TOO OLD TO ROCK N ROLL, BUT TOO YOUNG TO DIE

A link to a version of this song by Jethro Tull is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=80LJTeto8MQ

Fred Barnstable felt pretty good, as he eased the Mustang away from the curb and down
the side street in the midnight hour. He had a sports car and a hot young girl sitting
beside him. Living the age appropriate dream. Excellent. When Fred’s Dad had been in
his late seventies, just before the big dive, he used to say, “I still feel good when I drive.”
Now Fred knew what he meant. He felt the car’s impressive sinews and muscles pulse
and it felt far more powerful than when he relied on his own, seemingly fading strength.
Fred figured it was probably a bad sign that he now understood that, but he didn’t want to
think about it. Instead, he gave the car a little more gas and enjoyed the acceleration.

Fred had always felt one with the machine when he was driving, even before he was old
and feeble. Damn, the things he used to do with a car when he was a kid. Him and Jack.
Things he’d never consider doing today. The immortality of youth. . .he glanced at
Sunny, who was busy resetting his radio, trying to find a station more to her taste. He
remembered his Dad cornering him one summer’s afternoon when Fred, fresh out of bed,
wandered into the garage.
“Fred! I just had to replace the brakes on that car.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d just changed them four months ago.”
“I had to use them a few times.”
Fred had never seen his Dad flabbergasted before. He wasn’t speechless with anger---
that Fred had seen---just speechless. Fred had taken the opportunity to slip back inside
the house. He smiled at the memory, at the same time Sunny turned to a radio station
playing a song from then---she kept turning the dial. Fred checked himself and didn’t say
anything. That car. His mother’s car that Fred allowed her to drive while he was in
school. What had ever possessed his Dad to get that Olds with the big engine and the
four barreled carb as a second car? Teenage Fred had considered it a very lucky break.
You hit about seventy and the other two barrels would kick in, and it was a rocket. Jack
and him used to drag the county roads in that car. When Fred was seventeen, he used to
say that “the best feeling in the world was those other two wheels coming down.” Of
course, he was still a virgin at the time. He stopped saying it after that night when they
hadn’t come down when Jack was driving the Corvair. Fred felt his scar twitch. He
wondered if they’d still be best friends if Jack had lived.

“He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.

Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.”

A flurry of raindrops pelted the Mustang’s windshield and it seemed like it was working
towards a full fledged shower. Hip hop blared out of the radio, as Sunny twirled the
volume knob and sat back. Fred was pleased to say---silently---that he didn’t mind hip
hop. In fact, some of it was cool. He wondered if Sunny was testing him. She didn’t
give anything away, so neither did he.
“Pretty weird for this late in the spring.”
“I love the rain.”
Sunny opened her window and angled her smiling face, eyes closed, into the path of the
raindrops. The silvery locks hung down and glistened in the lights as Fred stopped at an
intersection with the main drag.
“That’s because you grew up here.”
Since Fred hadn’t grown up here, he was pretty fond of the fact that it only rained in the
winter. And some years, like this one, not much then. In fact, he felt kind of cheated to
see this shower, but he figured it wouldn’t last long. As he turned on to the boulevard,
the Mustang’s wheels spun for a second on the damp surface before catching. Fred
glanced over at Sunny who seemed unperturbed and kept her eyes closed. Fred was
glad---he was a little embarrassed to have spun the wheels. One problem with it never
raining was that the oil collected on the road and slickened up pretty good when it did get
wet like this. And as much as Fred liked the Mustang, it handled like a hot brick in wet
or icy conditions. With just the slightest provocation, you’d say, “What’s passing me?
Oh, it’s my rear end.” Not that he’d ever seen any ice in L.A. But he and Jack used to go
turn “doughnuts” in parking lots after ice storms back in the day. And Mustangs were the
same way then.

He looked over at Sunny. Stared even, since her eyes were closed and he had the chance.
She was very pretty, especially with her face at rest and shining from droplets. He hated
to disturb her reverie, but it had to be done.
“Where do you want to go? Down to the Strip or into Hollywood?”
“Hollywood. Sunset is just fucking money and models.”
“Shouldn’t that be money and fucking models?”
Sunny let out a joyous laugh. Fred felt the same way. Like a ball player having a career
year. . .well, maybe comeback player of the year. When he was young, people seemed to
think he was clever and funny a reasonable amount of the time. But lately. . .not so
much. At least it felt that way. Maybe that was just still Jill, who had traded her sense of
humor for. . .something. Fuck her. Tonight seemed like old times. Or a good time. No
matter what happened.
“Have you ever fucked a model?”
She looked at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Probably just force of habit on
her part, but it was making it hard for him to remember to get over himself.
“I have, believe it or not.”
“Really?”
“She posed in Playboy, does that count? And she didn’t even have fake tits.”
Were there fake tits back then? Hmmm. Probably not.
“Yeah, I guess that counts. And I fucking believed you.”
Fred gave her a quick, shy smile. It was true. He had a copy of her issue somewhere.
Maybe he should find it, and carry it around. She’d signed it. Luridly. So he could say,
“See? Girls who looked like this used to sleep with me. And even had a good time”
Sunny started to sing the rap along with the radio. The lyrics were too quick for Fred, but
he agreed with the general sentiment. He really needed to get a grip.
“Now he's too old, old old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,
but he's too young to die.”

