

AMERICAN TEEN

B.S. Adkison

Copyright 2020

Smashword Edition

ISBN 9780463026069
Chapter One

The obsession probably officially started when I was four years old, while walking down the sidewalk in our little town with my family. I clearly remember the rather junky looking, jacked-up hotrod 'smoking the tires' right out in front of everybody while scruffy looking delinquents stood around the scene hooting and cheering. My parents, who ordinarily were in a constant state of verbal combat and chronic disagreement, but this time they completely agreed with each other in a rare display of unity that this foolishness, this madness, must certainly be an example of the reason of all the problems and insanity of the entire world.

"Their probably 'hopped-up' on drugs" my mother proclaimed and as a nurse's aide, her opinion carried professional weight.

"They'll blow that transmission not to mention those tires" added my father in one of his standard 'one up-man-ship' statements meant as the 'last word' to increase, in his mind, the absolute mastery of every encounter and situation of the family while simultaneously deflecting any importance that my mother's statement might have had, all in an subconscious effort that by this time had grown so natural and automatic that even mother didn't seem to notice anymore that she was being belittled, and if she did, the fact was that she didn't care anymore what he thought. To us kids (seven of us, ranging from teenager to toddler) this particular display of banter was a rare example of kind and even generous behavior of my parents towards each other. So much more pleasant than their constant fighting with all the shouting and screaming which was usually followed by the inevitable door slam that marked the general easing and calming that was to immediately follow. Of course, whichever of us kids that were in earshot of that slam, they had to endure the final statement from whichever of our parents remained on this side of the door: "That bitch" if it was the bedroom door and slammed by my mother. "That bastard" if it was the front door which was usually followed by my dad leaving for the bar. Either way, the tension ended, and us kids could relax, play and generally enjoy whatever was left of the day.

That sort of conflict behavior eventually reduced the seriousness and the respect that us kids had for them as role models, and as examples for normal, acceptable behavior, because we weren't stupid, and also because that was all offset by the 'real' cultural guidepost, the 'actual' behavioral example of how to act and how to behave; television.

The Fonz, Captain Kirk, movie and rock and roll stars, they became my role models and I studied their behaviors and mannerisms critically. The more my parents belittled such influences, the more I 'doubled down' and increased my worship and my longing to join such lifestyles, no matter how far from reality they really were. I mention this because it is an example of much of my background and the apparent, overall basis of my upbringing, at least as I seem to perceive it.

But as I watched that unbridled, relentless display of the excess and the excessive power being unleashed right out here in the street, and as it was being unabashedly performed in front of everybody in the form of simple friction, wildly releasing clouds of incinerated rubber for the enjoyment and entertainment of the reckless young men and women that cheered it on, I had seen a glimpse into my future and my destiny, my chance and my way into such a fantastic world that seemed custom tailored just for me. All I need to do is burn rubber baby!

The concept that an engine could produce so much excess power that it could apparently defy the laws of physics appealed to my childish mind in a way that nothing else had before, to the point that as I watched the thick, gray smoke roll off the madly spinning tire, and as I got a whiff of that strange, acrid chemical smell for the first time, it was a discovery that there were things, events and circumstances beyond my family and more real than television. Things that existed out in the real world and those things were as close as this street of our little, ordinary small town. That was the turning point, the marker and the waypoint of so many of my future decisions and desires. The path into an iconic future had been marked by a black streak of burning rubber.

This is the story of how such a pivotal (and trivial) event along with other senseless influences during the late 1960's through the mid 1970's shaped and guided a typical American Teen boy on an adventure and in a direction that led to a unique and unusual series of events that seems today that might be lost, smothered and pushed aside in this modern, certain, button-down and unquestioning world, that the story must be told just to prevent its loss from the annuls of history. It is a tale of things that were once considered normal, even mundane but today seemed to have been pushed aside (for better or for worse) by significant changes in social structures to a point that the concepts to be presented here have become so unrecognizable, that not only have they been forgotten but they seem to have been shunned and ignored until they have all but disappeared under popular consensus and public edict. What could have been so dangerous and damaging to warrant such destruction? That's what I've been wondering, so I decided to write it down and let you decide what to think. Is it poison, or entertainment? I have faith in your judgement, and don't be afraid to judge. Whatever you think about anything in this story, no one will know, it will be our little secret. That's the beauty of the written word, it's a personal experience, just between you and me, and what you think remains (if it is your desire) hidden away in your brain. So, go ahead, judge the crap out of it! I won't know what you think which means I can't tell anyone, so your secret is safe. What I think..., well..., what happened anyway, I will try to explain, and I will try my best not to waste your time and I will present it all in a fast-paced, no nonsense format, and I am certain that it is unique enough and that it contains so many downright bizarre events that it will be worth your attention. All I know for sure is that it all happened, and it is written for your entertainment and perhaps it will provide some aspects (eventually) that will make you think. Other than that, it is the story of a typical American Teen boy just trying to figure things out and survive in a complex and often unforgiving world but perhaps this kid (me) may have a different view than most kids and occasionally, he takes a unique and unproven path several times along the way. As for shocking danger, brave boldness or scarring injustice, well..., remember, the title of this thing is American Teen, and my trials and tribulations are really nothing to get worked up about, just a series of events probably only possible in the richest, most decadent country to ever exist and that is the point, while so many novels revolve around so many turning points of history, where life and death hinge and pivot with each plot twist on every page, what is left for ordinary people to relate to? Is our reward for 'good' decisions left to die in obscurity because of the boredom of such choices? A gap in the historical record because of a failure to assassinate a tyrant? Spark a revolution? Or change the world in some other critical or important way for better or for worse? But there are important and pivotal events and waypoints even among the ordinary. Just because the world won't end with each decision and action doesn't mean such stories don't have a place in history. In fact, that might be why I have presented this story for your consideration, let the little people have their day in the sun. In the future, there might be a gap in understanding of how the ordinary and the obscure lived. What was life really like? Let's find out something of that together.

That tire smoking 'burn out' may have been the starting point, and the 'spark' that shaped much of my future, but it was a fund raiser in the third grade, a magazine subscription drive that focused my actual actions and much of my attention after that. I sold enough subscriptions that I qualified for the pick of three magazines to be delivered right to our door for the upcoming year ahead. I chose Car and Driver, Car Craft and Hotrod. I read each issue cover to cover and soon I became one of the top reading students in my class. If possible, all my book reports and school projects came straight from the pages of those magazines. I sent away for catalogs and brochures from parts suppliers and 'kit car' manufactures that advertised in those pages and soon I was getting more mail then my parents. I would pour through that data and produce comprehensive parts lists and cost analysis for building my own hotrod, all with the apparent blessing and enthusiasm of many of my teachers, but as I pitched my father to consider what I thought would be a fool-proof plan and a bonding experience for both of us, that together we would produce a hot rod by the time I was old enough to get my driver's license, I was shocked at the reaction that the plan received.

"I've put up with your nonsense long enough! If you think we're gunna have a bunch of junk laying around here just so you can lose interest in it all when you see all the work that it will be, you got another thing coming!"

In hindsight, it shouldn't have been a surprise that he would have had such a reaction, but at the time, I was shocked, speechless. I had years invested by then in researching my plans, but before I could voice any protest, there was more:

"Let me set you straight boy, you never buy a car that doesn't run, and you never tear apart one if it doesn't; you get rid of it!"

That was the exact opposite of all that I had learned and believed from my reading and my father must have sensed the contradiction to what he had just said to all that I had planned because he went on a tear about reinforcing his dictate, and after that, he never let up about it. He forbade me from talking about cars, he threw away all my magazines and other literature if he found it, he wouldn't let us watch any auto racing on TV, he made it his mission to belittle and marginalize anything to do with motorsports and the automotive hobby, even after I was well into middle age and after I had made a career in the automotive trades. By then it had been going on for so long that I don't think he even remembered why he was so against it. He had made his choice and that was that. Every time he would see an old car, no matter how pristine, all it was to him was a "bucket of bolts" and he would editorialize endlessly how with all the money that was spent, "He could have bought a new car." Bottom line; my dad was not a car guy.

But I was!

When I was twelve, my oldest brother Mike owned a 1966 Pontiac GTO. It was gold with a bucket seat interior, four on the floor and three two-barrel carburetors; "tri-power" to was called. I worshipped that car and to some extent, him as well. I used to spend hours with him as he fiddled with the thing (apparently my Father's anti-car bias didn't extend beyond me for some reason) and I mastered the arts of polish and wax much to Mike's benefit. As a reward for my detailing prowess, he would occasionally take me to the drive-in for burgers. I felt like the king of the world riding in that car as he snapped through the gears, and I would look around constantly, hoping that my friends from school would see me. But one Saturday night, Mike took me with him on an adventure that cemented my automotive enthusiasm to new and even more absurd levels.

He took me to the local drive-in movie complex and playing there that night was something called American Graffiti. I watched it as if it were an important lecture, absorbing every scene as if it were a documentary to be followed by an important quiz. While it was a movie about young people dealing with the Viet Nam war among other things, to me, it was the fact that it featured cars and cruising, cumulating with an illegal drag race on a deserted road on the outskirts of their town, and that cemented, in my mind, the importance and the reason of the creation of the film. I was fascinated from the opening scene to the ending credits. It was a peek into a world custom made just for me.

After the movie, there was much more in store for me; this over-stimulated and highly impressionable small-town kid. Starting with a procession of tire-smoking burnouts as each carload of hyped-up teenagers demonstrated their enthusiasm for the film by reducing their tire's tread depth and increasing the profits of the tire manufacturing companies. But this was just the beginning of what would be my complete conversion and the focus of my destiny.

"You're not tired, are you?"

Mike asked this as we neared our turn to exit the drive-in.

Tired? You have got to be kidding! I was so hopped-up and on sensory overload that I could have possibly lit-up the souls of my sneakers, given a means and a way to do that.

"Good! Because we're not going home just yet."

He pointed the GTO in the other direction then that of home, and he did a small 'burn-out' as we left, (Mike was so straight-laced that it was often embarrassing, I'm sure that this was just about the only time I can remember him purposely spinning the tires) and we joined the dozens of other cars heading for the city, and not the single street, downtown of our small, irrelevant little town but the nearby real city of Bremerton.

It was a magical experience riding with this pack of cars and young people heading towards adventure, and it went without saying that this would be a secret from our parents, especially my Dad. But neither of us knew the levels of the radicalism that lay ahead for us.

"Cruising the gut" is what people called it in those days, and it was the most important (but mostly pointless) endeavor that a twelve-year-old boy could imagine. At a snail's pace we crawled down the city streets with the windows down as all manner of insults and banter was thrown back and forth between the participants. Music was being blasted from every car radio, locations and directions to hook-ups and parties were being suggested and/or confirmed. Girls went out of their way to look extra sexy as boys tried every line and action imaginable to try and catch their attention. It was a human wonderland of interaction and I was in a front row seat enjoying myself immensely and leaning and absorbing every detail that I could for future reference. But in a flash, things suddenly turned ugly.

From a side street, they poured into the main drag; a group of sailors from the local Navy Base were tangling with a gang of bikers, and one of them threw another up on the hood of the car right in front of us as they all traded violent punches. I had never seen such a thing in real life, and I had to admit, it was unsettling. Mike was justified in fearing damage to his car and he looked for an exit down a side street, but traffic completely stopped as everyone hooted and cheered the combat. Luckily for us, the fighting spilled out across the street and into an alley, but I could tell that Mike was rattled which meant that when things got moving, we would probably be leaving. But what a story I would have for my friends at school! We steered into a turn lane that lead to the exit and at that moment, the traffic around us just stopped.

Moments later, you could see people were out of their cars and in the street stopping incoming traffic but letting those exiting on through. We were off the main drag at that point, and the line of cars that we were in was hopelessly stuck in the forced gridlock. Something was up, something incredible.

The wide, downtown boulevard emptied, and soon we could see what was going on and we had the best seat in the house. I thought the movie that we had watched earlier was the living end, then the rowdy ride down the freeway in that pack of cars rivaled that and I thought that would be the highlight of the night, but that was eclipsed by cruising the gut, then witnessing a street fight topped that (and as far as I knew was still in progress) but this, this that was forming not a fifty feet in front of us, this is the stuff that legends were made of, and I was beyond words to describe what was happening. I could see Mike's apprehension but there wasn't a thing he could do about it. This was happening and I couldn't have been more excited or more pleased. That was until I had seen who the competitors would be.

With the street now empty, the cars to be involved in the competition had arrived and lined up, side by side for a showdown to determine the answer to a question asked of and wagered on concerning the outcome of many important, but in hindsight, trivial and pointless questions: Who had the most power? Who was the best driver? And ultimately, who would win the race? But at the time, they may as well have been the most important questions in the world and they would be answered, settled once and for all, right here and right now, and as far as I was concerned it was happening just for my entertainment because of the fact that I was in the right place and at the right time.

It was all nearly beyond my comprehension as the highly modified engines, both with uneven, 'choppy' idles that rattled windows with their barely muffled exhaust systems as they blipped their throttles occasionally in an effort to keep their cylinder's from loading up, and certainly because it looked and sounded so damn cool. That is when a very sexy, big-haired blond young lady in a yellow miniskirt and a pink halter top strutted out in front of the pair and she stopped and struck a pose with one hand on her hip and a green handkerchief in the other.

The car on the left was a Mustang GT 500, jacked-up with oversize 'meats' (tires) and it creeped ahead until it was in the perfect position, but it was car on our right that I revered and that I thought that Mike would also be cheering for.

"Vonne Tempie!" Mike gasped, hardly holding back his contempt.

"He's ruined that car!"

That car, a 1966 GTO like Mike's, but much different. Raised in the rear with ridiculously wide tires sticking out. Black lacquer paint that looked as deep as the impossibly still water of a bottomless lake. Polished 'mag' wheels and a hood scoop as big as a large mailbox, grafted onto the hood for feeding air into an engine obviously modified beyond reason. It was the sound that engine produced that had it standing apart from Mike's car or any other car on the face of the earth. (In my limited opinion anyway.) Each hit of the throttle shook the nearby buildings as that wonderful, glorious sound echoed up and down the street. The Mustang was magnificently close to that same sound with its own unique and dramatic pitch, but it just didn't quite seem to measure up.

"That Mustang's gunna take it I'd bet. It's gotta be almost a thousand pounds lighter" Mike said, but if I had any money, I would have taken that bet. Both cars lit up their tires and smoke quickly rose in clouds as big as houses as the breeze blew it towards the rear of the pair as they shot ahead, only to gather up their brakes before they had moved more than about fifty feet. The sound of that action was deafening, and it rolled and bounced between the buildings in a haunting, extended echo long after both cars had cut their throttles.

"The cops will be here any minute" said my brother as they both backed carefully right into the rubber that they had just laid down, but even I recognized that the same gridlock that kept us trapped here also prevented any police cruisers from approaching. With both cars now carefully staged, the pretty blond lady held her handkerchief high in the air and the constant hoots and cheering (including from a certain batch of bloodied sailors and bikers that were either settled in their dispute or had put it on hold as they lined up on the sidewalk to watch with everyone else) was suddenly drowned out by the sound of engines wound up to precise, launching RPM levels. Everything, including the spinning of the earth itself seemed to stop for me while that handkerchief was held high. Breaths were held, even the pounding in my chest seemed to skip a beat until..., the pretty lady's arm came down in a blur of fluttering green silk.

The roar was fantastic as they lurched ahead with the Mustang gaining a slight advantage off the line, but that car quickly lost traction and kicked out sideways just as it passed the pretty girl and she did a brave, sexy little twist of her body in a move that let that car's rear quarter panel graze her hip on the way by! And as that happened, Vonne Tempie, in the other lane, blazed on past in a streak of glossy black, straight as an arrow and hooked up as if his side of the street was coated in glue. Mike gave out a disgusted "harrumph" as his comment at the results of the race. I, on the other hand, couldn't have been more pleased.
Chapter Two

That Saturday night, car magazines, (now contraband, which added to the allure) racing on television (also prohibited at my home but not at my friend's houses) and the occasional, actual (and in hindsight, extremely dangerous) antics of some older kids that could be goaded (which was rather easy) into giving me highspeed rides, all of that reinforced and cemented my interest and devotion to motorsports but it was the discovery of the local drag racing track that absolutely sealed the deal.

I was at one of my friend's houses and we could hear the sounds of racecars roaring down the strip as we were goofing-off in his backyard.

"What's that sound?"

"That's the racetrack."

I was in the vicinity of a racetrack? So close that I could hear it?

"You're kidding?"

"Yeah, it's pretty cool. We could sneak in, it's easy to do."

