Goodbye, Saturday Night

Whatcha think ’bout this critter, Bobcat? Hucker asked me, holding the model airplane at arm’s length and rotating it slightly from side to side. He cocked one thick, black eyebrow and made a closer inspection of the B-17 Flying Fortress.

It was a late Thursday afternoon in early May in 1956, and we sat in the doorway of the taxi stand. Hucker Nolan was twenty-two then, eleven years older than me, and we were critiquing the plastic aircraft we had just finished assembling. In all the years Hucker and I built models, we had never turned out such a pitiful-looking project as the one he was holding.

The taxi stand was like an oven inside and not much cooler in the doorway where we sat on the floor, our feet resting on the makeshift concrete block steps. The giant mimosa tree standing near the door spread its wide, lacy canopy over the sandy yard and gave us some relief from the early summer heat wave that had descended on South Alabama with a Yankee vengeance.

I shook my head and let out a deep sigh. Looks like crap. Way too much cement on that left wing, and it’s oozin’ out the crack. And look at that landin’ gear. It’s all cockeyed. The whole damn thing looks cockeyed.

Hucker pursed his full lips and narrowed his eyebrows into a tight frown as he continued to study the model with keen scrutiny.

Yep, he agreed in a frustrated tone. One wing points up, and the other points down.

The taxi stand where we sat was a dismal little one-room yellow-painted tin shack. The interior walls were neither sealed nor painted, and the bare studs and framing were exposed and darkened with age. A small wooden table doubled as a desk, and two rickety ladder-back chairs stood next to it. An old-fashioned, oval-base telephone sat on the table next to a thick ledger book and a nubby yellow pencil. Over on the left side of the tiny room stood a low cot where Calvin, the night shift driver, could nap between fares. The unpainted galvanized walls between the open studs displayed every free calendar given out by the local merchants in our little town of Farmington.

Hucker Nolan was the day shift driver and he hadn’t received a single call in the past two hours while we sat at the table and built the model airplane. Now, as we reclined in the doorway examining our finished product and trying to cool off a bit, it was getting near the end of his shift and time for him to go to work at the movie theater. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a soiled white handkerchief while still scrutinizing the model aircraft.

You’d think we’d git better with practice, I said with a sigh of disgust. But no. We’re gittin’ worse.

Now give us a little credit. We ain’t had much practice on airplanes. We do all right on cars. Hucker cocked his mouth to the side, flipped the aircraft over, and fingered the crooked landing gear. He ran his thumb along the crack of the left wing where the thick line of drying cement oozed out and formed a long, clear scab next to the fuselage. Let’s just throw this son of a bitch in the trash, Bob.

He set the model on the floor behind us with a dismissive clonk, then shook a cigarette from the pack he kept rolled up in the left sleeve of his white cotton T-shirt. He lit it, took in a deep draw, then exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that hung above us in the still, late afternoon air.

Hucker stretched his long legs over the steps and dug the heels of his well-worn cowboy boots in the sand. He reached for the strawberry soft drink we were sharing that sat on the floor between us. After taking a big gulp, he pressed the bottle gently against his cheek and sighed. Instant air conditioning, I thought. I bought the strawberry soda pop at McCloud's Grocery, the cramped little store three doors down next to the pool hall, that afternoon after school with the change I had left over from buying the model. Strawberry was Hucker’s favorite flavor of soft drink. I liked grape soda much better, but I didn’t have enough change to buy two drinks, so I chose the strawberry as a bribe to entice Hucker to help me work on the model airplane. How could he say no when I came bearing his favorite soda pop?

He crossed his ankles and leaned back on his elbows, the cigarette dangling carelessly from the corner of his full lips. Hucker Nolan had a striking appearance, wearing his raven black hair swooped high in front and the sides combed back into a sharp ducktail. His sapphire blue eyes—the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen—were set deep and crowned by black brows that arched in the center. His face was handsome with square jaws, high cheekbones, and a nose that crooked down just enough to give him an exotic look, like a desert prince in the movies. I could picture Hucker wearing a gold lamé turban with a large ruby crest and a purple ostrich feather attached to the front, just like Cornel Wilde in one of those wonderful Technicolor Arabian pictures. He once told me he was one-eighth Seminole from his mother’s side. I really couldn’t see any traces of Seminole in his tall, broad-shouldered build and bright blue eyes. I think every now and again Hucker Nolan would spin me a yarn just to entertain me, so I took the Seminole ancestry as a tale for my benefit.