By the time Fred got to the freeway entrance, it had stopped raining. He glanced up at
the sign, “101 South, Hollywood.” When he’d first moved here, he felt too cool for
school every time he saw it. Now, he’d seen it too many times for that. Isn’t that a
metaphor for life? He really, really had to seriously consider that “not thinking” thing.
He merged into traffic. It was light, as it should be at that time of night and Fred quickly
revved up to seventy to match the flow and slid over to the middle lane.

“So the old Rocker gets out his bike

to make a ton before he takes his leave.”

Sunny was on her phone. She had that focused yet blank stare that people get when their
attention is concentrated on some far away image. Fred had always figured it was a bad
sign during sex, but it was okay in this context. He was thinking about sex too much.
For some reason.
“So he’s asleep?. . .Good. . .Thanks, Mom. . .I’ll come get him around, say, noon, okay?”
Fred just listened. And wondered. He felt like he should have a Snidely Whiplash
mustache to twirl. Sunny shoved the phone back into her pocket. When was the last time
he’d been with a woman who didn’t have a purse? Or crap to put it in it. Tangible crap
and emotional crap. Forget about it, you’re on your vacation from life. Sunny turned her
attention back to him.

“We could go to a club. . .or we could go get tattoos.”

Uh-oh. Suddenly Fred felt on the defensive. People would think he was nuts if he got a
tattoo. Of course, what did he care? And the look on Jill’s face would be almost worth
it. Almost. Fred stalled---he focused on the road as the Mustang zoomed down the slope
of the Cahuenga Pass and roared up the incline that crested where Mullholland Drive
began. Fred noted the wetness of the road that he felt through his tires.
“You don’t fucking have any, do you? Let’s see. Maybe just PETA on your wrist.”
He grimaced. Mostly because he was stuck in this conversation and had nothing to say
that wouldn’t make him look bad. She laughed, very pleased that she’d pulled his chain.
“Well, I might---except that I chose scars instead at a young age.”
“You have scars? Where?”
Fred was a little impressed with himself---that was maybe clever and maybe macho, but
at least face saving. The Mustang crested the hill in synchronicity with his rise in spirits.
That’s what he liked about driving, the control of the force. He powered the Mustang
down hill into Hollywood.
“I have this one on my forearm.”
He showed her the jagged line and she ran her fingers lightly down it.
“Wow, that’s fucking down.”
“And a big one down my chest. And an appendectomy one.”
“What are they from?”
“A car accident when I was a kid. Well, a teenager.”
“That’s fucked up. Bad karma, I guess.”
“No, I was the lucky one, even though I was the one in the death seat, as we used to say.”
“Don’t fucking say that. Not while I’m sitting in it. You should get off at Highland. I
know a club.”

Ha! He really had escaped the tattoo dilemma with his dignity unscathed. The Highland
off ramp was next, a sweeping two lane exit that rose into a sharp curve. Fred only had
to get over one lane and without traffic there was plenty of time. He glanced up in his
rear view mirror. The first time he’d glanced up at that spot when he was walking was
when he first started thinking he should leave L.A. Fred saw another Mustang charging
down the fast lane. He smiled, even though he was imitating a relaxed, mature driver this
night.

When Fred was a child, this old former war time pilot had told him that flying bombers
was hours of monotony broken up by moments of sheer terror. Fred always thought that
applied to driving too, especially freeway driving in L.A. Fred looked over at the
approaching Highland ramp. The unmistakable sound of tires losing it jerked his eyes
back to the left. Sure enough, the other Mustang was losing its back end. Stupid
Californians can’t drive in the rain.

It got bad fast. Amazingly fast. One of them moments of terror. The other Mustang
clipped the SUV in the two lane that it was passing. That Mustang became poetry in
motion as it spun in beautiful circles towards the four lane and Fred’s driver’s side. The
SUV was less lyrical, more like a garbage scow grounding itself on a sandbar. It went
over on its side---of course---and slid toward Fred’s left front. Fred could feel his tires
hydroplaning and stifled his reflex to break. That would be a mistake—after you’ve
skated away on ice a couple of times you learn to overcome that instinctive reaction. He
looked right. Speaking of said mistake, the guy there who would have been perfectly
okay had panic braked and was sailing towards Sunny’s side. Once again, stupid
Californians. Fred felt adrenalized and cool, it all came back to him, even though it had
been more than a quarter century---think of that---since he’d been in the hot seat like this.

“Up on the A1, by Scotch Corner,

just like it used to be.”

