44, part six

“Thirty.” James said.

“Coolidge.”

“Notable points?”

“None.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Stock market crash.” David suggested.

“You could say that.  It happened during idiot Hoover’s admin, though.  We can’t get too technical with the causes and history and so on.  The stock market crashed with Hoover, and so that’s a Hoover drink.  Coolidge was a Carter president.  Useless, pointless, stopgap backlash after a scandal.” That was hard to say.

“So we can stay here?”  We were still at the Quarry House, now actively working through the beer menu.

“He did give the indians citizenship.”

“Well.”  David said, “That was nice.”

“But only if they left the reservation and acted like white people.”

“Oh.”

James grabbed the beer menu, “We’re drinking this Dutch shit.”

“Isn’t that, like, 10%?” David asked.

“Are we men or mice, Davey?”

“I’m…Oh, okay.”

The waitress had stopped talking to us, except to take our order.  She also avoided eye contact.  She took our order for three Dutch shits and then scurried off.

“Fuck Coolidge, then” James said.  “Hoover’s next.  Nacho?”

“I suggest we ride out Prohibition right here.”

“I always associated the Depression with Prohibition…?”

I shook my head, “Oh, no.  Think about it.  Booze was needed during the Depression.  Can you imagine Depression and Prohibition together?  We’d be flying the hammer and sickle right now.”

“Okay, okay… Forget it.  What are we at?”

“Thirty-two.  FDR.”

“Do we have an FDR drive?”

“There’s a road for everything and everyone in the capitol of this grand nation.”

“But…” David leaned towards me, “There isn’t, is there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Okay,”  David stood up,  “Here we go:  FDR Drive, right? Manhattan skyline.  Right?  So…we go to New York Avenue.”

“Not at night, David.”

“We could order three Brooklyn Lagers.” James muttered.

“James!  Really.  FDR.  The most important president of the 20th Century.  And you want to crap out?”

“I don’t know how I’m going to make it.”

David was shocked, “Dude.  We’re almost there.  Thirty-two, man!”

James started rocking back and forth.  “No way out.  No way out.  No way out…”

I stopped him on a forward arc and pressed him back against the booth seat, “Brooklyn Lagers.”

“Thirty-three.” David said.

“Truman.”

James stood up, nearly knocking over the table, and screamed:  “Atomic!”

And that’s how we got kicked out of the Quarry House.