Behind the Times, Part 5

Behind the Times, Part 5 of 6

This story is dedicated to Laura (LadySmoker) for her kind words of
encouragement.



5.  Soda Fountain

White out, fading slowly to yellow, then to red.  A roar like thunder and
pain, gradually fading to silence.  Flames surround him, though he feels no
heat.  He has a sense of large pieces of masonry falling behind him, in front
of him, through him.  But he is still alive, still raising the Zippo.  Where
is the girl, where is the cigarette?

The girl is gone.  Ashes now, blowing in the wind.  Or pulped beneath a
concrete slab.  It can’t be helped.  Nonetheless, the cigarette remains,
floating unsupported in a sea of flames, unconsumed, unlit.  The lighter
moves toward the cigarette, its multicolored flame distinct against the fiery
background.

A new scene begins to develop.  Someone is holding the cigarette, now.  A
woman.  No, a young girl.  Sitting on a barstool, one elbow on a white
Formica counter.  There are other stools, other kids, booths.  It’s warmer
yet again.  A man stands behind the counter, dressed in white.  He looks like
a Good Humor man.

The murmur of young conversation rises around him.  Music is playing.  A
high, female voice is singing:

"Soldier boy…oh my little soldier boy…

The girl is about 15 or 16, with medium length red hair, wearing a white
sweater and schoolgirl skirt.  Bobby socks and Keds, too.  Her cigarette
touches the flame, glowing red as she drags.

Grant feel different.  He is slimmer.  He is wearing a red sweater, white
chinos, and sneakers.  A lot of old, familiar aches and pains are suddenly
gone.  His hair is thicker (though shorter) and has crept lower on his
forehead.  His heart beats strongly, his limbs feel light, a forgotten vigor
has returned.  He has an erection.  He is 16 years old.  He closes the
lighter.

Click.

The girl leaned back on her stool, blowing out the puff vigorously and
playfully, like someone who has only recently mastered the art of inhaling.
 Which, Grant thought, she probably has.

"Thanks, Aloysius," she said, making of the name a gentle taunt.

"Please don’t call me that.  My name is Grant."  His voice was higher-pitched
now.

"AOK, Grant!" she chuckled and raised the cigarette to her lips, puffed with
determination, and wreathed her face with smoke in her best imitation of a
debutante.

Grant looked around.  He was in an old-fashioned (strange thought!) soda
fountain, long and narrow, crowded with teenagers.  Many were smoking, and
the overwarm air was thick with their emissions.  Fountaining exhales erupted
continually from young mouths and nostrils.  A huge Whirlitzer jukebox stood
in the back.  Nothing nearby indicated the exact date, but from his
surroundings Grant guessed that it was the early 1960s.

The early 60s.  Peak time.  His time.  Smoking rates would never be higher in
the USA.  It was a paradise, and he was 16, with his life in front of him.
 This was home.  No more lights for strangers, at least not with the magic
Zippo!.  He called the soda jerk and received a large chocolate malt and a
book of matches.

Sixty cents!  Jesus!

Grant noticed a large clock on the wall. 11:45.  These kids must be on lunch
break from school.

Through the large front window Grant saw a sidewalk crowded with people.
 Across the street the sidewalk was also packed.  Police sawhorses kept the
crowd off the street, which was empty of traffic.  Must be a parade coming.

Grant turned and looked down the row of booths on his right.  All were
crowded with four or more teenagers, happily drinking, eating, smoking.  All
except one booth, where a pretty girl sat alone, looking unhappy.  Well,
Grant thought, time to try out my 36-year-old moves with my new teenaged
body.  He grabbed his malt and walked to the booth.

"May I sit here?" he asked the girl?

She looked up.  Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been recently crying.  Her
blond air was arranged cutely in a 60s bouffant, her face innocent of any
makeup.  She was dressed in the near-uniform schoolgirl outfit which seemed
to be the rule here.  "Sure, if you don’t mind being seen with a creep!"

Grant sat across from her.  "You’re not a creep!  Who says you’re a creep?"
 He looked around challengingly.

"They did," she said, indicating with a sweep of her hand the entire
fountain.  "They make fun of me because I can’t smoke right!"

Grant resisted wringing his hands with glee.  "Well, I’ll bet we can fix
that!  I’m Grant, by the way.  Just Grant."

"I’m Sue.  Sue Banning.  Are you new in school?"

