One for the road | News, Sports, Jobs
My buddy Pat Bentley and I were at the Lake Clear airport having breakfast at the Cavu Cafe. I chose Cavu for two reasons.
First, it has the best breakfasts on the Blue Line, and probably outside of it. But Pat, despite all his worldliness, had never eaten at Cavu. In fact, he had never been to the airport – him, a born and bred Tupper Laker, no less. So I thought it was high time for me to light it up.
And two, I had a hidden agenda. It was simple, really: I wanted to know what he was thinking (if he was thinking at all) when he left me at the cemetery.
A bit of context is clearly in order, so here it is.
A few weeks earlier, a funeral for our mutual friend Billy O’Dell was due to take place at Brighton Cemetery. The day before, Pat called and asked me if I wanted to go out with him, and I said sure.
“OKAY,” he said, “I’ll pick you up around 1:15 p.m..”
” A quarter past one ? I said. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” he said. “I want to arrive half an hour early.”
“But why?” I asked. “People go early on call times so they don’t get stuck in the queue for twenty minutes, chatting with someone they barely know. But in case you didn’t know, there are no lines at a funeral. No queues, no waiting, no sweat.
“See,” he said, “I want to be there half an hour early then -“
“Good,” I say cutting it off. It’s quarter past one.
There’s probably something worse than listening to a guy his age whine, but I don’t see what it could be.
True to his word, he showed up at a quarter past one and we got to the cemetery half an hour early – at least.
And true to my word, there was not a soul in sight (at least not alive).
Pat strayed one way, I strayed another, and about ten minutes later our paths crossed.
“Why, Pat Bentley, as I live and breathe,” I said. “Pleased to meet you here.
He frowned and we resumed our separate wanderings.
At about a quarter to two, Father Yongkovig arrived and he and Pat started talking. I immediately joined them. I don’t believe in it much, but I figure it can’t hurt to snatch a few brownie dots from a man of the stuff…just in case.
Finally, at almost two o’clock sharp, the rest of the homies started arriving. I knew a few of them as they were locals who knew Billy from Way Back When. But most were his family, of which I only knew one, his wife Mimi.
The service started shortly and at the end some people shared fond memories of Billy. After that, there were the usual talks, hugs and tears. Since I didn’t know most people, I stayed away until I had a chance to say a few words to Mimi. Although I didn’t notice it, while we were talking, almost everyone was out of the cemetery.
Eventually Mimi and I said goodbye, she went back to her family and they left. I gave him a final wave and turned to leave. And when I did, I had a sudden shock: all the cars that were parked on the shoulder were gone, including Pat’s. I looked one way, then the other, then repeated it several times. And of course, no Pat. And no one else either.
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East’s fastest thumb
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I walked to the road and waited a while, thinking that since he had parked in the direction of Gabriels, he had walked up the road to turn around, rather than risk turning around. turn on a main road. After all, I thought, he had once been a state soldier, so perhaps scrupulous road safety was his top priority. It was a good idea. It was also a mistake, because after about ten minutes, it was clear that he was gone… and he wasn’t coming back.
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What to do?
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Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I? I could only think of two. One was to grab a hook from the passing sky and swing around town. The other was to hitchhike. And since only one of them was doable, I wandered down the road, loosened my thumb, and waited.
I hitchhiked quite a bit in my golden youth – over at least half of the United States. As a result, I found my three hitchhiking commandments. First, position yourself in a location where oncoming drivers can see you from a distance and where they have plenty of room to pull over and stop. Second, maintain eye contact and keep a pleasant look on your face. And third, dress like the people who are likely to pick you up.
I had covered the first two, but as for the third? Fergitate it.
I was dressed in a black blazer and tie, topped with a thin black fedora. It was the perfect outfit to pay a last respects to a friend, and it was exactly what NOT to wear for a ride in Gabriels, NY. Jeans, work boots, a flannel shirt and a gimme hat would have been the right yarns for the job – the uniform of the day for a true Adirondack guy. But dressed, as I was, reeked of recent escape from one type of state facility or another. Or if not, then just some pathetic old wretch who SHOULD be in some type of public institution or some other.
But even if I don’t play, I go with the odds. And in the event that I was hitchhiking, the odds were in my favor, if for no other reason than inevitably someone who knows me or at least recognizes me were to come. And of course, after a car passed, she did.
“She” is Jennifer Swain, a longtime summer resident. She’s as big of a talker as I am and for about 25 years we’ve been chatting every time we meet. So when she saw me on the road, I might have looked weird for a hitchhiker, but at least to her it looked weird and familiar, so I got my turn.
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The one who laughs last…
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Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, a mini-drama was unfolding at the Moose Club, where the O’Dells were hosting a reception. When Pat arrived, Mary Raymond, knowing that we had gone to the funeral together, asked if he had driven me back to town.
“Me, bring him back?” Pat said. “I thought he came back with one of you.”
The buzz went around the club and once it was established that no one had brought me back, Pat got in his car and drove back to the graveyard. Once there, he saw the same thing I saw after the ceremony – a beautiful landscape… with no one in sight. And then he did the only thing he could – he drove home, thinking either I was fine or The Rapture had just started.
In the meantime, after Jennifer dropped me off, I went to Jen-X’s and told her what happened. After laughing a lot, she asked, “Then why has he forgotten you?”
“No idea,” I said. “But I intend to find out.”
And so Pat and I and my hidden agenda have lunch at Cavu.
I only remember two things he said there, both of which happened at the end of our meal. One was predictable: he was the one who repeatedly said how delicious the food was. The other was such a perfect comeback that I wish I had said it myself.
Trying to figure out why Pat left without me, I decided to take a direct approach.
“See,” I said, “I have to tell you I’m confused.”
“About what?” he said.
“About you doing your thing after the funeral,” I said.
“What about it?” he said.
“I just want to know how you could leave me here,” I said. “I mean, you called me and asked me if I wanted to ride with you and arrive really early, right?”
“Right,” he said.
“So if you made such a fuss to get me there, how could you leave me there?”
He said nothing, but frowned, obviously replaying the scene in his head. A long moment passed…then another, while frowning. Then the frown disappeared, replaced by a sly smile. Finally, he spoke.
“Well, yeah, I guess I made quite a fuss taking you there,” he said. Then his sly smile turned into a huge smile and he added: “But I never said I would bring you back.”