“Gonna dance with my baby till the night is through, On Saturday night, Saturday night. Tell her all the little things I’m gonna do, On Saturday night, Saturday Night,” Johnny sang.
“Where the hell did you hear that from?” I asked.
“One of Marty’s albums, the Bay City Rollers; Some glam rock band from Scotland in the 70’s; I bug him about it– you should see his hair back then. At least he had some I guess.” Johnny was 32 and had been raised by his uncle Marty after his parents split when he was in high school. I guess his mother couldn’t handle the breakup when Johnny’s father fucked off. They were both in their late thirties and mid-life crisis started young. Too much responsibility, though you’d think they had done most of the work getting him to that age. Johnny still sees his mother – don’t get me wrong. Out of their family though, Marty was the closest to Johnny over the years and it just made sense. Marty was also the youngest, having Maria – Johnny’s Mom – and Brian, both older. If you did the math Marty would have been around 15 when he was supposed to have had Johnny, so they were closer in age than most parents, which made it difficult through the rebellious teen years. I guess this was what Johnny’s birth mom and dad saw coming – their youth finally over.
“Come on,” I said, “He could have only been around 12 or 13 back then.”
“Yeah, he probably started going bald in high school.” Johnny replied. He and Marty now lived up on the hill in Alliston – what we call the hill but it’s more like a plateau of plantation-like homes. Admittedly Johnny’s wasn’t the stateliest but Marty was a local real estate lawyer and Johnny never wanted for anything that I can remember including this two year old GT convertible – a 30th birthday present – that I was now driving fast out of town.
St. Johnston was only fourteen minutes away if you drove over the speed limit but today the weekenders were ought. Not quite Sunday traffic, but slow enough with the occasional farm vehicle that I could only put the car to the test when I overtook.
Roberta lived just on the outside of St. John’s as it was called locally. Another small town of dusty intersection and single gas station, with heavy machinery repair, like so many others in the Southwest. Roberta’s place seemed quiet as we pulled into the driveway. She had horses: 8 or 10 of them depending on who was boarding and the 40 acres of half bush and Carolinian woods was the ideal trail camp for spoiled city pre-teens following a dream. Saturday’s the parents were usually parked with their BMW’s and Lexus 4-wheell drive SUV’s by the stables driveway – half a block away but there was only one car parked there today and that was Jenny’s Jeep Laredo.
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