He always wore the short sleeves of his T-shirts rolled up tightly, showing off with boastful pride his strong arms and stylish tattoos. On his upper left arm, a fierce green dragon clawed its way up his bicep while the right arm displayed a large pink heart with a blue ribbon flowing across the center with the word MOTHER penned in fancy script. Hucker was proud of those tattoos. He’d driven all the way to Pensacola to have that elegant artwork needled permanently into his skin. I remember how gross they’d looked at first—all scabby and covered with petroleum jelly—but in a week they were beautiful, and I wanted some just like them. Of course, my mother said it would be over her dead body. Someday, though, when I was free from her tyrannical rule, I would get my own tattoos and let Hucker help me choose the designs.

Now, Hucker was sprawled back in a lounging position that only accentuated the impressive bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans. He was proud of that bulge, so much so that he promoted it by never wearing underpants. The left leg of his jeans was slightly more faded where the bulge pushed against the fabric. I figured that was due to his constantly adjusting himself. Or maybe it was because that ridge was closer to the sun when he stretched out his legs in that long, loping stride. Who knows.

We sat in comfortable silence, no longer discussing the failed attempt at building a B-17 model airplane. Hucker handed me the strawberry drink, and I finished it off with one big gulp, then set the empty bottle in the crack between the door frame and the first stud next to the cot. I stretched out—my tanned bare legs protruding out the hems of my cotton short pants—and slipped my bare feet into the sand, toes first. The sand, shielded by the dense foliage of the mimosa tree, felt cool as my feet dug in.

Out in the yard in front of us, parked under the shade of the old tree, the faded blue ’46 Chevy sedan sat idle, waiting for the phone to ring and a new fare to be picked up. White triangles painted on each front door, and the big block words CITY CAB christened the old Chevy an official taxicab—the only one in town.

I stared out from the doorway of the cramped yellow tin shack, past the old Chevy, at the two-block-long main street of Farmington, our soot-covered little town squatted on the Alabama side of the state line with Florida. The railroad tracks at the south end of Main Street were planted squarely on the state line. I could stand at the curb in front of my mother’s cafe and easily throw a rock into another state. Over on the Florida side of the tracks, the C&L Railroad’s large, two-story depot stood looming over the south end of town just as it had since the turn of the century. That station was a major transportation hub and was always buzzing with traffic. Folks traveling down to Pensacola changed trains there. A steady flow of young military men, mostly Navy, stopped in the cafe for a beer, and maybe a hamburger, when they had a couple hours’ layover. Sometimes, when a freight train would sail through without stopping at the station, dishes would vibrate on the tables in the cafe. The clippity-clap on the steel rails would often help drown out the twangy country music constantly blasting from the jukebox.

Now, the sun was just setting behind us, spreading a bright orange glow over the ancient brick buildings over on the east side of Main Street. Hucker took a deep drag on the cigarette and flipped his wrist over to look at the face of his shiny, gold-plated watch.

It’s nearly six o’clock, he said. Calvin better git his ass here soon, or I’ll be late gittin’ the popcorn made for the show. He shook his head slightly, then added, This workin’ two jobs is the shits.

Then quit one of ’em, I said flatly.

He looked at me sharply and cocked his head. Yeah, like I could. I ain’t no rich boy whose mama owns a cafe.

Runnin’ the concession stand’s better than drivin’ that stupid taxi.

I dug my toes deeper into the sand, then flipped them up quickly, tossing the sand up onto the tops of my feet. Then I’d shake the sand off and do it again.

I gotta drive the taxi to pay my room rent and car note. Plus I git in a full week. The job at the theater might be only a few hours a day, but it pays my charge tickets and gives me a little spendin’ cash, he said, watching me flip the sand with my toes. You know goddamn well I can’t quit neither one of ’em.

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t in any mood to be listening to his complaining. I wasn’t thrilled with the cockeyed model airplane, and I had enough of my own problems to consider.

Besides, I gotta help Papa out a little, don’t I? Hucker continued, and his voice grew low and thoughtful. He’s barely gittin’ by now that he can’t work no more at the gravel company.

He fell silent for a minute, then said softly, Things has been pretty tough for him since Mama passed away. All he’s got to live on now is his pennies. Then his voice grew stronger. Quit, my ass.

Why don’t you charge Jerry Cook for the work you do for him? You go to his house to work, and you don’t git no pay.

