The Icarus Twins

(Memories of the Plaza Club,  Part I)

Donald C. Wood

"Hurry up!  Let’s go!"  I heard Chef shout as I ran out the door, clutching my sports bag, to join him and Jon and all I did was raise my hand in my own defense because I knew those guys wouldn’t listen to any of my lame excuses.  Chef was leaning against his silver Honda, and Jon in the passenger seat puffing on a cig and looking like nothing mattered at all.  I ducked by Chef and just about dove into the back seat with my sports bag tucked under one arm.  Without another word Chef sat down and closed the door behind him and started that little engine - a good engine, but it tended to sputter from time to time.  It did this in my driveway until he popped it into reverse and zipped backward so fast I thought I was going to fly right up between them and land somewhere on the dashboard!

We had no sure plan where to go, but it was a choice between the Frio River, where the waiters were known to be spending their Memorial Day weekend tubing, getting drunk and Lord knows what else, or just hitting the beaches of Galveston all by ourselves.  It only took a few minutes to decide on the beach, and this was despite the fact that – as we knew right well – where there are water-loving waiters, there are wet waitresses…in bikinis.

Highway 6 took us south as Jon puffed away, and his smoke danced and twirled out the window.  I watched the scenery flash by and Chef – he just kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and his mouth shut.  In fact, I hadn’t heard more than a few sentences from him when he suddenly asked whether we were going to take Highway 290 south or 105 east.  "You wanna go through Conroe?" I asked and ol’ Jon said that he did and that he wanted a change of scenery because he "ain’t been in them parts in a coon’s age," so we sped into the oak forest and the tall giants – which I always thought looked like broccoli – soon gave way to towering pines that stood up nice and straight like proud soldiers.  Somewhere out there on that blacktop Jon pulled out a shiny silver flask.

             "I brought my friend Jack with me, guys," he announced as he opened the cap.  Then he took a quick swig and raised the container to let the sun reflect off it, saying "anyone wanna meet him?" with a grin like some kind of twisted circus clown, and I’ll tell you, it didn’t take long for the three of us to drink it dry.  Jon refilled it from a bottle in his bag at his feet, and then he said something I’ll never forget.  "I’m gonna enlist next week."  I asked him if he were crazy, because of all that stuff that was going on in the Middle East back then, but he said he had to get a lifetime career.  "You’re gonna get yourself killed, dumb ass," I said, to which he responded, "You’re the one that’s crazy if you think I’m gonna work at ‘Chez Whitey’ the rest of my life!"  Chef lit into him on that one – sure, our restaurant was a private club, but it wasn’t all that rich and fancy...just a little more like "Chez Whitey Light."  Well, Jon let the matter drop and we heard no more from him on that topic, and he never did enlist.

              At Conroe we grabbed some burgers from a drive-in joint and hopped onto I-45.  There must of been some talk, but I can’t remember too much because we also passed the flask around one more time and we were chewing on our burgers and fries.  I do remember seeing the old Goodyear Blimp hanger pass by, and then we zipped through Houston, raced past a bunch of palm trees, passed that flask around one more time and there we were, bare-chested, with the Red Hot Chili Peppers rocking the car – beach bums to a tee – cruising down Seawall Boulevard.  I could see the waves breaking over and crashing into the boulders, and I thought, "This is the edge of the world!"  The salty smell of the sea was everywhere - it pervaded our very beings.  As I stared out at the water it seemed to be alive...constantly moving with its own rhythm, and I imagined that it was some kind of great creature with muscles under the surface.  Maybe it was just the whiskey.

"Look alive, boys!" said Chef.  "Our season of sun has begun!"  We parked the car on Stewart Beach, about 200 yards from a gigantic wooden thing – towering over the sand on huge wooden pillars, and the shadows were already growing long.  Chef opened a bag of sandwiches – ham and cheese – and we ate them fast, and then he jumped up and headed for the water.  Jon and I both said that it was better to let the stuff digest a little first.  "You always do what your mama says?" asked Chef, and that was enough for us.  We went in, and found that eating before swimming was no problem.  Then I realized that of course it wouldn’t bother us...because we were invincible.

After swimming we pulled out a small tape player and sat on the sand blasting Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy.  Chef handed us some cold cans of beer from a little plastic cooler and we gulped them down while the sun dipped low behind us.  The beach was almost empty, and that made it easy to see that people were parking their cars on the sand around that beach house down the way.  All three of us stood and watched the beach – our beach – change from a wild place of sand, waves, and sun into a strange, dark extension of the city.  The lights came on, and we saw a sign that said "Beach Club."  We watched the lines of slick cars and fancy trucks fill up the space all around – closer and closer they got, this invasion force, taking over our paradise.  The music from inside sent out vibrations that our little tape player couldn’t beat, and the decks on the building filled with people.

