deep-sea effect. Nolan had the house specialty—pond-raised catfish—the one thing about Iowa City he missed.
Then they went upstairs to the ballroom, where the Al Pierson Band was playing. An eight-piece group in powder-blue tuxes, the Pierson Band had a good, solid sound; Nolan was amazed how full so small a brass section could sound.
About eight months ago, it had occurred to Nolan that in a town full of country-rock discos and live rock ’n’ roll clubs, there was nothing for people of his generation—the sort of people who flocked to Iowa City for football and basketball weekends. He began providing Saturday night entertainment and soon added Friday, with groups like the Pierson Band. And it went over big—big enough to hire some top names; even the current Glenn Miller configuration had played at the Pier.
“How can you stand that shit?” Jon had demanded.
“What shit?”
“That . . . that Muzak !”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”
“It’s worse than fucking disco !’
“I considered a disco, but that fad seems pretty dead to me. Besides, I’m not after the college crowd.”
“Nolan, I got a piece of this place. What if I want to book a rock act in the ballroom?”
“No way in hell. You want the Ramones playing upstairs, while my businessmen and professors eat surf-and-turf downstairs? Sure.”
“Well that music sucks, and that’s all there is to it. I knew you were old, but I didn’t know you were Lawrence Welk.”
And the kid had stalked out.
It was probably the most hostile exchange they’d ever had. Soon Jon was gone, working out of Des Moines with his rock band.
He’d wanted to explain it to Jon. He’d wanted to explain that there were few things in this life that could bring a tear to his eyes, but one of them was Bob Eberley (or a good facsimile) singing “Tangerine.” No kid brought up on the Beatles could understand that.
He sat at a side table and had a few drinks and listened to the music and watched the couples dance. The floor was crowded, and most of the people were in their forties, fifties, sixties. Lots of blazers and blue hair. It made him feel old.
He looked at his watch: almost one.
He went to Wagner’s office and used the phone to call Sherry. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello,” her voice said.
“Hi, Sherry. Glad you didn’t have the damn answer phone on. I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Fine.”
“Bye, doll.”
“Bye, Logan.”
He hung up.
He went back and sat at a table. He ordered another drink. Pierson was playing a Donna Sommer song, and Wagner was out there shaking his bootie with some faded homecoming queen. Then the band began “Just the Way You Are,” and Wagner came over, sweating, smiling, and sat with Nolan.
“Still determined to kill yourself, Wag?”
“I guess,” Wagner grinned.
“Fuck!” Nolan said.
“What?”
He stood. “Logan she called me.”
“Huh?”
“She called me Logan.”
“What are you . . .”
“Someone’s there with her. The girl’s in trouble.”
Wagner was saying something, asking him something, but he didn’t stop to answer.
7
THE FIRST THING Sherry thought about when she got back to the house was putting out the dog. She’d been gone all day—shopping at both North and South Park with Sara, then sharing a pizza and a movie with her new friend (Sara worked at Nolan’s, too, as a waitress). But she knew the dog wouldn’t have made a mess. It was completely housebroken. Any dog that dared live with Nolan would have to be housebroken.
She pulled her little Datsun into the drive, parked it off to the side, leaving the way clear to the garage for Nolan when he got back. It was a chilly night, and she felt it: she was wearing the London Fog raincoat Nolan had bought her (it had looked overcast when she left the house that morning) and had as yet to hit him up for a winter coat.
She
Then they went upstairs to the ballroom, where the Al Pierson Band was playing. An eight-piece group in powder-blue tuxes, the Pierson Band had a good, solid sound; Nolan was amazed how full so small a brass section could sound.
About eight months ago, it had occurred to Nolan that in a town full of country-rock discos and live rock ’n’ roll clubs, there was nothing for people of his generation—the sort of people who flocked to Iowa City for football and basketball weekends. He began providing Saturday night entertainment and soon added Friday, with groups like the Pierson Band. And it went over big—big enough to hire some top names; even the current Glenn Miller configuration had played at the Pier.
“How can you stand that shit?” Jon had demanded.
“What shit?”
“That . . . that Muzak !”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”
“It’s worse than fucking disco !’
“I considered a disco, but that fad seems pretty dead to me. Besides, I’m not after the college crowd.”
“Nolan, I got a piece of this place. What if I want to book a rock act in the ballroom?”
“No way in hell. You want the Ramones playing upstairs, while my businessmen and professors eat surf-and-turf downstairs? Sure.”
“Well that music sucks, and that’s all there is to it. I knew you were old, but I didn’t know you were Lawrence Welk.”
And the kid had stalked out.
It was probably the most hostile exchange they’d ever had. Soon Jon was gone, working out of Des Moines with his rock band.
He’d wanted to explain it to Jon. He’d wanted to explain that there were few things in this life that could bring a tear to his eyes, but one of them was Bob Eberley (or a good facsimile) singing “Tangerine.” No kid brought up on the Beatles could understand that.
He sat at a side table and had a few drinks and listened to the music and watched the couples dance. The floor was crowded, and most of the people were in their forties, fifties, sixties. Lots of blazers and blue hair. It made him feel old.
He looked at his watch: almost one.
He went to Wagner’s office and used the phone to call Sherry. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello,” her voice said.
“Hi, Sherry. Glad you didn’t have the damn answer phone on. I’m sorry I’m so late.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Fine.”
“Bye, doll.”
“Bye, Logan.”
He hung up.
He went back and sat at a table. He ordered another drink. Pierson was playing a Donna Sommer song, and Wagner was out there shaking his bootie with some faded homecoming queen. Then the band began “Just the Way You Are,” and Wagner came over, sweating, smiling, and sat with Nolan.
“Still determined to kill yourself, Wag?”
“I guess,” Wagner grinned.
“Fuck!” Nolan said.
“What?”
He stood. “Logan she called me.”
“Huh?”
“She called me Logan.”
“What are you . . .”
“Someone’s there with her. The girl’s in trouble.”
Wagner was saying something, asking him something, but he didn’t stop to answer.
7
THE FIRST THING Sherry thought about when she got back to the house was putting out the dog. She’d been gone all day—shopping at both North and South Park with Sara, then sharing a pizza and a movie with her new friend (Sara worked at Nolan’s, too, as a waitress). But she knew the dog wouldn’t have made a mess. It was completely housebroken. Any dog that dared live with Nolan would have to be housebroken.
She pulled her little Datsun into the drive, parked it off to the side, leaving the way clear to the garage for Nolan when he got back. It was a chilly night, and she felt it: she was wearing the London Fog raincoat Nolan had bought her (it had looked overcast when she left the house that morning) and had as yet to hit him up for a winter coat.
She
Similar Books