I didn't need to hear another thing. A short while later, we were climbing a fence that was hidden in the woods and we dropped down on the other side into a world that would eventually change my life. We blended into the crowd near the starting line and I was spellbound as each pair of cars smoked their tires to heat them for maximum traction before inching into the staging beams of the starting line. The noise from these cars was deafening with their open, unmuffled exhaust. One after another, each brightly colored and numbered pair of cars would scream down the track with the winner highlighted by a single light (the 'win' light) on one of the electronic scoreboards located down track at the finish line, one on each side for each lane.

Where had this been all my life? Actual auto racing happening minutes away from my friend's house? Incredible! Unfortunately, my friend didn't share my enthusiasm and he worried that we would get in trouble, it wasn't long before he wanted to leave.

"What? You can't be serious! Don't you want to see who the winner is?"

"They'll be at this till dark. The winner won't be determined until tomorrow's final" he said in the detached and bored manner of someone who has worn-out their interest. What's wrong with this guy? (I can't for the life of me remember his name.)

"Let's just watch a few more."

"Okay, but I need to get back home for dinner."

I silently stewed in my disappointment. I would have stayed until dark regardless of the consequences. I seriously debated staying and letting him go back without me but that meant risking not being there when my father came to pick me up later which might prevent further visits which now, I couldn't risk. No, I had a new thing, a mission and a past-time that had to be kept secret from my Dad and the rest of the family. As we stood there watching the wheels spin and grab traction, the wheels were also turning in my mind as I formulated plans and schemes as how exactly I would find myself here as often as possible.

"Come on, we've got to get back."

"Alright! Just one more."

What's-his-name shot me an impatient look but what happened next erased his anxiety. One of the next cars, an Anglia, which is an English Ford from the 50's that looked more like it was from the 30's, was modified into a very small, short wheelbase racecar. It rolled up and staged in the 'beams' of the starting line. With its engine revving, the lights came down the 'Christmas tree' and at the last yellow, the little car exploded off the line in a chest-high, wheels-up launch. Drifting towards the centerline of the track as the front wheels came down, the driver grabbed second gear and the car bounced its front wheels back up again and this time it drifted towards the outside guardrail. Halfway to the finish line already and gaining terrific speed, third gear was grabbed and bounced the racecar back towards the centerline once again, but the driver allowed the car to veer a little too far and when he tried to grab forth gear, we could see the inside rear tire of the car just start to leave the surface of the track. As if in slow motion, the car slowly started to rise on the driver's side until we could see the spinning drivetrain underneath, and that is when the driver, with apparently no other choice, lifted the throttle and "SLAM!"

The little car smacked the track surface on the passenger side with such violence that in a split second, I counted five complete revolutions as one of the front wheels and various other bits and pieces of it shot off and flew in all directions as the spinning wreck achieved at least forty feet of altitude as the crowd gasped. Remarkedly, it landed on what was left of its wheels and spun round and round, raising a cloud of dust in the infield gravel before if finally came to a rest well past the finish line.

"Did you see that?" I thoughtlessly yelled to my jaw-dropped friend as rescue workers and others hurried towards the tangled mess as the dust settled.

"Stay away, let the medics do their jobs!" Ordered the voice over the PA system, but that didn't stop many that were sprinting towards the carnage. The medical team got the driver out of what was left of his pulverized car and worked on him until a helicopter arrived and landed directly on the track where he was loaded on board and taken away. I read later in the local paper that he was alright, but he had a neck injury, so they didn't want to take any chances.

It was tough keeping what we had seen to ourselves but as we had snuck in and as I wasn't even supposed to have anything to do with motorsports, (completely unreasonable) I told my Dad that we spent the day hiking around in the woods.

"You could have done that at home with your brothers" he said, obviously not pleased that he had to come out here and pick me up even though it had been arranged for a week. My Dad, now that he and my Mom had started living more or less completely separate lives, starting not long ago with separate bedrooms, he was becoming less involved with anything that would take him away from what he wanted to do, and what he wanted was to work on the sailboat that he was building. Oh, he would claim to be ready to help with the kids in any way he could while talking at the dinner table in front of my Mom, who had started working nights as a RN at the hospital, but those statements were more about shaming my Mother about her going back to work full time. So, even though he agreed on one day to pick me up from a friend's house, when it came time to actually do that, he made it clear that I had better not make a habit of it. That also meant that scouting, little league, after school sports or band, anything that involved a ride was out. (There was no bus service out in the sticks where we lived.) We were expected to make our own fun with each other and limit our friends to the neighbors within walking distance. Fair enough I guess, except for one problem, the kids my age in our neighborhood were a bunch of juvenile delinquents and hoods. (It really wasn't a very good neighborhood.) Apparently, I wasn't the only one who had noticed that fact as a surprise assembly at school hinted at one day not long later.

It was a fateful day when the six grade boys were called into the gym. The principal and the PE coach directed us to the rows of chairs that were set up and they were in no mood for shenanigans. The local Sheriff and one of his deputies stood at attention on each side of the small stage at the end of the gymnasium that also doubled as our lunchroom and they both wore looks of extreme seriousness, so much so that it was comical.

"Take a seat and no talking! Wipe that grin off your face!" etc., etc.

When the adults had glowered us all into a state of somewhat worried (but quiet) paranoia, the lights were lowered, and the presentation was started. Two men stepped onto the little stage. One was a handsome, well dressed fellow in a well fitted, gray suit and he wore an engaging smile on his smooth, close shaved face. The other man was a balding, acne scared fellow in a badly fitting dark suit with an apparently permanent frown on his face. They introduced themselves as some kind of government agents of some sort of Presidential commission involving ethics and behavior. The subject of this all-important and stop-what-you're-doing meeting and assembly? Hippies! That's right- Hippies!

Me, my friends, my classmates and my siblings, we had never given the subject of 'Hippies' much thought. To us, they seemed to be nothing but a bunch of rockstar wanna-be losers who were bums and needed a shower. But apparently, the President believed that we were so impressionable that a special presentation was in order to get our minds right.

Handsome suit man started a slide show in which rockstars such as Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix were featured in tasteful, professional photographs while their virtues and talents were highlighted, only later to have Mr. Frown Face replace those photos with damning and insulting images of those same celebrities in the most degrading and compromising situations imaginable, right up to the point that an image of Jim Morrison's bloated corpse was shown floating in a bathtub.

It was obvious that the 'good suit/bad suit' slide show was supposed to be a dissolution for us to have any feelings of respect or mentoring that we might harbor towards these celebrities and others of their ilk. What the actual result of the presentation was, was just a macabre, horror filled freakshow with an overall message of how mean and pointless people in authority can appear. These 'Hippies' were not our role models and definitely not our soul mates, they were just people who entertained us (largely for free I might add) who had lost their way. That lesson had already been learned from their untimely deaths. Dragging them through the mud was just an unfair slander that said more about those doing the dragging than the people that they aimed to discredit. These victims, who had done nothing bad to anyone except themselves, had obviously already paid the ultimate price.

Back and forth and on and on the two 'agents' went hammering the point home that they and others of their ilk had thrown their lives away, when they could have been somebody. Yeah-yeah, we get it already! The message is clear, our 'heroes' (their impression, not ours) are losers and we should bow down to the establishment and support the government and the police, etc., etc.

Next in the presentation was a demonstration aimed to ease our concerns and to educate us on things that are "out in the world" and what we should do about such things if we should come across them. Drugs were the focus of this part of the show. LSD, heroin, cocaine, PCP and all the others including huffing model glue (something that I had never heard of, much less considered doing) were featured in graphic displays with the results of their use shown in obvious and exaggerated detail. While the results of such drug use were shown to be foolish and horrendous, what was not explained was the reason for such use in the first place. Explanations such as "for kicks" or "for a trill" fell short as explanations and left more questions than answers. (What kicks? Why was it a trill?) The longer this went on, the more confusing it was. It seemed to be a gaggle of mixed messages and blatant inuendo meant to influence the week and the stupid. Anyone with half a brain was left with the question of why do people do these things? Not with only with the lesson of not to do these things, as was hoped and which was certainly their intent. But it was the ending, the 'wrap-up' that was the most powerful part of the production.

It was a film chronicling a rock band, the Grateful Dead. They were presented as "working hippies" with the vibe that they could be more useful and happier if they would cut their hair and just get a job. (This is not made up! 100% true.) They were shown putting in long hours in their craft as if it was just a waste time, (the fact that they were doing what they loved wasn't even factored in) and of how "making it" in the music business was just a pipe dream. The film strongly suggesting that their drug use (which was shamelessly exploited) was the reason and the driving force of their destructive, misguided plans and poor life choices. It was supposed to be the icing on the cake of a thesis that why we young people should "conform to authority" and "fly right" and do the "right thing" if confronted with any of these situations. (I.E. tattle, like a good narc.) But they obviously overlooked an important aspect that we six grade boys didn't miss; those worthless, drugged-up, lazy hippies had girlfriends! And not homely, fat, sewing-circle types but young, sexy, outgoing, look-good-in-bikini type girlfriends that spoke of "free love." What about that? How could the government expose us to that aspect without expanding on those concepts? I think someone behind the scenes was laughing their ass off!
Chapter Three

My friends, Don, Chris and Wig (We called him Wig because his hair was always perfect) and I, waited for the bus all thinking the same thing after sitting through that assembly; we got to get us some of that! Girls, drugs, whatever. All we could think of was, after sitting through that, was that there must be something to it. Oh, we wanted girls, (wanted them badly) but what was new to us was the thought of using drugs to help us get there. (Thank you, Mr. President!) We had all heard about drinking to help lower a girl's inhibitions, but while experiments involving that usually started off in a favorable direction, a sudden rash of projectile vomiting often spoiled the results. (At least that's what I had heard.) But drugs, that was a new direction for us, and Don knew someone (an older kid) that could help.

Just as my Father had directed, my friends all lived within walking distance from our house. The fact that they smoked, drank, stole money from their mother's purses or from their father's wallets, (or better yet, their mother's or older sister's boyfriend's wallets) well Dad, be careful what you wish for. But my Dad got what he wanted, I hardly ever bothered him for a ride anywhere again, and he could work on his boat every night if he wished.

We pooled our money and gave Don enough for an ounce of weed; ten dollars. He went off to his 'connection,' an older kid named Wayne, and we waited for him to return at the bus stop. The banter we always shared when together would have looked from the outside as insults, only just verging on the point of fists to cuffs. We called it "flipping each other shit" and it was a tool we used to sharpen our wits and to establish social boundaries. As we waited for Don, we swore that we would kick his ass if he ripped us off. (Probably not true, Don was bigger than us and a known and effective bully, and it was best to keep him on our side.) Other than that, we spent our time accusing each other of chronic masturbation, bouts of gay sex, bestiality, incest and of course, sex with each other's mother's because they are whores. You couldn't even tuck in your shirt without it being an example of "playing with yourself."

This kind of interplay brought out our natural, social assets and exposed our weaknesses which we were working hard to eliminate, and that was the point. Wig had the silver tongue and he left many others, including adults, defenseless with his cutting insults. Kids are own age; they didn't have a chance against him. Don was a violent psychopath who wasn't afraid to thump you, which he demonstrated often and effectively which resulted in his well-deserved reputation. No one messed with him at school and by extension, us ether. But that didn't stop us from challenging him mentally, he wouldn't have any respect for us if we didn't. Chris was an odd duck. He wasn't especially tough or smart, but he could do anything he wanted. He wouldn't sneak out at night; he would just go. Returning at all hours and sleeping all day? Not a problem. It was nobody else's business and his parents respected that apparently. Were his parent's afraid of him or terrified of his behavior in some way? Not at all! In fact, he got along great with them as we all did. How did he do it? It wasn't exactly clear, but he cleaned up after himself in the kitchen and in the bathroom and he stayed out of any real (legal) trouble.

What was my superpower? My contribution to the group? Well it wasn't advanced banter or physical prowess; in fact, I was skinny, and I disliked raising my voice or listening to others scream and shout. I liked to read books. I always had a book with me. I used to help my friends with their schoolwork but after a while, they just didn't care about that much anymore. Sometimes it seemed like I was there just as some sort of bait. It could be the craziest, most fucked up situation with all kinds of debauchery and depravity going on all around and I would just be sitting there reading my books. If someone tried to bother me, my friends pounced. First Wig would deflect their attention with his sharp wit, and then Chris would step in to remind whoever they were that they should mind their own business, using his even, matter-of-fact tone, and if the question then became something like "What are you going to do about it?" Don would fly in like a whirlwind and lips were fattened, and noses were blooded. But it seldom reached that point, most people are just a lot of bluster and will back down when there is nothing really on the table or at stake. But why would my friends stand up for me? I think it was something to do with when things would wind down, when there was nothing left of the day, when there were no girls left around to chat up, and that is when I would tell them what I was reading about.

Area 51, The Battle of Midway, The siege of Leningrad, The History of Money, North Korean prisons, stories from Formula One mechanics, Treatise of Ice Age Diseases, Supersonic Jet Development, Labor Confrontations of the Twenties, Apollo Rocket Systems, Billboard's Music Rating Systems, Great Explorations of the Artic, British Naval Sea Battles and whatever else caught my fancy. One thing for sure, in those days well before the internet, they wouldn't get anything like that anywhere else. (Unless they read their own books, fat chance!)

The bag Don brought back had its share of seeds and stems and looked a little light but as he reminded us as we complained; "Next time you can get your own fucking bag, assholes" which sounded reasonable to me. That started our thing, our routine, our way, the behavior that defined us back then. Smoking, drinking, chasing skirts. (Can you even say that these days?)

Bag in hand, and after a while and for the ump-tenth time, we hoofed-it to our preferred smoking place; the graveyard. With its squeaky turnstile that would warn us of any visitors approaching, and with the high hedge surrounding the benches where we would sit and smoke, hedges that block the view from the street but that we can peer through to investigate any activity approaching at the gate and turnstile, add to those features the low fence to the sides and rear of the place where we can make an easy escape if we had to, and last is the fact that this place is nearly always totally deserted, and you have the perfect gathering place where we can do whatever we want. Well almost anything.

We had sodas stashed in that hedge row along with our 'bong' (our home-made water pipe made from a length of PVC pipe and sealed with gobs of black electrical tape) and Don grabbed a soda and tore the pull tab off and let it fall to the ground. Wig and I noticed that Chris had seen that and from his sour look, we knew what was coming.

"You gunna leave that there?"

So far, Don had apparently escaped the 'quirk,' the rather strange and frankly unusual trigger that Chris harbored. A somewhat heroic behavioral trait that Wig and I had witnessed several times and we rolled our eyes in anticipation of what was to come. After all, it was usually somewhat amusing.

"What?"

Chris moved slowly and carefully off the bench that he was sitting on and as if he had a great burden to fulfill, and as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, he moved like a gunfighter towards the pull tab and he stopped just short of the tiny bit of metal waste and squared off in front of Don and he pointed down at the offending item.

"That."

Don, a well-established bully and suspected psycho, wasn't used to confrontation that he didn't initiate and it was amusing because he looked confused as if he didn't know if he should laugh or play the tough guy, but Chris's steely-eyed seriousness seemed to intimidated even him.

"What?... That?... You're kidding?"

"It starts with a pull tab, then a cigarette pack, or an empty chip bag and before long people are just dropping trou and taking a shit right out in the middle of the street, just like the commies in Vietnam. If that's the kind of world you want, you can just go there and join them. Be a commie, live in filth, shit in the street and wipe your ass with your hand. But I live in America, I love my country."

Don just stared at him with an astonished look on his face. Even he had heard that Chris's older brother was missing in action over there. Grumbling slightly, he bent down and picked it up and without further ceremony, he walked over to the trash can and tossed it in. Chris, with a stone-faced, blank look to him that bordered on the insane, sat back down as if nothing had happened. Nothing was ever said after one of Chris's 'outbreaks' we owed that much to his brother. Thanks to Chris, with all the stupid, risky, thoughtless things that we did, we never littered or vandalized.

After a moment of awkward silence, we passed the bong around and soon we were passing back and forth the insults and degradations like a priest passes out pray books. Tales of slut sisters and whore mothers poured out as easy and as naturally as water under a bridge. Wig, usually the leader of such banter was cracking us up with an especially cutting story regarding my father and his constant, excessive, lip-smacking, humming, whistling and other irritating noises emanating from his mouth to such a degree that he had earned the name that Wig had coined: Butt-lips.

Perhaps I should have been offended, but as my father was really kind of an ass, and due to the unkind and generally insulting things that he often said about me and my friends, I took it as a demonstration of solidarity and a token of understanding. Besides, it was probably the funniest thing I had ever heard, and I was laughing my ass off when we all heard something towards the rear of the graveyard, the snap of a twig under a footstep. Someone or something was in here with us.

Night had fallen and there was an early, full moon. An evening mist was rolling in but the vision that we were all seeing was clear and unmistakable, but no less unbelievable. We had long since abandoned any fears of the supernatural with all our many forays into this place. Those concerns were the fears of babies to us. The eeriness of a graveyard was something that profited us with its vacancy, especially at night. But this time, and for the first time, we were seeing something not of this ordinary and explainable world. Everything stopped; time, breathing, heartbeats, as we watched our first, and at that time, our only creditable example of the nether world.

