Ken Grimwood - Replay

Adolph’s was packed with the usual Saturday-night crowd. Everybody who hadn’t gone to New York for the weekend ended up here sooner or later; it was the only bar within walking distance of the school, and the only one on this side of the Hudson where the shaggy, unconventionally dressed Bard students could relax and feel totally welcome. There was a serious town-gown conflict in the generally conservative region north of Poughkeepsie; the permanent residents, young and old, despised the flamboyant nonconformity of the Bard students' appearance and behavior, and told tales—many of them truer than they could ever imagine, Pam thought with amusement—of rampant drug use and sexual promiscuity on campus.

Sometimes the young townie guys would come into Adolph’s, drunk, trying to pick up "hippie chicks." There weren’t any townies in evidence tonight, Pam noted with relief, except for that one weird guy who’d been hanging around campus all year, but he seemed O.K. He was a loner and very quiet; he’d never given anybody any trouble. Sometimes she felt as if he were watching her, not quite following her around or anything, but purposely showing up a couple of times a week in some place where she’d probably be: the library, the gallery at the art department, here … He’d never bothered her, though, never even spoke to her. Sometimes he’d smile and nod, and she’d kind of smile back a little, just enough to acknowledge that they recognized each other. Yeah, he was O.K.; he’d even be attractive if he let his hair grow.

Sly and the Family Stone were on the jukebox, "Dance to the Music," and the dance floor in the front room was packed. Pam and Ellen and Peter squirmed their way through the crowd, looking for a place to sit.

Pam was still stoned. They’d smoked another joint on the walk down from campus, and the colorfully raucous scene in the bar suddenly struck her as a painting, or a series of paintings. To highlight a twirling fringed vest here, a swirl of long black hair there, the faces and the bodies and the music and noise … yes, she’d like to try to capture on canvas the sound of this pleasantly familiar place, translate it visually, the way that synesthetic transformation so often happened in her mind when she was this stoned. She looked around the bar, picking out people and details of scenes, and her eyes focused on that strange guy she was always running into.

"Hey," she said, nudging Ellen, "you know who I’d like to paint?"

"Who?"

"That guy over there."

Ellen looked in the direction Pam had discreetly indicated. "Which one? You don’t mean that straight guy, do you? The townie?"

"Yeah, him. There’s something about his eyes; they’re … I don’t know, it’s like they’re ancient or something, like he’s way older than he really is, and has seen so much…"

"Sure," Ellen said with pointed sarcasm. "He’s probably some ex-Marine, and he’s seen lots of dead babies and women he shot in Vietnam."

"You talking about the Tet offensive again?" Peter asked.

"No, Pam’s got the hots for some townie."

"Kinky." Peter laughed.

Pam blushed angrily. "I never said any such thing. I just said he had interesting eyes and I’d like to paint them."

"Dock of the Bay" came on the jukebox, and most of the dancers found their way back to their tables. Pam wondered who had played the mournfully contemplative Otis Redding tune, such an ironic self-epitaph of the singer, who had died before the record was released. Maybe it was that guy with the strange eyes. It seemed like the kind of music he might be into.

"Wastin' tiiime…" Peter sang along with the record, then grinned mischievously. He took off his watch, dropped it into the half-full pitcher of beer with a theatrical flourish. "We drown time!" he declared, and raised his glass, clinked it against the others'.

"I hear Bobby’s a head," Ellen commented, apropos of nothing, when they had drunk the toast. "Gets his grass from the same dealer who supplies the Stones when they’re over here."

They were on one of Peter’s favorite topics now. "They say R. J. Reynolds has secretly … what’s the word, patented? All the good brand names."

"Trademarked."

"Right, right, trademarked. Acapulco Gold, Panama Red … the cigarette people have got all the good names, just in case." Pam listened to the familiar rumors, nodded with interest. "I wonder what the packs would look like, and the ads."

"Paisley cartons," Ellen said with a smile.

"Get Hendrix to do the TV commercials." Peter put in. They started cracking up, getting into one of those endless communal stoned laughing jags that Pam loved so much. She was laughing so hard the tears were coming to her eyes, she was getting giddy, hyperventilating, she—

Where the hell was she this time, Pamela wondered, and why was she so dizzy? She blinked away an inexplicable film of tears, took in the new environment. Jesus Christ, it was Adolph’s.

"Pam?" Ellen asked, suddenly noticing that her friend had stopped laughing. "You O.K.?"

"I’m fine," Pamela said, taking a long, slow breath. "You’re not freaking out or anything?"

"No." She closed her eyes, tried to concentrate, but her mind wouldn’t stay still; it kept drifting. The music was extremely loud, and this place, even her clothes, reeked of—She was stoned, she realized. Usually had been when she went to Adolph’s, "down the road," they used to call it, ease on down, ease on down …

"Have another beer," Peter said, concern in his voice. "You look weird; you sure you’re all right?"

"I’m positive." She hadn’t become friends with Peter and Ellen until after winter field period of her freshman year. Peter had graduated, and Ellen had dropped out and moved to London with him, when Pamela was a sophomore; that meant this had to be 1968 or 1969.

A new record started playing on the jukebox, Linda Ronstadt singing "Different Drum." No, Pamela thought, not just Linda Ronstadt, the Stone Poneys. Keep it all straight, she told herself, reacclimate slowly, don’t let the marijuana in your brain make this more difficult than it already is. Don’t try to make any decisions or even talk too much right now. Wait’ll you come down, wait until—

There he was, my God, sitting not twenty feet away, looking right at her. Pamela gaped in disbelief at the incongruous, impossibly wonderful sight of Jeff Winston sitting quietly amid the youthful din of her old college hangout. She saw him register the change in her eyes, and he smiled a warm, slow smile of welcome and assurance.

"Hey, Pam?" Ellen said. "How come you’re crying? Listen, maybe we better go back to the dorm."

Pamela shook her head, put a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm. Then she stood from the table and walked across the room, across the years, into Jeff’s waiting embrace.

"Tattooed lady." Jeff chuckled, kissing the pink rose on her inner thigh. "I don’t remember that being there before."

"It’s not a tattoo, it’s a decal. They wash off."

"Do they lick off?" he asked, looking up at her with a wicked gleam.

She smiled. "You’re welcome to try."

"Maybe later," he said, sliding up to prop himself beside her on the pillows. "I kind of enjoy you as a flower child."

"You would," she said, and poked him in the ribs. "Pour us some more champagne."

He reached for the bottle of Mumm’s on the bedside table, refilled their glasses.

"How did you know when I’d start replaying?" Pamela asked.

"I didn’t. I’ve been watching you for months; I rented the house here in Rhinebeck at the beginning of the school year, and I’ve been waiting ever since. It was frustrating, and I was starting to get impatient; but the time here helped me come to terms with some old memories. I used to live just up the river, in one of the old estates, when I was with Diane … and my daughter Gretchen. I always thought I’d never be able to come back here, but you gave me a reason to, and I’m glad I did. Besides which, I enjoyed seeing you the way you really were in this time, originally."