"Why Do Fools Fall in Love?"

Small businesses are the backbone of the American economy and therefore the Free World, least that’s what the School sez, so I guess the malt shop is something pretty important. It looks pretty nice, at least. It’s called The Atomic Diner and the floors are made of sleek silver chrome or something, wood tables surrounded by red booths, long windows and long gray walls with photographs of Salem Slot’s finest - that state championship team in ‘37, a group of proud firemen, young men waving from the train, off to Parris Island and Peleliu. I know Salem Slot’s history goes back before that, founded by colonists and pilgrims, those witch trials, that whole Indian burial ground business. But when you look at the happy faces here, it’s like nobody knows about the dark side of things and all that jazz.

There’s a big counter in the middle where Mr. Malt Shop makes root beer floats and sodapop. A jukebox sits quietly in the corner, looking awfully forlorn when no music's playing. Connie and her friends are sitting off to the side, but they don’t notice me, too busy with jocks in their letterman jackets. A gang of greasers sits at the counter, milk mustaches mixed with real stubble. I do as the Romans do and approach the malted milkman, an old man that kind of reminds me of Santa Claus.

I read the menu. “Uh…chocolate milk, please.” Can’t forget the please.

The malt shop man returns in a minute with the shake. “Dollar fifty.”

Oh. Money. I was so focused on the cheese, I forgot about the trap.

“I, uh, don’t got no money.”

“Godless communist,” he spits at me. Santa leers at me over the counter. “What, am I supposed to start handing out ice cream to everyone nowadays? What happened to the kids these days? Get lost, scram, go back to Moscow, or Peking, or, uh, I don’t know…San Francisco…”

I hear the jocks snicker. My face turns as red as my hair.

“Aw, he’s alright, pops.” There’s a few girls with the greasers; I stand dumbfounded as a brunette pays for my drink. Santa rumbles, but we’re in pursuit of the almighty dollar, so he jerks his head and goes to the next customer.

The greasers sit me down next to them. The brunette is taller than me and shines with a healthy glow. She smells nice, too. Strawberry, I think. Is that what girls are supposed to smell like? I oughtta look into that.

“My name’s Susan,” the brunette sez. “And you?”

“Mary Lou Sunday.”

A greaser snorts. “And I’m Rocket-Man.”

Susan elbows him. “You alright, Mary Lou? You look a little pale.”

With apologies to Susan, I don’t answer at first. I take a long sip from the chocolate shake. I’ve never had chocolate before, so I’m kind of excited-

Holy

Fucking

Shit

“Gee whiz,” I let out after a solid minute of drinking. “This chocolate stuff is the bee’s knees.”

Susan giggles. “Never had chocolate before?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I go to the School up the hill, and they don’t let no candy in there.”

“...the school?”

“Golly, wow.” I finish the whole shake. “Salem Slot is the dope. And you’re telling me I can just go out tonight and just say trick or treat and people’ll give me chocolate, just like that?”

Susan smiles, so I smile, too. Then I hear jokes about nuthouse and asylum from the group of the jocks, snickers and glares and grins. I see the way the jocks and greasers eye each other up from across the malt shop. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

“I’m embarrassing you, ain’t I?” I ask Susan. It’s kind of obvious that people don’t react to chocolate this way, and they bring money with ‘em, and they smell like strawberries or wear neat letterman jackets or motorcycle jackets, greased up hair or brushed up hair and they don’t stay out in the rain all night or run away from home.

You see now? calls the School from the hill. You have nothing out there. Come back home.

“Nah, ignore those meatheads,” Susan says gently. “They’re normal, and we’re different. They got trust funds and pretty girls and we just have each other on the outside.”

I shrug. “Well, I think you’re pretty.”

Susan laughs, but I see where her eyes go - to the biggest jock, one with a crewcut, sitting on the other side of the malt shop. While his friends all talk, he sits there, meditating, kind of like the School has me do during our astral projection classes. Connie sits next to him, talking at him, but he’s focused on something beyond all this.

“That’s Brad,” Susan sez, her eyes dreamy. “He’s captain of the football team. He’s sooper-dooper nice.”

Ah. I get it.

“You’re in love-”

Susan places a hand over my mouth. “Mary Lou, don’t go saying stuff like that out loud!” The greasers laugh behind her, all in good fun, since they must know too.

