steverafferty.com

Radar

[This is a short story I wrote a few years ago. I was pretty pleased with it and asked my friend Joe — who was a published writer — to critique it. Unfortunately, his main objection about the story happened to be what I considered the crux of the story. So, I didn’t use his suggestions. Reading it over, I don’t think it’s quite as good as I thought it was a few years ago. Still, I think it’s kinda good. So, here it is.]

Some years ago, I was working downtown.  One nice thing about working downtown is that there are a lot of places to get lunch within walking distance.  Most days, I walked up to Lexington Market.  Besides the butchers and produce stands, there are lots of ready to eat food places: tacos, sushi, egg rolls, subs, you name it.  Once the guys panhandling at the entrance to the market recognize you and realize you aren’t going to give them any money it’s a fine place to find lunch.

I was walking up Greene Street one day and decided, on a whim, to walk down Redwood Street.  There was a small eatery that looked like it had been there for a hundred years.  Places like that are usually worth visiting; longevity indicates that the fare is good and cheap.  I walked in and peered at the letterboard that held the menu.  It was yellowed and there were a lot of places where the person who placed the letters on the signboard’s ridges had to improvise.  Phrases where a backwards 3 was used for an ‘E’.

“Hey, Steve,”.  I looked over the counter for the source of the voice.  I recognized Chuck, one of the guys from the old days.  Chuck was an occasional visitor to the Cockeysvile apartment where some serious partying went on years ago.  His brother, Radar — he got the nickname because he loved the Golden Earring song “Radar Love” — was a regular fixture there.

“Chuck, man, how are you?”

“Hey, I’m workin’, ya know?”

“Yeah, me too.  It’s good to have cash.”  I looked cautiously for someone who might be the boss.  “Food here, any good?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, man, what would you like?’

I placed my order and Chuck and I talked sporadically as he fielded orders from other customers and took their money.  When Chuck handed me my sandwich, I sat at one of the worn red top tables and ate.  It was good and, while it wasn’t as cheap as the stalls at Lexington Market, it was cheap enough.  It was good to know about this place.

As I was leaving, I thanked Chuck and said it was good to see him.  “Oh, hey, what’s up with Radar?” I asked.

Radar was one of the more extreme partiers back in the day.  He would and did do anything that came along.  He had a particular fondness for a drug that I mostly steered clear of:  PCP laced parsley which we called “Whoop.”  I smoked “Whoop” a few times but didn’t really enjoy it.  I can still picture Radar, sitting on the couch after a few hits, looking like a guy with a bad cold who had taken too many antihistamines.  Mouth open, eyes glazed, but, as with an antihistamine stupor, being spoken to roused attention almost immediately.

Oddly, Radar wasn’t one of the ones I worried about.  There were quite a few of those guys that I figured were just going nowhere.  We were all stoned most of the time but some guys just seemed so far into what they were doing that I figured they were sort of lost.  I saw Radar many times, totally fucked up on whatever but I didn’t think he was lost like the others.  He was smart and, despite his predilection for getting very high, he was reasonably careful.  We weren’t close enough that I knew what his hopes, goals, were but he seemed like he’d be OK.

I was one of the few in our group of friends who was going to college.  The others, for the most part, worked full time during the day and partied at night.  Since I was around during the day, I got the call when Radar needed to be picked up from the Baltimore County jail.  A few nights before, Radar was driving home, high on “Whoop”, and managed to get arrested.  He had stopped at a red light and then didn’t notice when it turned green again.  Or when it turned red again.  He said he didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he noticed the cop knocking his nightstick on the window.  In the jail, when Radar was straight enough he used his phone call to contact his mother, who promptly hung up on him.  So, he spent a few days in jail until she finally showed up and posted bail for him.  She didn’t wait around to take him home though and so he called me to get a ride.

Another thing that was different about Radar.  You could take him home to meet your mother.  Seriously.  Most of my friends couldn’t be trusted to not pass out, turn blue or say deranged things when they were with someone’s parent.  No such worries about Radar.  He was unfailingly polite and had a natural ‘good boy’ charm.  It was late afternoon when I picked him up and so I brought him to my house for supper.  He was broke and couldn’t find the keys to his apartment.  Although she tried not to think about it much, my mother knew what me and my friends were up to.  I’m sure she didn’t know the extent of what was going on but she knew in a general kind of way that we were smoking dope and stuff.  When my mother got home from work, I introduced her to Radar — I called him ‘Eddie’ — and she said of course he can stay for supper.  In the kitchen, I told her that Eddie had just got out of jail but that I didn’t know why, just that he’d asked for a ride.  Over meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Eddie was charming and communicative.  He told my mom about his mother and said he wished he didn’t make her worry so much.  Mom loved him.

After dinner we drove to the apartment in Cockeysville.  Radar told the story about how he was so high he didn’t notice the lights change and about the cop knocking on the window.  Lots of laughter.  Radar went on about how his mother was so pissed off she let him stay in jail.  More laughter.  Talking about the cops again, someone said “fucking pigs.’  Radar would have none of it.

“Hey, those cops were cool.  They coulda given me all kind of shit while I was so messed up but they didn’t, they were really nice.  And, they took my stereo,” — Radar had an Alpine car stereo he was really proud of — “and locked it in the trunk so the tow truck guys wouldn’t steal it.  They were cool.”

As time went on, our group of devoted partiers diffused and evaporated.  It’s like this with all friends, I think.  Time and circumstances change and new habits and patterns arise.  That said, it’s always good to run into one of the guys from years ago.  It’s nice to reminisce a bit and see that whomever is still around.

“Oh, he didn’t make it, man.”  Chuck’s response to my question took me off guard.  It didn’t occur to me to ask what happened, in what way didn’t he make it.  I just nodded solemnly and said, “Oh.  I’ll see you again, Chuck.”  Chuck grinned and waved and went back to waiting on customers.

Walking back to the building where I worked, I kept repeating to myself, “he didn’t make it, he didn’t make it.”  It just rang in my brain.  I couldn’t really think about it.  I worked the rest of the afternoon and at five o’clock, I walked up to Baltimore Street and got the bus to go home.

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