Welcome to the Arcade

The gymnasium is packed. The bleachers have been rolled back against the walls and the basketball hoops have been pulled up toward the bright lights on the ceiling. There's a band playing somewhere, and I figure that could be my best bet, to stand in front of them until I find Vito. But to follow the sounds of the music, I have to get around a giant circle in the middle of the gym floor. The outside of the circle is lined with the guys in the green jackets, about five rings deep. They're clapping to the music and watching whatever's going on inside the circle, which I can't see. But whatever it is, the guys look like they're really enjoying it. I'm sure some of my Calvary friends are somewhere in those rings, but they're packed together pretty tight. So I work my way through the outside circles toward the music, which seems to be coming from under one of the basketball hoops. When I finally make it over to the band, they've launched into a version of “Smoke on the Water.” The sign on the bass drum says they' re called Hard Knox and Dirty Sox and there are a lot of them: a singer, a guitarist, a bass player, and a skinny drummer, whose glasses are all fogged up like he just stepped out of the shower. The band even has an organ player, who for some reason is wearing a black cape. They're not that good, but they're trying really hard. The best thing about them is the three horn players that are all playing their hearts out. They keep playing “Da da da-- da da da da--da da da da dah” through the whole song, right over the singer's vocals, but I don't think he even notices. Standing in the middle of the three horns, the trumpet player has a straw hat on and is playing his “da da da’s so loud and so strong that it’s like he’s at a half-time show. I'm getting a real kick out of him when two kids appear on each side of me. “Hey,” one says. “Hey,” the other one says. The bad news is that they're not my friends from Calvary. The good news is that neither one of them is wearing a forest green jacket. And they both look vaguely familiar, especially the shorter one, who's wearing a dungaree jacket over a yellow polo shirt and red high-top sneakers. “Aren't you in Mr. Ascher's second period English class?” he asks. “I am,” I say. “You don't recognize me?” he laughs. “Ralphie?” he says, “Molinaro? I sit in the back by the door. I'm the kid who says, ‘It's a metaphor’ every time Mr. Ascher asks a question. He's a great teacher—superior brain power. By the way, that's Luke. He's not in our class.” The tall boy standing next to Ralphie looks at me and grins. “Nice shirt.” Luke's wearing a big black pull-over sweater, black pants and has thick brown hair, which is combed straight down over his eyebrows. It' s the exact opposite of my hair, which, last time I checked, still hovers a few inches above my forehead, thanks to my mother's Aqua net. Even with the bright ceiling lights, Luke's eye sockets are so dark I could swear he's wearing mascara. He looks like he could be in The Beatles, or at least in the Dave Clark Five. Ralphie surveys the crowd. “Something, right?” he says. He tells me they come to the dances to look at the Catholic school girls, especially the older ones. He says they're like beauty queens. I'm trying to figure out why both of them smell like oranges when Luke bends over to tie his shoe. When he stands up, I notice he's holding a little bottle by his side. He unscrews the cap and hands it to me. “Have some,” he says, “but keep it low.” “What is it?” “Tango,” he says. “It's good. The astronauts drink it.” I bend over and take a small sip. It really does taste like oranges. “Very sweet,” I say. “What's in it?” “Vodka,” Ralphie says, and they both laugh. “Have some more,” Luke says. He looks over his shoulder, then bends down and pulls three more bottles out his white tube socks. “We got plenty.”