or a Sex on the Beach. They swear that the best girls, the classy girls, drink white wine spritzers or Bristol Cream. The women they talk about-they seem like an entirely new species to Tim. They could be imported from the moon.
The Tuerkes job felt like a demotion at first, but now Tim thinks it might be a turning point. Learn the ropes at Tuerkes, rise up, maybe start his own business. The economy is god-awful, but it won’t always be. People will have money to spend again one day. The trick is figuring out what they’ll want, or how to make them think they want what you’re selling. He’s seen customers in Tuerkes who have no more need of a $200 briefcase than a pig needs a sports car, but the briefcase represents something to them, a dream, an ambition. What will people want when the money flows again? High-end appliances? Jewelry? With men wearing it now, the market has doubled. Gadgets? Look at Hechinger, beginning to spread all over the goddamn place. Who knew that a fucking hardware store could get so big? A hammer is a hammer is a hammer.
In the meantime, Tim has no seniority and no paid vacation. Which is a better excuse for not going to the shore than ’fessing up to his kids that they pretty much have no money. Interest rates hovering at 17 percent this year, and he had to pay a penalty to cash in a CD. That hurt. He told the older boys that they had to get part-time jobs this summer, making it seem like a character-building exercise. But he can’t force Go-Go to get a job and the kid’s a nonstop fount of needs. Lately, he’s obsessed with this video game where some yellow dot eats other yellow dots until some ghosts eat the big yellow dot. Thank god there’s not an arcade within walking distance or Go-Go would spend all his days there, buying time at what Tim has figured to be about three minutes per quarter, give or take.
A month ago, Go-Go started pestering him for money for a Fourth of July costume. The kid’s all excited about marching in the parade, although he’s keeping his outfit a secret, says he doesn’t want anyone to steal his idea. There are prizes for the best ones, penny-ante shit, but Go-Go’s acting like the crown jewels are at stake. Tim said he couldn’t give him money if he didn’t know what it was for, and Go-Go stopped asking. Very un-Go-Go like. Also unlike him to keep a secret, but he has managed to hide his costume from everyone, even his brothers. Even now, he is still in the house, in his room, determined not to put in an appearance until the parade actually starts.
The Dickeyville Fourth of July parade is one of those things that people love about the neighborhood, but the preciousness of it is a little much for Tim. Jesus, it looks like everyone is going to march in the damn thing, who’s going to be left to watch? The theme is vaguely patriotic, yet also kind of feel-good:
As Tim looks around, he can’t believe this mix of hippies and preppies are his neighbors. He doesn’t fit in with either crowd. How did this happen? Was it always this way? He can’t remember now why he bought the house on Sekots Lane, other than that the price was right and he wanted a place whose walls didn’t connect to someone else’s walls. That seemed like a big step up. He’d like to blame Doris, but she fought him about the house-after the fact, which is the only way she fights. She said the neighborhood was too isolated and that she’d rather wait until they could afford something bigger. She also asked what was the point of moving to a place full of old-fashioned stone and brick houses surrounded by wooded hillsides, only to buy a new house that backed up to an apartment complex. “Things don’t break as much in a new house,” he argued. That’s a laugh. Things are constantly breaking in the house on Sekots Lane. There’s probably not an original appliance left in the place, and he’s pretty sure the hot-water heater is going down for the count.
Five minutes until the parade. It’s going to be a bitch of a day, hot and steamy. It makes Tim sweat just to look at the guy dressed up as George Washington. Even the sucker doing Jimmy Carter in shirtsleeves looks hot, and the poor Reagan impersonator is wearing a suit. Tim might vote for Reagan, although he’s keeping that to himself. If Teddy Kennedy can wrest the nomination away from Carter next month, then it will be different. Tim could never vote against a Kennedy. Sure, he knows about the dead girl, the secretary, and believes Kennedy was probably banging her, or planning to. So what? Those were his prerogatives. Tim doesn’t begrudge him a thing. He should be president, although Tim can’t imagine how many Secret Service agents it would take to keep him safe. Some nut will take a shot at him. There’s always a nut somewhere, willing to take a shot.
The parade is finally under way, transforming itself from a milling, formless mass into something with shape and purpose. The fife-and-drum trio has started playing, everyone is lining up. Where’s Go-Go? Tim begins to wonder if the boy understands how parades work, or if he even bothered to register, surely a prerequisite for marching and being considered for a prize. Go-Go has trouble understanding things like that, rules and regulations. His old man can sympathize.
The parade stretches out, heading down Pickwick toward the more picturesque heart of the village, wending its way toward the banks of the Gwynns Falls. Tim wonders if it’s too early to have a beer. It’s a holiday, isn’t it? The usual rules don’t apply. He goes back into the house and grabs a Schaefer. It is, as the song says, the one beer to have when you’re having more than one and Tim definitely plans to have more than one today.
A young mother, one of the ones who’s shadowing the buggy brigade, shoots him a dirty look. Hey, he put it in a Styrofoam koozie. No one can see the can. It’s a holiday, dammit.
Then he sees Go-Go, coming out the front door.
All those concerns are overshadowed by the fact that the kid is wearing actual skates. Sure, he’s got rubber covers on the blades, but he’s
Tim goes up to him. “Great costume, buddy.”
Go-Go nods his thanks, his entire being focused on what he has to do-the sweater, those skates. He’s almost vibrating inside all that gear. At least he has the good sense to wear the mask up on his head.
“But, buddy, you’ll never be able to walk in that getup. Even if you took off the skates-”
“I
“I got that, buddy.”
“I turned away thirty-six of the Soviets’ thirty-nine attempts on goal.”
“Yeah, in February, at Lake Placid. But it’s July in Baltimore. You’ll die. I mean, literally, Go-Go. You could die from the heat.”
Doris comes up, wringing her hands. “You can’t walk in that outfit, Go-Go. You’ll get sick.”
Funny, but Doris taking his side makes Tim want to find another one. He isn’t going to be like her, the enemy of fun, the worrywart.
“Look,” he says, “how about if I walk with you? Maybe bring some water. That way, if you get thirsty or something-”
Go-Go has been mincing forward all this time, slowly but surely, the gap between him and the parade growing larger and larger.
“You mean, like a bodyguard?”
“Sure,” his father says. “Like a bodyguard. I bet Jim Craig had a bodyguard when he went home to”-where was Jim Craig from?-“Philadelphia and all his friends came out to see him.”
“Jim Craig,” Go-Go says, every word, every step, a concentrated effort, “is from Massachusetts. Like Father Andrew.”
“Massachusetts, Pennsylvania. I always get them confused.”
Tim has Doris fill an old thermos with ice water, reluctantly trades it for his beer, then falls in behind Go-Go. Still, they’re losing ground with every labored step. Pretty soon, they can barely see the little girls with their baby