There was a sound, the inhuman breath of a demon. We watched, petrified with disbelief and fear, the exception was Chris. He moved towards the anomaly, commando style, using stealth and silence as he bravely went forward using the cover of headstones, one by one, until he disappeared into the mist and the darkness. That's the last will see of him!

Fifty or sixty yards away, the aberration floated in the air some four or five feet off the ground, only to occasionally disappear and suddenly reappear a short distance from where it disappeared. Am I really seeing something of the supernatural? Is this the proof that things like this really exist? The breathy vision was right there, we were all seeing it, a skull, floating in space. Suddenly, there was a scuffle of some sort and the skull moved all around as the ground shook and the vision got larger as it came rushing closer. The spell of our catatonic stillness was broken as Chris came by in a full sprint and we joined him as we ran towards the turnstile as we heard his one-word report, the result of his brave recon mission:

"COW!"

The white face of the Heifer presented the unmistakable image in the moonlight of a skull so convincingly that after we gathered up beast and walked it back to Mr. Cabello's farm from where it came, we were informed that the creature was named Miss Skully in honor of its unique colorations. The beast appeared to be quite happy to be home as it went straight to the barn because it had missed its evening feeding while being apparently lost, and we earned a plate of fresh backed sugar cookies for our dutiful efforts of its return, which was a welcome situation as we had by that time a raging case of the munchies.

Our good deed even resulted in a job offer and we spent the next few weekends cleaning stalls, digging ditches and mending fences. It was hard work but was better than pilfering wallets and purses. Now we could all go in on a big bag and have money left over. I bought something remarkable with my windfall.
Chapter Four

My Dad's boat building brought a benefit of the occasional trip to a place of wonder and amazement (in my opinion at least) where even Wig would endure my father's lip smacking (Butt-lips; hey, I'm still laughing) and he would often come along with us to this place: The Boeing Surplus Store, which was a magical emporium of the kind of things that fire a boy's curiosity and imagination. Things such as aluminum sheet metal and chunks of billets, (also titanium and magnesium for that matter) used and probably out of caliber aircraft gauges and controls, switches and relays, hand tools, cutting and grinding bits, uniforms and flight suits, hydraulic pumps and cylinders, aircraft seats and oxygen masks, control cables, spools of rope and electrical wire, parachute silk, office furniture and equipment, all housed in industrial sized buildings full of who knows what, all at bargain prices- usually sold by the pound, and I had a pocket full of money.

Wig was never much of a shop guy but in this vast wonderland of unusual and unique items, even he would sometimes find something that he couldn't live without, but mostly he would come to keep me company as we goofed off and I kept my eyes open for parts for my future racing car project. A secret plan, but very much still alive in my hopes and dreams. I would ramble on about this project to anyone who would listen (except my Dad, sadly) and I'm sure most people just thought it was the talk of a kid with a vivid imagination. But Wig, he would play along. I don't know if he was just being nice, or if found it fun on some level but he said that he believed me. "I think you will build a racing car, someday" and that was some of the nicest and most important words I had ever heard.

We quickly separated from my Dad (he didn't particularly want us around anyway, slowing him down) and while constantly flipping each other shit and 'ranking' anybody and everybody that we happened to come across for our entertainment, (our word for judging, insulting and generally disrespecting all others behind their backs for any obvious flaws in dress, behavior and/or mannerism, hey, no one said we were angels) we would systematically inventory and examined all the items for sale row by row. We eventually came across a bin filled with items (treasures actually) that my extensive research showed that would be useful, required even, for my future project. The price marked for anything in the bins was one dollar per pound.

My 'research' was the compiled knowledge garnered from stacks of books and magazines studied over several years and that material showed details and close-ups of suspension links and control bell cranks and other systems that were using these kinds of items extensively. These particular examples were of aerospace quality and apart from some very minor corrosion (was that why they were being sold as surplus?) they were in new condition. I gleefully picked out examples in larger sizes for control arm links, (in both right, and left-hand threads for adjustability) medium sizes for tie rods and trailing links and handfuls of smaller sizes right down to teeny-tiny ones for throttle and shift linkages. Wig just rolled his eyes as if I were a crazy mad scientist as he helped me locate and put aside the least corroded and banged-up examples. He seemed to take some strange pleasure as I read the makers mark etched prominently in most of them: "Hiem."

Bearing rod ends or, as they are commonly known as: 'Hiem Joints.' These are used throughout a racing car to replace the flexible rubber bushings used in the suspension and steering systems of ordinary cars. Rubber that is used to soak-up vibrations and provide a comfortable ride but are replaced with these hiem joints to provide a slop-free system where precision trumps comfort for ultimate control. What a score these were. The larger examples could cost as much as almost a hundred dollars apiece even at these 1970's prices. Wig just shook his head as my 'take' pile grow and grew. Twenty-seven pounds was the total weight and it nearly cleaned me out. The man at the counter had to triple bag them for me just so I would make it back to the truck without them spilling out on the ground.

"What the hell are you going to do with those?" My Dad asked.

"There brand new! These larger ones usually cost almost a hundred dollars each!" I said as if I was going into the used aircraft parts business. He just shook his head, but he closely examined some of them. Wig had a different idea and when we dropped him off at his house, even my dad laughed at his parting comment:

"See you later, 'Hiem-me!'"

"Hiemy." I'm not proud to admit that the nickname stuck for years. The only consolation was that some who heard it equated it to some sort of sexual conquest where it was supposed that I deflowered a virgin or virgins. (That could not have been further from the truth, at this point, the number of times I had been to 'second base' could be counted on the fingers of one hand and anything approaching 'deflowering' was still years away.) It probably didn't help that I had been formally showing my friends the rod ends in a wooden, dove-tail cornered instrument box of some kind that I had found, and I had cleaned and oiled each one and wrapped them all in clean cloth as if they were fine jewelry. (Which to me they were, of course.)
Chapter Five

That summer after sixth grade had ended, there was a lot of smoking and drinking and girl chasing, but by seventh grade, things were becoming intense. We had older friends now, and the peer pressure to join in their 'reindeer games' seemed mandatory if you were ever going to have any luck with the opposite sex. That meant sneaking out, staying up all night, riding around in cars, and convincing girls from school to join us in those things and, as these 1970's seemed to mandate: Drug use.

The fact of the matter was that it was easier to score drugs than to get alcohol; no age limit at a dealer's house. And in those days, there were real dealers around who resided in real drug houses. Dens of debauchery that seemed to operate right out in the open with a dozen 'customer' cars always parked in the yard. Perhaps the local authorities were overwhelmed in this era or they may have even been on the take. Regardless of the exact situation, to us it seemed that this was the case just about everywhere. Parents, teachers, church leaders and others were slow to realize the extent of the social 'malaise' or they had become immersed in a convenient state of denial, which seemed to be the case for me and my friend's parents. It was laughable when we would get caught doing something wrong and they would try and take away a toy as punishment. Imagine, we were dropping acid, eating magic mushrooms, doing amphetamines and cocaine, and (for most, of the slightly older kids anyway) having causal and unprotected sex with multiple partners. "You can forget about your bicycle mister!" What a joke! We had given up on bicycles long ago. It was too much hassle to stash your bike and then have to come back later for it when an older friend would come along and pick you up in their car.

My parents were as overwhelmed as anyone at these social developments and also by this time they were barely able to stand each other's company and to be in the same room together as they were by now deep into their separate lives. My Dad was intent on finishing his boat and my mom spent nearly every waking moment she could building electronic kits from the Heathkit corporation of all things. I think this was partly in retaliation to my Dads boat building as much as anything. But my friends and I, and later my brothers and sisters as well, we learned a great and important lesson during these times; and that was if you stay out of trouble with the police, and pick up after yourself in the kitchen and bathroom, you could get away with anything! Even the school seemed to give up. If you weren't especially rude or disruptive, they seemed to let you slide. We didn't even do hardly any schoolwork. Often, we would only go there to meet girls and to find out where the next party was. It was as if the teachers and staff were so overwhelmed that they had just plain given up, and if they did pass their reports onto our parents, it was like it was falling on deaf ears, they just plain didn't want to hear about it and often they just ignored these kinds of things. It was as if the entire world was in a state of hopeless denial, so everyone just looked inward with their hobbies and past times to just make it through and survive. I'm sure it wasn't like this for everyone, but for us, with all the contradictions, with all the selfishness, with all the fatalistic pessimism, with all the blatant hypocrisy, one thing seemed to be for sure; we were on our own, and all we had was each other, and we made the best of it whenever we could.

We would meet at our 'smoking roads,' local logging roads that went nowhere, built when every harvestable tree in our area was cut during the war effort. Here, we were somebody, sitting around a fire getting loaded while the rest of the world is what was fucked up. The future looked bleak, so it was best not to be often thought about. All that lay ahead was work (corporate slavery, to us) and old age. We lived in the here and now and laughed at those that were waiting, saving themselves for tomorrow, what a bunch of dumb shits! All we had to do was look at the misery of our parents to see that we were right about our choices. And boy, did we laugh! We laughed both at, and with each other. Our jokes were cutting edge, most everything else was stale, at least that is what the spell of drugs and alcohol had us believing, and that is what made it important to us.

Our blue-collar, lower middle class up-bringing, combined with the crushing, soul shattering, unfiltered, blanket statements of chronic, dissolute parents and others who, when we were looking for hope and enlightenment, instead we would get a retort of such absolutes such as "Drop dead, you haven't got the brains that god gave little fishes, you won't amount to a hill of beans, etc." And when the prospect of college is dashed with the constant reminder that "When you're eighteen, you're out of here!" Well..., being with people who understand, people who feel your pain, you may be able to begin to see the attraction of sitting around getting loaded with your friends. But it is not strictly the older generations fault. To them we were broken, damaged, just one step away from being in a mental institution or perhaps we were even slightly retarded. Smoking pot, to them, meant you were insane, something completely unrelatable and foreign. Mixing with other races was completely unacceptable, against everything they thought they taught us. What they failed to understand was that we seemed to have more entertainment options than they ever did, and we often exercised those options. What they believed were taboos and disgusting behaviors, we believed were normal, even honorable. It was a void and a distance that they would never close, at least not anytime soon.

Living out in the sticks had some advantages as far as entertainment was concerned. In the area that I lived in; The Great Northwest of North America, one of those advantages was the ownership of space. Technically, we didn't 'own' anything, but like squatters, we occupied, and possession is nine-tenths of the law. (Not exactly true, but we operated as if that was the case.)

My friends and I, and just about everyone else we knew lived on the edges of great tracks of undeveloped land parcels. These six to eight hundred-acre sections of second growth forest were ringed with homes and farms on the edges that fronted the main roads, but that left the vast interior areas abandon and void of people and oddly, also of animals. Well not all animals, there were birds and small rodents such as gofers and rabbits but as for game, even deer, they were hardly ever seen in those woods, thanks to our forefathers.

The last cougar seen in these parts was bagged when I was about ten. I remember seeing it sitting in the back of a pick-up truck. Shot cleanly through the neck by a neighbor who couldn't wait to skin the beast. He demonstrated the length of the retractable claws by pressing on the paw just so, on a corpse so fresh that it still hadn't yet stiffened.

"Bet cha wouldn't want ta meet dis fellow while walk'n in da woods, huh kid?" He said as he waved the paw in my direction to emphasize the danger. No, I wouldn't I thought as I noticed the impression of its ribs poking out of the scrawny chest of the otherwise magnificent beast. Hunger must have brought him to our area.

For at least several generations, the locals around here had operated on a shoot-first wildlife management style. That meant that if a creature crossed your property, you could (and would) shoot it. Especially if it was something dangerous such as a bear or a cougar, but also if it was edible like a deer or an elk. (No one had seen an elk in these parts in living memory.) In fact, when talk of wildlife conservation started to become prevalent, it was countered by an indigent reaction: "I don't care if it's a god-damn bald eagle, if it lands on my land, I'm gunna shot it! No bureaucrats' gunna tell me what I can and can't shoot! Not on my land!"

As short-sighted as that kind of attitude may have been, it did offer a margin of safety as us kids hiked around in the woods, and later as we sat and smoked, but it was more about preventing attacks on livestock and fowl which at this time still meant meat on the table for many families.

So, for us, and usually after we were good and loaded, we had hundreds of acres, void of dangerous animals to roam about on and where we could do whatever we pleased. We knew every square inch of these places, every short cut, every pond and stream, every back way into and across every farm and estate. We knew more about the people and the things that happened around here than many of them did themselves. We had seen wives and husbands cheating, we had seen stolen cars being stripped, stolen lumber and other building materials stashed, illegal chemical waste dumped and loads of other trash and garbage spilled-out, just so someone could save a buck. The kind of things that flew in the face of wholesome, American values. Can you blame us if half-hearted attempts designed to pull at our patriotic heartstrings fell short?
Chapter Six

Seventh grade summer was shaping up to be a riot. We were changing physically, whiskers and changing voices for us boys, boobs and..., well we didn't notice much of anything else for the girls. I had the biggest crush on Janis Bancroft, the daughter of judge Bancroft, and she was returning my advances in kind. We held hands at school, he kissed every chance we could, we told everyone we were going steady, it even got to a point where my racecar building plans were starting to fade, but days before the last day of school, the half-day that we would be going home from school early, both of us decided not to tell our parents about that half day, and instead, we would be spending that time together and, more importantly, alone, but before that glorious day, my Mother dropped a bombshell:

"I've been under a lot of stress lately and your Grandmother has offered to help out..."

My Grandmother, a woman I had last seen when I was five, 'offered' to help give my Mom a break by taking me in for the summer. Mother expressed her concern that I had been running with a bad crowd and this 'break' would be in my best interest, and Grandmother needed help with chores around her house and..., bla-bla-bla. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Especially the last part:

"You'll miss your last day of school but it's just a half day anyway, and I've cleared it with your principal..."

I was speechless. This summer was to be spent with my friends, and my time planned with Janis, (especially my time planned with Janis) that was my everything.

"But Mom, I got plans, I..."

"No buts about it mister! You're lucky she offered to take you in! Because you're just one step away from spending the summer in the juvenile detention facility as a ward of the state! You think I don't know what you and your friends are up to? You think I'm stupid? Now you get in there and pack your bags!"

I went to my room, but I didn't pack my bags. Instead, I went straight out the window and met my friends at the smoking road as we had already planned, but now, I told them of my new plight, but we didn't see any way out of it.

"That sucks for you man."

My Grandmother lived in Florida, and that was all I really knew about her, and in two days I would be flying there. But that left tonight and tomorrow, and Wig and Chris got me good and loaded and after that, in a probably ill-conceived plan, we hoofed it to the Bancroft Estate.

It was probably a good thing that Janis and her family were out that night. Hammered punk teenagers showing up to visit the judge's daughter probably wouldn't have ended well for us or for her. I explained my predicament to Janis at school the next day, (my last day) and she displayed the perfect amount of outrage, and immediately after school she led me back behind the backstop on the playfield before we boarded the busses. The second we had some privacy, she kissed me so hard that I nearly gagged because she had her tongue so far down my throat, and she grabbed my hand and placed it firmly on her breast. Honestly, I was so surprised and shocked that I just kind of froze, not knowing exactly what I should do. As quick as it happened, she pulled away and ran towards her bus crying. I wasn't sure if she was crying because she was going to miss me, or because I didn't respond correctly, or what. Immediately I wanted a do over, another chance, it is a thought that I immediately knew would haunt me for a long time.

That night, I packed my bags. I didn't have much, not even any toiletries of my own. The only thing I cared about was my heim joints and I had slid them way back against the wall on the top shelf of my closet. I sat on my bed in a blind fury of disappointment and despair. I wondered about all kinds of things such as, if I had not been so bad, with all the sneaking out and what not, would I still have been cast out? How much did my Mother really know about all that? Were my siblings tattling, being narcs? I wouldn't doubt it! I heard my father come in from his shop and go straight to his bedroom. It was so odd that he and my mom had separate bedrooms, a fact that my friends had also noticed and commented about often. "Why don't they just get a divorce?" they would ask, but I think it was because of my youngest brother, but I could guarantee that he wouldn't notice, he hadn't even started middle school yet and as they have not shown any affection towards each other in most of these recent years, and especially in front of him, I don't think he even knows their married!

My Mom poked her head in to make sure I was packed and to inform me that she had to stay up tomorrow to see me off, as if that was a great burden because she couldn't go to bed tomorrow morning immediately after her shift at the hospital as she usually did. Oh, boo hoo! As I sat there, I listened as she started her car drove away to work. I felt like doing something, something rash to express my dissatisfaction towards the entire situation. Something that would display my feelings, a reaction that would turn the tables somehow, like stealing all their money and taking off on my own. But they didn't have any money, at least not any lying around. My behavior put a stop to that long ago. Sigh. Perhaps I deserve my fate. If only I had reacted to Janis's advances. We could have missed the bus, maybe went all the way. (Whatever that really meant.) That thought went straight to my loins and once again, as always, I did nothing about it.

