Pappyland by Wright Thompson

Author:Wright Thompson [Thompson, Wright]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

16

WE SAT AROUND A TABLE at the hotel restaurant in Louisville. I’d eaten a lot of meals with Julian by now and had come to enjoy these marathons most of all. Julian is at his best at a table, I believe. We talked about ceviche, pancreatitis, and the beautiful, hyperviolent plays of British-Irish playwright Martin McDonagh. Shit devolved. We got in the car and listened to the Who on the way home. Everyone sang along. The Doors came on next.

“Were you into the Doors?” I asked.

“Yeah, I got the first Doors forty-five,” Julian said.

“Did you eat acid?” Ed asked, laughing.

“Naw,” Julian said. “‘Hello, I Love You’ was the first stereo forty-five, and I had it.”

“What’s the first band you saw live?” I asked.

“Probably the Beach Boys or the Stones,” Julian said.

He loves the Rolling Stones, which must have driven his tank captain father absolutely nuts. “They’ve been here several times,” Julian said. “I saw them from the parking lot at the old Cardinal Stadium at the fairgrounds. I saw them at Churchill Downs.”

We got home. The party wasn’t over. We were at the best bar in the world: Julian’s house. As a rule, I always let him pick what we’re drinking. It feels rude to start shot-calling: Uh, yeah, can you get some Stitzel-Weller white dog from when your granddad ran the place? Maybe a 1964 Old Fitz? Maybe some 20-year-old Pappy?

Tonight he pulled out a barrel-aged Nicaraguan rum he likes. If he was going rum, then we were following suit, on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Ed got a guitar and we passed it around. He played a beautiful version of Widespread Panic’s “Space Wrangler.”

We drove around the neighborhood on a golf cart, then we dropped Julian off and started talking about getting guns to “shoot shit.” Ed played Widespread’s “Driving Song,” which always leaves me melancholy and nostalgic:

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