8.20.26 | The Sounds of Summer
The Sounds of Summer
A Tale by Jellybean Kerouac
Luggage stowed, dials checked, wheels up, with wings outstretched, we flew the coop. What's your vector, Victor? Northbound 81, with the rising sun, Maryland here we come. Shotgun! We had a plan for podcast and short stories, but when we turned on the car it automatically connected to my phone and John Prine's “Spanish Pipedream” filled the air. I could tell the sounds and songs of singers and songwriters were going to be the musical theme of this trip. Key in the ignition, foot on the gas, music pouring in all around us, northward we roam. The Stills-Young Band, “Long May You Run.” Becca did the driving, Jellybean napped and I took a couple gummies and floated all the way to Maryland. Merle Haggard, “Mama Tried.”
As the wheels slowed and the jukebox glowed we weaved over the inlets and through the pines to the in-laws house we go. Brackish water lapped along the shore, the familiar honky honky honky of the geese in the wind and the smell of crab cakes frying in the pan. The first bend of the trip was done. Jim Croce, “I Got A Name.”
We poured into the house, sat around the table and feasted on the best Maryland has to offer. That evening a strong gust came across the yard, turned the leaves upside down and pulled in with it a summer evening gale. Lightning struck the transformer and out went the lights. With the darkness came bedtime. The next morning the coffee was on and the dogs went out to make their marks upon the world. There was a meditation circle and a second feast consisting of fresh caught and coleslaw. Then we bid our farewells, did our best Queen Elizabeth wave and were back on the road.
Emmylou Harris’s “You Never Can Tell” kicked us off on our winding way southbound to Richmond. During this leg of the journey it occurred to me Becca has been driving wrong this whole time. She seemed to be the only driver that wasn't cutting across all lanes to get to the far turn lane. She didn't once zoom up and cut in, just to gain an inch but not a mile. She did white knuckle, spit, mutter, and curse all the way down 301. In the words of Todd Snider, “too late to die young now,” so with one hand on the oh-shit handle and one hand on the Jellybean we screeched into Richmond in one piece. In the end we arrived safe, somewhat sound and none the worse for wear.
It was time to wash ourselves of the road in a shower of champagne and pearly oysters. Guy Clark, “Stuff That Works.” I ordered Cava, Becca Cremant. We skipped the champagne. Our oysters arrived wearing no pearls at all. I like to think the tiny bubbles in my glass emulated the vacant pearls in our oysters. With a head full of bubbles and a belly full of sea creatures we digested our meal with a walk around the big city. John Prine, “Your Flag Decal Won't Get You into Heaven Anymore.” Richmond is a city of beautiful murals and amazing graffiti. As we walked we avoided malarial-looking water puddles in the cobblestone. Apparently Richmond got hit by the same summer storm Maryland did. I would have laid my jacket across the puddle for Becca to gingerly step on, but all I had was my aloha shirt so we just stepped around it. Steve Goodman, ”Souvenirs.”
Back on the couch with bad TV, the bubbles wore off and we drifted soundlessly to sleep. Just kidding! Sleeping in the city makes me realize how quiet it is at home. I mean, who makes that much noise in the middle of the night? Go to bed, Richmond, it's late! Todd Snider, “Talking Reality Television Blues.”
Today was coffee, dog walks, pastrami and egg bagels with a side of latkes and back to the pad to bask in the AC, puzzle over puzzles and more bad TV.
Oofta! Things took a turn. We enjoyed the oysters earlier in the week so much we thought we'd have them again … for lunch … at a questionable restaurant. Then we spent the day walking around in 100-degree weather letting the oysters stew. The nausea started to kick in right as we got into our Uber for the last restaurant of our trip. Townes Van Zandt. “Rex's Blues.” Becca and I decided to push through since this was the restaurant we had been waiting for. We were seated and ordered drinks. I had been searching high and low for a decent Manhattan and this place had one. Quality whiskey, amaro, orange peel, sweet vermouth. At this point the sea creatures were turning to krakens and they were trying to take down the whole ship. There was nothing sweet about the sweet vermouth in my drink. The strong fragrances of orange peel and bitter spirits wafting from my beautifully crafted cocktail were like noxious fumes. My nose wrinkled and my eyes watered, cold sweat started to appear on my forehead. Doc Watson, “Sitting On Top of The World.” Becca ordered a glass of bubbles that went from bubbly to somewhat sparkling to flat as it sat where the waiter placed it. Maybe once we get a little food in our stomachs we'd feel better, right? Right?