The thought of 'doing something' about it was tempered by the accusations from my friends and others of the evils and the 'gayness' that some kind of 'playing with yourself,' of masturbation, (whatever that really was) was so forbidden and so out of the question that I had tried nothing. I was so jaded, so poisoned, so worried of what people thought and of what breaking some personal and private taboo, some physical rule or law might mean, that I didn't dare explore any 'option' and as a result that meant that at my current age, about fifty times a day I had to walk with my school books awkwardly right in front of me as sort of a 'privacy shield' and it wasn't just the thought of Janis that made those kinds of things happen. It seemed like even a gentle, warm breeze, the pretty sound of a songbird, a colorful sunset and any shapely female image would be all it would take. I'm not sure about all boys, but this had become a real torture. I couldn't sleep and even with all the sexual images and inuendo out there in the world at this time, no one had bothered to explain to me that it was about motion and friction that would bring a man physical relief. I was way over-do for the 'talk,' but the thought of my father being that open and honest was just about one of the only things that seemed to curtail the problem. We just didn't and we would never have that kind of relationship.

There was a rap on my window, it was Janis! And she had a grin on her face a mile wide. I was about to go to the window with 'things' bravely and freely showing, (Isn't that what you're supposed to do?) and then I saw Wig and Chris, so I grabbed my coat and I held it just right as I leapt out the window. Janis grabbed me up and held me in her arms. There was no hiding my physical excitement from her at that point.

"We've got a surprise for you" she said giggling and she grabbed my hand pulled me down the driveway at a jog. I was glad that Chris and Wig fell in behind us, I would be lucky if I could regain my 'composure' by the time we got to wherever we were going.

Wig and Chris had been waiting in the woods with Janis after sneaking her out for me and they had been watching for my Dad's bedroom light to go out. When it did, and after my Mom had left for work, they knew they could probably bring her to my bedroom window without being caught, but that was just the beginning of the surprise. Halfway to the smoking road I could already here the music. There was a party going on! A party to celebrate the last day of school but also, and as a last-minute change of plans, it was repurposed as an impromptu going away party for me! I had never been more pleased and more touched. My friends, as big of bullies and as big of assholes as they certainly were, they had put together a surprise party and made sure that Janis, the center of my world and the keeper of the key to my heart, would be there. I will never forget those guys (as this book proves) and I vowed to return the favor somehow in the future. But right now, my friends were plying Janis and I with copious amounts of hard liquor, freshly drained from bottles from their parent's liquor cabinets, with the levels brought back up with water as we so often did.

Janis and I both downed full glasses of whatever mixture that our friend's had blended and we gasped and reeled at the bite of the strong liquid, then we drank more, and more after that, and finally, even more before she led me off into the bushes, both of us already staggering. At the first opportunity of some privacy, she was all over me, kissing me sloppily and without any direction or accuracy. My whole face was her lollipop. Breathing deeply, almost moaning, she pulled back and madly started to unbutton her blouse as I had pulled my shirt off and my hands were up the back of her shirt fiddling and searching for the clasp that would unlock my dreams and desires. She yanked her arms from the sleeves of her blouse, and it fell away as I stood spellbound by the glory of the sight of the lacy image in my arms. Then she said in a sultry and somewhat hoarse voice:

"The hook is in the front, I'll show you."

Apart went the cups and with a little move, off the shoulders it went to join the blouse already laying on the ground. Here she was, beautiful, and eagerly waiting for my advance. I had to gaze upon her, so young and lovely she was yet developed beyond her years. So smooth and tight was her body, yet her face had a look of trepidation, an uncertainty and a hesitation that showed with a nervous, somewhat green look in her eyes. It was time to soothe any fears and worries as I wrapped her up in my arms, using every bit of knowledge and every example from every love scene from every movie that I had ever seen and I was sure that it was all perfect in every way because of the way she responded, as if she was lost in my advance and embrace, as she excepted the situation with a purr as my bare chest and my physical body pressed onto her as if we were one, a situation which included everything else about me in a way that is a reward and a justification of all that I am, and all I will ever be.

Then she puked.

I believe I mentioned something of her look being a little green? I guess by green I didn't mean green as in inexperienced, which I'm sure she was, but green as in green, as in ill. Teenagers and straight, hard alcohol, as I've heard, I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise. It couldn't have been more ill-timed or aimed with more pinpoint precision. In my mouth, it triggered a predicable counter-reaction, and back and forth things went. It was horrible and disgusting and even after all these years when by now it should be just a humorous antidote, (I want to laugh) but the taste and the smell comes back as a strong and all-encompassing memory. For the rest of my life, when I see or smell someone vomit, (including myself) I am transported back to that scene in a delightful yet disgusting memory. Charmed yet broken the experience has left me.

Gagging, retching, we moved deeper into the woods lest we attract attention. I grabbed her clothing (yes, it was thoroughly coated) and we convulsed and heaved until death would have been an upgrade and an improvement. Gasping with burning throats and stomach acid filled sinuses, we eventually began to regain some of the characteristics of living beings. Janis was still topless and even with all this grotesque distress, I still found her image sexy, and I would have continued with some form of dalliance if she would have let me (men are pigs) and in between gasps, I told her that. To my surprise, she smiled just a little for a split second before she covered herself with her crossed arms and then she said flatly and forcefully:

"Not gunna happen!"

We came up with a plan of sorts where she would put on my shirt and I would put on my coat, and I took her to the stream that I knew was just down the path. We used the water to rinse her bra and her blouse and then we used that blouse as a washcloth, and we washed ourselves until we were both shivering because of the cold water. Any lusty moments were by this time so far in the recent past that now she demanded that I look away as she washed herself. Even after we were all finished and were as clean as we could get, an offer to hold her until we warmed upped was greeted with; "Don't you dare touch me!"

Returning to the party really was an impossibility by this point, so I guided her through the trails and around the congregation of guests until we were alone and heading back to her house. It was a long walk, almost six miles and I made her ditch cars to protect her from future rumors and the trouble that that might bring. She didn't like that, but she understood the necessity. It was a rough three hours before we made it to her house. We tried to make the best of it by joking around, but we were both so physically miserable and dehydrated that when the time came, we just had a short hug goodbye. Even then we lingered a short while as if to regain and save some of the passion that the night had earlier promised, and I was still willing, but her statement dampened the moment:

"I can still taste the puke and I can smell it on you." A less than lusty goodbye.

That said, she snuck into her house, I assume successfully as I heard no confrontation.

I had a long way to go before I was home and, in my bed,, (for the last time I might add) and I was thoroughly exhausted and severely ill by almost any measure, but it could have been worse. I held in my arms a naked (actually, half naked) girl! That fact had me nearly skipping home that night and perhaps more importantly, that vision has stayed with me for all these years and I wouldn't be surprised if I remember it on my deathbed. (If I'm lucky.) Once again, it needs to be said; men are pigs.
Chapter Seven

I woke still in my stinky clothes. "What happened?" and, "You stink!" my Mom said as she roused me awake, apparently impatient to be rid of me. "I was sick!" "What?... Why?" "Because I want to spend the summer with my friends." A flash of guilt crossed Mother's face. Score!

That small victory didn't last, Mother bent down closer and sniffed. "You've been drinking!" There was no reason to comment further. She muttered as she chose clothes for me to wear. I made a beeline to the bathroom where I almost threw-up one last time before I washed my face and brushed my teeth. A clean shirt and a change of socks would have to do as for clothes, and toast and a glass of milk was all the breakfast I could handle, and we were soon out the door.

Mom was sure that I would be nothing but trouble for my Grandmother as her non-stop lecture on the long drive to the airport proclaimed. Several times during the trip she was so wrapped-up in her scolding that she nearly swerved right off the road. I was 'informed' of this "great opportunity" to "change my ways" but she was sure that I would "screw it up" as I do everything, and she repeatedly told me that "I wouldn't last" because her mother wouldn't stand for my "shenanigans" and she was sure that she would send me right back, and then I would be declared a "ward of the state" and be put in juvenile detention and on and on and etc., etc. I couldn't get a word in edgewise but that was nothing new, I had heard similar lectures a thousand times. Mother was so sure of my evil intentions and my anti-social tendencies that it was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. By the time she left me at the curb at the terminal, I couldn't get away from her fast enough. But I took a good, long, hard look at her face before I stepped out of the car, as if I might not ever see her again, and she seemed to sense as much and she changed her tone a little bit with a more civil a statement:

"Just show your ticket to the counter person and they assured me that they would explain to you where to go and your connecting flight details." And that was that, no hug, no heartfelt good-bye, no anything. But that was her way, and I was used to it. She was a loveless and unaffectionate woman, especially towards me. I resembled my father in appearance and her treatment towards me was an extension of her failings with him, and I understood that, even at my age back then.

I had time before my flight to think about things as I sat in the terminal. One of the first things I noticed was that I was underdressed in my stretched-out and somewhat grimy corduroy pants and in a hand-me-down checkered flannel shirt from my older brother and wearing mud stained tennis shoes from all the walking I do. (Did?) Not much I could do about that now. I thought about my mother and her endless chastising bickering. The ranting on the way here was nothing compared to her other outbursts before when she would literally scream and shout herself into a raging and shocking frensy. Years later I discovered that her doctor had prescribed her amphetamines to help her with working nights as was common in those days.

Our family doctor was a man named Dr. May. I had always sensed something odd about him and her. He was always so thorough and kind to my oldest brother Mike and with Ken, my next older brother. There was a strong physical resemblance between them and our family doctor as well. Decades later I found out that my mother had did her residency under him as she became an RN. She must have been quite a buxom looker in her youth but five kids later and now working nights had taken its toll. Those horned rimmed, thick glasses, and her lack of make-up, didn't help her appearance much either, especially as her complexion was as naturally white as a ghost, which was amplified by her lack of sun because of her working nights. Add to that the burden of my stepbrother Dale and my half-brother Greg, who my Dad had apparently added to the family one day without any discussion or consent. When I was a toddler, he just showed up with them declaring they were our brothers and that was that. My mother's protests were countered with the statement from my father; "Their mother was drunk." I was too young to realize this at the time and I grew up with the reality that they were Dads kids and the rest of us were Mom's kids, a concept that I didn't really understand as it was never explained any further. I was well into my forties before I heard the story of how they came into the family, which I think added to Mother's and my somewhat poisoned relationship. She assumed that I knew about how Dale and Greg were thrust upon her, but I hadn't a clue, I was too young. I thought that Dale and Greg were as to her as Mike and Ken were to my father, (Ken was born after their courthouse marriage) but Mike and Ken's true origin was supposed to be a deep, dark family secret. A secret that I had figured out before I was ten years old. The fact that Mike's full name is Michael May Axxxxxx, that kind of gave it away. Life can be so strange.

No make-up, horned-rim glasses, a plain and often dirty house dress, pasty complexion and her trademark, fly-off-the-handle disposition all led to Wig's effortless coining of his and my friend's nickname for her: Hagatha.

Hagatha and Butt-lips. My friends are still making me laugh even though I'm waiting for a plane that will take me three thousand miles away. Speaking of that, (thinking of that, actually) I had a lot of unanswered questions. What did my Grandmother even look like? I hadn't seen her since I was five, when her and my late Grandfather came for a visit, and with the lack of lead time, my Mom had failed to even show me a recent picture of her. Where did she live? All I knew was Florida. What would I do down there? There was some talk of "chores" great! Will they serve food on the plane? I was getting very hungry; a couple pieces of toast weren't cutting it after the complete emptying of my stomach the night before.

Ah, the night before. The lusty, flesh-filled vision, staring the insatiable Janis Bancroft played as if on a loop in my head and I was glad that I was sitting down. Oh fuck! How could I have been so stupid? I had forgotten to get her mailing address. I'll see if my sister will get it for me. At just that moment, a pretty young lady passed in front of me and definitely flashed a smile my way. She walked with a gentle, enticing sway to her hips as she crossed the large, open space before she took a seat with her family where she immediately turned her head back towards me to judge the effect that she had on me. Janis who? Still, I was glad I was sitting down. Perhaps a change will do me some good. An excitement started to well-up from inside of me, and not just from inside my pants. The daylight suddenly appeared brighter, the hustle and bustle of the flight-line outside seemed to present itself in a new and interesting light. The gleam of the shiny jetliners sparkled now in my eyes. I'm going to be riding in one of those! Maybe I've had the wrong attitude, this might not be so bad. The pretty girl stole another glance my way. I wish I was dressed nicer.

The flight was long, and this was only the first leg. After several hours, the stewardess brought chips, a sandwich and sodas. I wolfed mine down so quick that a couple across the aisle asked if I wanted theirs. "Thank you" I said, and I gladly took it. "Look how thin he is" I heard the woman say as the man glanced at my clothing and mumbled something about "chronic poverty."

It was lucky for me that they had given me the extra food because the other two legs of the flight were only short hops with nothing, but pop and a bag of nuts offered. If the pretty girl with the sashay was on any of the connecting flights, I wouldn't know as I didn't see her again. If she saw me up close, would the words "chronic poverty" come to mind? All these well-dressed people all around had me becoming self-conscious. Finally, the Captain spoke through the intercom and he announced that we would be landing in a few minutes and that the weather in Orlando would be sunny and warm etc. Orlando, I had never heard of it. I tried to think of a sports team connected to the place. Baseball? Maybe, but I couldn't think of the team's name. I wasn't much of a baseball fan; motorsports are my thing. The landing was smooth as glass and soon the plane was parked at the terminal. I shuffled off the plane with all the well-dressed others and my fatigue, 'jet lag' I guess, hit hard, as that was added to the lack of sleep and the alcohol poisoning of the night before. It dawned on me just then that I was lucky that I hadn't gotten airsick during the flights.

So many different kinds of people: Bearded hippies, girls in sexy miniskirts, some people in outlandish attire that I would imagine more suited for an English castle, but mostly light-colored slacks and polo shirts for the men and bright colored sun dresses with big, floppy hats for the women. One thing I didn't see here was the standard garb of my hometown: Work boots, blue jeans with suspenders over checkered flannel shirts.

"Brian? Brian! There he is, Brian, over here dear." A trio of sun dresses and floppy hats surround me and the eldest looked vaguely familiar, in fact they all bore a family resemblance. "Hello Grandma" I said rather automatically. The other two were my aunts, Vicky and Martha, my Mother's younger (and prettier) sisters. Late thirties for Vicky and early forties for Martha and the low cut and spaghetti straps of both their blouses guaranteed they could still turn a few heads.

"Oh, my word! Look how skinny he is! Doesn't Beth feed you?" Fawned Vicky as she bent down pinching my cheek and tussling my hair while giving me an eyeful of aunty cleavage.

"Are you kidding Vicky? The poor boy probably must fight for his meals with that clan that they have out there in the woods. You do know that they live in a pioneer fort, don't you?" Added Martha thoughtfully. Grandma moved closer to get in on the act and while fingering the collar of my shirt (Greg's actually) she declared:

"Oh no, this will never do. Is this the best clothes you have?" I didn't have to answer.

"No-no-no, we'll have to stop at Gillian's before we go back. We can't show up like this. No-no."

Wait a minute, I see what's going on here! Diamond watches, gold bracelets, peril neckless, ruby and sapphire rings; these ladies are rich! And I've been sent here as punishment? What gives?

We step out into the heat of the late afternoon and I'm nearly bowled over, it must in the nineties which where I'm from would be quite rare. The lady's fan themselves with their hats as we wait for the valet (a concept that I had never heard of before) to bring Vickie's car around. (A powder blue Lincoln Continental with the AC blasting.) I sit in back with Grandma and the aunties take the front with Vicky behind the wheel. In the whisper quiet of the car, Grandma peppers me with questions:

"Has your mother excepted Bill's kids into the family?" Whoa, I didn't know such things were spoken about, they certainly weren't mentioned at our house.

"Well..., it's kind of a, his kids/her kids' situation" I report after a moment of reflection, still surprised at the brashness of such a question.

"I see. I don't think that is a healthy way to live. If you marry a man, you should except his children and vis-versa. Bill took in Beth's bastard son" said Grandma with some scorn in her voice. Now this is getting juicy!

"Mother please! He just a boy! He doesn't know about that" Martha said in an under-her-breath voice, as if her mother was spilling the beans about something. Grandma just sat back with a sly smile, as if her work was done.

There were other questions about school and hobbies (my hotrod ambitions came gushing out) as well as questions about my siblings and Mother's nursing career and if Father still worked at the shipyard and dozens of other details. (Many of these things I would assume a Mother would already know about her daughter's family, strange.)

