tennis, or any other energetic activity. Besides, I was in no mood or physical condition for strenuous exertion except a jolly game of jacks or a rollicking session of mumblety-peg.
I changed into jazzier threads, including a sport jacket of black and white awning stripes. My father once unkindly remarked it made me look like a fugitive from a chain gang. I didn’t dare mention that his sport jackets seemed designed for wear at memorial services for President Millard Fillmore.
I set out for the Pelican Club, my spirits already beginning to ascend. I anticipated a quiet, soothing hour or more, perhaps exchanging philosophical profundities with Mr. Simon Pettibone. I would imbibe an exhilarating alcoholic concoction or two. I might even enjoy one of Leroy’s special burgers with a slice of red onion atop. Suddenly life was once again worth living and I found myself singing “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” As I recalled, the rest of the lyric went, “I just want to start a flame in your heart.” Can gangsta rap compete with that?
The Pelican was almost deserted, as I knew it would be on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. The golden lads and lasses would be cavorting on the courts, links, beach, or mayhap just swinging idly in a hammock for two.
I stopped at the bar to exchange greetings with our club manager.
“Something to wet the whistle, Mr. McNally?” he inquired.
I considered. “Perhaps I’ll move to the dining room and have a spot of lunch. I’ll see what Leroy is pushing and ask Priscilla to bring me a fitting beverage to sluice it down.”
He leaned across the bar and beckoned me close. “Peter Gottschalk is back there,” he warned in a low voice. “By himself.”
“Ah,” I said. “What condition?”
“Sober but quiet. Very quiet. I’d say depressed.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Mix me a stiff vodka gimlet now, please, and I’ll have a gulp of Dutch courage before I join him. Perhaps I’ll cheer him up.”
“Or perhaps he’ll depress you.”
“A distinct possibility,” I admitted.
I took a swig of the sturdy gimlet and headed for the dining area. Peter was seated alone at a corner table. There was a half-empty pilsner of beer before him, a basket of salted pretzels, and a saucer of mustard. He was staring moodily at this feast and didn’t look up until I spoke.
“H’lo, Peter,” I said, trying to sound chirrupy.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Hi, Archy.”
“May I join you?”
“If you like. I should warn you I’m lousy company.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, and slid into the chair facing him.
“I goofed,” he said suddenly. “I guess you heard.”
“No, I heard nothing,” I lied. “How did you goof?”
“Totaled the old man’s car. The night of the party.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Scratches and bruises. Nothing serious. I was zonked. But things are hairy at home. I’m staying away as much as I can.”
“Well, as they say in Alaska, be it ever so humble there’s no place like Nome.”
He looked at me. “Have you ever been in Alaska?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know they say it?”
“Peter,” I said gently, “I never intend my nonsense to be taken literally.”
“You’re right,” he said unexpectedly. “Things have been happening to me lately. Losing my sense of humor is one of them. I don’t know what’s going on.”
I feared prying into his personal angst. “May I share your pretzels?” I asked.
“Sure. Help yourself.”
I dunked one in the dish of steroidal mustard. “What was your father’s reaction?” I inquired.
“Well, he didn’t kick me out or anything like that. I guess he was just disappointed in me. It’s okay. I’m disappointed in him.”
I hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant by that and I don’t believe he did either.
He took a swallow of his beer. “I’ve got to do something,” he declared.
Now I was curious. “Do what?”
“Something. Anything. Everyone else in that zoo
I changed into jazzier threads, including a sport jacket of black and white awning stripes. My father once unkindly remarked it made me look like a fugitive from a chain gang. I didn’t dare mention that his sport jackets seemed designed for wear at memorial services for President Millard Fillmore.
I set out for the Pelican Club, my spirits already beginning to ascend. I anticipated a quiet, soothing hour or more, perhaps exchanging philosophical profundities with Mr. Simon Pettibone. I would imbibe an exhilarating alcoholic concoction or two. I might even enjoy one of Leroy’s special burgers with a slice of red onion atop. Suddenly life was once again worth living and I found myself singing “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” As I recalled, the rest of the lyric went, “I just want to start a flame in your heart.” Can gangsta rap compete with that?
The Pelican was almost deserted, as I knew it would be on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. The golden lads and lasses would be cavorting on the courts, links, beach, or mayhap just swinging idly in a hammock for two.
I stopped at the bar to exchange greetings with our club manager.
“Something to wet the whistle, Mr. McNally?” he inquired.
I considered. “Perhaps I’ll move to the dining room and have a spot of lunch. I’ll see what Leroy is pushing and ask Priscilla to bring me a fitting beverage to sluice it down.”
He leaned across the bar and beckoned me close. “Peter Gottschalk is back there,” he warned in a low voice. “By himself.”
“Ah,” I said. “What condition?”
“Sober but quiet. Very quiet. I’d say depressed.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Mix me a stiff vodka gimlet now, please, and I’ll have a gulp of Dutch courage before I join him. Perhaps I’ll cheer him up.”
“Or perhaps he’ll depress you.”
“A distinct possibility,” I admitted.
I took a swig of the sturdy gimlet and headed for the dining area. Peter was seated alone at a corner table. There was a half-empty pilsner of beer before him, a basket of salted pretzels, and a saucer of mustard. He was staring moodily at this feast and didn’t look up until I spoke.
“H’lo, Peter,” I said, trying to sound chirrupy.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Hi, Archy.”
“May I join you?”
“If you like. I should warn you I’m lousy company.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, and slid into the chair facing him.
“I goofed,” he said suddenly. “I guess you heard.”
“No, I heard nothing,” I lied. “How did you goof?”
“Totaled the old man’s car. The night of the party.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Scratches and bruises. Nothing serious. I was zonked. But things are hairy at home. I’m staying away as much as I can.”
“Well, as they say in Alaska, be it ever so humble there’s no place like Nome.”
He looked at me. “Have you ever been in Alaska?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know they say it?”
“Peter,” I said gently, “I never intend my nonsense to be taken literally.”
“You’re right,” he said unexpectedly. “Things have been happening to me lately. Losing my sense of humor is one of them. I don’t know what’s going on.”
I feared prying into his personal angst. “May I share your pretzels?” I asked.
“Sure. Help yourself.”
I dunked one in the dish of steroidal mustard. “What was your father’s reaction?” I inquired.
“Well, he didn’t kick me out or anything like that. I guess he was just disappointed in me. It’s okay. I’m disappointed in him.”
I hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant by that and I don’t believe he did either.
He took a swallow of his beer. “I’ve got to do something,” he declared.
Now I was curious. “Do what?”
“Something. Anything. Everyone else in that zoo
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