"Let’s go," said Jon, and I said there was no way he was going to get me in there – not on his life.  "Just think of all the girls in there," he said, but I pointed out that we all looked and smelled way too bad to be thinking about that, which was right.  "Look," he said, "it never hurts to try, man," as he flicked a cigarette butt.  Just then, Chef rose to his aid, saying "Let’s go for it.  We conquered the beach.  We can conquer that place, too.  You only live once."  Two to one – the deciding was done, so we vagrants plodded through the sand, weaving through the cars, and then went under the big loft.

Jon went on ahead, and we heard him call us from a dark corner, and when we found him we also found an elevator.  Some guy and two blonde bimbos were eyeing us with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.  He looked like he was right out of a Miami Vice episode.  But we didn’t care – we were buzzing too much.  Hell, it was our damn beach.  We just stumbled in that elevator after those jerks, and they kept their distance, and when the door opened we piled out and lo and behold, we were at the front door!  All the people waiting to get in were lined up way back with ID cards and cash ready.  The fancy guy was on a first-name basis with the silverback door guards, and he soon took his walking trophies through the curtain.  That was when we realized it – we had found the VIP elevator!  The guards turned toward us, and I wondered what to do, but Chef had already stepped up to them and started speaking.  "Reggie sent us," he cooly said.  That really threw them off.  "Reggie, who?" one asked"You know," Chef went on, playfully punching him on the shoulder, "the guy that part-owned the old opera house and Guido's, but he sold his share of both and loaned the company that built this place what they needed to pay their debts and stay in business last year.  It’s because of Reggie that you have a job, man!"  It was pure bullcrap.

              Chef was just like some kind of  Jedi master, because those boneheads just gave up and waved us in.  It was a small victory for the men of the beach over the men of the city, and the first thing we did was laugh at ourselves for not only getting in looking so bad but for doing it in such a grand style – and totally by accident!  Then we paused when we got our first look at the interior.  It was huge.  It was also packed.  Basically it was a disco, with colored lamps, mirrors, a large dance floor and all that.  Young people were hopping and bouncing to the beat.  The whole place was throbbing.  We knew we didn’t belong, but it was our victory, and were determined to enjoy it, so we made our way to the bar and ordered Lone Star longnecks.  After a round we bought another and worked our way through the crowd.  The room spun and spun around my head and the rhythm pulsed through my bones – up through my legs and then into my skull.  It made me feel absolutely crazy.

The three of us got separated in there, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe, so I found a balcony.  Chef was there, too.  He was leaning over the rail and staring off over the dark water.  I said that it was too insane in there for me, and he agreed and we clinked our bottles together.  "Look at the way the moonlight sparkles on the surface," he said.  "It’s never the same twice – you can really appreciate the fleeting things when you look at the moonlight reflected off waves in the night."  Now, I at the time I didn't have much of a sense for other people's musings, but he sounded very poetic.  "Yeah, it’s great," I said, but he didn’t say anything else right away.  I was trying to focus my eyes on the oil platforms in the distance when he broke the silence.  "Sometimes I just want to cry.  You know what I mean?"  I was rather surprised because I had no idea what the heck he meant, and I think he could see that on my face – he said, "Ah, you don’t understand yet.  You’re too young."  I wasn’t exactly overjoyed then about being called “too young," so I tried to think of something smart to say, but Chef just changed the subject.

"Where’s Jon, anyway?"  When Chef threw out the question I started wondering myself, but all I could say was that I didn’t know.  We left our empty bottles on the wooden rail and looked for Jon in the restroom, at the bar, around the tables, and even in the last place we expected to find him – on the dance floor – but he wasn’t there.  We went back outside and scanned the beach in the moonlight.  We spotted the silver Honda way out there – farther than any of the other cars – and Chef noticed first that there was some kind of dark shape on it…or maybe draped over the hood.  We thought it was Jon, so we got out of there and stomped, or more like stumbled, our way back to the car.  To be honest, I had already had enough of the place.  Sure enough, it was Jon draped over the hood of Chef's car.  He was out cold, and his arms and legs were hanging limply over the sides.  He looked like a big rag doll!

Since Jon was out, and we were just about out of steam ourselves, we called it a day.  We tossed Jon in the back seat and Chef drove, looking for a place to sleep.  Jon mumbled nonsense along the way and made us laugh.  On the inner side of the island we found a quiet stretch of  road, and Chef spotted a dark picnic area with concrete tables and benches.  There was a convenience store but it was pitch black inside and out.  Chef had a tent, so we set it up next to a table and hoped there were no fire ants around.  Jon was unconscious, so Chef and I shared the tent and let him have the car and before long all three of us were sound asleep.  I was all right at night, but it sure got hot after the sun came up – I was already sweaty when I first saw the light of day.  At least there had been no fire ants.  But we had to deal with Jon, who wasn’t too thrilled about his sleeping situation – he really let us have it.  "What should we have done, man?" asked Chef.  To this, Jon said, "You could’a left a window open, you bastards!"  But I said, "and then the mosquitoes would of eaten your ass alive!"  "Shut up," said the old sourpuss.  Then Chef told us both to shut our traps and that was the end of that.