Fred felt like an NFL quarterback. On a bad team. His pocket was collapsing around
him---he had to avoid both the two converging on his front and the Mustang scything into
his rear. He saw a gap to his right and stomped on the gas. Just for a moment, the tires
shuddered on the slick road and he seemed stuck in a terrible limbo. Then Fred hit a dry
patch, the wheels caught, and the Mustang shot forward and hit the gap hard like a good
running back. Fred felt more than saw the blurs bearing down on him from both sides
and braced himself.

“And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---

his wind-whipped words echo the final take.”
“Shit”
But there was no impact. The Mustang, by the barest of margins, beat the two missiles,
formerly cars, through the geometric point of intersection. Fred heard the boom of a
crash behind him, followed by the screaming of rending metal and the clattering of glass
shards. Driving is a game of inches, just like baseball. And sex.
“Oh my fucking god.”
That was Sunny. But it was soft, not shrill. Fred only glimpsed the reflection of flames
in his rear view mirror. He was busy watching his front end. Because of the angle he’d
had to take, the nose of the Mustang hurtled onto the Highland off ramp. Fred’s hands
stayed loose on the steering wheel. He could feel the tires losing their grip on the road.

“And he hits the trunk road doing around 120,

with no room left to brake.”

Way too fast the Mustang careened down the ramp. Its rear end wanted to swing out left.
Fred gingerly cut the wheel against it. The car obeyed him but the front end waggled
traction less as it skated towards the hard sweeping right hand curve. Even though it all
had been years ago, Fred had pulled enough stunts to know it was over. He really wasn’t
in control of the car. And he wasn’t that good. Maybe nobody was. They were just
along for the ride. Feeling more hopeless than desperate, he let the car have its head. .
.the rear end swung out left. The Mustang slid into the turn sideways. Fred figured it
was maybe a chance, but then he felt the right wheels starting to go airborne. “Air
fucking Cav.” That’s what Jack had said that night.

“And he was too old, old old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

but he was too young to die.”

It was funny how slowly time passed during an auto accident. Funnier still was the way
his body automatically handled the controls, so his mind was free to wander, to throw up
tableaus of his life that seemed like features but lasted only milliseconds. From
somewhere, he could hear Jack’s high pitched, maniac laugh. His boys. Fifteen and
thirteen. Almost old enough to get by without him. In a pinch, at least. And, boy, would
Jill have a field day. “Your father had a high speed accident in Hollywood in the middle
of the night, and he was with. . .blah, blah, blah.” When Fred was a kid, he’d watched
these cartoons where a complaining wife instead of emitting words, put forth oboe
sounds. . .or some wind instrument, Fred wasn’t sure, as that hadn’t been an area of
expertise for any of his college girlfriends. As a boy he didn’t understand the joke, as a
young man he thought it was unamusing and sexist. But lately. . .hmmm. Why was he
thinking about that now?
“Mary, mother of God.”
That was Sunny. Still soft. And scared. Her kid was only three. The one with the stupid
name. That was too young.

The Mustang slung into the center of the curve. The right wheels rose, higher and higher,
like they were possessed. They hit the tilt point, that amazing moment of equilibrium,
where all seems frozen and weightless. Fred remembered the feeling exactly. Except
that it seemed like a hell of a lot more fun when he was seventeen. He could see Sunny
out of the corner of his eye. She looked like she was trying to brace herself for a terrible
unknown. She was making little gasping sounds. Shit. At least he’d gotten all his good
years in. It was an eternity that the car hung suspended, Fred would have sworn it.

Then, like a spent athlete crumbling on that last push up, the Mustang almost sighed as its
wheels lowered. When they touched down, the car jerked violently. Maybe it was the
best feeling in the world, but Fred wasn’t sure since he was no longer a virgin. Fred cut
the wheel hard against the skid and tapped on the gas, hoping for a touch of traction to
shift the force vector forward. He got it. Maybe it wasn’t his turn after all. But he’d
corrected too hard and the car kited the other way. Back and forth, he over corrected, and
the car rocked and rolled. Finally he rode it down, like a rodeo cowboy taking down a
calf. Under control and in full contact with the road.

“No, you're never too old, old, old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

If you're too young to die.”

Fred felt exhausted. He felt like sobbing. But he didn’t. He leaned his head back against
the rest. I’m getting too old for this shit.
“You’re fucking amazing.”
Sunny was wearing no mask, she looked at him with frank admiration. As much as Fred
enjoyed it, he felt like a fraud again. Can’t help it if I’m lucky. He couldn’t bring
himself to disabuse her. What was that movie about seducing women? The Tao of
Steve. “Demonstrate excellence.” On the other hand, he wasn’t cheesy enough to take
credit. That had probably always been his problem. He decided to skip it.
“Cheated death and the CHP once again.”
He smiled wryly at her. He thought it was wryly. He hoped it was wryly, maybe like,
say, Steve McQueen. Probably not. He felt spacey now, the way one did when the
adrenaline drains in the aftermath of sheer terror. He stopped on the shoulder to rest for
just a second and turned to Sunny.
“So, you have to turn left when you get to Yucca to get to this club.”
She was over it? The resilience of youth. Or cajones like. . .uhm, a stripper’s fake tits.
“You’re fucking amazing.”
“I thought I was going to die.”
She started to, not really cry, but sniffle and her voice cracked.
“I thought I’d never see Jet again. That he’d be all alone.”
She started to shake. Fred didn’t know what to do. Besides try and remember that Jet
was the kid’s stupid name. He decided to try out that “not thinking” thing again and put
his arm around her. She kind of levitated toward him, buried her face in his chest, and
shuddered. Fred just held her. But maybe this “not thinking” thing was really where it’s
at.

