Timmy dropped the A&W redhead carhop like a piping-hot hot potato, hopped back into his red Ferrari, screeched out of the lot in chase of a dream, a vision, a blue-eyed blonde in a white Jaguar, its top down, all of her allures to be leered by whomever. The sheer brazenness of her opulent beauty on the display to just any Tom, Dick and Harry inflamed Timmy's brain to near breaking point.
On the road, head swiveling, he scanned. Traffic rolled along. Cars waited at a red light. Pedestrians strolled sidewalks. A world without a care. The summer sun yawned and blessed those below in waves of gold. All except Timmy Marcade.
Where is she? Where is Susan Weston? Where did she go? Vanished! Like a ghost!
He scoured the horizon and back. Cars everywhere but nary a drop of white Jag! Aquamarine metallic! Shoreline Gold! A deuce in lime metalflake! A Biscayne in black!
Wait! A dash of ivory rounding a corner!
Timmy ran a red light, weaved through cars, an angry mob of motorists shaking firsts and leaning on horns, cursing the near misses. Timmy barreled down a side street, the white whale in view...
Oh... a Falcon.
Damn! He wanted to murder the duffer behind the wheel. But that would be a waste of precious time and energy. Focus on what's important! Susan!
He prowled up and down the suburban sprawl searching, searching, searching until a 100 watt Sylvania beamed over his head. Then he stepped on the gas, grabbed the first ramp onto the highway and pointed his Ferrari in the direction of the Randall oceanside manse. In record time he was skidding to a park, racing to the front door, pounding on it like a Bedlam escapee, like a man in love.
In what seemed an eternity of fists tattooing a bongo beat worthy of a bonobo tribe on the stern solid mahogany, the door opened, sesame, and Timmy beheld... the Japanese manservant. Timmy didn't waste a second on amenities; he was roaming the house, hoarsely demanding, "Where is she? Where is Susan! I've here to claim my prize, my beloved!" Way in the back of his mind a voice whispered, "I still need a root beer! Three! Cold as the dickens! Damn!"
Tokyo eyes squinted, scrutinized, and the cucumber-cool Oriental queried the crazed round-eye, "Miss Susan, suh?"
But Timmy was already zooming about the rear of the house, opening bedroom doors, crashing into Randy's office, yanking closet doors open. Then he was on the patio, the Pacific a short walk away. He spied a figure! Blonde! Approaching a sailboat!
He leapt over the patio rail, hit the beach, sprinted up to the woman, grabbed her shoulder, flipped her with such unintended force that she landed on her bum. Marcade screamed to the heavens in victory, "Susan!"
Staring up at him was, yes, a blonde. And yes, a female of his species. But not Susan. Rather, a middle-aged broad, golden tresses courtesy Miss Clairol. "What! Who are you! Don't rape me! Police! POLICE!"
"Damn you, you stinking pile of garbage," Timmy muttered while vaulting onto the boat, penetrating nooks and crannies in a tight-lipped pursuit, to no avail. On the beach, the old bag, back on her tennis-shoed tootsies, brushing the seat of her Capris, wouldn't shut up. "Rape! RAPE!" So he shut her up with a rock-solid right, right to the kisser!
Kayoed, sprawled on the beach, birdies tweeted around her noggin.
Then Timmy's feet were kicking up sand as he rocketed to the Randall estate. Uh oh! A patrol car arriving! Behind hedges, he waited for the coppers to enter the house, then Timmy tippy-toed to his Ferrari and absented as quietly as could be.
On the highway, he keened onto the very first exit ramp and took a maze of back roads home, coasting now. No need to draw undo attention. A Ferrari in red is conspicuous enough. He gulped air until he felt his adrenaline roll out to sea.
Along the way he stopped at a roadside market, bought a chilled six-pack of Hires and a bottle opener. Behind the market, shaded by palm trees, he leaned against the stucco wall, popped tops and guzzled himself giddy, the sugar rush reactivating residual amphetamine, bringing his vision right back to crystal clear clarity, diamond-in-sunlight sharpness. Diamond! Yes! I need to get my mitts on a diamond ring! Point! Susan is alive! I saw her! Why Randy Weston lied is beyond me. I'm sure he has his sick reasons. But she is alive! Point! I need to find her! It may not be easy: Weston has resources beyond my comprehension. That said, where there is a will there is a way! Point! I need to get some rest, I'm overdue for a good night's sleep. In the morning, I can buy that diamond ring. And restart my odyssey as fresh as a springtime daisy!