“Forget it, Sue,” Rocket-Man says, his hair slicked up in a big pompadour. “He’s got a pigskin scholly to Cornell. And I bet there's nothing but air in that head of his.”

Susan sighs, and her dream ends.

“Nonsense,” I cut in. I slip off my seat and raise a finger. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that love conquers all.” That’s what one of the older girls in the school said, ‘cuz she got sweet on a Marine stationed there, before they shipped him off to Yokohama, perhaps ‘cuz she got sweet on him. She still holds a candle for him, and it’s what gets her through the day. “Love is the most important thing out there. Dr. Funny sez it’s fear, but I don’t believe him.”

Before she can stop me, I whip out my trusty harmonica. “Hey, Brad!” I call out.

Unlike Connie’s talking, this breaks the big man from his spell. He glances up, eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisted in slightly uncertainty. Then I begin.

A MALT SHOP LOVE SONG

Woooooah-oh-oh

Woooooah-oh-oh

Man across the aisle, you’re meant for me (Woooooah-oh-oh)

My love calls out to you, why can’t you see (Dooooo-wop)

I grin like a fool, ‘cuz I know your mine (Woooooah-oh-oh)

Kiss me until the end of time (Woooooah-oh-oh)

I hold Susan’s hands in my own. “You see, music has the power to transform, and turn love into reality-”

“Jesus Christ!” Susan cries out. And then I realize - the whole shop stopped to watch the skinny little punk sing a homemade love song. Susan’s face is beet red, especially ‘cuz Brad’s been watching her while I sang. As Connie chuckles, as the jocks stifle laughter, Brad stands. Over their protests, he approaches the greasers. Susan now goes white as a sheet and hides behind Rocket-Man, who puffs out his chest.

Brad stands before us, as Xerxes might’ve once stood before the outnumbered Spartans at the Hot Gates. I can see why he’s the captain.

“Susan,” Brad says calmly. “Is this how you feel?”

Susan pokes her head out from behind Rocket-Man’s shoulder. “I…”

She pauses. I nod at her with two thumbs up.

“Yes, Brad. That’s how I feel. But I know it won’t ever work out. I know we’re not meant to be together. I know I’m ugly.”

“Susan…” Brad smiles. “I've felt the same way about you since freshman year.”

“WHAT?!” Rocket-Man and Connie cry out in unison. All of sudden, the greasers and jocks are on their feet and scramble to the front lines. Susan slips past Rocket-Man and stands before Brad.

He rubs his neck. “I’ve been too scared to admit the truth. What would my parents think? What would Coach think? My friends? It’s been distracting me. My scholarship at Cornell is in jeopardy because my grades are slipping. I even…I even…I even did a reefer once, Susan.”

The entire malt shop gasps.

But then Brad stands tall. “All I had to do was tell the truth. Susan, I want you to wear my letterman jacket at the game tonight. And I want to take you to the Homecoming dance.”

“Isn’t there someone you forgot to ask?!” Rocket-Man and Connie butt in. Rocket-Man waves his hands. “Sue, he’s gonna forget ya as soon as he sees the Cornell co-eds!”

Connie nods emphatically. “She’s from the wrong side of the tracks, Brad!”

The greaser girl and the football captain gaze at each other. “Love conquers all,” they say, the dream alive again.

Rocket-Man and Connie glance at each other, then turn to face me, as do all of their followers. My smile frowns.

“Say, Santa,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. “How ‘bout another shake, on the house? I think I’m gonna need it-”

“Get her!” all the jocks and greasers say, then immediately charge, trying to drag me away, tear me apart like taffy, or at least beat the stuffing out of me.

“Santa!” I cry out.

But Santa’s not even behind the counter anymore. He just puts a coin in the jukebox; malt shop mayhem spins up as he grins and cheers. “Yes, yes, children fighting!”

But then I’m scooped up. Brad puts me and Susan under his tree trunk arms and makes a beeline for the front door, barreling through the greasers and jocks like panzers in Byelorussia. He shoulder-checks the door, out back into the crisp autumn air.

“Go to the stadium!” Brad instructs me. “Find Bobby Wood below the stands there, he’s my chemistry partner. He’ll keep you safe.” He turns to face the crowd rushing out of the malt shop. “I'll hold them off. I gotta get them in line - we got a football game tonight!”

Susan waves. “And I’ll calm down Rocket-Man. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Mary Lou.”

I blow into my harmonica, then sail off, flying like the wind. This whole freedom thing is pretty neat, all things considered.