The Beacon sat just on the west side of the bridge leading out of Harriman. I watched many drag races coming across that bridge, saw them whip off behind the Beacon to avoid police observance, and quietly slip into a parking bay, punch the speaker, and order a cherry coke and a cheeseburger with fries. It was a great meeting place for kids on a date, or a place to troll for one.
Hot-rodder’s ready to leave after refueling on the Beacon’s “basket specials” had a passenger jump out, knock off the “cut out pipe” caps, and hop back in as the big blocks roared to breathy life. The loud chugging and backfiring was a call to others that the game was on again. Usually, some contender took the queue, went through the same ritual, and brought their throaty beast to life – a new heat across the bridge was on! The challengers met at the side of road, looked up and down the highway, as the Beacon’s eaters froze in place, anticipating. Engines revved and strained against brakes until the coast looked clear. Then in a V-8 bellow they charged off in a cloud of blue rubber smoke. It was wonderful and the smell of burning rubber made a chilidog taste all the better!
As the engines went through synchronized gear changes, peaked RPM, and then backed off in distant popping and a halo of red taillights, the patrons resumed smacking and licking their lips. “Who won?” someone would shout.
Sometimes you could catch a fistfight further up behind the ordering bays, and inside a semi-circle of car headlights. Later, loser and winners broke up into small groups went somewhere to drink and brag.
Inside, the pinball machines beeped, clanged, whistled, popped, flashed, and chirped their wild sounds to cigarette smoking, gum chewing, and coke swigging boys bent on doubling their allowances. Many times I put my five-dollar allowance on the counter, ordered a cheeseburger and fries, a cheery coke, a pack of Winstons, and got the rest in nickels. If I hit the pinball, we all went across the street, played snooker, bought beer, and sat out back later laughing and talking about girls.
Of course if one of us did not hit, then we were left with deciding whether to walk home, or stand on the street, hanging off parking meters, hoping some body would pick us up, and ride us around. Riding around consisted of cruising up and down Roane Street, slow chugging (pretending your car had a cam) around the Beacon, and back down the main drag again.
It was this circle of life, the summer we graduated, that got to us. “Man! We have got to get out of this place guys. We’ll die here if we go around this damn Beacon one more time.”
So off we went the next day and three of us joined the Air Force on the “buddy system.” After basic training, I have only seen those guys once in forty-two years!
Ironically, I thought I would die if I circled the Beacon for the rest of my life – not knowing that I would be going to Vietnam where dying was a very real possibility. Stupid kids!
Someone, somewhere out there in America tonight is having that same thought. They do not know when they have it made. They spend most of their time wishing their lives away.
How I wish I could circle the old Beacon one more time or taste that wonderful cherry coke and cheeseburger combination – wearing that younger man’s shoes, but feeding this older man’s face.