After a minute or so---it seemed a lot longer to Fred, although not as long as it seemed
like when the wheels were in the air, Sunny sat up, and shook her self, like a bird that had
gotten damp.
“Okay, I’m better now. Sorry. You have to turn on Yucca to get to this fucking club.”
Maybe not the size of a stripper’s fake tits but cajones just the same. She was fucking
amazing. Fred was feeling better now too. He eased the Mustang back onto the road.

“I’ve never been in an accident like that. I mean, when I was in school, some guy
fucking rear ended me at a light. But that was nothing.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t screw up your neck.”
“No, it was mostly just fucking funny. I was dealing to pay the tuition and had a lot of
pot and I’m sure he was an illegal. He had nothing. No license, no registration, not even
a fucking pencil. He barely speaks English. So I say to him, ‘I don't care if you've got a
fucking license or whatever. I don't care if you're a fucking Mexican, or Columbian or
what. It makes no fucking difference to me. I just want somebody to play ball with. I
don't care about insurance---give me your boss's name and phone number or I'll call a
cop.’”
Sunny throws her head back and laughs, then looks at Fred.
“I have five pounds of dope in the jeep. I'm on some fucked up street in Panorama City.
I feel like the fucking scarecrow with pot sticking out of every pocket. I'm thinking,
‘Right, I'm gonna call a cop.’ I'd call the mob before I'd call a cop.”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, he gives me like a thousand dollars and starts nodding his head. I wondered what
was in his trunk. But I just thought fuck it and nodded back “
Cajones the size of something.

Fred found a parking space a half block from the club. Clearly he should have been in
Vegas. He’d not only cheated death but found a primo parking spot in Hollywood late at
night on the first pass.
“Ready, Freddy?”
Ah, a charming childhood memory brought back to life. But Sunny looked at him
coquettishly enough that it didn’t matter. He switched off the car.

As they approached, Fred saw that this club, like a lot of them, was some old storefront
that had been gutted out and a stage and bar installed. It was called Club Tanya and on
the front was a huge mural of Patty Hearst with the submachine gun as “Tanya.” Now
that was funny, maybe he’d like this place. People were swarming around outside, a lot
of them smoking. Mostly kids in their twenties. The guys seemed pretty evenly split
between long hairs, Mohawks, and shaved heads, between grunge and gangsta. The
women seemed like a flurry of stilettos, except for the occasional combat boots, short
skirts, bustiers, and other things women Fred’s age wouldn’t be caught dead in. Maybe
that was just as well. It would’ve been just as well for some of them here, too. But some
of them were breathtaking. So this is what it feels like to be a vice cop. Or at least look
like one.

“The old Rocker wore his hair too long,

wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.”

“I want to talk to my grrls for a second. I’ll be right back.”

And Sunny was gone, leaving only a rainbow of color from her hair and tats wafting
behind her. Great. It wasn’t like Fred hadn’t been to clubs. In fact, once or twice when
he was in New York he’d gone to some very very ones. But that was a long time ago.
He wished he smoked. But he didn’t, so mostly he stood there. Nearby, a girl who
looked the way Elvira would have at twenty-five, was berating this slouching, long haired
guy.
“It’s like I need a back up singer---like I’m yours. I need someone who’d pass out flyers
for me.
“I’d pass out flyers for you but you don’t have any fucking flyers.”
“It’s a fucking METAPHOR!”
Elvira flung down her cigarette, and stormed into the club. Home boy just kinda scowled
and looked around to see who’d noticed. Fred stayed expressionless and the kid’s eyes
glanced quickly past him, obviously Fred wasn’t worth worrying about. Fred thought it
was classic, a doctoral thesis in cultural anthropology. He really might have a good time
tonight. “Late night at Club Tanya”, the new novel by. . .Sunny rushed back up.
“Sorry. Let’s go in.”

They went up to the makeshift box office window. The pimply faced Bartleby behind the
glass stared at them.
“ID’s.”
“Aren’t the lines in my face good enough?”

“Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---

the transport caf' prophet of doom.”

Bartleby just stared at him. Well, can’t win ‘em all, maybe he gotten too cocksure about
his newly rediscovered wit and charm. Was it possible that he hadn’t transformed into
Steve McQueen? Or someone like that who actually was in his prime within the living
memory of someone there besides him? Bartleby scrutinized his ID carefully. It was
definitely possible..
“That’ll be twenty bucks.”
As Fred took his ID back, he discovered that he didn’t have that much cash. Now he felt
like an asshole.

“Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams

in his post-war-babe gloom.”

Sunny shoved a crumbled up bill at him. So he definitely wasn’t Steve McQueen. He’d
have to try to remember that.
“I’ll buy you drinks inside.”
Because old men had credit cards. At the door, they got their wrists stamped. It all felt
surreal to Fred, like a sudden visit to a galaxy far, far away, and long, long ago. They
plunged into the noise and semi darkness of the club.

“Now he's too old, old, old to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

but he's too young to die.”
Fred and Sunny stood at the edge of the part of the room where people danced. People
weren’t really dancing right now. They were standing, or, at best, listlessly swaying.
This could be entirely blamed on the band, at least as far as Fred was concerned. There
was an earnest guy arhythmically whining dreck to the atonal accompaniment of a couple
guitars and a stand up bass. All manned by strikingly unattractive guys who’d obviously
recently escaped from somebody’s parents’ basement. Like if Wayne and Garth had had
children with each other. Or with the kind of chicks that they’d land.

But the listless swayers were into it. You could see in their eyes the rapture of witnessing
something new under the sun. Worse yet, you could see that in the eyes of the droner on
stage too. Fred sought cool comfort from the cold drink in his hand. Fred knew it wasn’t
new---more like exhumed. He remembered seeing Laurie Anderson do crap like this. At
least she was talented. Fred had hated Laurie Anderson’s stuff with a passion but was
always very proud of himself that he could see her talent just the same. These guys, not
so much. Or maybe he was just old and out of it. No---he wasn’t that old or that out of
it. They sucked. And another thing---it wasn’t new then. Fred remembered hearing the
old people---that is, guys his age now. . .ouch. . .saying then it was like the beat poets.
And his girlfriend prattled something about Gertrude Stein as an excuse for liking it.
That was an ugly fight they had about that back then. Sunny tugged on his sleeve.
“So what do you think?”
“I think that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
“What?”
A pause. Fred could see that she was waiting for an answer. She looked very serious and
ready to be angry. Excellent.
“Are they your friends?”
“Answer the fucking question.”
“I think they suck. And they act like it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
Apparently, those who can remember the past are also condemned to repeat it. Sunny
stared at him. Button up, incoming.
“You fucking rock. They do suck. And they’re not my friends, they’re the act before
them.”
He really should be in Vegas. Let’s just run with this honesty thing. What’s to lose?
“I mean, I know it’s a giveaway, but I used to see stuff like this at Danceteria.”
“You went to Danceteria?”
“Once or twice. I even went to CBGB.”
”That’s too fucking cool.”
Vegas? Hell, the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. Once in a lifetime. Wasn’t
that a Talking Heads song? Sunny grabbed his hand.
“Let’s go to the bathroom and then do tequila shots.”
Once in a lifetime, indeed. Or maybe, first as tragedy, and then as farce. And he wasn’t
sure what she meant by “let’s go to the bathroom.”

She meant separate but equal. That was okay, as it wasn’t really one of his fetishes. Fred
pushed into the dingy men’s room. It gave off an aura of filth even though there weren’t
any real grotesqueries on display. Except that the floor was wet in that disgusting way.
As Fred stepped up to the urinal, this big skin head at the sink snorted. He turned to Fred.
“Want a bump?”
He really was back in the ‘80’s at Dancetaria. The guy seemed friendly enough.
“Nah. But thanks.”
That seemed open minded and hip to the kid’s jive, right? Apparently---the guy nodded
and left. He’d just reflexively said “no.” He could’ve probably used the energy. Maybe
he should have said “yes.” Probably not. There was that remembering the past thing.
Not that Fred had done too much cocaine. But he knew people who had. Actually, that
had nothing to do with anything, he was just worried his heart would explode. How
pathetic was that? And then he’d feel stupid. And Jill would say, “Boys, your father was
at some night club with. . .” Cue oboes.

Fred waited for Sunny at the bar and contemplated the idea of tequila shots.
Contemplation was easier because the performance artist formerly known as Wayne had
mercifully finished. Fred figured he was lucky that he wasn’t one of those people who’d
had such a terrible bout with tequila in their youth that they couldn’t touch it. Vive
Pavlov. Nonetheless, doing shots wouldn’t have been his first choice. As his mother
used to say, watch out for what you wish for. His concentration was broken by this
pretty, more wholesome looking blonde sidling up to him. This seemed odd. His mother
had also said that everyone got the same amount of luck, that it just came out in different
places. Fred wasn’t sure that was true, but if it was, once this run ended, his life was
going to be a world of shit.
“Hi.”
That seemed like a reasonable thing to say to someone more or less pressing up against
you.
“Hi. Do you know where I could find some coke?”
Unbelievable. And such a chirpy little voice too.
“No, I don’t. Sorry. Aren’t you afraid that I’m a narc?”
She laughed.
“You? You’re the least likely of anybody here.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you look like a narc. They’re not stupid, you know.”
She giggled and touched his chest so it wasn’t quite the brutal humbling that it could’ve
been. Give her a point for kindness. Still. Fred smiled at her anyway.
“I’d try the women’s room, if I were you.”

