Judging by the position of the sun, Frank figured it was close to noon when Clayton Cook arrived at the pool with a beer bottle in his hand.
A beer bottle of a type Frank couldn’t remember ever seeing before, which was rare for a veteran bartender.
Having been in the water long enough that the skin on his fingertips was wrinkling and his face was feeling a tad tight; Frank was sitting on the steps of the pool in the shallow end, lower body submerged and an orange beach towel over his head.
He nodded to Cook, who nodded back as he flopped down into an aqua blue chaise lounge at poolside.
“Care for a beer, Frank?” Cook asked. “We have some beaner brew, if you want it. Bryce always stocks it, so you either drink this shit or bring your own,” Cook lifted up the bottle of what Frank now saw was Dos Equis, a Mexican beer he’d heard of before but never actually seen.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m gonna hit the road after lunch, so alcohol is probably not a good idea.”
“Wisdom learned from years of tending bar?”
“Years of drinking and driving.”
Cook smiled and snorted. “Why don’t you stay and enjoy another day at Rancho Deluxe before you head out?”
“Sounds tempting, but I was really hoping to get somewhere with a little more green and maybe not quite so hot.”
“Where in Cali you headed?”
“I’m not sure. Santa Clara or Santa Barbara or Santa fuckin’ Claus… I really don’t know. Never been to California before so I thought I’d look around a bit. Hopefully find a clean, well-lighted place to work at.”
“A clean, well-lighted place. Hemingway, correct? I remember that story. About a guy who owns a little spot and studies the customers. That you?”
“Could be. But I think the story was more about the guy who visits the well-lighted place every night.”
“Perhaps,” Cook said. “Long time since I read it. So that’s what you want to do, own a bar?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Owning entails lots of responsibility. Which leads to worry. Which can lead to feeling like shit. Right now I just want to find somewhere to settle for a while. You know man, take stock of things.”
“I hear that, Frank. All the more reason you should stay another day. I was going to treat everyone to dinner tonight at this great restaurant on Camelback Mountain. Bryce and I were going to play nine at the country club and then go for dinner. I think Larry has business to take care of but I’m sure he’ll be joining us at some point. You play golf?”
“I have, but not very well. And I don’t have any clubs.”
“Clubs are not a problem. If you want to play, we can always scare some up. You should come; it’ll be a kick. After dinner we can hit the bars and burn off some excess energy. I know some spots that can get pretty wild. Lots of hot chicks.”
Frank had to admit he was tempted. Female companionship sounded good. He was beginning to think this being alone shit was like living with an open sore. Maybe another day of rest and recreation was what he needed.
He was feeling indecisive again.
And right now his face was feeling hot.
Frank got out of the pool and toweled off.
He said goodbye to Clayton, slid on his flip-flops and left the pool area.
Walking back toward the dome, rubber sandals clapping on the red bricks, he was debating within himself.
Should he stay or should he go?
These guys were uncomfortably out of his league financially, culturally and just about every other way, except the physical. He was bigger than them and figured he could take either of them in a fight if it came down to that. Then he wondered why he was thinking like that. He wrote it off to some old, deeply ingrained bartender shit, like when you were assessing the possibility of trouble from an unruly customer.
Unable to land comfortably on a particular choice, he recalled a saying he’d recently begun to hear from a wide variety of people: What would Jesus Christ do? Or the shorthand version:WWJCD?
He had his own version now: WWJKD?
What would Jack Kerouac do?
Seemed like Kerouac would say: Fuck the economic differences, man. Just dig it. Dig the scene, man; this chance may never come again.
So that side was heard from.
But what about the sensible side of Frank Ford? The guy who’d vowed to be a better person—more responsible—and dedicate himself to starting his new life before his money ran out?
Good question.
He decided to wait until after lunch to make the decision. First he was going to hit the shower and then maybe read a little or lie down for a short nap. Something was telling him he’d need the energy later.
Inside the dome it was cool. He had a shower and put on his underwear and crawled into the wonderfully comfortable bed with his book. But his eyes got heavy so he put the book on the bed table, thinking about Nikki as he drifted off. He thought about her a lot. Too much. More than he thought about his dead brother Ray. Nikki was definitely a lot better looking. And the memories of her were generally of the pleasant variety, whereas thoughts of Ray usually brought forth a truckload of torment.
Nikki, in spite of all of their differences, had been a beacon of light, a breath of fresh air and a plethora of other positive clichés.
As for Ray, what he was is better left unsaid.
And now, of course, the man was dead.
(End of Chapter 18)
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