I will admit maybe we didn't order the right appetizers to help pull us through. Becca ordered the seafood crudo with pickled carrots and raw garlic. I ordered the steak tartare. What were we thinking? Janis Joplin, “Cry Baby.” Maybe we thought the raw oysters needed the company of more raw food. Becca took one bite and set her fork down. I could see in her face that she was worse off than I was. But it turns out she was more stubborn than ill and wanted to stay and finish the meal. She also didn't want to seem like we didn't like our food. I fell on the sword and took a few bites from my plate, then we swapped plates and I took a few bites from hers. Waylon Jennings, “I've Always Been Crazy.”
Then to our surprise the kitchen sent us an extra course. We absolutely groaned with delight at the sight of the devilishly deviled eggs topped with caviar. Fish eggs. How nice? Entrees came and we did our dish swapping technique again. Mussels swimming in a beautiful tomato broth as red as my bloodshot eyes. Rabbit atop fennel, braised in cream sauce as pale as Becca's cheeks. I love fennel! I love rabbit! I love them both in cream sauce. But not tonight. Eric Clapton, “Knockin' On Heaven's Door.”
Besides the nausea, the other hell was wanting to eat the food but not being able to. We have been waiting for months to eat here. We planned our vacation around this restaurant. I was like a kid who didn't want to eat my peas, just moving them from place to place on my plate while the waiter eyed me suspiciously from the bar. Each delicious morsel, each shaky forkful was a spear to the gullet. The cocktails were a waterboarding of immaculate combination. As the sweat slowly slid from my forehead, glistened on my cheeks and dripped into my rabbit I felt as raw as my tartare. Tom Waits, “Dead and Lovely.”
I smiled, tipped big, and we bolted for the door. The plan was to leave in haste, a thief in the night, but upon leaving I came face to face with the chef. Him, at work, in work mode, pressed white chef coat, combat boots, and me, pale pallor, sunken-eyed, sweating through my shirt. I thanked him and shook his hand. I can only imagine it felt to him like shaking hands with a fresh shucked scallop. I slunk, barely above a crawl, to the outside world. Bob Dylan, “Blowing in The Wind.”
At least waiting for our Uber we could get some fresh air and the last bit of sunshine. That for sure would make us feel better … Nope! As we opened the doors there came the rumble of thunder. Another summer storm. By the time our driver arrived, we looked like Frankenstein's monster and his bride. Lightning, thunder and rain crashed down around us as we squelched into his car. The only thing that was missing was the townsfolk with pitchforks and rolling pins chasing us through the street. Willie Nelson. “Blue Eyes Crying in The Rain.”
We played hide-and-seek with the sun every day and ran for cover from the summer storms every night. Iris DeMent, “Hotter Than Mojave in My Heart.” We made it back to Frankenstein's castle, took the dog out in the rain, and the night came to a crashing end. Thunder and lightning subsiding just in time for the sandman. I think I speak for the three of us; I am ready to go home. I want my own bed, my own couch, my creature comforts.
Fuck vacation, I'm ready to go back to work.
—Matt
P.S. We're home now, we feel fine. Jellybean is snoring on the back of the couch. She had a lot of barking to catch up on last night so she's sleeping in this morning. Becca has spent some time in the garden, I have done some art projects, and have already dipped my toes back into the restaurant just to poke around.
The last leg of vacation is spent right here at home. While I regret not getting the full experience of the restaurant we had our hearts set on, the cold beer and Chinese take out we had last night really hit the spot. We've got a couple more days to be hermits before we're back into the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. We're planning on taking them pretty slow. Grateful Dead, “Scarlet Begonias.”