Fred was pretty surprised. The last time he’d spent any time in clubs, coke had been
looked down on. Of course, that had been the ‘90’s, before the children ended their
social life. Full circle. What’s his name really had a point about remembering the past.
Or not. Fred looked down the bar and saw the usual suspects. Except for this one
striking redhead who was flamboyantly talking to her fat friend. One of the things that
was striking about her was that she looked almost as old as Fred. And y’know, even with
her looks, and even in this light, the fishnets, bustier, and stilettos didn’t quite work. Like
Jill, or better yet, Tif, she was a 20th Century fox. Unfortunately, it was the 21st Century.
Wow, Mr. Nasty, good to see you, where’ve you been?
Sunny popped up beside him. Popping up seemed like a pattern of hers. She didn’t look
coked up though. So maybe he had really made a good choice. Sunny glanced at the
stage. The next group was setting up.
“It’s about fucking time. Are you ready?”
She meant for shots.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Fred flagged the bartender. He felt self-conscious because he felt like he wasn’t good at
it. It seemed to him that he got ignored for too long. Not tonight. The guy zoomed over
and took the order. Yeah, he’d never catch a break again once this ended. The shots
came. They toasted.
“To your loveliness.”
Oops. It had just slipped out in a flippant way. Now he felt silly. Sunny cocked her
head, raised her eyebrows, and smirked. But in a friendly way, so maybe it was okay.
They drank. Fred felt the tequila scorch its way down. But it was kind of nice. Maybe
he could make a habit of it. Sunny smiled at him.
“And I thought you’d fucking quote Hemingway or Proust.”
Wait a minute. I thought this girl didn’t know who Kipling was.
“I thought all books were before your time.”
“They are. And I’m pretty---but I’m not that stupid.”
Interesting. Okay, note to self: she’s clever and you’re a dumb ass. Give it up. She
smiled again and grabbed his hand.
“Let’s go. They’re about to start.”

Fred let her lead him across the floor. She kept glancing back. She was full of surprises.
But it seemed like she’d been flirting with him more ever since the near fatal, near
accident. Could “The Tao of Steve” be the secret of life? Or were his delusions just
getting the better of him again? After all, he looked like a narc. But a lucky narc. Still
delusional was the probable twelve to seven here. Maybe he should’ve just stayed home
and skipped the existential crisis. But that would be curdling.

Sunny stood right in front of him. He could smell her hair. For that matter, he could look
down her top. Not that he was that kind of guy. Mostly. Besides, she was clever and he
was a dumb ass. He wondered, when he really, really was too old, beyond the shadow of
a doubt, would it be serene or just infinitely depressing? The band came out on stage. Lo
and behold, the slouching, long hair was the front man and Elvira stood behind him. She
looked at the dude’s back with a mixture of, well, lots of things. There was a guitar, bass,
sax, and drums. He felt Sunny watching him. If he was really still lucky, they’d be good.
The club speakers blared into life. “Hey grrls and dudes, help Club Tanya welcome ‘Bag
Daddy and the Explosions’.” Fred laughed, the perfect name for a group at Club
Tanya---they should be the house band. Sunny shot him a look.

It was some rock and funk mix. The longhair, who reminded Fred of a younger Ozzy
Osbourne, contributed a rap line. He was still lucky---the music really was pretty good.
It had a beat and was very danceable. The rap was whatever, but that was mostly because
it was too fast for him to catch, at least given the hideous acoustics and tattered sound
system that the Club Tanya, like all these black boxes, provided. Elvira did sing back up
vocals and dance. She was cool with a capital something. Her voice was nice and she
moved well, but the special part was that indefinable “it”. You just wanted to watch her.
None of the others had it. Fred wondered if Ozzy would figure that out. Maybe Elvira
would. Either way, Fred figured that it wouldn’t be good for their relationship. But what
did he know? Jill bounced back into his head and he clenched his mind against it. There
would be an upside to not remembering the past. Maybe it would be enough to make up
for being played like a chump the same way repeatedly. Sunny leaned into him and put
her lips near his ear. The perfect distraction to derail that train of thought.
“Let’s dance.”
He knew that danceable thing was going to turn out to be a problem. And sure enough.
Maybe getting rid of the droners was one of those things he shouldn’t have wished for.
Just like everybody else, Fred hated doing things he wasn’t good at. He cast around for
an excuse that wasn’t lame.
“Shrapnel wound from the army-navy game.”
He couldn’t remember where he’d heard that.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Allrighty then.