He felt solace knowing that somewhere, not far away, existed a diamond ring that he would ease onto Susan Weston's lovely right hand. The very next time they met!
Buying the diamond will be the easy part. Locating her might be a chore worthy of Hercules.
He thought about how wonderfully full and wondrous life will be with his young bride! Hercules? Hah! Life would be paradise no matter what we do! Even going to one of those silly sword and sandal Hercules epics. Steve Reeves? I'll bet he beds the babes left and right. Especially those juicy ingenues, eager to please their way up Hollywood's ladder...
Then his jumpy mind skipped to his hero, Jack Kennedy. He's so vibrant he could bang those starlets to spaghetti sauce. Just look at the way he's always running around playing football! But he's surrounded with secret service agents, ever vigilant. They never lower their guard; they'd never grant a whore entry. So, he must give Jackie a real run for the money. I'm surprised she can walk.
Timmy caught himself, shook his head. Mustn't think about a president or first lady thusly.
Timmy had nothing whatsoever against good ol' Eisenhower. Or Nixon for that matter. Both are fierce anti-Reds, especially Nix. But JFK? He's just the man we need, right here and right now. He'll serve two terms, then Bobby can man the helm, guide the good ship USA to our Bicentennial, Ted in the wings, checking his watch. By then we'll have crushed the Soviets, freed everybody all over the world. Poverty will be a fading memory. Bellies filled, all people everywhere standing tall! And free!
Timmy admired Kennedy so much that he'd snagged those Jimmy Dean 45s, played them to death, both the PT boat one, but also, let's face it, the courageous coal miner number was a metaphor for JFK. Although of course, John Kennedy, unlike that big bad John, is alive and kicking! And will be ticking into the next decade, and decades thereafter!
Appalachians! Negroes! The poor persecuted peasants of Red China and Castro's Cuba! The wretched of the earth will be freed by the Peace Corp! All nuclear bombs neutered, every single one! The JFK Legacy!
It's hard to imagine today in 1963, but 1976 will be grand! All those Kennedys in the White House. And suburban space homes sprouting like mushrooms on the moon! Naturally, they'll have to have bubbletops, not to mention oxygen generators. With Yankee know-how? Can do!
Fortified, becalmed, he moseyed the nose of the Ferrari homeward, to that lone apartment building facing eternally crashing waves.
Parking in his spot, Timmy devoted a moment to study those waves. They were washing ashore before I arrived. Before the Spaniards. Before the Injuns. Before the dinosaurs, for crying out loud! Man!
Taking the elevator up he felt a strange sense of peace. All would be well, as constant as those ocean waves.
Unlocking his apartment door he paused for a second. Something buzzed in the recess of his brain, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Opening the door he heard sizzling, smelled the heavenly aroma of home cooking! Wrong pad? That's impossible! There's my Picasso lithograph on my green wall...
He stepped into the foyer, went to the kitchen to find Susan at the stove, buck naked but for a frilly apron. She looked to him, her eyes as deep blue as that idiot ocean below, and said, "Hello, stranger." In the silence that hovered, the next LP dropped onto the turntable, the tone arm edged right, slid down, the needle into the groove of an album of dreamy ballads.
The sun descended, melting into the sea, bronze splattering royal blue.
Susan placed the spatula on the cutting board, untied the apron, let it fall to faux-brick tile. She padded over to him, as barefoot and bare-ass as any National Geographic native; a flesh and blood centerfold. On tip-toe, she rubbed his crewcut with her palms, and breathed into his ear, "I'm blind in one eye. Birth defect. If, for some reason, I lost sight in my other eye, I'd be stone blind. I'd need a big strong man, even a four-eyes, to lead me to a bedroom..." Gently, she removed his specs, folded the stems, neatly, and placed them with care on the countertop.