the winter he brought his fraternity brothers up between semesters for skiing and weeklong drunks.
    Jack had never liked Roger. At first he didn’t like him because he was afraid that the kid would get him in trouble with the liquor commission. And later, when Roger was of age, Jack didn’t like his nasty manner. He was always unpleasant, always looking for a row.
    Roger would show up in the early afternoon, and like some of the locals, start with shots-and-beers, and then continue on with beers, sometimes until closing. The regulars had learned years ago to stay clear of him.
    This Saturday Roger’s pattern was the same as always. He arrived before 2:00 p.m., quickly had two shots-and-beers and settled into an afternoon of drinking and smoking. Jack moved with the rhythm of the bar, filling orders, chatting, listening to the stories of patrons. He usually wasn’t given to introspection, or to considering the interior worlds of his customers. This day, however, as Jack slid a fresh pack of cigarettes across the bar, he tried to remember what Roger had looked like in those early years. He closed his eyes for a long second and remembered the kid, skinny, tow-headed, with the light skin and the bright blue eyes. Looking again across the bar it was hard to see the kid in this man—his eyes were pale and watery; his face, soft, fleshy, and swollen like a dead animal, his flesh forming layers of bulges under his knit shirt.
    Their conversation followed the same routine, usually confined to orders and running a tab, with an occasional reference to the weather or the Tigers’ current losing streak. Jack wondered what Roger thought about during those long hours at the bar, hours spent smoking and looking across at the bottles behind the bar or occasionally at the TV set. Jack wondered why Roger came to a public place if he wanted to be left alone. Why didn’t he stay at his cottage and drink?

19

    The rain, little more than a light mist for most of the evening, had finally become a steady shower. Roger Grimstock swore as he got to the car. He got a towel from the trunk and dried the driver’s seat, then dragged the top from behind the seats and struggled to secure it to the windshield. He pulled the choke out and turned the key; the old engine sputtered to life. After lighting a cigarette, he sat for a few minutes and let the engine warm up.
    He drove east about a mile and then headed south on Ely road. The rain intensified; his wipers—old, hard, and cracked— left the windshield badly streaked; the dim, yellow headlamps— generator driven—weakly reached into the rain and fog.
    He slowed. Even in his alcohol-dulled state, he sensed something. At first he couldn’t tell what it was. But as he began to climb a long hill, over the noise of the old sports car engine, he became aware of the sound of another engine. He felt it behind him, but there were no lights. He accelerated; the sound of the other engine intensified. He clutched to down shift. The pitch of the other motor increased. Lights came on behind, high, over the cab, not on the fenders. He heard the bellow of the big V8 behind him. He accelerated. The gap closed.
    Roger crested the hill. He hit the switch and the overdrive kicked in.