O'Connell, Joe.Austin American Statesman; Austin, Tex. [Austin, Tex]08 Jan 1998: 53.
I needn't have brought the camera. The true pictures of the house reside in my mind as it was when I last entered the door in the early '80s. In fact, my head is full of vivid images of many places that no longer exist, at least not in their original forms. As David Byrne would said, "This is not my beautiful house ... "
If I squint my eyes tightly, I can walk their hallways. The fifth step down is larger than the rest. Be careful. Over here, pencil marks on the wall chart my steady growth. Sometimes the buildings emerge in a flash while I'm driving. The past washes over me and just as quick is gone, replaced by something I dare call the present. But these places exist. I'm sure of that. Each exists then, now and in the future. They dance together and form something ever new, vibrant, alive.
Long black tables in back. The tinkle of happy music draws us to the long benches. A player piano is alive. Notes spray forth. Keys depress, guided by invisible fingers. Brothers and sisters fight for another slice of pie. Pepperoni. Cheese. I love cheese. The crust is thin, brown and crisp. Cheese dangles toward my mouth as I lean my head back as far as it will go.
My childhood home was for sale again. I called the real estate agent and arranged a tour. I said I was coming as a favor to a friend who had just been hired as an executive at ... Dell. Yeah, that was it.
I bought a disposable camera and entered the house clicking. The living room was nicer, no wood paneling of old. The agent wandered the house with me, pointing out every new detail.
"In my opinion this porch would look lovely if it were screened in," she said. It was lovely that way, I thought, and clicked off another shot.
Upstairs I asked if there had been an attic fan once, knowing full well there had. "Heavens, no," she said. "But wouldn't that be lovely? And it sure would reduce the cooling costs." Click.
I needn't have brought the camera. The true pictures of the house reside in my mind as it was when I last entered the door in the early '80s. In fact, my head is full of vivid images of many places that no longer exist, at least not in their original forms. As David Byrne would said, "This is not my beautiful house ... "
If I squint my eyes tightly, I can walk their hallways. The fifth step down is larger than the rest. Be careful. Over here, pencil marks on the wall chart my steady growth. Sometimes the buildings emerge in a flash while I'm driving. The past washes over me and just as quick is gone, replaced by something I dare call the present. But these places exist. I'm sure of that. Each exists then, now and in the future. They dance together and form something ever new, vibrant, alive.
As I drove down Guadalupe the other day past what many Austinites refer to as "the place that used to be Antone's," workers were cementing a new facade onto a building with many pasts.
PIZZA
Stretch tiny legs toward the door to Shakey's. Grip Dad's hand and hurry. The smell of cheese cradles, pulls my family inward. Men in white coats and puffy hats toss pizza dough in the air silently behind glass. The gooey mass twirls, grows, rips, is reborn.
Long black tables in back. The tinkle of happy music draws us to the long benches. A player piano is alive. Notes spray forth. Keys depress, guided by invisible fingers. Brothers and sisters fight for another slice of pie. Pepperoni. Cheese. I love cheese. The crust is thin, brown and crisp. Cheese dangles toward my mouth as I lean my head back as far as it will go.
We beg to go to Shakey's often. Across the street is Dairy Queen, the first one ever, my parents say. But I beg for the men who spin white magic into pizza.
Another scroll is wound into the player piano. The ghosts nod at us, and begin their concert.
DISCO
Frank's CB handle is Purple Haze. He's older, drives a hot rod, walks with a swagger. And he goes to bars. Tonight he is taking us with him. Sweat drains from our 15-year-old armpits. This is The Still. I erase the year from the birth date on my learner's permit and pencil in an older one. The doorman nods and we enter through the front door of Shakey's. Only now, a partition hides a bar. We walk around it and recorded music surrounds us. Where the player piano once stood is a towering deejay booth from which a hidden wizard produces magic sounds that thump deeply into our chests.
Tables gird the dance floor. Seniors are here. I boldly ask an impossibly beautiful blonde senior named April to dance. I don't know how to dance. My body is wood. I bounce, doing my worst imitation of the white guy dance. (Remember, move at the hips, my sister's voice echoes in my mind.) Heat burns across my face.