He should have expected that, but he was taken aback for a moment.  "Uh, yes,
I just got into town."  He reached into a pocket of the chinos and pulled out
his pack and matches.  Salem kings, he noted.  Another great leap forward in
smoking technology.  "Is you mom named Nancy?"

"Yeah," she said wonderingly.  "How did you know?"

"I…my dad met her in the war.  In London."

"Yeah, she was almost killed there, lots of times.  In the Blitz."  She
paused and looked him over.  She seemed to like what she saw, Grant noticed
with pleasure.  "Can you teach me to smoke…like a grownup?"

"Sure," he said in his most reassuring manner.  "It’s no big deal.  Anyone
can do it."  He shook out two Salems and handed her one.  His mind whirled
with pleasant possibilities.  He could be a king here!  He knew the outcome
of every major sporting event for many years to come.  He knew what the stock
market would do.  A few bets, a few investments…Bill Gates would be calling
him for a loan.

Sue stuck the cigarette in her mouth and looked defiantly at the kids sitting
at the fountain.  "Now," said Grant, "Watch what I do." He lit his cigarette
with a match and puffed out some uninhaled smoke.

"I’ve done that lots of times!" she said.  

"OK, here’s the next step,"  said Grant.  He took a brief drag, opening his
mouth to show Sue the smoke, then inhaled.  He blew a small plume in Sue’s
direction.  He was pleased to see that she didn’t duck the smoke.  "Just take
a short drag, and after you take the cigarette out, breath in some air.  Then
blow.  That’s it"

"Will it make me sick?"

"No…well maybe a little.  You might cough, at first.  Just be sure not to
suck too hard or long."  Grant lit a match.  She leaned forward and awkwardly
took the light.  Smoke puffed out around the cigarette held in her small
lips.  She removed the cigarette, looked wonderingly at it in her hands, then
raised it to her lips.

"OK, here goes."  She drew on the cigarette for a short second, then lowered
it.  Smoke curled thickly from the tip.  She breathed in with an audible
gasp.  Her mouth snapped shut and her eyes began to water.  Then she opened
her mouth and blew.

Sue and Grant were rewarded with a respectable exhale.  The smoke drifted
across the table between them, and Grant leaned forward a little to sniff the
sweet air.

Sue covered her hand with her mouth and coughed lightly.  Grant saw some
wisps of smoke escape from around her small hand.  He thought it was about
the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

"Good job!" Grant said.  "I knew you could do it!  Now, try again."

Proudly, Sue raised her cigarette and drew once more, this time for a good
three seconds.  Grant worried that she might be overdoing it.  She removed
the cigarette and drew in air.  Her eyes did not water so much this time.
 She puckered her lips (just like her mother!) and exhaled a thick, billowing
cloud.  Her features blurred through the smoke.

"Great!" said Grant wholeheartedly.  "See, you’re a natural.  It runs in the
family."

"Yeah," said Sue.  "My mom smokes like a chimney.  She’d be mad if she knew I
was doing this."

Grant took a long puff.  "Don’t worry about your mom," he said, exhaling as
he spoke.  "She’s a good gal…or so my dad said."

Sue took another, even longer puff, threw her head back, and exhaled a long
stream upwards.  "Oh, this feels so good," she said, more smoke escaping as
she spoke.  

"It only gets better.  You have a lot more to learn…French inhales…smoke
rings…but there’s no rush.  We have all the time in the world."  All the
time…

He glanced at the clock. 12:20.  For some reason, he felt nervous.  Why worry
about the time?  When it was time to go back to class, the place would empty
fast, and he’d just roll with the flow.

"Just a minute," Sue said, and took an even longer puff.  Closing her mouth,
she jumped up and ran to where the redheaded girl was sitting at the
fountain.  She bent down as if to speak to her, then exhaled a huge cloud
right in her face.

The redhead laughed, not at all put out, and she and Sue spent a minute
taking long drags and blowing smoke at each other.  Sue returned to the booth
and sat down.

Another record started on the Whirlitzer:

"Let’s Twist again…like we did last summer…"

"Feel better now?" Grant asked.

"Oh, yes, thank you sooo much."  She seemed a little tipsy.  The classic
beginner’s nicotine high, Grant thought.  Sue took a last drag from the
cigarette and again clouded the air between them.

But Grant was distracted, still nervous.  He looked up at the clock again.
 12:25.  He heard a murmur from the crowd outside.  Some excitement seemed to
be building.

"What’s this parade all about?" he asked.

She looked at him oddly.  "It’s the president, silly!  Why do you think we’re
here and not in school?  He’ll be by any minute now.  We should go out and
look."

