What I missed was war.
I missed the uniform, and I missed the routine, and I missed being awakened in the pre-dawn hours and going to the latrine with a dozen other guys and shaving and putting on my flying gear and going to the briefing hut and being told that today we would provide penetration, cover, and withdrawal for another bombing raid. I missed the excitement, I missed the killing, I missed the war.
That night, I went out to get drunk.
I found a bar on the South Side that reminded me a lot of The Eucalyptus on Wilshire Boulevard, which Ace and I used to frequent a lot when we were hotshot pilots in Transitional Training and making the long haul down from Santa Maria every chance we got because there was so much sweet pussy in those Los Angeles hills. It was late, the jukebox was going, a few hookers were hanging on the bar, there was a pleasant hum, a familiar clink of glasses. I felt warm and cozy. I knew I would get drunk and that pleased me because I did not feel like thinking about my future, or wondering whether I’d go to college or go to New York or go into my father’s business or try writing or contact Pan-American to see if they needed a very good combat-experienced pilot to fly one of their airplanes. I didn’t want to think about anything. I merely wanted to get drunk and then go home to sleep.
I don’t know what was on the jukebox, I really can’t remember. I’d had two or three drinks already when the guy sitting next to me at the bar turned and said, “This is a nice number,” and I said, “I’m sorry, what...?” and he said, “This song,” and I listened for a moment, and then said, “Oh yeah, it is.”
“I’m a musician,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, I play tenor sax and clarinet. I work with a little combo over on Woodlawn. Do you know a place called Frankie’s?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s where I work. Tonight’s my night off, though. It’s the chord pattern that makes a song good or not, you know. This one’s got a particularly good chart.”
“There’re so many new ones,” I said, “I can hardly keep up with them.”
“Especially when you’ve been away for a while,” he said. “That’s right, how can you tell?”
“I don’t know what it is, but a guy who hasn’t been wearing civvies for a long time looks really weird in them. Take me, for example. I look as if I just got out of prison last week, and this is the suit they gave me, do you know what I mean?”
“I know just what you mean,” I said, and began laughing.
“I was with the Fifth Army in Italy,” he said. “I just got back to Chicago in August.”
“I was with the Fifteenth Air Force,” I said. “Also in Italy.”
“Oh? Where?”
“Foggia.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Bari. Down on the heel.”
“I didn’t get over to that side of the boot. We landed in Salerno.”
“No, Foggia was on the Adriatic side.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m glad all that shit’s behind me. What are you drinking there?”
“Scotch and water.”
“Bartender, let’s have another scotch and water, and a bourbon on the rocks here. My name’s Bob Granetta, I play under the name of Bobby Grant, you can call me both or either.” He extended his hand.
“Will Tyler,” I said.
“Pleased to meet you, Will.”
He was taller than I, leaner, with a thatch of curly black hair, dark brown eyes, a grin that climbed crookedly onto his face as he shook my hand briefly and then picked up his drink again. Leaning on the bar, he said, “How do you like being home, Will?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah, me too. I kind of got a kick out of Italy, you know. Hell, I ran into half my goombahs over there, it was like Christmas on Taylor Street. Were you born in Chicago?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Me too. Ah, thanks,” he said to the bartender, and then raised his glass. “Will,” he said, “here’s to rehabilitation or whatever the hell they call it, huh?”
“Here’s to it,” I said.
“Salute” he said in Italian, and drank. “When I think of some of that piss we were drinking overseas,” he said, “I get just sick thinking about it. Where do you live, Will?”
“Over on East Scott Street.”
“Oh boy, I’ve met my first millionaire,” Bobby said, and began laughing.
“No, not quite.”
“I’m only kidding. I used to walk that whole Astor Street neighborhood when I was a kid, though, wishing I could live in one of those great old houses. Are you living with your folks?”
“With my father and sister. My mother’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, it was a long time ago,” I said, and suddenly realized that it was.
“I couldn’t stand living with my folks any more,” Bobby said. “I was in the Army for three years, you know, I couldn’t come back and all of a sudden have my mother telling me to pick up my socks. Pick up your own socks, I felt like telling her. So I have a place of my own now over on South Kimbark, do you know that area?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It’s a nice place, this guy I know helped me fix it up real nice. Also, it’s close to where I’m playing, which is very convenient. I don’t finish till three, four in the morning, later on weekends because we usually hang around to jam, you know. It’s great to be able to walk only two or three blocks and flop right into bed. How’s that scotch doing?”