Two Cola Settings

Well, we had made it fireside with some colas at the tailest-end of the most August day. Overripened Summer. Only at night could we get a glimpse of fall time big-breathing air. Boylan, a dad, pestered his twelveage daughter, saying: “Rosary, walk over to the cooler to get the sweeter, healthier cola! Sam and Sue have colas in their hands that are not good for them. They have the wrong cola!”

“Our colas are Alright!” Sue and I insisted. Colas in our clutches. “We have a few open sizzling colas that need to be drunk. Probably an hour's worth. By the time we move on from those colas... we may well be full.”

(What we were talking about was the empty-full that comes around after rounds and rounds of colas. With also that sweet, aimless, energetic, airy feeling. This is the fullness that comes around with colas.)

Sue and I found conflict disagreeable. She and I gave up our foolproof “No Thank You” and caved-in on the offer. We took the new cola graciously. And then we left.

So there goes the first, shorter-of-the-two Cola Settings. To recap. We were fireside at the lakehouse. We were looking out at a pretty-small lake in August. It was Sue and I, alongside Boylan and his daughter Rosary. Boylan and Rosary were bickering about grabbing Sue and I new colas. We didn’t need them, but we took them anyway. We took them because the argument over the colas wasn’t worth any of our defences. No harm, no foul.

“No harm, no foul,” we said. We said that to each other on the drive home.

So next up, I had to drop Sue off at her house. She lives with Her Folks. Her Folks have a beautiful house that looks really similar to the beautiful houses surrounding it. Everybody there has Ford Mustangs. Red ones. Some with roofs that stay in place. Others with roofs that can go away. My watch is coming down with 10 o’clock. Sue and I are on the front porch when the front door opens from the inside. It's Her Folks. They say: “Still on for dinner tomorrow night, you two? Tomorrow’s dinner will be at the Barbeque Grill with the door open. It is a booth seat and oak wood kind of restaurant. We know, Sam, that you prefer restaurant fixtures that look heavyset and time-tested. Meet back here around 5:30?”

Us two: Sounds good! Have a good night!

With that, Her Folks went back inside after smiling. From the porch you can see the searchlights that make up the crown of the Casino.

Sue and I spoke about gambling. She yawned and I wished her goodnight.

My car was idling while I went towards the center for some smells and sips of the open cola. Two cans, sitting in cup holders inside my old, great car. It was old enough to be tremendous and also within reach. My sweet colas had warmed up in the closed, hot car.

On my way home I drove through the prairie. After the prairie, I descended into a well lit shopping district. Everything was closed, but the neon signs announcing the names of the big places still shone. Off to the right, the Barbeque Grill’s statue was making an appearance. In neon cursive, “Barbeque Grill” did beckon me and the car to the landing under the sign. Sure enough, under the sign of the closed and quiet Barbeque Grill was Russbester and his younger apprentice Shane. They were cameramen who built a living out of loose ends. I left my car idling and approached the two. In the nighttime air, sweet cola left in the car, I found myself heading into my second Cola Setting.

Beside them, at their feet, was a blue cooler full of sweating colas. One of the colas was peeking out over the edge sporting so much dew. Russbester was looking right and left like his neck was roller skating. Shane had a holding-on-to-the-last-of-it posture. In his left hand he held on to a collapsing can of cola. In his right he was smushing a bunch of marigold n’ dandelion flowers into his palm. When Shane saw me walking over, he let the flowers drop. They left behind yellow dye. It looked like Shane shook hands with a dusty summer. Russbester, rotund with burden, extended out his arm and gave me an unopened cola. I opened it up, and had my first taste from the can. “How was the shoot?” I asked. Russbester gestured: “We drove all this way. All this way to take photos and footage of the country singer Cheryl Barrel Sing. After this much picture taking, I can tell when I’m photographing someone who won’t ever be famous. Cheryl can sing a high note, and she can sing a low note, but she handles attention with a flushed gratitude that sirens out failure.”

“I see.”

We took in what was left of the night. We were by the closed Barbeque Grill to take in as much inactivity as we could. I liked being adjacent to the heretothere stories of a bustling marketplace. I preferred things that were usually so crowded in their empty-hours stance. We stood where I’d be tomorrow. Everything would be in a different light. Dressed up. With Her Parents and Sue. Around 5:45. We’d be hungry and hoping to take a look at the menus. Cola cans sparkled and sizzled less and less under what was left of an orange lamp post light. Moths clambered, and I drove home. Windows down. Shane and Russbester got smaller and smaller. I’d see them some other time.