Pretty soon we were on our way back to the seawall to eat and play on the beach.  We were all tired and plenty hung over from the day before, but our freedom was better than gold, and no little headache was going to get us down.  We talked about our victory over the city folk the night before.  "All those dum-dums went home and slept in warm beds," I said, "but we’re tough!"   The salty air was all around us, and all inside us, too.  We got what we needed – cheap food and cold beer – and we drove down and claimed a spot within sight of the club.  It was deserted – defeated – but the beach itself filled with cars and holiday sun worshippers early.  Bared to the waist, we champions of freedom drank, smoked and played for hours.

"Well, we’ve had pretty much a full day out here," said Chef finally, and we saw that the sun was getting low again.  "Where are we gonna go?" he asked.  "How about the disco?" I suggested.  It was just a joke, but Jon thought I was serious.  "No way, man!  I’ll never go in there again," he grumbled.  Chef continued.  "It seems like we’ve done the beach thing quite well, guys.  You want to head somewhere else?  After all, we’re free for another thirty-six hours."  "How about the Frio?" I said, but Jon groaned again, and then Chef asked if we should really go.  "Screw that!" said Jon as he struggled to light a cigarette in the wind.  Now, I don’t remember anymore how my little joke became our real plan, but one way or another we ended up right back on that highway that heads to Houston   We knew it was more than three hundred miles, but we didn’t care, and Chef said he could handle it, and there were waitresses in bikinis waiting for us.

Well, somewhere out there on that road Jon and I realized that we had screwed up…big-time.  Blisters were forming on our faces, shoulders, backs, and even on the tops of our ears!  By the time we started heading west on I-10 the slightest movement hurt.  The feeling of anything – even clothing – touching our skin was extremely painful.  All the drinking and playing under the Texas sun had taken a toll even on Chef.  He was getting tired, and even though he might have been able to drive all the way to the Frio River, Jon and I were dying.  I knew a place in Sealy – a motel – which I had passed many times on my way to Eagle Lake with a buddy on our goose-hunting trips back in high school.  We stopped there to stay for the night – so much for roughing it.  When we got into our room, Jon and I headed straight for the shower – we took turns, of course – and for both of us it was the last time to bathe for many days.  When we stripped off, we could see how bad it really was, and Chef made it worse by laughing as he reclined on one of the beds.  We had big red ears and flame-broiled blisters that were already starting to ooze pus.  God, we were in pain…and defeated.  There was nothing more we could do.

We showered as best we could, and those course hotel towels hurt like hell.  And even though we were both just as naked as jaybirds and red as boiled lobsters there in the middle of that room, we didn’t even care.  It was too painful.  Even if the waitresses themselves had walked right in, we couldn’t have done anything about it – couldn’t have moved fast enough if we tried.  And we most likely wouldn’t have cared.  It was like nothing else mattered…just the pain.  And Chef could laugh because he was part Mexican and so had some natural resistance, and he had had the sense to wear his shirt a little longer than us.  So Jon and I shared a bed and Chef got one to himself, and the last thing I heard before I fell into a fitful sleep was the sound of Chef chuckling and saying "the sun giveth and the sun taketh away."

Chef felt pretty good the next morning, but not us – our blisters were even worse.  The Frio River was off.  We sped home in Chef’s car, but it was more like limping for Jon and me.  We were like whipped puppies.  We had thought we were invincible.  We were wrong.  "The Icarus Twins," Chef called us with glee.  Jon and I had been tried, convicted, sentenced and punished all in one weekend for our foolishness.  And even though we didn’t make it to the Frio River, we mesmerized those waiters with our beautiful first and second-degree burns and nasty blisters.  Being under the heat lamps along the hot line in the kitchen was pure torture, and we were banned from the dining room for over a week for obvious reasons.

                As for Chef, eventually he got transferred – had to build a new crew at a new place.  But he took Jon with him.  I never met them again after that, but I’m sure none of us ever forgot the lessons we learned or the freedom we won – and lost – on our trip to Galveston.  And eventually, once I’d lived a few more years, I remembered Chef’s words out there on the balcony of that club and finally I thought that maybe I knew what he meant that night…just maybe.




Beach Club

The Beach Club




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Dedicated to the memory of the Plaza Club in Bryan, Texas (1984(?)-1994(?))