ROCK AND ROLL (Part One)

Our furniture arrived four days after the scheduled delivery time. After much bumping and scraping and dropping, we were left with our damaged goods, and the name of a local fellow who would come to our apartment to repair the cracks, scratches and dings.  

His name was Walker, a retired jockey from Chicago, who looked as if he’d been thrown one time too many. When he finished the touchup job, he invited us to a party at his home in the desert area of Escondido. We had only just arrived and were already invited to a California party. What fun!

W.S. drove and I played navigator, which got us there one hour late. The party was already in full swing. We could hear the music as we turned down the gravel path. Walker galloped toward us sweating, shirtless and astride a very large horse. “Aloha,” he bellowed, as he escorted us to his house that was ablaze with lights and jam-packed with partygoers. Spying the suckling pig on a spit, I realized that we had stumbled onto a luau in the middle of the desert. A bearded stranger tossed a garland of flowers over my head and led us to the bar. I later learned that he was “Izzy, the journalist.”

Dr. Katz, the veterinarian, handed each of us a tall glass of a sweet green concoction, and said, “Welcome to tequila from Tijuana.” W.S. downed his drink quickly and asking for a refill, said, “This is delicious. I can hardly taste the alcohol.” I took one sip, put down the glass, and said, “Go easy with this stuff, you could end up with the worm.” W.S. wandered off toward the buffet table and promised to bring me something to eat if I would save him a seat.

The band was set up near the swimming pool. Stuffing my ears with Kleenex, I sat on a sofa as far from the music as possible. Izzy brought me a soda and sat down next to me. I could see his lips moving, so I removed the Kleenex, “Sorry.” I said, “Could you please repeat that.” “You just moved to California, right?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “You want to know my theory about people who move to California?” he said. Before I could say, “No,” he continued---“People come here to die. It’s the end of the road. They can go no further.”

Wishing that I had left the Kleenex in my ears, I replied, “People can always catch a plane to Hawaii.” Since W.S. hadn’t returned, I left morose Izzy slumped on the sofa and headed toward the buffet table. By now, the drinks were flowing and the noise level had gone up several decibels, so I stuffed my ears again.

Finding the food, I piled up my plate and headed toward the patio to watch the dancing. It was out of character for W.S. to miss a meal, so I wondered what had happened to him. It didn’t take long to find out! There on the dance floor, was my non-dancing husband doing “The Twist” with a curvaceous South American beauty, whose pony tail hung down past her southern hemisphere. Then I spied an extremely muscular man flexing his abs while shooting visual daggers at the gyrating couple. I didn’t know if he was upset because she was his girlfriend, or because he was a dance aficionado and W.S. was dancing like a pretzel.

When the band took a merciful break, Juanita and W.S. lurched over and she said, “I grabbed this handsome man because I just knew he’d rock my socks.” Removing the Kleenex from my ears, I looked at her bare legs and four-inch- high heels and said, “He’s a sock rocker all right.” She bid us, “Adios,” and joined the seething big guy.

“See that man over there?” I asked W.S. “Yes,” he replied. “You are lucky he didn’t kill you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m lucky he didn’t kill you because I’d never find my way home.” And I added, “You might want to stop drinking that stuff, because you are turning greener than the punch.”

He claimed it was the dancing, but admitted that he was starting to feel a bit queasy, and we decided to go home. By now, Izzy had jumped into the swimming pool with his clothes on, and I hoped he wasn’t planning on drowning himself before we left. Dr. Katz was laying spread out on top of his car. He was sick as a dog----(To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld, (CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT) Blumenfeld c. 2006