Billy Spleader works as Billy the Cabana Boy in the summers poolside at Meadows Motel. The rest of the year he’s the bartender in the motel’s lounge for the dinner and evening shift. Age, 40ish plus, he’s an over the hill jockey, having gained enough weigh to ground him from the good Thoroughbreds, Arabians and big purses. It’s Tuesday, his normal day off, but Carmine Sexton, usually on duty, called in sick.
Billy delivers the gin and tonics and the colas to the Petrovich family, then walks to the far side of the pool to gaze over the wall down toward the Big River. The sun is shining. With the breeze, the occasional white cap reflects the sun, glistening back to Billy, who purses his lips.
“I could be swimming now down at the state park, not working. Oh well, life’s good!” He looks nautical in his white Burmudas and knit shirt. He sports a yacht captain’s hat on his head to keep the sun off his thinning head of blonde hair. White canvas sneakers complement his stylish maritime outfit.
He was happy to see all the Petrovich family together, Pete and Sheila, regulars in the summer, son Gregory, the anthropology student, and daughter Gloria, famous bandleader of Maven and the Night Ravens. Rumors are flying that Gloria and her five bandmates will reunite, so he listens to their chatter with a keen ear. She’s back for a visit from the Bard College Conservatory of Music in New York where she’s been an outstanding student, performer, and composer. Billy knows as much local news as Card Dawson down at the barbershop, maybe more!
“Dad, I just can’t decide. Life affords so many choices. They want me to teach guitar and lute once I graduate.”
Gregory pipes in, “We’re pulled by a lot of strings, Gloria. Warhaven has a lot to speak for itself. But then, so does the Hudson River Valley and the New York music scene.”
Shelia reaches for her stepdaughter’s forearm, touching her. “Life’s the journey, isn’t it? You have more choices, more opportunity than most of us. You have to rudder your own boat, and that’s never easy.”
Eavesdropping, Billy was catapulted back to his premier racing days, riding high in the stirrups, striking in the harlequin colors of his racing silks. His mind flew to Hialeah and perhaps the best race of his career. It was the Flamingo Stakes 1999 and he rode the three year old filly, Second American, winning by a nose. It had rained and mud covered his cap and googles. He sees himself standing in the winner’s circle, hears the cameras clicking, smells the sweat of the horse as he scratches her neck and shoulder.
Billy watches an osprey diving down for a fish, thinking, “What I wouldn’t give for a few more great rides, for a few shed pounds, for a little regained dexterity. Aaah, jockeying’s a young man’s game. I’m just lucky I ended up here in Warhaven and not in some grimy city where you have to pay to park and no one calls you by your name.”
The bird of prey hits the water, immediately rising out of the splash, a sizable salmon in its talons, arcing its way up to a grove of cedars along the bank. It drops down into its stick nest. “Now that’s good living, a home on the water with fresh fish for supper!”
Billy ambles back over to the pool, a couple sitting at the far side. He takes their orders for refills, then walks to the Petrovich table. “How are things here, folks?”
Pete nods, “Commodore, another round please.”
Billy chuckles. “Commodore? Do you see my navy? Do you see any yachts? Sailor first class, maybe!”
They all laugh with Billy as he strolls away. Their eyes follow his departure, studying his unique gait, for Billy is both pigeon toed and bow legged.
•••
The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week in Columbia Gorge News.
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