Ted parked the Corolla at a nice spot by the Charles River. Sixty-eight degrees and sunny. Panthers or no panthers, there would be no rainout today. Father and son shared a doobie in peace and quiet. They ate some food, watched the rowers on the water. One of those perfect fall days where you just lose track of time. The radio was off to save the enigmatic battery. Ted looked up at the blue and chanted, “‘The mules that angels ride come slowly down the blazing passes, from beyond the sun.’”
“If you say so, Cheech,” said Marty.
“Wally Stevens says so,” Ted footnoted, as he coughed through a deep lungful of cannabis. “Sorry.”
Marty waved it off and smiled as if to say he was no longer bothered by Ted’s cough. He said, “I like watching the rowers from up here, ’cause you know they’re killing themselves, that they’re cramping and their lungs are burning, but from this far away, you can’t hear or see their pain. All I see is this miraculous smooth flight across the surface of the water. From this Olympian remove, all I see is beauty.”
“Sounds like art. Concealing the hard part.”
“No, baby, it’s death. That’s what looking at things from death is like. No sweat, all beauty. I wish I could’ve been dying my whole life.”
Ted looked at the smoking joint in his hand and said, “You’re outheavying me, Dad. Too deep while I’m eating a ‘sub.’ The burning bush. I think I’m gonna quit.”
“Not me,” said Marty. “I’m a pothead.”
“You walked through the gate, huh?”
“Yes, I walked through the gate and forgot to close it.”
“Well, ’cause you’re high. You forgot to close the gate ’cause you’re high.”
“Ah so.”
“You crazy kids with your hash oil and your wacky weed.”
“Hash oil? What is this hash oil of which you speak? Tell me about this hash oil.”
“Slow down there, William Burroughs.”
“Wish we had some Frusen Glädjé.”
“There is no emperor like the motherfucking emperor of ice cream.”
They both looked into their minds to see if they remembered passing a convenience store in the past hour or so that might sell ice cream. Neither could come up with an image, and they both quit looking in mild disappointment. They watched in stoned awe as the rowers cut like knives through sparkling liquid glass.
“Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“What time is it?”
Ted said, “Oh shit,” and jumped at the car radio to turn it on. The game was already well under way.
“Shit! It’s three! Game’s at two thirty!” Ted said. “The game started.”
He threw the car in gear and backed up. The unmistakable, unwelcome sound of metal rim on pavement.
“That’s a flat,” Marty said. “That’s a flat tire.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Of course, Ted had no spare and had to go running to flag down a cab, get to an auto parts store, buy a tire, and cab it back. Ted left Marty in the car to listen to the game and enjoy the river. The streets were more or less empty, so he made good time, considering. Most of Boston was either at the game or home watching, all of New England probably. They lost a lot of time, but eventually they were rolling again on four good wheels. Marty was nervous with the game on the radio, listening intently for sounds behind sounds, with the focus of a stalking predator, for telltale signs of the action even before the announcers could relay it, wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs.
Boston is one of the oldest cities in the country and was designed for the foot and the hoof, not the tire. If it’s not quite a maze, it is mazelike. Ted knew he was close to Fenway, but he couldn’t find it. One-way streets led him astray, and he couldn’t find anybody to ask directions because the game had rendered the city a ghost town. Knowing they were in danger of missing the game, Ted began to panic. “Shit, shit, shit—where are we?”
“No idea. Boston? Why don’t you have a map?”
“I don’t have a map ’cause I thought you were from Boston!”
On the radio, Carl Yastrzemski hit a home run to put the Sox up.
“YAZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Goddammit! Yazzz! We’re up! One-Zip! One-Zip! We’re up!”
Ted spied a cop up a block and jumped out of the car to ask him directions. Marty watched as the cop gesticulated, and they spoke for what seemed like five minutes. Ted came running back to the car and stepped on the gas.
“What is with those fucking ridiculous accents?” he said.
“What’d he say?”
“I have no fucking clue! ‘Kenmahsquah’? He said we need ‘Kenmahsquah.’ What the fuck is ‘Kenmahsquah’?”
“Do not ahsk what you cahn do for yahr country, ahsk rahther … Wait, that’s wrong.”
Ted made a sharp and probably illegal left.
“We’ve been here before,” Marty said.
“No, we haven’t.”
Marty pointed. “Yes, we have, I recognize that thingy over there right next to that thing.”
“No! You’ve never been here before, Mr. Boston, that’s the whole problem!”
“I think you should pahk yahr cahr in Hahvahd Yahd.”
“Shut up. You’re fucking high.”
“Jerry Garcia is God, man.”
“I agree. Please be quiet.”
“I just saw a sign.”
“What’d it say?”
“Said you’re an asshole.”
“Dad.”
“No, it said ‘Kenmore Square—Fenway.’ Make a U-turn.”
“Kenmah! I can’t make a U-turn.”
“Grow some cojones and make a U-ie.”
Ted threw the car into a movie-stunt-worthy skid and locked into a nice U-turn, surprising himself. They fishtailed back the other way, laughing their heads off.
“Do it again, Daddy!” Marty yelled. “Do it again!”
“No, come on, we’re almost there.”
“You’re no fun.”
Ted gunned the motor and accelerated into another slick U-turn. And then one last one, to get them back pointed the right way.
Marty put his head out the window and screamed, “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”