He shot me a quick glance. Jerry’s been good to me. I ain’t gonna charge ’em for what little I do. I don’t do much—just help out some.

Jerry Cook was the owner of the feed store. He was a nice-looking man, probably in his late thirties or early forties, and he never had any children. He took care of his invalid wife who had been struck down with polio the same year they were married. Hucker went to his house once or twice a week after the show closed to help Jerry do a few repairs, or so he told me. Hucker would never take any money, so Jerry Cook would give him a nice gift every now and then to make up for it. That’s how he got the watch, his cigarette lighter, and a couple of his fancy belt buckles— stuff that he could never afford to buy on his own. Hucker had been going weekly to Jerry’s house since he was eighteen or so and, as far as I knew, never got paid for the work he did. When I’d ask him what he actually did at Jerry’s, he’d just shrug and say, Whatever he needs help with.

You never had any trouble takin’ pay from Mother when you worked for ’er, I said coolly.

He ignored my remark and took another drag on the cigarette, still leaning back on his elbows. I’ll be payin’ your mama off on my car note next month. That seven dollars and fifty cents ever’ week is sure gonna come in handy. It’ll keep my ass from bein’ broke all the damn time.

I was beginning to get irritated.

If you ain’t gonna quit one of them jobs, then stop bitchin’ about it, I said sharply. I got enough crap to deal with without listenin’ to you whine.

He gave me a sharp stare and lowered both thick eyebrows into a scrunched-up frown. And just what kinda crap do you have to deal with? You git everything you want. You go to the show ever’ night, and you got ever’ model car the dime store ever sold.

Shut up, I snapped, and give me a cigarette.

Hucker sat up straight, still frowning. Even sitting he towered above me like a huge willow tree.

I shouldn’t be givin’ you smokes.

I just glared at him and crossed my arms over my chest.

Besides, he added, looking past me in the direction of my mother’s cafe, Ellen Crosby would cut off my balls and nail ’em to a tree if she ever caught me givin’ you cigs.

What she don’t know can’t hurt ’er. Besides, she’s too occupied with other things to care much what I do.

Other things? What kinda things?

I just ignored him and stared straight ahead at the grill of the old blue Chevy.

You mean Buck Benson, don’t you?

Just drop it, I said.

Is that what’s been stuck in your craw this afternoon?

I said drop it, Huck! I ain’t in no mood to be talkin’ ’bout Buck Benson! I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his sapphire blue eyes fixed on me.

You know, Bob, I betcha somebody might git them a pretty good daddy if they picked ole Buck. He’s got that nice big farm, and he don’t git mad very easy.

I don’t need a daddy if you’re talkin’ about me! I snapped. Me and Mother were gittin’ along just fine without Buck Benson.

Ellen could do a whole lot worse than that ole boy.

You don’t know a damn thing about it! I said through clenched teeth. You don’t have to sit around and watch ’em slobber over each other night and day!

I think your mama likes him a lot, and I know for sure he’s crazy about her. Hell, Buck’d do anything for Ellen—and you, too.

I shot him a hard look. You need to mind your own fuckin’ business! I spit the words. You gonna give me a goddamn cigarette or not?

Hucker raised his hands in surrender. I never took my eyes off the grill of the taxi, my lips hard and set. He reached over and placed his hand on my shoulder and clamped it with a strong grip. I tried to move away, but the doorway was tight, and I was already pressed next to the doorjamb.

Relax, Bob. You’re gittin’ all worked up, Hucker said. He pulled another cigarette from the pack and lit it from the butt of the one he was smoking, then handed it to me.

I took the cigarette and inhaled a long, deep drag. It felt soothing as the pleasing smoke filled my lungs. I held it in for a long while, then let the smoke out slowly. After a few draws, I started to relax somewhat. When I exhaled again, I blew three smoke rings.

I didn’t mean to git you all riled up, he said apologetically.

I nodded, but kept silent.

The sun had dropped behind the buildings and the streetlights were flickering on one by one, giving Main Street a strange wash of orange hue mixed with pale blue. Hucker reached up and flipped on the electric switch mounted to the bare stud next to the door. The single bulb overhead flooded the tiny space with bright yellow light.

A fly came buzzing in and made a dive bomb for my nose. I swatted at it, which just seemed to give the little pest more energy. It began flying circles around my head. Several more swats and it was gone.

We fell silent for a couple of minutes. I stared straight ahead at the grill of the ’46 Chevy, drawing deeply on the cigarette and holding the smoke in my lungs as long as I could before I exhaled.