Gillian's was just one store in The Mall of America- Orlando. The nearest shopping mall from where I'm from, The Tacoma Mall, would have fit in the lobby of this place. Three stories of balconied store fronts faced a glass roofed, park-like, meandering indoor river complete with walking paths and ornate bridges all of which is completely surrounded, no, engulfed with every type of potted living flora imaginable. Inviting benches and wicker chairs accompany tables where chess, checkers and dominos were being played, and meals were being eaten at a relaxed and leisurely pace by people that seemed to have mastered the vacation as a lifestyle. I could have explored this place for days, but to the ladies that I was with, it must have been old hat, so we got right down to business.

Three pairs of slacks, two light, and one dark for formal events. A dozen pairs of dress socks, half a dozen logoed polo shirts, a pair of fitted dress shirts, two pair of dress shoes, one light colored, one dark, a couple of belts and then we would get to the 'real' clothes. The dress code for men of all ages in this area; shorts and tee shirts, sneakers and white socks. Young, old, rich, poor, it didn't matter who you were, this what you wore. (For males and when outdoors at least.) In fact, the only way you could judge a man's worth was if he wore a Timex or a Rolex watch.

Loaded down with the bags containing this bounty, we made one more stop at a beauty parlor with a French name that I couldn't read much less pronounce, where an effeminate man shook his head at my mop, and after much groaning and moaning he said he would give it a try because he "liked a challenge." Grandmother and my aunts got pedicures while they waited. When it was over, I looked and felt like a million bucks. I chose the pair of dark slacks and one of the fitted dress shirts to wear out of the mall and Aunt Vicky dragged me to one last place before we exited the building: The Sunglass Kiosk. With aviation style wire frames and dark lenses to complete the look that the fine clothes offered, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the glass doors and I could hardly believe it was me! I looked like a government bodyguard escorting a gaggle of society ladies to a royal event or something.

It was still a long drive to Aunt Vickie's and Uncle Dick's home were dinner was promised. (I was starving, it had been ages since my lunch of airplane sandwiches.) I stared out the window at the city sights. Here, many if not most of the people were elderly, well-tanned and more than a little wrinkled from so much sun. Blacks and Hispanics (Cubans?) mixed with others in the streets and young ladies of all races wore something that was rare from where I am from, and that I found unavoidably captivating and overwhelmingly delightful; bikini tops only for a blouse, usually paired with a breezy wrap skirt and sandals for the feet. I was so enamored by the sight and my thoughts, that I was glad of the packages in my lap, and I didn't hear what my Grandmother was saying at first:

"...these clothes and that haircut isn't charity as I expect you to help me out with chores and help with my renters..." There had to be a catch.

"No problem, I'll do my best" I said, and I meant it. I had never been given such a fine wardrobe. I was lucky to get one new pair of pants and one new pair of shoes each year for school and even then, it would be some economy type with no hint of style. Everything else was well-worn hand-me-downs from my brothers, except for some things that Wig, Chris and Don would loan or give me, usually just so I would look halfway presentable and not embarrass them when out in public.

"And I don't want you hanging around the house complaining all day so I've talked with a pair of my renters, Joe and Smitty, and they have agreed to spend some time with you and take you out for some weekends and such."

"Joe and Smitty?"

"That's right. They're in the Navy and stationed at the base across the lake. Joe has a ski boat."

"A ski boat? Do you live near a lake?"

"My goodness! Are you listening? Didn't Beth tell you anything?" I didn't answer, but the answer to the second part of that question was no. With my Mother and Father doing their own things and with my stepping and sneaking out at every opportunity, the back and forth communication had been limited to blanket statements usually yelled and screamed at me in the heat of belittling my hopes and dreams while reinforcing the endless declarations involving the ungratefulness of us kids. At least that's how it seemed to me.

"A ski boat! Cool!"

Uncle Dick and Aunt Vicky also lived on a lake. (A different and much larger lake as I would find out later.) The gated, private drive that looped in front of the grand estate house proved my suspicions of the wealth that they must possess. I wondered why my Mother had never mentioned any of this. It turned out that much of this happened long after my Mother went out west, chasing her doctor/lover, a failed dream that left her with two boys, fourteen years apart in age. My father was apparently a back-up plan gone bad. But that was all something to be figured out in detail much later, as they currently operated on a front of paper-thin deception, and I would find out in time that they weren't fooling anyone except themselves and to some extent, my siblings.

"I hope you're hungry, there's enough food to feed an army" said my Uncle Dick, a pot-bellied, middle aged man with the wrinkles, tan and attire of the natives, Bermuda shorts, polo shirt, sandals and as I confirmed when I got a closer look, a Rolex watch. Yep, this place may work out after all, and a timelier statement about the food couldn't have fallen on more eager ears.

I sat at the 'kid's table' with Vickie's and Dick's kids, Rose (age eleven) and Randy. (Age sixteen.) Rose latched onto me like a puppy dog and Randy certainly was a stoner which he quickly established with an 'invitation' to go with him after dinner out on the lake in the boat.

"That will be great!" Rose exclaimed as she tried to horn in on that plan, apparently unaware of the unspoken and actual intent, but she was shut down by Randy's scowl.

"Not you, pip-squeak, you'll have him all summer, so you just make yourself scarce after dinner" Randy said that as if he was already annoyed with her to the extreme.

Have me all summer?

Two, huge, outdoor, built-in, brick bar-b-que oven pits, centered in a vast patio as large as a house, fronted the dock and the boathouse, and from those ovens was produced entire racks of giant beef ribs that had been bathed all day in tangy-sweet bar-b-que sauce while they sizzled over Alderwood coals. They were brought out to a table where a dozen different types of salads, half a dozen baked casseroles and a sperate section of desserts waited. Pitchers of iced tea and Kool-Aid was served for the kids as Aunt Vicky labored over an industrial size blender, loudly grinding ice for daiquiris that the adults were consuming faster than she could pour them. A big clay pot held more beer and ice then I had ever seen before in one place, and then there were the line of wine bottles that the guests must have brought as gifts, next to the Champaign chilling in silver ice buckets surrounded the cut crystal long stemmed glasses, all set up in perfect rows. I tried to downplay my excitement as I took my place in line. Meals were a simple and spartan affair back home with my family, where you learned to eat fast so that you could get enough before it was all gone. There were never any leftovers or for that matter, snacks, at my house. A fact not lost on my friends who would often have me for dinner at their houses even after my 'regular' dinner.

I ate and ate and ate some more, to the point that some of the other guest were amazed and amused.

"That boy must have a hollow leg" and other such comments were bandied about, but I didn't care, it was all so good! Never had I seen and eaten at such a spread and to these people, it seemed to be a common, everyday thing. It was all so enjoyable, all except for Rose's constant attention and endless stream of annoying and embarrassing questions:

"Do you really live like a hillbilly in a log cabin with an outhouse and a hand water pump? Is there seven kids and chickens and ducks and pigs and goats? Do you go barefoot in the summer and build wood fires in the winter and wear socks that you're Mom knits?" Randy rolled his eyes and said:

"Oh, pipe down Rose, and quit asking dumb questions!" Thankful as I was for Randy's intervention, the fact was that all of that was true, (except she forgot to mention the cow) although the house had grown larger than a cabin over time, and to my horror, a photo album was passed around after diner that exposed those facts and more.

"We have an electric pump for the deep well now, but the hand pump still works, and we water the garden with it" I said as Rose's questions gravitated to the adults.

"So, you do have electricity?"

"Yes, and an indoor bathroom, now, but the outhouse is still used for a backup."

"With seven kids I could see why! Ha-ha" someone said, and everybody laughed, except me.

"And what's this, a guard tower? Do you expect an Indian attack?" Cruelly said another guest, the daiquiris loosening his candor as he points to a photograph of our 'pioneer' home. The three story tower was to be where the water tank was to be for a gravity water system I explained as I pointed to that and other details out from a black and white photograph that could have been from the olden days as no automobiles were pictured which was probably my late Grandfather's intent when he snapped the picture. I reminisced about how I remember helping in the construction of the log house by using a draw knife to strip the logs of bark that were used for the walls of the house.

"They let you use a knife? You must have been barely older than a toddler!" Exclaimed one of the ladies.

"The draw knife wasn't very sharp. It's used more like a shoehorn, to peel the bark away" I said as I started to enjoy my backwoods upbringing as sort of an expert of things forgotten, instead of an unusual quirk to be ridiculed.

"What about this? Is it true you guys lived in this tent? With a dirt floor?" It was a very old picture that I had not seen before, but I remember something of it.

"We lived there for a summer before the first section of the main house was finished. But we had a canvas tarp over the ground. Playing on that tarp is one of my oldest memories." One that until that moment, I had nearly forgotten. Then came a section of newer pictures, ones I didn't know had been sent.

"Is this true? Bill is building a sailboat, a cement sailboat?" At this statement and pictures, everyone gasped and waited silently for an answer, even Rose and Randy.

"Yes, that's true" and then I started a long explanation, beginning with a fact that everyone knows about how naval ships are made of steel and they float, so cement should not be so unusual but that didn't relieve any skepticism or curiosity. So, I began at the beginning, the laying of the keel which was made of welded together steel rebar. Then the ribs were formed on my Dad's jury-rigged tubing bender and they were held in shape by quarter inch steel round stock 'stringers' tack welded in place. The ribs were then welded to the keel and held in place with the help of more stringers suspended from the ceiling of the barn. (My Dad's workshop.) The basic shape of the hull was formed with rebar welded to the edges of the ribs horizontally, every couple of feet. More quarter inch diameter steel lengths were welded every couple of inches or so, in between the thicker rebar and after that, the hull had a definite 'boat shape' as one of the pictures clearly showed. (I was surprised that my Mother had been sending these pictures because she didn't seem to show the slightest interest in the project back home. But, perhaps, she was showing a more positive spin which might have been an effort to demonstrate that her life choices were sound. Or, maybe her Mother insisted that they be kept updated about the project out of curiosity. That seemed plausible because everybody was hanging on my every word. Something about a cement boat seemed crazy and unbelievable.)

After the shape of the hull was formed with the lengths of steel rods, the wire mesh was added. Several layers inside and outside. This mesh (really just small opening animal pen material, or as anyone who had seen it would say- 'chicken wire') was pulled tight and trimmed to lay against the hull flat, then, with wire ties that were nothing more than bailing wire wrapped around a piece of wood then cut on the band saw at one end which left hundreds of u-shaped ties of about four or five inches long. These were pushed through the matrix of wire mesh, capturing a stringer on the way through and then they would be twisted together. This where us boys would fit into the picture. With tools that my Dad modified, (small sized vise-grip pliers with a round, steel rod welded along the back of the handle that fit into an electric drill) we would clamp on to the twisted wire ties and gather them in tight with the turning of the drill. Within just hours, us boys became expert at this operation because as this had to be repeated thousands of times, there was plenty of opportunity for practice. A tie was required at least at every square inch. Dad had to oversee the operation and trim any 'puckers' that developed in the wire mesh but even that was soon handled largely by us boys as well as we learned the tricks and methods required for the chicken wire to lay smooth in the weeks and months that the work took.

When all of that was finally complete, you would end up with a matrix of steel, formed into the shape of the hull of a sailboat, pulled together to a thickness of less than one half inch.

"But then what would you do, make a form to hold the concrete? Wouldn't that be just as much work as building an entire boat?" One of the men asked.

"Cement, Sir. Concrete refers to cement with an aggregate mixed in. Cement, or 'mortar' is what is used in brick laying and it can be troweled smooth." (I just love correcting people about that, even today.)

"What is needed is a 'plastering party' where the entire boat hull is attacked by a bunch of men with trowels in hand, and several cement mixers going at once." I paused to make sure I had everyone's undivided attention at this point. Not only to be sure that everyone was understanding, but because I was enjoying being the center of attention.

"With a man on the inside [of the boat] and a man on the outside, the cement is pushed through the wire and smoothed out, especially on the outside. A brushed finished is fine for the inside as the construction of the compartments and cabins inside covers and hides most of that." The guests at the party nodded and smiled with new understanding as they passed around the photo album, but before they could add their own comments or voice their skepticism, I continued:

"Then the cement must be cured as it sets." This brought a pause of bewilderment that I found delicious, and I settled into a relaxed demeanor of the professor schooling the students that raised eyebrows and some muted chuckling. If they wanted closure, if they wanted to understand something of the subject, they had no choice but to sit back and listen, and they knew that I knew that, so, they had better let me have my fun. More than just a hillbilly from the backwoods perhaps? Ha!

Curing the concrete involved keeping it wet with sprinkler hoses, spray bottles and much to my Mom's displeasure, wet towels from the bathroom. My Dad organized us boys into military watches of two hours per shift where we dutifully wetted the drying cement with hose, mop, wet towels, spray bottle and with constant attention being paid to the position of the soaker hoses. This lasted for three solid weeks and took presentence over meals, television or play. The entire fate of the project, and by extension, us boys, was on the line and we pulled our shifts, as if it were a life or death situation. (It kind of was, if we failed, the cement would have cracked as it released heat, and if that happened, my Dad would have whipped our asses!)

There was a stunned, almost comical silence after my presentation was over, followed by playful, rapturous, exuberant and exaggerated applause that I humorously soaked up, returning bows for the men and throwing kisses for the ladies, with each of those actions receiving additional uproarious laughter and even some foot stomping hoots and cheers. Handshakes and pats on the back followed, all of which I enjoyed but was really quite unnecessary. It seemed that my presentation was more than they expected. What I really wanted was to take Randy up on his offer to go out on the boat and the unspoken treat that would be so welcome after such a large meal. I hoped that I read his veiled 'offer' correctly. (I did.)

With the wisdom of his additional years, Randy told me something that stayed with me virtually forever. Where he came upon this particular piece of wisdom, I have no clue, but here it is:

"Wherever you are and whatever you're doing, if you look, you'll find one." He said this as he was lighting up the hand-rolled joint that he had, as we floated about in one of his father's boats and as we sipped beers that we had snatched while heads were turned back at the party. What he was referring to is the existence and utilization of fellow stoners.

"Man, when I learned that I was being shipped off for the summer, I really thought that I would have to go all this time without getting high" I said while gasping on the powerful, sweet smoke. Stronger than the 'rag weed' that I was getting back home for ten dollars an ounce.

"No prob-blem-o bro. After you school'n the squares, any concerns about you, purdee much just vanished" Randy said, commenting on my boat building lecture.

"I was worried about coming off as a hick..."

"Oh, you're a hick, no doubt about it, but don't feel like the Lone Ranger, we got kin in da Pan Handle and in Georgia that when ya put dem all together, ya git one set of teeth between all of them!" I paused and looked him over after he spoke. Was he insulting me? Then, we both laughed and laughed. This really was strong smoke.

Randy filled me in on some 'need-to-know' information as stoners often due between themselves. This party was being used as a way to 'check me out' to see if I was dangerous or unsuitable in some way because Rose, who usually stayed the summers with Grandmother, but this time, they needed to determine if that would still be okay with me around. Randy added his personal concerns stating flatly that he wouldn't put up with any, let's say, amorous attention towards his little sister.

"What?... Dude no!... She's my cousin!"

"What's that got to do with it? You wouldn't let her pull on yer pecker? Are you a faggot?" What? Wait..., I see what's going on here... This is bashing of sorts, a hazing and a test of wills and mettle.

"She's just too young."

"She's started her monthly's, just last spring, she's dying for it!" I was aghast, unsure if he was serious or not. I didn't know him well enough to be sure, so I tried to defuse him.

"Look man, I'm not going to try anything with Rose, you can be sure of that."

"So, you are a faggot! If you're going to let a fine piece of tail like that slip away, you must be gay!" I think I see what's happening here and I can play this game too.

"Look Randy, I'm sorry to disappoint you... I can tell what you want here..., hoping I'll pound your ass..., like I wouldn't notice you flashing it in my face like a whore since I meet you..., but I don't swing that way."

"Ouch dude!... You went too far!... I was just mess'n with you."

"Don't worry! You'll meet somebody..., it's just not me."

"Okay, quit already, you win!... You're all right..., for a cock sucker-mother fucker!"

"Randy... Once again..., you'll meet somebody..., just hang tough." My time flipp'n shit with my friends back home had served me well.
Chapter Eight

On the road the next day with Grandma in her AMC Hornet Station Wagon with Rose in the back seat, I watched the miles roll-on as the city turned into swampy countryside on a road edged by a water-filled channel from where the earth was removed and used to make this long, straight, featureless highway. I daydreamed about what lay ahead for me. Would I ever get stoned again? I remembered what Randy had said about "Wherever you go..., etc." but as we were so far out in the boonies already, I didn't see any chance of meeting anyone cool out here. Occasionally, there was an unmarked dirt road that would go straight into that swampy jungle. Eventually, we took one of those roads. We drove under a shaded canopy after that and I peered into what looked to be impenetrable fauna.

