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In those days, it wasn't hard for a 16-year-old boy to get booze. The drinking age was 18, so if you could scrounge up a couple dollars and make some connections, like older friends or siblings, a six pack of Kochs Deer Run Ale or a bottle of Boones Farm Apple Wine was pretty easy to get. Moreover, there was a laid back, liberal vibe about that shady college town where we grew up, and plenty of opportunity for mischief.
In fourth grade, Lamont and I were drawn together like birds of a feather. His mother and my father had both died tragically young, leaving us grounded in a dark and broken place. Yet over time, we took advantage of our respective family dysfunctions. Each of us had older sisters who, with minimal adult supervision at home, were heatedly involved with boyfriends. We began to understand the connection between secrets and alliances, establishing a somewhat reliable source of beer.
When family connections failed, there was Terry "Honda," the mentally handicapped 20-some-year-old villager who, for a short while, managed to get a driver’s license along with access to his grandmother's 1961 Bel Air. Terry liked beer, and we convinced him to drive us to a little store outside the village near the Van Buren Drive-in theater. We ducked down as Terry, cigarette fixed in the gap between his front teeth, entered the store, then returned with a six-pack. I should note that he was savvy enough to keep the change from the two bucks, along with a beer for himself.
While love of music would become the lifelong bond between us, Lamont and I also engaged in sports. I was quicker, more aggressive and agile, inclined toward football. Lamont, who was taller and more patient, preferred baseball, where he patrolled center field with a steady grace. Under a pop fly, his feet were soft, not chasing, but moving in small circles. It seemed like the ball wanted to come to him.
In high school we became master plotters, not only of how to get the beer, but also where to drink it. We contrived numerous hiding spots around the village. One place I remember clearly was a dirt road that ran along the railroad tracks off Van Buren Drive. There we conjured up two games. The first was a version of "chicken." Upon hearing the clatter and rumble of an approaching train, we lay on our backs, headfirst, perpendicular to the tracks. Then, with eyes on the sky, we'd inch closer and closer as the train came roaring past. This game I would win easily, making it to within a couple feet of the ties before retreating.
The other game involved less daring and more skill. It was about who could walk on a rail farthest before losing balance. The sun was beginning to set when we mounted opposite rails, our feet probing for the center -- that burnished silver-steel strip between rusted edges. I remember clearly the intense concentration, amazed at how we kept going forward, side by side, like we could go on forever.
Then I wavered. I caught myself, but Lamont had moved slightly ahead. Struggling to catch up, I called for a truce, suggesting we head back to the beer. We both knew who won that competition, and can laugh about it a half century later, long after Lamont followed his dreams to California.
We still communicate regularly, but I'm afraid we may never have the opportunity to drink a beer together again in person. Yet it was never really about beer. What matters is the connection between us, like railroad tracks across the continent. It's a reminder to me of the importance of walking lightly -- of having soft feet. It is akin to flying, which, after all, has infinite possibilities.
Pete Howard, author of the novel Rosebud Dreamworld, grew up in Fredonia.