She pulled him out into the space and he had no choice. Sunny flowed with grace in her
movements. Fred struggled to hop to the beat. He imagined that he looked like an utter
idiot. But he couldn’t see any mockery in Sunny’s eyes. Slowly, he relaxed and subtly
began to have fun. He was with the beat now—it was really danceable, mercifully
enough. Fred had always been a little standoffish, so it was a not an overly familiar
sensation to become part of the ecstasy of the crowd and the music. This was fun. It was
a life beyond Jill. He laughed. He was happy in the moment He even felt like they
were moving together and it wasn’t spoiled by his clumsiness. He felt a primal surge of
well being from moving his body and letting the music fill his mind. He felt like a
survivor.

“He's the last of the blue blood greaser boys

all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.”

The song ended. They stood next to each other. Fred panted a little but his body felt
loose and warm.
“So don’t they fucking rock?”
“They do. You were right, this is fun.”
“Don’t act so fucking surprised. What do you do with your friends?”

“And some of them own little sports cars

and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.
Now they're too old, old, old to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,
and they're too young to die.”

“Friends? She got the friends in the divorce. I got the old photos, except for the ones
that she wanted.”
Wow. He seemed to be talking without thinking. Was that a good thing? And he’d
never thought of it that way before. Who knew? The band launched into another song.
He’d have to think about that later. Sunny started to move to the beat. So did Fred.

The dance area filled as each song seemed to raise the stakes. This let Fred focus on
protecting Sunny’s dance space—this was the aspect of dancing he was most familiar and
thus comfortable with, for all the obvious reasons.

And the band played on. Four songs later, Sunny still moved like a cat, even though she
panted some and glistened with sweat. Fred figured he more than glistened and probably
moved like a mastodon. Maybe one with a couple of Neanderthal spears sticking in its
neck. That’s what it felt like on the inside. The thrill was gone, the ecstasy evaporated.
Instead, his thighs soundlessly screamed and his calves ached. Maybe he should have
done that bump. No, his heart was already pounding in his chest. But he refused to
quit---death before dishonor and all that. “Boys, your father was at a night club with. . .”
Fred had never heard a rock oboe but he tried to imagine it.

“And he was too old, old, old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

but he was too young to die.”

The band ended what had seemed to Fred like a very, very long song. He thought that
had gone out of style. The word “marathon” came to mind. So did the word “coronary”.
He tried not to gasp much more than Sunny. Good luck with that. She came up close.
“Let’s get up on the risers.”

His arms were already near twitching and his legs felt rubbery. The risers loomed like
Everest. They were at least five feet high. She put her hands on the top, pushed out her
butt and looked over her shoulder at Fred for help. If he weren’t so spent, he’d have
appreciated this moment. The mind whirls with possibilities. But now, be still my
exploding heart, it was just functional. How pathetic is that? He grabbed her around the
hips and hoisted her up. Her thighs felt nice. Never mind. Worry about hoisting your
sorry ass up instead. Fred confronted the riser and felt a pain shoot down his left arm as
he placed his palms on it. Excellent. What was that handy phrase that Sunny had used?
Oh, yeah, Mary, mother of god. He hoped he wouldn’t humiliate himself. He flexed
with all his remaining might. It was gonna be close, folks. He teetered, like the Mustang
had. Talk about a moment of doubt and pain. Somehow he pushed a little harder and
made it. OMG, as the kids say.

Fred was really done now. Clambering to his feet was a triumph of the will. Jeez, maybe
he should start working out. If he lived through this. Maybe he would, because the riser
wasn’t really big enough for both of them to dance with abandon. So Fred reaped his just
reward and merely swayed his barely controllable muscles to the beat. His father’s heart
had exploded after cutting the grass. This would be better, right? Cooler at least.
Generational progress.

It was the last song. By the time it ended, Fred’s breathing seemed normal. And no one
else could see his muscles twitching or feel his still elevated pulse.
“Let’s go. I want to talk to those guys for a second.”
Fred looked over the edge of the riser and contemplated the jump. It looked a long way
down too. He imagined his ankles breaking. Then he sat down, it didn’t matter that he
felt like a pussy. He slid his butt off the edge while leaving one hand on the riser. On the
plus side, his ankles took the impact. But he lost his balance, staggered, and almost fell.
And it was jarring and unpleasant. He’d liked jumping off things as a kid. What
happened? Sunny sat on the edge expectantly. Well, this must be his consolation prize.
Still pretty pathetic but he should enjoy it just the same. She put her arms on his
shoulders and levered off the edge. She slid down the length of his front. Cheap thrills
are better than nothing. Uh-oh, she was looking at him like she knew what he was
thinking. “Quick, put on a clueless expression, you’re good at that.” Like with Jill.
Wait, don’t ever think that again.
“I’ll be right back.”
And she was off.