"Are there any hiking trails around here?" Rose laughed at my question as Grandmother answered:

"Hiking trails! Are you crazy? Step into that swamp and you'll be bit by a scorpion or a water moccasin or step on a gator! Around here you stay in the yard and you best keep a lookout even then." This was the complete opposite of what the 'outdoors' meant to me growing up in Washington State and after a moment, Grandma must have sensed something like that, and she tried to reassure me:

Look, you and Rose will find a lot of fun things to do together (Rose leaned forward and gave me a shrewd, almost knowing look as if, for the summer anyway, she owned me) and Joe and Smitty will take you out to do 'guy stuff' and your cousin and I will girl it up." Joe and Smitty, I forgot about that. I wonder what kind of weirdos they are.

"I want to do guy stuff too" protested Rose.

"Yep..., girl it up..., that will be wonderful" said Grandma like wheels were turning in her mind as if some predetermined plan was unfolding. I turned to Rose and gave her an all-knowing look and I had to laugh as she stuck her tongue out at me as the miles continued to wear on.

Hungry, sticking to the vinyl seat even with the air conditioning blasting, weary from the long, dusty road, I was wishing I was anywhere but here. I wished I was stoned. No chance of that, better get used to it!

Later, Rose woke from a nap and she quickly became even more obnoxious then she was before as she fidgeted from being board. She was bouncing on the seat and becoming extremely annoying to a point where Grandma threatened to stop the car and "paddle her behind" which brought her into a state of silent fury that reddened her face and brought tears to her eyes. She was at an age where a statement like that was much worse than the any actual corporal punishment could ever have been, stuck between (or 'tween') being a little girl or a young woman. I owed her a rebuttal for sticking her tongue out at me, but I tried a different tact.

"So, Rose, what grade are you in?"

"I'll be in the sixth-grade next year, but I'm already in seventh grade English and I'm in the top of my class in math and I'm in varsity volleyball and bla-bla-bla..." I gave her my complete, undivided attention as she went on and on, and I caught the flash of an approving and thankful look from Grandmother for my timely and useful attention towards her. I was nodding and smiling at the details of stories about her friends from school and gossip about her teachers and all the other useless trivia that poured-out nonstop from her piehole in a hurried monotone as if the world would end if she couldn't expose just one more pointless fact. Finally, I dropped the bomb and even Grandma perked up to hear the answer:

"So, Rose..., do you have a boyfriend?"

This seemingly innocent question at her age seemed to derail her train of thought as she melted down in a combination of embarrassment, horror, confusion and awkwardness. A dozen times her mouth formed words that just didn't come out. Her face, again, became red, but this time not so much because of anger but of something else, something that even she didn't really understand. She wanted to say things, things that would impress me with her intellect, but she wasn't quite there yet. The names and faces of a dozen boys must have flashed through her mind, even a few awkward examples of touching and perhaps even some kissing, but she wasn't equipped to express that vocally or deal with those things in any other way either. She looked so flustered, so challenged and ill equipped. But then she noticed a smile that I couldn't repress, and my enjoyment was suddenly on display when the perfect and correct answer spilled from her lips and even Grandma had to laugh:

"That's none of your beeswax, nosy!"

That conversation changed things. Rose became more self-conscious. Hardly ever again was she bouncing around as an annoying motor-mouth, and when she did, a look from me was usually all it took to make it stop. I had found the power, and she didn't particularly like it, but she understood its origin and its importance. If you want to grow up, if you want to be a woman, the little girl must go away. Sure, there will still be proper times for goofy fun, but it will be the exception now, not the norm. To be saved for time with Daddy perhaps but absent from most of the rest of her daily behavior. It was amazing to witness this change and it was a little scary, and even a little sad on some level. I wonder how often this kind of thing goes completely unnoticed, or, on the other hand, was I seeing things? Things that only existed in my mind, products of my ego and my self-righteous, chauvinistic disposition? Oh, who cares! If she remained less bothersome and annoying, it was a win for me.

It was dark when we finally made it to Grandmother's home; a like-new double wide trailer with a large porch that was walled-in with green mosquito netting. I had heard trailers were small and cheap, but this was as nice as just about any home I had been in. (Except for Uncle Dick and Aunt Vickie's estate, I found that place beyond compare.) Grandmother made us sandwiches as we brought in our things. I had a large room (by trailer standards) all to myself with a private half bath. Rose's room shared the master bath with Grandmother's master bedroom which was the usual accommodation for them. My room and bath were usually used as the guest room, sometimes shared by one of Rose's girl friends from school for at least part of the summer.

Rose was quiet and reserved during our late meal which was something that seemed to please Grandmother. She just stared at me as she silently and daintily ate her food. I realized I was exhausted and soon I excused myself and went straight to bed as Rose watched me as I got up and shuffled off to my room. She reminded me of a cat watching a mouse as I kept her in view out of the corner of my eye. I fell fast asleep on fragrant, clean sheets. I slept for twelve, dreamless hours only to be woke the next morning by Rose, who had returned to her little girl hyperactivity by bouncing on the foot of my bed and yelling at every bounce "Get up-get up!" Apparently, all that self-reflection and poise went out the window during the night. I was really in a groggy daze. I wasn't even sure where I was. I didn't know which way to move to get off the bed and I had to look around to remind myself on which side the wall was in this unfamiliar setting but as I was doing that, in a thoughtless and impulsive act, Rose pulled the covers away. Big mistake, and I'm sure it won't happen again.

I hadn't any pajamas, I never did, back home, us boys slept in our underwear. Somehow, during the night, and in the lovely scent of that bedding, and perhaps the thought of a girl sleeping here before me had something to do with it, and with the welcome knowledge of no sick, perverted brothers around to invade my privacy, and in this oppressive heat, even with the air conditioning, I had removed even my underclothing. At my age, and with all these new and pleasant sensations bombarding me from every direction, when Rose invaded my slumber, it was not unusual and was even natural that things were in 'full song' at this time in the morning. Grandmother, who had some idea of the 'functioning' of boys yelled at Rose, but it was too late:

"You let him be Rose, when I said wake him for breakfast, I meant knock on his door."

I'm not sure Rose had heard her say that as she had made a beeline straight to her room with strangest, wide-eyed and somewhat frightened look on her face before she slammed her door. Splashes of cold water from the sink in my bathroom, thoughts of nuns, old wrinkled nuns, and other go-to thoughts in the repertoire of my long list of self-stifling and self-inflicted traumas, and I was once again under control. Later, dressed and sitting at the table eating eggs and toast, Grandmother asked:

"What is up with Rose this time? Why won't she come out of her room? What happened?" I think it dawned on her what might have happened just as she said that last thing because her painted-on eyebrows suddenly lurched upward.

"Beats me" I said, which I hoped would make it clear that I would never want to talk about it ever! Grandma left the table and made her way to Rose's door where she knocked gently. The door was opened a crack and a frantic discussion of harsh whispers began. I believe I heard Grandma asking when Rose would come out and I heard her answer: "Never!" Grandmother came back to the kitchen, then she went to her purse and pulled out fifty dollars. She handed me the money and said:

"I want you to make this last. It is an advance for your chores. I want you to put on some of your summer clothes, pack your bathing trunks and some towels and go across the yard to the trailer right over there, (she pulled me to the window and pointed to the neighbor's trailer) that's Joe's and Smitty's place, and I want you to spend the day with them. Rose and I will be going to town to do some 'shopping'."

"What will we do? Who are these people?"

"Look..., you can use some of that money for gas and maybe they can take you water skiing."

"But I don't know how to water ski."

"Well it's high time you learned!"

"But-but I...,"

"Just go! Will you?"

I got dressed in the uniform of the area, Bermuda shorts, tee shirt and sandals (I didn't have a watch) and with fifty bucks in my pocket, a towel and my swim trunks folded up and in my hand, I headed across the yard to a complete stranger's house so my cousin can shake off the horror of seeing my junk by shopping with Grandmother.

I step up on to their porch and Jimi Hendrix is blasting out of a stereo with speakers so large that they would have come up to the middle of my chest. Posters for the Rolling Stones, The Doors, The Grateful Dead and other bands decorate the walls. The one fellow is frying eggs on the stove in the kitchen while the other guy is taking a bong hit using an ornate, glass bong several feet in length. Perhaps I will get high this summer! I let him finish before I knock, but he is hacking up a lung for quite a while, so I just stood there. He finally quits coughing and he starts to fill the bowl again for another hit. This is going to be awkward! I knock on the sliding glass door and you should have seen the look on his face. You didn't need to be able to read lips to see the word that formed on his mouth: "Shit!"

A tray is slid under the couch, air freshener is sprayed all around and the music is abruptly silenced. There is a quick conference between the two of them before the one that was cooking answers the door by opening it only about an inch: "Can I help you?"

"Look a..., my name is Brian and my Grandmother sent me over here and..., you don't have to hide anything, I'm cool, and I'm sorry to bother you guys but there was a 'situation' and I think Grandma wants me out of the house for a while."

"It's that kid..., Muriel's grand kid" the man shouted to the other man who was now in a back room. The man who was taking the bong hit comes out from the back while brushing his teeth and he says:

"Look kid, you kind of startled me there, I have a lung condition and use a special respirator sometimes and... a...,"

"Really Sir? Because it looked like you were choking down a bong hit..., I mean it looked that way to me anyway because I have done the same thing about a million times."

"He said he's cool, Joe."

"Oh, I'm cool and I don't want to cramp your style and I can keep a secret but there was this..., this..., 'thing' that happened and Grandma wants me out of the house for a while so she sent me here."

"Muriel is our landlord, and she asked us about helping her with her grandson and she even offered us a break in the rent, but we assumed she would call first so we would be ready for you."

"Well I'm sorry about that and I'm sure she would have if it wasn't for the situation."

"What..., situation?"

"It's embarrassing, but you might find it funny." They stood there waiting and I wished that I had never brought it up but..., who was I kidding, I was busting tell someone, anyone, so I acted as if I was super embarrassed by talking in a low, hushed and guarded voice and they came in close showing concern and being supportive:

"I was just getting out of bed when my cousin, an eleven-year-old girl...,"

"Rose..., we've met her."

"Well she came busting into my room this morning and I hadn't gotten dressed yet, in fact I was waiting..., waiting to get dressed...,"

"Waiting for what?"

"Well sometimes..., when I first wake up..., when certain thoughts run through my mind...,"

"Rose saw your..., a..., boner?"

"Ya, right in her face! I don't think she has ever seen one before. She was kind of shaken up about it. I don't think she can face me right now."

The levity started out somewhat slow. Some smirking and giggling but after about three full seconds, they were nearly rolling on the floor in laughter, with their faces red and holding their sides and slapping their thighs. It went on and on, bringing about coughing, and gagging followed be more laughing. And when it finally stopped, there was clarification:

"She saw your boner?"

"So close it almost smacked her in the face." Another round of laughter, then more after that, followed by even more. Long story short, I was taken bong hits with them long before the laughter was anywhere near played out.

Grandmother owned the dozen rental trailer homes on this side of the lake, an edge on retirement from when her and my late Grandfather were dabbling in real estate investing. My summer job was to mow the lawns and to water and weed the flower beds. These chores could be knocked-out in just a few hours, one day a week. The rest of the time I would smoke with Joe and Smitty, swim in the lake and water ski behind Joe's speedboat.

The vast, apparently vacant land of the far side of the lake was part of the Navy base where Joe and Smitty were both stationed. It was an early warning radar station and it also hosted an expanse of wildlife refuge, but they both seemed to spend very little time there. There were only a few dozen people stationed at this remote outpost and they had things organized down to a science. A battery of the latest, high-tech, two-way radio equipment was installed and humming away in Smitty's bedroom and with it and with other, similar equipment and mobile units, installed and positioned at the other base personnel's homes and vehicles, tabs were kept on the where-a-bouts of commanders, VIPs, inspectors and others. With a system in play that could assemble a detail of inspection-ready personal in less than an hour (more than enough time from the first warning of the perimeter of their tracking systems. After all, this was an early warning outpost with all of the latest and best equipment, established to warn of an attack from Cuba but its actual function seemed to be more of a scam to provide duty-bound service men with nearly unlimited free time) and with a no-show base commander in the loop, this is the kind of dream duty station that existed where soldiers and sailors simply integrated and promptly disappeared, many all the way until retirement. That left plenty of time for me to pal around with Joe and Smitty, but still I found a lot of alone time to spend with Rose, who had quickly gotten over the 'situation' of our first morning. But we bonded over something else that I stumbled across; the Tiny Two.
Chapter Nine

I found the Tiny Two in a disgraceful condition out behind the storage shed and I curiously dragged it out, along with its equipment for inspection and repairs.

"You're not supposed to touch that. It belongs to my Father and it is not a toy" declared Rose, in a display of authority designed to establish her as in a position over me in 'something' apparently.

"This..., this abomination of neglect and embarrassment?" I was already assuming the role of playing the haughty Naval Sea Captain who knows what's best.

"Your 'Father' will be grateful for my interest and my attention towards this important matter, (I said in a playful, authoritarian voice) this example of sad conduct and this poor excuse for care, it is certainly a neglect of responsibility and an example of disrespect for duty..., appalling!"

"Grandma! Brian's messing with Dad's sailboat!... Even after I told him not to!" Grandmother made her way out to the backyard with Rose beaming as if she was a hero, as I already had the Tiny Two and all its equipment lined-up for inventory in a neat, organized row.

"This is an expensive sailing system and it is going to pot out here in the weeds. I will clean it up and save it from the elements. Uncle Dick will thank me when I'm done" I said, still playing the haughty and now righteous sea captain.

"I warned him Grandma, but he wouldn't listen" Rose interjected, sure that she was right to call attention to this blatant breech of the rules.

"Oh Rose!... No one likes a tattle-tail!" Declared Grandma and she continued:

"If Dick cared about that thing, he wouldn't have left it here. Knock yourself out, I'm missing my stories" she said as she began to turn and walk back to the house. I used this pause, and with her perceived authorization established, I came to attention and snapped her a dignified salute as a reward for her keen insight in the matter. She paused for a moment, shock her head and gave me a puzzled look as if she was glad that I found something to do but her look also made clear that she didn't want much to be bothered right now.

Rose was upset that she was called-out for tattling, and she was also annoyed that she was being left out of something that had the potential for some fun so this had her pouting and muttering to herself and she obviously hadn't learned her lesson because she soon declared:

"I'm going to call my dad and tell on you" in a statement that even she recognized as one that made her sound like she was only four years old.

"That's too bad because as captain, I will be interviewing for the position of first mate, and it is a position of integrity, where 'tattling' will be considered a demerit."

"That's stupid!... You're stupid!" And then after a short period of consideration:

"Okay..., what will I have to do?"

"Be prepared for adventure and excitement! Be ready for perils and danger! Dedicate yourself to a life on the sea where fortune could be yours and your destiny will be discovered" I said as Rose rolled her eyes, followed by a jester as if she was making herself throw-up with her finger. But she remained by my side as I organized and separated the equipment. Then together we washed the green molding off the sail and the fitted canvas storage cover, using the garden hose and the car washing supplies from inside of the shed. We emptied the sand from the bilge and scrubbed down the little open hull inside and out. We untangled the lines for the rigging and the anchor and I showed my trainee how to stow the lines in a proper coiled condition instead of the ragged mess of before, all the while using my haughty captain voice that I had picked up from movies I had watched and my love of the C.S. Forester novels featuring Capt. Horatio Hornblower. Rose eventually relented completely in the play as I demanded that she report officially to me as Captain Brian when speaking to me and I addressed her as Number One, which she seemed to enjoy as we played our parts.

We acted this way all day and by the early evening, with the help of Grandmother's automotive cleaning supplies, we had waxed the forest green fiberglass of the hull to a gleaming, mirror-like sheen and we had polished the stainless steel fittings and the pair of miniature, ratcheting boom line winches mounted on each 'gun-wall' (the sides of the boat or as they are also known as- the rails) to a better than new appearance. We had draped the carefully washed sail over the clothesline to dry and as the final bit of the day's labor, we fitted the now dry and bright white canvas sail to the aluminum mast and 'furled' it (rolled it up tightly) into its stowed position and 'lashed' it down in place with the 'cleat lines.' (Lengths of thin rope attached in the right places for just that task.)

"It be a fine craft mate, and I commend ye gallant efforts, and as ye just rewards, I grant thee shore leave till we be shov'n off at six bells" I said to Number One as she just gave me a blank stare.

"You're so weird!" Declared my first Mate.

"Why, how dare you exhibit such insubordination! I could have you lashed to the rack and given fifty swings of the cat's eye for such an outrage! A salute and a begging for dismissal is in order to end ye watch Number One." Rose rolled her eyes once again but after glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, she snapped to attention and with her hand to her forehead she said:

"Permission to begin my leave, Captain Brian?"

"Permission granted Number One" and I returned her salute smartly. She dropped her hand, turned about-face and went at-ease, took one relaxed step, paused, turned back towards me and said in a mocking and playful voice:

"You're still a weird-o, Captain Brian!"

