Happy Hour at the Greenwood Car Show

It was like entering a movie Rebel Without A Cause The Wild One Blackboard Jungle ten blocks of Greenwood shut down 300 cars lined up like prizes a row of Corvettes a Henry J with a big block Chrysler Hemi slicks and a jacked up rear end dozens of hot rods rat rods all steel ‘32 Fords rebuilt GTOs and Mustangs a ‘56 Olds Convertible and a dark blue lowered and leaded two-door ‘51 Merc like the one my brother had in 1957 ancient Harleys Indians BSAs Triumphs Moto Guzzis but Stan had asked me to tend bar at the Pig & Whistle for an hour or so knowing they’d be slammed so there I was pouring pints of Guinness and Mac & Jack a couple of martinis careful don’t bruise the gin shots of Jager with PBR chasers for a loud quartet of frat boys who should have known better bar bourbon and water from an old guy who paid with nickels and dimes and left a quarter tip one single malt 18 year old Macallan for a man who looked like a banker tequila shooters Long Island Iced Tea gin rocks and somehow a glass of Chardonnay for a woman wearing a tiara dressed like a prom queen more pints and pitchers and please don’t blow a keg not while I’m pouring Irish Car Bombs for a trio of lawyers who threw their ties in the trash by three when Liza relieved me and I walked out into the glare of the summer day surrounded by middle aged women in Poodle Skirts and Pink Satin jackets, husbands and boyfriends in white t shirts with packs of Luckies rolled in the sleeves DAs with what little hair was left while from loud speakers a DJ played Elvis crooning Heartbreak Hotel when for an instant the world stopped spinning for a couple who had to be in their 70s slow dancing in the middle of the street as if only love mattered oblivious to the throngs of people smiling and drifting around them clinging to each other moving to their hearts’ rhythms and for a moment I was with them stepping into time’s graceful song

She descends three steps into the garden

A wide wooden bench invites her to sit

Soak in sunshine like the parsnips

Like the pink hydrangeas the nearby chard and kale

Twists of gray dreadlocks escape beneath the brim of her wilted straw hat, her clouded eyes rise above the red plaid mask

Wander past bloom-filled rows in raised beds

They linger on bent backs a family pulling weeds

She sees herself once more in yesteryear gardens

Baskets heaped with bounty she planted, tended and picked

Today in this garden her withered fingers pluck

Air flowers, pick imagined lint until one of the children

Places a yellow bouquet in her chestnut hands

Dale Champlin