People were streaming toward the exit. Fred figured he might as well reclaim his credit
card at the bar. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. This was definitely a different
than his usual routine. His mind flicked over his pilgrim’s progress from grumbling at
home to seeing the folks at that party to sliding down the 101---damn, that seems like a
dream---to sitting here. Amazing. What now? He really should keep a grip. Just take
her back to the valley and drop her off wherever she wants. Hopefully it would be nearby
and not Thousand Oaks or some other Stepford Village at the end of the universe. He felt
sober enough, but just the same. It’s interesting how convenience becomes so much
more important when you get old. Wait, don’t ever fucking think that again either. He
wasn’t old. He was beginning to think he wouldn’t even have a heart attack. See?
Maybe he should start working out though. He saw the future. As in the Ghost of
Christmas Future. Someday he’d be sitting in his chair, and the boys would piss him off,
and he’d say, “If I could get out of this chair.” And they’d say, “But you can’t, can you?”
And laugh. Definitely should start working out.

A guy about thirty bounded up to the bar next to Fred. He seemed pretty straight, like a
junior accountant or something. Or a younger Opie. He didn’t seem very sober. He was
wearing expensive clothes and looked like a young striver with his eye on the prize. A
coffee achiever. The future of America. Fred had never liked guys like that. Even,
maybe especially, when he was a young non-striver.
“Cap ‘n’ coke.”
The bartender hesitated.
“C’mon, man, you know I’m not driving.”
The bartender acceded with a grimace. Opie reeled in Fred’s direction. Excellent.
“I got a DUI. I wasn’t even planning on driving, but my girlfriend got too drunk, so I had
to.”
Opie’s speech was just starting to slur. Fred smiled and shook his head. Opie’s drink
materialized. He indifferently tossed a bill on the bar and took a good belt.
“Then the bitch dumped me.”
“Jelly roll blues.”
Fred thought that was a nice attempt at steering the conversation into a jocular men of the
world mode that would hasten its end, but it seemed to fly over Opie’s head.
“I got to take classes every Saturday for six months. And I gotta pay for ‘em. And I
gotta go to AA meetings every week.”
“That must suck.”
Fred was now being very sincere.
“No, the meetings are good. It reminds me that there are people just like me. Except that
they don’t drink. Or at least they want to try not to.”
Allrighty then. What do you say to that? Maybe “God save the republic”? Apparently,
no response was required, as Opie downed the rest of his drink and lurched away.

Sunny took Opie’s place at the bar. A definite step up in the world. She just materialized
again.
“I guess there’s a party at some fucking house in the hills.”
Fred wasn’t sure what she was saying. She was looking at him with her usual vaguely
challenging, slightly wide-eyed expression. Probably that she was bailing out on him.
Too bad. Suddenly he felt very sad and tired. It wasn’t the denting of the fantasy life
that he’d resisted imagining all evening. Well, that too, but he hadn’t really taken it or
himself too seriously. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that he hadn’t
completely forgotten his lack of appeal on so many levels. It was funny, he felt lonely
already. Not that he had fallen in love with her or anything, Fred enforced relatively
strict limits on his stupidities. But he liked her and it was living. Or a break from his
life, which stretched out dull and quiet in front of him. Way to find the negative spin.

“And he was too old, old, old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

but he was too young to die.”

What should he say? If he said, “Do you want to go?”, it would sound like he was
assuming he was invited. And he didn’t want to seem like a ridiculous old fool. At least
not a fool, it was probably too late to salvage ridiculous. Or old. Why was he so down
all the sudden? He still had to say something.
“Oh.”
Give ‘em the old razzle dazzle. Jeez. Sunny just turned and headed for the exit. That
seemed to work real well. Fred figured he should leave too. He followed her. “The
party’s over” serenaded him inside his head. Cinderfella, what are you doing after the
Super Bowl? He’d fucking hated going to Disneyland with Jill and the boys.

Outside, she stopped a little ways off and turned. It had been fun while it lasted.
Maybe he could come up with something clever to say by way of good bye. And maybe
he’d sprout wings out of his back and fly home. He came up to face her.
“Do you have anything to fucking drink at your house?”
Huh?
“At least enough for my breakfast.”
She laughed. He’d said something clever.
“Then let’s fucking go.”
She started off towards the Mustang. Fred tried to recollect the state of “Le Cesspool” as
he fondly referred to the bathroom of his second bachelorhood. Not too bad---definitely
better than the men’s room at Club Tanya. And why was he so retentive anyway? Old
age? Fuck off. Wait, the theme of the night was the not thinking thing. He had to stick
with that. And maybe throw in not remembering the past for good measure. But, for
sure, no thinking and no expectations. He hurried to catch up to her.

Fred opened the passenger door for her. He had earlier too, he just considered it being
nice. She slid around it to get in.
“Thank god I shaved two days ago.”
She slipped inside the car, leaving Fred standing stock still. OMG.

“No, you're never too old, old, old, to Rock'n'Roll-oll-oll,

If you're too young to die.”

Boy, the entire rest of his life was going to be the trials of the damned once this run
ended. Unless his mother was wrong. Not impossible. She had been wrong about Jill,
for one. Fred couldn’t help the broad smile that spread across his face as he shut the
door.