Kissing the Beehive

"Do you still make the California burger?"

"Sure! You want one?" To my surprise, her eyes brightened and she let loose a very friendly smile. Watching her, I saw that this young woman had only so much energy in her and would consume it all by the time she was only thirty-five or forty. After that, her life would be sighs and tired gestures but enough intelligence to realize she'd used up her share long before she should have. The thought crossed my mind like a shooting star and then was gone. I looked at the name plate over her breast. Do

"Do

"Yeah? And?"

"A

As she turned to go, I put up a finger. "Wait a sec. Do you go to the high school?"

"Unfortunately."

"Does Mrs. Muzroll still teach there?"

"She don't teach, mister, she naps. That's where you do your homework, in Mrs. Muzroll's class. You went to Crane's View?" She threw a thumb over her shoulder in its direction.

"A long time ago."

She smiled again. "I wish I went there a long time ago!"

"Still bad, huh?"

"Naah, not so bad. I just like complaining. I'll get your burger."

I watched her walk away, then checked out who else was there. A moving van was parked outside and I assumed the two giants down the counter eating meat loaf belonged to it.

I stared too long at a teenage couple in a booth who were having fun shooting paper wrappers off straws at each other. I remembered sitting in that same booth with Louise Hamlin one night after we'd had a heavy make-out session behind the school. We drank cherry Cokes and stared at each other with the delight and gratitude that comes only after hours of monumental fourteen-year-old kissing. Something deep in my chest tightened at the thought of that night, and of Louise Hamlin with her strawberry blond hair.

"Here you go. Something to look at while you're waiting." Do

"Wow, Do

"I've been keeping it in the back. You can see if Mrs. Muzroll looks any different."

"I doubt it. Thanks again."

It was the perfect yellow brick road back into my old hometown. So much was familiar, so much wasn't. I knew none of the kids but the faces in any yearbook always look the same. Same u

"See anyone you know?" Do

"Lots! It's hard to believe some of these people are still at the school. Pupel used to make the best-looking boys in class sit in the front rows. He once tried that with Fra

Hearing the name of the infamous McCabe, Do

"Really? He's still in town?"

"Sure! What's your name? I'll tell him I saw you. You were in his class?"

"Yes. My name is Samuel Bayer. Sam. We were great friends. He was the toughest guy I ever met. What does he do now?"

"He's a cop."

"Fra

"Yeah, well, he is. He was bad when he was a kid, huh?" The pleased look in her eye said she'd heard her share of stories about Uncle Fra

"The worst! Do

"He's good too. He's chief."

I slapped my forehead in astonishment. "When we were kids, if I'd said he was going to be chief of police here one day, he would have been insulted."

"Hey, Do

She looked at the moving men and nodded. "You should go to the station and say hi. He'd like that. He's always down there." She picked up a coffee pot and walked away.

I continued looking through the book as I ate. The football team had done well, the basketball team hadn't. The spring play was West Side Story. The makeup on the kids was so bad, all of the actors looked like they were from The Addams Family. I flipped through the pages past the computer club, chess club, kitchen and janitorial staff. Ninth grade, tenth grade and then there it was, a face I didn't know, but a name I did know, and a memory as large as my life: Pauline Ostrova.

"Jesus Christ! Do

"Yeah?"

I pointed to a picture. "Do you know her? Pauline Ostrova?"

"Yes. I mean I know her, but she's not like a friend or anything. Why?"

"What's she like?" For a moment I didn't realize I was holding my breath in anticipation.

"Sort of weird. Smart. Into computers and stuff. She's a brain. Why, you know her family? You know about them?"

"Uh-huh. I know a lot about them."

She leaned in closer, as if about to tell me a secret. "You know about the other Pauline? Her aunt? What happened to her?"

"Do

I left the diner feeling so good that I could have rumbaed around the parking lot. In the car I turned the radio on full blast and sang along to the Hollies' song "Bus Stop."

I had it. I finally had it again and the fact was so glorious and exciting that I felt bullet-proof. I had it! It was almost nine at night when I picked up the car phone and started dialing the office number of Aurelio Parma, editorial gargoyle, afrit and human Ebola virus to tell him Ha! I have the idea for an incredible new book! Plus everything is already there: no need to create a thing. The phone rang in his office until, through the rocket's red glare of my enthusiasm, I realized he had gone home hours before. But I had to talk to someone about this. I got out my address book and found Patricia Chase's home number. In all the years we had worked together, I had never once called Patricia at home. Now I knew I'd have an embolism if I didn't.

I waited while her phone rang. Across the street was a gas station that had once been Flying A, then Gulf, Sunoco, then Citgo. Now it was Exxon and looked very hi-tech modern, although there was no garage where cars could be repaired. Just the gas pumps and one of those tiny markets that cater to people's addictions – cigarettes, lottery tickets, junk food and The National Enquirer.

In its earlier incarnation, the station had been where we always rode our bikes after school to the bright red Coke machine in front. Drinks cost a dime and that vaguely green glass bottle would come banging down from inside, ice-cold and curving perfectly into your hand. We'd stand there with our bikes balanced between our legs, drinking in long bottle-emptying glugs. In between, we'd watch cars pull in and out for gasoline or to be repaired. We'd name the makes if they made the grade. "Fuckin' 4-4-2." "Nice 'Vette." "That Z-28'd kick your ass!" Eavesdropping on the mechanics' conversations as they worked in the garage had taught us the importance of these great machines, as well as all the dirty words a nine-year-old needed to know. At home, the pictures on our walls were of Shelby Mustangs or Cobras, a Chevrolet 327 engine, a tucked-and-rolled custom-leather interior, the drag racers Don Prudhomme or "Swamp Rat" Don Garlits.