"Oh, that's it! Discipline will be mine!" I declared and then I chased her back to the house as she giggled and squealed all the way.

I was up before daybreak the next morning. I snuck out before anyone else was awake. There was a rule on the lake, well posted at each property line and at the public boat launch that declared:

NO MOTORISED WATERCRAFT ALOWED UNTIL AFTER 12 NOON

I had the lake all to myself until then and I would need it. Because with all my sailboat knowledge from working with my Dad and with all that I had read in books and from what I had learned watching TV, besides the fact that I knew that the wind pushed on the sail to make the boat go, I really didn't know a single other thing about sailing. I had heard many of the terms, I could name a good deal of the equipment but how it was used? That was another matter. The anchor, (that one was pretty much self-explanatory) the sea anchor, (?) the operation of the drop keel, (that seemed pretty straight forward) the reefing positions (?) of the sail, the nautical terms from my books; tacking, reefing, luffing, the lee, even port and starboard were less than perfectly clear. But as I gleefully launched the little craft into the lake I hadn't a care in the world about any of that stuff. How hard could it be? Besides, I had an oar to paddle with which meant that if all else failed, I would still make it back.

The sun was just starting to peak over the palm trees of the swampy forest that ringed the quiet little lake. The morning breeze was steady, blowing from east to the west as it nearly always did this early in the day and as it usually would later in the evening. I paddled out to the center of the lake, a lake about a half mile wide and about two miles in length, 'pickle' shaped except for a jog in the east that jetted south. The 'balls' to the otherwise penis shaped body of water as Joe comically pointed-out one day on a map that he had. Here, I raised the sail, pushed the tiller over and I was promptly flipped over the side and into the water. That didn't go well! I instantly found a new problem, when trying to climb back aboard the little boat I only swamped the craft as the rail dipped under the water long before I was anywhere near to being back inside. Several attempts later, a thrust over the stern proved to be the ticket. After some bailing, I attempted effort number two only to be pitched once again into the drink. Attempts three and four also mirrored the earlier efforts. This is ridiculous! Then it dawned on me. The keel board! Of course, how stupid! I pulled the pin, pushed the keel board down and locked it there using that same pin. Now I pushed the tiller over, and the sail caught the wind once again but this time I moved forward. Ha! Try to make a monkey out of me! But with all that screwing around, the wind had worked me towards the downwind end of the lake so my first triumphant, successful cruise was rather short, and I nearly plowed into the cypress roots that formed the 'shore' at this far end of the lake before I had successfully lowered the sail to slow my speed.

Thirsty, frustrated, with the loose sailcloth flapping around madly as I was pinned and run aground against the dense vegetation of the swampy shore. Sailing didn't seem to be what it was cracked up to be. But that was only the beginning of my troubles.

I managed to gather up the sail and I was pulling on the oar, using a lot of effort while making very little progress as the wind kept pushing me back the wrong way. I was starting to be rather disappointed at the entire concept of sailing in general. Hardly worth all the effort if you can only go in the direction of the wind. I was considering leaving the boat and heading overland back home. Joe could run me back here in his ski boat and we could tow this worthless piece of crap back later... Than a thought crossed my mind: "You could be bit by a scorpion or step on a gator..." It dawned on me where I was, the edge of the jungle, the swampy home of the alligators and, as I was earlier informed, it was the nesting season. I intensified my paddling and with the breeze pushing against me, it was clear that it could take hours before I could make it back, and the fact that I had failed to bring anything to drink..., well, I could be in real trouble.

Then I heard something, a splashing just a few yards away. Was that a gator? Stupid self-pity was quickly being replaced by real paranoia. Every click, splash or gurgle was certainly a mother gator protecting her hatchlings. I rowed like a madman and made some progress, moving to a more open area and away from most of the patchy swamp grass, but under what had already become a brutal sun, any thought rowing the mile and a half back home was a pipe dream. I took some solace in the fact that I would really only have to make it to the first of the home sites, just under a mile away, and then I could safely walk along the road the rest of the way but at this ridiculous clip, where any resting would have me just being blown back once again to where I had started from, well...

The anchor! Of course! Why didn't I think of that before? Over the side it went and as the rope tightened, I could relax and regain my strength. As I caught my breath, my thoughts began to clear. I remembered Capt. Hornblower as they "tacked madly, back and forth to avoid an out-cropping of deadly, surf pounded rocks" What did that mean? There must be something I'm missing. I studied everything around me. The shore on the far side, the shore on the near side, the direction of the wind, the images and pictures that I had seen in books and on TV and finally, things started to fall into place. Could it be that simple? I thought that as I raised the sail and then the anchor. The sail caught the breeze with a 'pop,' and I pointed the bow as close to the direction that the wind was coming from as I could before the sail started to flutter. The craft leaned over wildly, and I scurried over to the high side of the boat to compensate. I found that just under the edge of the rail, there was sort of a handle built in where you could fit your feet in perfectly, giving you excellent stability and leaving your hands free for the tiller and the sheet lines. I found that the mini winch gave you just the extra force needed to tighten the sail to provide a small measure of efficiency that equated into a slight but noticeable increase of speed. I approached the far shore and I picked out a stand of brush just different enough that I would be able pick it out once again later after I had to look away and focus my eyes on other things. With the far shore approaching quickly, I had only seconds to execute my 'plan,' my bonified 'eureka' moment, my brilliant triumph over adversity, the reason and the way of it all. So proud and hopeful I was of my own great brain that I screamed out my own orders:

"Ready about" and as I held the ropes and was ready to duck under the boom, I pushed the tiller over and using the term that I had read but didn't before quite understand, I yelled:

"Hard-a-lee." The boom swung over my head as I scampered to other side and I adjusted the sheet line with the winch on this side now as I steered the boat as close to the wind as possible in this new direction. Across the lake I barreled, again I picked out a landmark before I repeated the process again. This time, once again heading to the far side, I was greeted with new and wonderful information. Yes, YES! This is how it's done! Now I was the master of the lake. I could go anywhere I wanted (as long as the wind held out) and it was a glorious and enlightening conquering of my universe. Because as this new tack showed, with the locating of my mentally recorded landmark, I was making progress, several hundred yards or more with each new tack.

My thirst was forgotten, my fatigue had disappeared as I made my way to the upwind end of the lake and I experienced the thrill and the treat that making it there promised. Back and forth, back and forth in a method that seemed to be ingrained in my subconscious in a symbiotic pattern laid down a thousand generations ago by some long-forgotten sea-fairing ancestor, and when I reached that far point of the upwind end of the lake, I looked around and savored the sight. The fruit of my labor, the apex of my planning, the end of the quest and the beginning of the future. And without further ado I let the boom fly, wing and wing. (Technically, with only one sail, there could be only one 'wing,' but it is a term describing the position of the sail[s].)

With the wind at my back and with the sheet line holding the boom at its maximum extension, the feeling of speed was exhibited by the 'bone in my teeth' (the white water forming under the bow) and by the features of the land as they raced by almost as fast as if I was riding in a car, but the feeling of the wind almost disappears as you begin to match its speed. When I passed Grandma's place, her, Rose, Joe and Smitty all were waving as I let out a hoot as I passed them by.

Tacking my way up and flying back down, I sailed by several more times before I remembered how thirsty I was and I pulled in close to shore and lowered the sail while using the sea anchor (a sort of canvas sack connected to a length of rope that you throw over the side) to help hold my position (another flash of brilliance) and when the sail was lashed to the boom with the stowage cleats, I paddled in towards the beach. I forgot raise the keel board and it grounded with the bottom while I was still some distance from shore but that seemed to go unnoticed as everyone watched me pull the boat to the beach.

Delirious with thirst, I ran to the hose and drank like dog while everyone just shook their heads. Impatient and eager to continue the fun, I grabbed Rose by the hand and dragged her to the boat.

"Come on Number One, your captain needs you" I said as I lifted her over the side and into the boat. I raised the sail once again after rowing some distance from shore and as we picked up some speed, I noticed Rose wrapped around the keel board housing in the bottom of the boat with a grip so tight that her knuckles were turning white.

"What's the matter Rose?"

In starts and fits, and in a little voice that I could barely make out, she confessed that she was terrified of sailing. Apparently when she was younger, her and her brother Randy were out in this very same boat and out on this very same lake when he was screwing around and he 'jibed' the boat (made a sudden maneuver) causing the boom to swing violently across and it caught Rose on the side of the head and she was pitched over and into the drink while seeing stars. It didn't help that Randy cruelly laughed at her as she tried to tread water as she drifted in and out of consciousness in a growing pool of her own blood that was spilling from a gash in her temple. Only the sight of an alligator surfacing a few feet away snapped her out of her daze and had her swimming frantically towards the boat where she clung to the side, unable to lift herself in as her brother just laughed and laughed. When he finally noticed that her head was bleeding, he hoisted her in. He never saw the gator and acted as if her subsequent tantrum was just her overreacting, but she had never been out on the lake since.

The second the story was over, Rose seemed to look around and as if there was a sudden confirmation of where she was and what was happening and in that split second, out came the waterworks!

In my desire to share my excitement of just learning to sail, and as I grabbed Rose, she froze in a sort of a catatonic state, too surprised and shocked to put up any defense or opposition. But there was more to the story. She didn't mention any of this as we spent all day preparing the boat the day before. It was certainly implied that we were going to share in sailing around the lake. With all that talk of "adventure" and "destiny" in fact, she seemed to be the one most captivated towards that aspect. Yet here she is, tears running down her face and snot bubbles forming from her nose.

"We can't go back with you like that. You're a woman now, not a little baby." She froze with that realization. She knew I was right. If everyone seen her like this, it would mean another summer of dollies, candy and pig tails. Not that she didn't still want those things sometimes, but she didn't want that to define her either, not anymore.

"Let..., me..., sniff..., have some..., sniff..., time..., I'll..., sniff..., get over..., sniff..., it..., just..., sniff..., don't do..., sniff..., anything crazy..., sniff.

I could have waited and brought her back to shore after she had regained her composure as she suggested. I could have helped her by enabling her to repress her traumas yet again, forgetting all about it in time, which would have been easier for both of us. Pretending that nothing was wrong just as she thinks she wants. It might have even turned into an item of trust between us, a shared secret, but is that what is best? What will the next trauma bring? Will this be the new normal? The abusive boyfriend? The unwanted advances of bosses and others in positions of power over her? All those things and much more would be pushed deep inside because that is what is easy? Everything adding up until there is no more room and then everything explodes?

No! I have a duty, the burden of command. If my underlings are to thrive, if they are to have the best chance for advancement and improvement, I must take the difficult road, to take such traumas and turn it into a teachable moment. To coddle her, to 'dump' her away in the ashcan of life, to turn my back and take the easy way out of a difficult situation would be a disservice and a disgrace. I must fix this, not look the other way. It is my duty and my honor. To do less would show that I am unfit for command and leave me with a lifetime of shame. I will fix this, but how?

"Rose..., Number One..., we're not going back. We prepared this boat together and we will sail it as a team" I said kindly but directly. She snapped her face towards me. Her crying has mostly stopped. I could see an 'in' and a desire to shake this monkey off her back.

"No Brian..., just give me a moment..."

"No sailor!... You will join me (I patted the seat on the rail next to me) and we will master this craft and anything else that comes our way!... You got that?"

"Brian please..., I just want..."

"Just want to go through life as a doormat, with the world walking over you?"

"I..., a..., what?"

"You heard me! Are you gunna run scared at every little thing that comes along? Curl up in a ball as others take the glory? Let the big bad world stomp you into dust and then wonder why you never had a chance?"

"I..., a...,"

"Not on my watch little missy. You're gunna snap out of it and join me as we conquer this lake and as we conquer this life, or you must resign your commission."

"My what?"

"Number One can turn into number two in a heartbeat."

"What?" She said as I patted the seat one more time. She looked shocked but already her tears were almost dry. Then her face flashed at the recognition of the challenge. A determination crossed her face. The realization that she was a somebody. Someone important and someone to be reckoned with. Only a baby would be scared of a little boat, but still, as she slowly and carefully moved to my side, she held onto me with a death grip, and I could feel her heart pounding. I showed her how to fit her feet into the spaces provided in the rail and the extra stability had her releasing some of her grip from around my waist.

"Now when we get close to the shore, and at my command, we will change direction and while ducking under the boom, we will change sides." She listened intently as if she were receiving instructions for brain surgery.

"Ready about?"

"Oh, I get it..., number two..., like poop!"

"Hard-a-lee!"
Chapter Ten

Rose did stay out with me that morning and we did several more 'laps' until the motorboats came out and whipped the lake into frenzy as happened each and every day. But that day marked the start of our 'thing.' Every morning we would gather supplies (pop, chips and candy) and cruise around in the quiet stillness until the motorboats ruined everything. But we would do much more than just sail. In fact, that in itself, had become rather dull before too long. We would talk. I would tell stories of living in the sticks, and she would tell me stories of being a society girl. But mostly we would talk about love. Well not 'love' exactly, but the thing that was so elusive for both of us; sex, and as we both had zero actual experience regarding that, we blatantly lied to each other as if we were both quite skilled in those arts. We pulled our 'vast knowledge' from the pool of sexual content that was available from the go-to source everybody was familiar with: Television.

What misguided misconceptions we had. All the standard 'truths' such as blindness for boys, insanity for girls if certain 'things' were done that were popular to hear about on the street corner. (We were careful not to actually name those kinds of things, that would have been tacky, but more importantly, that would have displayed our actual lack of real knowledge.) But what was popular was the kind of myth making that was used as a deterrent by parents who would say and do almost anything to keep their precious children in the dark and out of the loop for as long as possible, and we had fallen for it all. But not really. We knew that most of that sort of 'talk' was bullshit, but as we didn't know precisely what was the truth either, or at least we weren't comfortable with what truth we did know, at least not when we were alone together, we played a silly and somewhat dirty game and it was something personal and deeply secret just between us. We both would have died of embarrassment if anyone found out about any of that.

That was my morning thing, after dinner, I would usually go to Joe and Smitty's to watch "action movies" which were geared for men and boys, so naturally Rose wouldn't be interested, but really we were there smoking tons of pot, and not the "ragweed" from where I was from, but mostly killer Columbian and Thai Stick. They would ply me with beers as well, and as Grandma was early to bed, I got away with it for the longest time, staggering home and going straight into bed myself. It was very shocking when one morning out in the Tiny Two Rose asked me; "What is marijuana like?" Luckily, our sailing discussions were top secret, but still I played dumb. Apparently, Rose harbored some secrets of her own such as hiding in the bushes, spying after Grandma was in bed.
Chapter Eleven

Grandmother mentioned something about the new neighbors that were renting the last unit at the end of the track, the one before the yards turned into jungle at the far end of the development, but that information seemed irrelevant at the time. That was to change.

Rose and I were sailing around, actually drifting around was probably more accurate as we spent more time talking as we pretended and acted like adults to the best of our abilities in the game that we played as we tried our best to fool each other to believe that we something that we weren't, but then I saw her.

I was captivated, enamored to the point of bumbling ridiculousness, smitten to the point of insanity in a manner that Rose could never truly understand. But she did understand one thing right away, and it was something that would, in time, scorch her to the bottom of her very soul. One look at her, and one look at me looking at her, changed everything and seemed to turn her world upside down. Though she couldn't quite put her finger on it immediately, she seemed to sense that it was the beginning of the end.

She stood at the edge of their section of artificial beach, looking lonely and hopeful as the only others anywhere close to her age floated past in a little green sailboat. I noticed that lonely longing, but I instantly processed that as a condition, as a possible tool towards my real and pressing desire for what she really meant to me. Let's not beat around the bush here and be honest. These are the normal and obvious thoughts and actions of a young man under these conditions. If you think that this sort of thing has disappeared in this age of 'woke' and with the 'me too' mindsets, then you are fooling yourself. At least while the red-blooded, heterosexual male still lives and breathes on this earth. If you think that the thoughts of such a man could be stifled with education or some sort of social shaming, then you are ignoring several million years of genetics. Face it, one look is all it takes, and the wheels are in motion, the plans are hatched and begin to form and only the cold hand of death will stop it from further advancement, and this kid, (me) is no exception.

Dark skin, more than just a tan, an ethnic trait that for me anyway, increased the allure, an exotic and forbidden fruit presented in such a way that if a man had a pulse, attention must be paid. A silky, gold bikini was the core of that presentation, and not just any bikini but a skimpy, wildly age inappropriate number that featured large, gold rings at the sides of the hips and at the cleavage point of the top that gave the effective illusion of nakedness. I was beyond smitten, driven wild with sinful lust to the point that I had to shift away from Rose to hide my growing excitement, and not just because of the impossible ampleness of that 'cleavage point' (a bold face lie, by the way) but also because of flowing, streaming, long, black hair that floated in the breeze, and a pretty young face framed by high cheek bones.