Every teen-ager's dream. The polyester of the red dress is a glove on ample curves. The neckline dips dangerously. This is an older woman, an experienced woman. Her dark eyes sparkle when I ask for a dance. Red lights, blue lights, white lights, green. They mingle along our bodies and reflect back to the wooden ceiling. Donna Summer sings, "Looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening." Our bodies sway as one. She looks around to see who is watching her, then slithers against me. The heat burns down my chest.
When the song ends, she returns to her table and orders another Sloe Gin Fizz. I write my phone number on a napkin and, Mr. Cool, drop it on her table as I leave. I don't dare look back.
A miracle -- she calls. I tell her I am leaving for college the next day. Her name is Rose and she is a telephone operator and part-time disco queen. I am too young for her and we both know it. She laughs kindly at my clumsy efforts to be smooth. She won't give me her telephone number.
Whenever I am back in town I call information hoping to discover Rose's voice laughing back at me.
*Jennifer is beautiful inside and out. A young Mary Tyler Moore, but taller. When we met in high school I was already dating someone else, so we became friends. I return from college and go to The Still. She is in a booth by the wall clowning with friends. She greets me with a grin. We dance. Familiar faces in a familiar place. Our bodies glide across the dance floor with ease.
Two weeks later Jennifer is in a car accident while visiting in another state. Iowa? Idaho? Her legs are severed. She is dead. Other details are sketchy. I never again set foot in The Still.
THE BLUES
She loves the blues. She complains that we never go anywhere, that our relationship is going nowhere. She is right. We go to Antone's. I did not know it had moved here! The old entrance to The Still/Shakey's is gone. Now we enter on the side past the ghosts of pizza chefs and disco queens. I do not want to be here.
Seven men blow seven horns on a stage that replaces the deejay booth that replaces the magic piano. We find a table close to the crowded dance floor. We do not talk much. We do not dance.
The music drills into my head. The drive home is silent except for the tinging I will hear in my aching ears for the next 24 hours.
*Christmas Eve on bar stools. Brad's family is far away. Mine is scattered. Steve is escaping his for the night, and Gilbert despises the holiday season while only tolerating his wife's Christmas tree. We sit at the Antone's bar sipping cold beer and staring at a soundless television as a guitarist warms up on stage. Besides us, maybe five paying customers are here on what must be the slowest club night of the year. Certainly a recipe for bar stool depression, I think, and sigh deeply.
On the television, "Sodom and Gomorrah" is showing. Toga-clad men strut through ancient, sinful times, or at least the Hollywood, badly colorized version of them. Since the sound is off, we step in with dialogue for the citizens.
"Good evening, centurion. Would you happen to have some cheese?" asks the muscular man in the blue toga.
"Cheese? Why no, I do not have cheese," replies the older man bearing a sword. "But my stomach does love this substance dearly. Perhaps the passing serving wench can assist us. No. She has walked past us without a word. This is indeed a dilemma ..."
For the next hour the four of us create a new plot for the proud toga wearers, all of it centered around the quest for some most-excellent cheese. Occasionally, we pause to take a drink of beer or watch the guitar wizard perform on stage. But soon we are back in cheesy old Sodom and Gomorrah. We laugh as one and order another round.
* The doors to Junior Brown's ever-popular Sunday night show at the Continental Club are shut tightly tonight. No one else will be admitted. Junior is getting too trendily popular. Last time Gilbert and I saw this show, Quentin Tarantino and Richard Linklater sat on stools next to us and affixed a glossy "cool" seal of approval on everything.
Instead we head north, decide to stop in at Antone's. Maceo Parker has already been on stage for two hours. Admission price is reduced to $5 for latecomers like us. This is James Brown's former sax player, Gilbert explains.
Shakey's/Still/Antones is rattling with the blues. The club is nearing fire- code-breaking full of life. We order two Shiner Bock and wedge our way into the crowd. Heads and bodies bob around us. My own head begins to move as if I it has been sucked into some borglike being brimming with soul. Good God almighty.
To the side of us, women crawl up onto the bar, stand for a moment, then begin to sway back and forth unselfconsciously. One of them kicks her foot out with glee. She is a dead ringer for Jennifer.
Gilbert yells, "Pass the peas!" and, on cue, Maceo bursts into the song of the same name. We hoot and look at each with grins that say, "We are where it's at. Cool."
The crowd envelops us in its groove. From somewhere in the building, I swear, I catch the faint aroma of pizza cooking. The walls greedily suck the energy from the room like a hungry sponge.