A chill sank into Grant’s stomach.  He was developing an awful suspicion.
 Outside he saw cars and motorcycles passing.  The crowd was cheering.
 "What’s today?" he asked sharply.

"The 22nd, of course, " she sighed.  "I can’t wait for Thanksgiving break."

The clock read 12:28.

"Jesus Christ!" Grant shouted and leaped up.  He bolted for the door.

"Grant, wait!  What’s the matter?"

He paid no heed.  He burst through the door into mild autumn air.  Almost
subliminally, he registered the name painted on the window.

"Dealy Fountain"

Grant elbowed through the crowd and vaulted the barricade.  Through his fear,
his mind reported that there were many advantages to having a 16-year-old
body.

The last vehicles in the motorcade were about 50 yards up the street, just
entering a large plaza.  Grant ran after them frantically, shouting "Stop!
 Stop the cars! STOP!"

Two motorcycle cops trailing the procession braked their vehicles and turned
to face him.  He couldn’t see their expressions behind the helmets and
shades, but they did not look pleased.  One cop reached for the holster at
his belt.

>From somewhere above Grant’s right shoulder came a sharp, flat crack.  The
cops’ heads jerked up.  Both drew their guns.

Grant kept running.  Ahead he saw an open-topped limousine sway in the
roadway.  Men in suits who had been pacing the car on foot were now running
toward it.

Crack! Another shot from above.  Someone was sprawled on the hood of the limo
now, and it was starting to speed up and turn.  But still slowly.  Much too
slowly.

Crack!  Grant was past the motorcycle cops, only 20 yards from the limo, but
it was too late.  He saw a fountain of blood erupt from the limo’s back seat.
 Too late.

Grant heard a sound like an angry, gigantic hornet, then felt concrete
splinters strike his leg painfully.  A small crevice had appeared in the curb
by his feet.

Someone was shooting at him!  They thought he was in on it!

Grant dived to the asphalt and rolled under another official car, now
stopped.  Desperately wriggling under the car, he emerged from under the back
fender, hoping he had placed the car between him and the Secret Service
agents who were gunning for him.

Or maybe, he thought with wild laughter echoing in his head, it was someone
from the Grassy Knoll…

Still on his belly, Grant somehow managed to reach the milling, shocked
crowd.  He stood and glancing around, seeing no signs of pursuit directed
toward him.  He moved quickly but carefully through the mob, heading for an
empty side street.

The limo was gone now, off to the hospital on its useless errand.  Sirens
seemed to rise from all directions at once.  The crowd, stunned and silent,
made way for Grant without seeing him.

His left leg hurt where the concrete splinters had cut him.  There were some
bloody spots on his chinos.  He could only hope no one would pay him any more
attention in all the chaos.

Somewhere, he knew, far to the north and east, three-year-old Aloysius Potter
Grant would be happily sitting in his playpen.  His mother, cigarette no
doubt in hand, would be doing dishes, or the wash, or some other chore.
 Somewhere in the house a TV would be on.  And, in another 20 minutes or so,
his mother’s face would go white with shock, along with a few hundred million
other faces.  Grant the toddler would remember none of it.  Grant the
newly-minted teenager would be a long time forgetting it.

Grant was wracked with guilt and tears streamed down his face.

Five minutes, he thought.  Five minutes sooner.  If he had not been so
wrapped up in his own pleasure, he could have put two-and-two together
sooner.  He might have been arrested, even shot.  But the motorcade would
have stopped.  The president would be alive.  He could have changed history.

Grant trotted along the side street for a couple of blocks, finally reaching
another main street.  His thoughts still in chaos, he wanted nothing more
than to get far away from this place.  If he should be recognized and picked
up, there would be a lot of questions for which he would have no good
answers.  And wouldn’t old Jim Garrison love this one!  He wondered who would
play him in the movie JFK.

A little way up this new street was a bus stop, where only one person was
waiting.  Grant walked to the stop and stood behind the man.  It seemed a
good way to leave the area unobtrusively.

Grant, lost in a thousand conflicted thoughts, almost didn’t hear the man
speak.

"Got a light?"

Grant absently felt in his pocket and came up with the Zippo.  Five minutes.
 Even three minutes. He opened the lighter and held it to the man.

Click.

It only remains for a instant, but he sees the man’s face.  A stranger’s
face, but familiar.  A face he has seen many times, in books, magazines, on
television.  The face of a killer whose own death was only two days away.

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