Holly

September 10, 2015

Cary Dressler is young, unattached, not bad-looking, cheerful, rarely prone to worrying about the future. He’s currently sitting on a rocky outcrop covered with initials, high on good grass and sipping a P-Co’ while he watches Raiders of the Lost Ark. On a weekend, this outcrop—known as Drive-In Rock—would be crowded with kids drinking beer, smoking weed, and grab-assing around, but this is a Thursday night and he has it all to himself. Which is how he likes it.

The Rock is on the west side of Deerfield Park, near the edge of the Thickets. This area is a tangle of trees and undergrowth. From most locations therein it would be impossible to see Red Bank Avenue, let alone the Magic City Drive-In screen, but here a ragged cut runs down to the street, maybe caused by flooding or a long-ago rockslide.

Magic City is barely hanging on these days, nobody wants to swat bugs and listen to the soundtrack on AM radio when there are three cineplexes spotted around the city, all with Dolby sound and one even with IMAX, which is kickin’. But you can’t smoke weed in a cineplex. On Drive-In Rock, you can smoke all you want. And after an eight-hour shift at Strike Em Out Lanes, Cary wants. There’s no sound, of course, but Cary doesn’t need it. Magic City shows strictly second-, third-, and fourth-run movies these days, and he’s seen Raiders at least ten times. He knows the dialogue and murmurs a snatch now, between tokes.

“Snakes! Why did it have to be snakes?”

Raiders will be followed by Last Crusade, which Cary has also seen many times—not as many as Raiders, but at least four. He won’t stay for that one. He’ll finish his P-Co’, get on his moped (now stashed in the bushes near the park entrance closest to Drive-In Rock), and ride home. Very carefully.

His current joint is down to a nubbin. He butts it on the outcrop between BD+GL and MANDY SUCKS. He stores the roach, inspects the contents of his fanny pack, and debates between a skinny jay and a fatty. He decides on the jay. He’ll smoke half of it, eat the Kit Kat bar also stashed in his fanny pack, then putt-putt his way back to his apartment.

He gets lost in the bright images playing out a quarter of a mile away and ends up smoking almost all of it. He hears the John Williams music in his head and vocalizes, keeping it on the down-low in case anyone else is nearby—unlikely at ten PM on a Thursday night, but not impossible.

“Zum-de-dum-dum, zum-de-DAH, zum-de-bum-zum, zum de—”

Cary stops abruptly. He just heard a voice… didn’t he? He cocks his head to one side, listening. Maybe it was his imagination. Dope doesn’t ordinarily make him paranoid, only mellow, but on occasion…

He’s about decided it was nothing when the voice speaks up again. Not close, but not all that far away, either. “It’s the battery, hon. I think it’s dead.”

There’s nothing wrong with Cary’s eyesight, and from his vantage point he quickly spots the location of that voice. Red Bank Avenue will never be in the running as one of the nicest streets in the city. There are the Thickets on one side, crowding the few paths and pushing through the wrought-iron fence. On the other are warehouses, a U-Store-It outfit, a defunct auto repair shop, and a couple of vacant lots. One of those was home to a bedraggled little carnival that picked up stakes after Labor Day. In the other, next to a long-deserted convenience store, is a van with the side door open and a ramp sticking out. There’s a wheelchair next to the ramp with someone in it.

“I can’t stay here all night,” the wheelchair occupant says. She sounds old and wavery, a little irritated and a little scared. “Call for help.”

“I would,” says the man with her, “but my phone is dead. I forgot to charge it. Do you have yours?”

“I left it home. What are we going to do?”

It won’t occur to Cary until later—too late to do any good—that the woman in the wheelchair and the man with her are projecting their voices. Not much, not yelling or anything, but the way actors onstage project for the audience. Later he’ll realize that he was the audience they were playing to, the guy sitting on Drive-In Rock with the joint winking on and off like a locator beacon. Later he’ll realize how often he stops off here for awhile on his way home from the bowling alley, smoking a doob and watching the movie across the way.

He decides he can’t just sit there while the old guy goes off looking for help, leaving the woman alone. Cary is your basic good person, more than happy to do the occasional good deed.

He makes his way down the slope, holding onto branches to keep from going on his ass. He gives his moped—faithful pony!—a little pat as he passes it. When he reaches one of the Red Bank Avenue gates out of the park, he walks down the sidewalk until he’s opposite the van. He calls, “Need a little help?”

It won’t occur to him until later, in the cage, to wonder why they picked that particular place to park; an abandoned Quik-Pik store is hardly a beauty spot.

“Who’s there?” the man calls, sounding worried.

“Name’s Cary Dressler. Can I—?”

“Cary? My goodness, hon, it’s Cary!”

Cary steps into the street, peering. “Small Ball? Is that you?”

The man laughs. “It’s me, all right. Listen, Cary, the battery in my wife’s wheelchair died. I don’t suppose you could push it up the ramp, could you?”

“I think I can manage that,” Cary says, crossing the street. “Indy Jones to the rescue.”

The old lady laughs. “I saw that movie at the old Bijou. Thank you so much, young man. You’re a lifesaver.”

Roddy Harris is telling his wife how he and their rescuer know each other. Cary grabs the wheelchair handgrips and aims the chair for the ramp. Small Ball stands back to give him room, one hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket. Cary is so high that he doesn’t even feel the needle when it goes into the back of his neck.