Then Hucker reached over and pushed the thick mop of blond hair back out of my face. You need to use some hair tonic on this mess.

I shoved his hand aside and replied flatly, I don’t like that crap on my hair.

Suit yourself, he said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Instantly the fly was back making frantic circles, then diving in like a kamikaze pilot. This time, though, the little bomber was after Hucker. After several swift passes around Hucker’s head, the fly made the fatal mistake of landing on the doorjamb. With one swift motion, a large hand slapped against the doorjamb. When the hand was removed, the squashed body of the dead fly remained stuck to the weathered wood.

Hucker stood up and adjusted the bulge in his crotch. He wiped the killer hand on the back pocket of his jeans. Fuck Calvin. I gotta git to the show. You comin’ to see the picture tonight?

We both knew I’d be going. I never missed a movie. I took another deep drag on my cigarette and blew a couple more smoke rings before answering.

I don’t know. I might. I forgot what’s playing.

"Rebel Without a Cause. I think it’s one of them wide pictures, he said, spreading his hands apart. CinemaScope."

I smiled at the gesture he made. It is, and in color, too. James Dean’s in it.

I think he’s dead now.

I nodded. It had upset me tremendously when Mother told me last October that she’d read in the Pensacola newspaper where he’d been killed in a car crash out in California. I had a nice black and white picture of him in the scrapbook of movie star pictures I kept in my dresser drawer up in our apartment. He’d been very handsome. I shook my head to clear the thought of James Dean lying dead on the highway.

I snuffed out my cigarette on the concrete block step and stood up. Standing there next to Hucker, I felt like one of the Munchkins. We looked like Mutt and Jeff, Mother said, the comic strip characters. I was eleven, but I looked much younger because I was so short and skinny.

I’ll think about goin’, I said. But it looks like a stupid picture from the previews.

Hucker laughed. I knew there was no doubt in his mind I’d be there. He placed the CLOSED sign in the tiny widow of the taxi stand and secured the door with a big padlock. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a tight squeeze. The top of my head barely came up to his shoulder, so I was nestled in his armpit. I could smell his pleasant, natural scent, a strange, exotic scent that brought to mind scenes of Hedy Lamarr strolling into the casbah. It was a comfortable scent I knew very well, and I breathed deeply to take it in.

Okay, Bob, see ya later. He gave me an extra squeeze and headed down the street toward the Royal Theatre. I watched his long, loping stride until he reached the end of the block. He crossed over to the east side of the street, the side where the theater dominated most of the next block. Then I turned and walked in the opposite direction toward my mother’s cafe.

When he was sixteen, Hucker Nolan had quit school and left his folks’ shack in the tiny swamp community of Mossy Flats down near the river over on the Florida side. He moved into town and rented a room in the dingy old second-floor hotel over the state liquor store across the street from my mother’s cafe. His front corner room had the scenic west view of Main Street and our cafe, plus the southern view of the train depot. I’d seen him around town before that, and I thought he was very handsome, like a young movie star—like Robert Wagner—but I really didn’t know him at all. Then he started working for my mother at the cafe stocking the beer and drink cooler boxes and sweeping up and mopping after the cafe closed at midnight. Soon after that he got the job working in the movie theater. When he turned seventeen, he was hired as the full-time day shift driver for the City Cab Company. He wasn’t getting much sleep, leaving work at the cafe at one-thirty or two o’clock in the morning and reporting back to the taxi stand at eight. That was when my mother told him having two jobs was enough. Three was just too many.

This pace will wear you out, honey, Mother said. So, as much as I hate to do it, I’m going to let you go. You’ve got a better chance of advancing at the show than working here for me.

A few months after he turned eighteen, Hucker received his draft notice. Mother and I drove him up to Barton, our county seat, to meet the bus that took all the local draftees up to Montgomery to have their pre-induction physical. He was told by some of the men in the pool hall to be sure to wear underpants because he would spend most of the time walking around in them. That was a miserable couple of days, he said, having to sleep in the barracks with a bunch of snoring men and wear drawers, to boot. But, he said, the food was good and they played a lot of card games when they weren’t bending over and spreading their butt cheeks. When we picked him up a couple of days later, he was all smiles. They’d found he had a heart murmur, so the Army didn’t want him. Hucker had had rheumatic fever when he was a kid, and they told him it might have given him a heart valve problem. Mother was concerned and