"What did Grandma say her name was again?"

"Maya..., Maya the Slutty-Slutbag!" Declared Rose.

"Maya" I said dreamily as Rose rolled her eyes. Then I added:

"I hope we're right!"

I had a million questions for Rose, first and foremost was why she called her a slut? Was there some 'evidence' to back that up? Something that I should know? The rest of my questions regarded picking her brain about all she knew about her, but that line of questioning hit a brick wall. She didn't know any details about her and even if she did, I don't think she would have told me anything. The more I probed, the more she was cross about the subject. The only thing she commented about was my first question:

"Any girl that would dress like that must be a slut!"

"You have a bathing suit, that white one that is just as skimpy..."

SLAP!!!

"Take me home!"

The summer was wearing on, and Rose had grown noticeably taller and she was growing out of her clothes. Her and Grandma spent a whole day in town shopping and Rose came back with a new hair style, make up and her nails done up, and something else that I couldn't ignore; a training bra.

"Gee Rose, you look..."

"Don't you dare say another thing Mister!"

Maya Carabresi was her name and I only found that out because I searched Grandma's writing desk until I found a copy of their rental agreement. Grandma was nearly as tight lipped about Maya as Rose was, but that was because of professional curtesy. But as I skimmed over the paperwork, I saw something that caught my eye. Mr. Carabresi's employment was listed as a radar operator at the base, and I also noticed that he had paid for a year's rent in advance; a small fortune.

Rose fostered a real and growing hatred as I tried to probe her for some help, an angle for which I might come up with some plan to meet Maya, but I was met with such fierce opposition that it was clear that I must drop all thoughts of any collaboration with her on the subject. One mention of her name resulted in days of the silent treatment. She even started to refuse to go sailing with me even though that was our thing. I thought she enjoyed our 'special time' and I know that she did, but now that my thoughts starred a new vision, a vision that tore down the old pictures of beauty and sexiness in my mind and replaced them with new images, images of dark skin, flowing black hair and most important, busty filled gold bikinis, and Rose could sense that, and perhaps because she couldn't compete (she was on track to becoming a beauty in her own right, but that was probably still some years away) or that she demanded my attention all to herself, or something else that I couldn't quite see or understand, whatever the actual reason, things were never the same between Rose and me. I shouldn't have been surprised when Grandma sat me down for a talk not soon after all that:

"Brian, Rose will be going home soon. She wants to spend the rest of her summer with her family and her friends from school. So, after the block party on the Fourth of July weekend, Dick and Vicky will be taking her back home."

Block party? I know I should have had some emotion about Rose leaving, some feelings regarding all the bonding and the tender, personal things that we shared, but the fact is that her cold shoulder had taken its toll. There was no reason why she couldn't have shared in my feelings toward Maya and helped in some way, at least symbolically. She had become quite the little bitch lately. But when I heard the words "block party" that implied that Maya and her family would be there and that was all I really heard.

Joe and Smitty were hammered that night when I stopped by, they hadn't even made it into the house. The door of Joe's van was hanging open and they both had only made it to the porch where they were laughing and drinking apparently in honor of the new neighbor that they had seen in her bathing suit; a gold bikini.

"May I caress a breast ee?" was the comical play on words regarding her name. I was appalled when I heard that, after all she was just a child (although she certainly didn't look like one) and they had no business making her the brunt of their sick jokes. I wanted to shame them for this insult, but all those feelings were certainly because I wanted her all for myself, not because of some righteous, moral outrage, and, after all, it was pretty funny. They laughed and laughed, and I wanted it to be a compliment that they found her as desirable as I did, but it doesn't work that way with men. Even though they were much too old for her, and it was even illegal for either of them to have such affections, competition is competition so, for my piece of mind, I must kill them. (Not really, but that is a thought that is not far from the surface of men in this situation. Believe it!)

They had run into her and her family at the local convenience store and had been formally introduced when they were buying beer to celebrate seeing her in her bathing suit earlier that day. That wasn't exactly true. First of all, they usually buy beer every day, and they need no 'excuse' to celebrate. But as they told me that they had seen her earlier as I had, and as I smoldered in a rage of jealousy, both because they were blatantly exposing their lust for my dream girl, and because with their introduction, it was clear that they were both closer to her charms than I was. If I wasn't here to have them to smoke me out, I think I would like to kill them.

I earned my bong hits that night by frying them up some burgers and when they had sobered up some, I learned that they were also getting shit-faced because there was a new radar expert coming to the base and things were likely going to be much more by-the-book and ship-shape from now on, so they were partying it up now while they still could. You should have seen their faces when I told them who that radar operator would be; priceless!
Chapter Twelve

The chain of events was rapid following that evening. Joe and Smitty got tight, military haircuts and shaved off their beards. The plan was to put on their dress uniforms and deliver a fruit basket to the Carabresi family as a welcome to the neighborhood gift, but really it was to check them out.

"Can I come with? Please? I'll wear my good clothes."

"You just want some of that sweet poon-tang from that Maya chick."

"Yeah..., well dah!"

"The kid might help them to drop their guard" said Smitty and Joe agreed.

"Okay, but don't mention any government stuff. We need to be careful what we say. We'll do the talking."

Sunday morning, Joe and Smitty were looking crisp in their Navy blues with Joe carrying the basket of meats, cheeses, crackers and candy that was topped with fresh fruits. Smitty had a formal invitation with him inviting them all to the block party and a gift phone book, and a more personal list of all the 'good' take-out restaurants in town. I had a bouquet of fresh cut flowers that I hoped to give to Maya personally even though it was officially a gift for the entire family. We walked up the path and Maya and her Mother were sitting in the shade of their front yard but as soon as they saw us, they both scrambled into the house with worried looks on their faces. That was weird. Smitty knocked on the door. Mr. Carabresi opened it:

"Hello! I meet you from store, right? I did not know you are from military" the man said in a thick, middle eastern accent.

"Yes Sir, we brought you and your family some welcome to the neighborhood gifts and an invitation to our block party next weekend" Joe said as he passed the gifts to the man who seemed to be ill at ease.

"Oh, thank you so much! I see many good things here, thank you. Maya, come help with these things." Maya promptly appeared and even in a long house dress and with a headscarf on, she looked fabulous and I did get to hand her the flowers personally which she took with a polite smile, but the look in her eyes hinted of some kind of concern, a troubled expression that reminded me of the look of a caged animal, as if danger was at hand.

"Such a fine gesture and much appreciated, and as we are a quiet family who enjoys our solitude and our privacy, it is that much more special." (That statement seemed to clash with his daughter's choice of swimsuits.) It was as if he was trying to say something else, sort of a don't call us, you'll call you kind of vibe. Very strange. There was an awkward pause, followed by a question from Mr. Carabresi:

"Look, a..., you from radar station, no?"

"That's right."

"You're..., Commander..., a Captain Wilkins..., no?" Mrs. Carabresi joins Maya behind Mr. Carabresi and they both share a look of concern.

"Yes, he is our Commander."

"He is hard man to reach no? I leave many massages."

"He will be at the welcoming ceremony, first thing Monday morning, don't you worry about that. They'll be a brass band, honor guard, twenty-one-gun salute, pass and review, the whole sha-bang." The look of concern of the family turns to a sort of horror.

"Perhaps I misspoke, 'sha-bang' means it will be a big deal, unforgettable." That didn't help. Hushed whispers are shared between the elder Carabresi's in a foreign tongue followed by another awkward pause as the woman abruptly leave.

"Have we upset you somehow?" Smitty asks blankly. Mr. Carabresi seems to be at a loss for words and he looks worried, very worried.

"It is important that I meet with Captain Wilkins, there is much to review before I start in my position. Can you help me find him?"

"Oh sure! He'll be at the ceremony and..." Mr. Carabresi cuts Joe off:

"No!... I mean..., that is very kind..., but I must meet him in person. There is much to review, documents that must be signed, special arraignments that I was assured were already complete, but seem to be forgotten or misplaced."

"That sounds like a typical government snafu..."

"Snafu?"

"Sure! There are always problems, bugs to be worked out! Why after the ceremony, we'll..."

"No! You don't understand." Carabresi looks around as if to check for some unseen and nonexistent 'enemy' or some other threat. Then he closes in on Joe and Smitty like he is going to share a secret or unburden himself about something:

"There can be no 'ceremony' is too risky, no one is to know. That was the whole point!" Mr. Carabresi's voice is uneasy as he speaks. He seems to be on the very edge of his composure.

"I must speak to Captain Wilkins."

Joe and Smitty might be a couple of stony slackers, but they are not stupid, and they know something about Captain Wilkins, and that is, that he is, stupid.

They have enough smarts, and enough experience to realize that this man, Mr. Carabresi, and his family, seem to have real and possibly dangerous problems, and whatever those problems are, a dumbass like Wilkins is not the solution. The fact that Carabresi arrived with everything in a cluster fuck is proof of his incompetence. That is why Wilkins is in the position that he is in, to be the cover, with no chance of tipping anyone off because he just doesn't know anything, a precise example of the term 'useful idiot.'

This unnamed 'radar station' is more than what it seems to be. It has 'other' uses, a place where things happen that don't happen. Where people go but 'paperwork' doesn't 'exactly' follow. Whether Joe and Smitty had stumbled upon this arrangement or were part of it in some way, is something I would never know. Someone high above must have assumed Wilkins was more than the figurehead that he actually is and sent down the Carabresi packet and it is probably still sitting in his seldom checked and naturally overflowing in-box.

Joe and Smitty now understand that there must be some reason why the women were sent away. Joe has some experience in eastern cultures, and he takes a risk believing he sees something of what might be going on here and he faces Mr. Carabresi and reaches out and wraps his hands in his as if he is a long-lost brother. He leans in close so the man can feel his breath as he speaks, as is their way. He looks deep into his eyes and says:

"Don't worry. Whatever the problem is, we will fix it. There will be no review, no ceremony. I don't need to know the details to understand. Just one thing, don't try to contact anyone again, especially Wilkins."

"Brian don't mention any of this to your Grandmother or anyone" Joe said as he and Smitty literally break away and jog back to their trailer and to Joe's van but waiting there was a surprise.

"You went to the Carabresi's house didn't you. You shouldn't have done that" Grandma said to Joe as she stood in front of Joe's van, potentially blocking it from leaving with her body. Joe and Smitty were stunned, slack jawed and so was I as I watched from bushes, out of sight only because I didn't want to pit-stain my good clothes by jogging and I had lagged back.

"My late husband was many things..., more than just a businessman..., much more. When a 'mutual friend' called on the Carabresi's behalf about a rental unit, it was implied that it was a 'situation' to handled carefully. So, what have you done? What did he say? It is important that I know exactly what has happened, so spill it!" Joe and Smitty looked at each other, then at Grandmother. It dawned on the two of them that Grandma's "mutual friend" was likely the key to all of this. Joe, Smitty and Grandmother just stared at each other. How could this be? Paths crossing professionally like this. A little old lady, a couple of Navy sailors, just hours before all was normal and predicable, certain, but now, somehow, there are ripples in the former paradox, tears in the fabric of the continuum and now things are different but much of those 'things' will remain unexplained because of the overarching 'guide' that has to be followed in such matters, the 'rule' that trumps curiosity, the 'procedure' that governs actions and behaviors in these matters: The need to know. Regardless of the surprise Joe may be experiencing, in the name of duty, he forwards his report:

"Wilkins dropped the ball Muriel."

"Wilkins! That horse's ass! That doesn't surprise me one damn bit."

I came wandering out of the bushes as if I hadn't heard a thing.

"Brian, there you are. Look Dearie, Joe and Smitty and I have to go to the Base and iron out some things for the block party, we might be late so you and Rose will have to make your own dinner" Grandma said that so smooth that it made me wonder what else she could so easily lie about. Joe started to move towards the door of his van, but Grandmother stopped him:

"For heaven's sake son, I'm not riding in that rickety thing, you can drive me in my car."

"Where's Grandma?" Asked Rose as I stepped in the door, nearly the only thing she had said to me all week as I had been enduring one of her childish silent treatments.

"She had to do something with Joe and Smitty."

"Yeah, I seen them pile into her car and leave. Probably going to the police to have your slutty-slut girlfriend arrested, I know you went over there."

"Will you give it a rest?"

Rose looked at me in my fancy clothes and rolled her eyes.

"I'm surprised you needed to get dressed up for that skank."

"That's enough young lady! You don't have any idea about who she is or what she has been through. If you think you're better than her, you're not!"

"Oh relax! I'm just razzing you" she said flatly and as if she was now somehow a different person, a stranger who I didn't know in the least. Weird. I turned on the TV, ignoring her, wishing she had already gone back to her family. She didn't like that. After a few minutes, she got up from her chair at the kitchen table, moved slowly and smoothly towards me and plopped down next to me on the couch, much closer than she usually sat. She was still in her make up. Her 'bra' brought out some 'shape' where only yesterday there was none. I might not have had much experience with girls but even I could detect a trip to the tissue dispenser.

"Grandma's gone huh? That means we have the house to ourselves." She lets that sink in. She has a way about her tonight, a look of mischief, a cool precision, a dominance of sorts as if all I have ever done all summer is only what she has been 'allowing' me to do and now, the truth will come out. She turns off the TV and pushes up against me. I can feel heat radiating from her body and it is not pleasant and far from delightful, in fact, it is kind of awkward and savage. Words flow from her mouth, carefully and direct:

"What...," she drags her finger across my chest, "do...," she moves that finger down a few inches, "you...," her finger moves down some more, "want...," her finger moves from my chest to my belly, "to...," her finger has crossed the threshold, to the lower belly/upper groin region and her fingers spread out, lingering, in a fan, hinting of some sort of gentle attention, of an impending caress, a promise of 'things' so taboo that they can't be mentioned, "do...?"

She wants me to do this. She wants me to grab her and kiss her, but it is a double edge sword. She wants it, and she probably will like it, she will like it, but that's the rub, it is about her gaining an upper hand, some dirt to use against me later, even if she likes it. (She will like it.) It's win-win for her, even if I go way to far, even if I force myself on her. She will get two things, the experience that she craves and the 'victimhood' that she will yield against me later.

P.S. It took me fifty years to figure all that out.

"What do I want? Not this! You're my cousin!"

"What do you think is going to happen?" I didn't answer.

I turn the TV back on.

"You're such a Stupid Head!"

"Stupid Head? Is that all you got?"

"Stupid Head-Farm Boy-Hillbilly!"

"Well..., that's a little better. You want grill cheese sandwiches? We still have ice cream; we could have that for dessert."

"Stupid Head..., and yes."

A practice relationship, that describes much of what Rose and I had that summer. A 'test case' of situations, affections, attractions, conversations and other 'dialogs' regarding a wide range of human experiences as we both prepare for the 'real world.'

Rose could be quite pleasant when she wanted to be, as she was the rest of that evening. Making small talk including insightful commentary towards situations presented on the TV. She completely ignored her earlier 'flirtatious' behavior as if it never happened. Such a tease! At some point it was if we were an old married couple, just hanging out together as if it was for the millionth time. But my thoughts were elsewhere, gold bikini, and I wanted Rose to assist me, to help befriend the object of my real affections, put in a good word, invite her here for a meal, perhaps a sleepover, that thought 'raised' some physical realities! But any mention of any of that would have broken this magic and it wouldn't have been fair to Rose. A game was being played here and even practice is play. But there was no real scoring in practice play, and I needed to score. I needed badly to score, and soon!

I was out by myself in the Tiny Two the next day. I hadn't slept well. I was obsessed with thoughts of Maya all night and that meant constant and uncontrollable 'physical' functions. (Rose and her 'behavior' didn't help much either.) It's funny that what starts out as an embarrassing condition, a curse and an overpowering and unpredictable urge that could 'rise' just about anywhere and anytime, would eventually be something that drugs were called upon to relive what was once a curse as a man gets older. (Other men of course, not me!)

I still hadn't figured it out. What a dumb shit I was. Without the internet, magazines or 'peep shows' (or however city kids saw pornography, a bumpkin like me had no access to anything like that) or frank, honest talk from adults, I didn't know how 'things' worked and I wouldn't know until I actually had my first sexual experience. (Second experience actually, but that's another story.) I'm not sure if this a common situation (men never really speak of these things, at least not back in those days) but as I said before, I was so afraid of all the insults and all the ribbing between us boys about the shame of 'playing with yourself' and the inference that that is what 'made' you gay, I at least, never did anything like that to myself which made these days of my youth so torturous and unending.

I sailed leisurely tacks where I could stay down deep in the bottom of the boat and not up on the rail, glad that I was out in the middle of the lake and all by myself. It didn't help that I stayed within range of Maya's little stretch of beach, but that is why I was out there. (Hey, it's not that torturous.) She finally did come out and she was wearing a short bathrobe that exposed her long, shapely legs. (She was rather tall for her age.) My physical excitement was beyond my control. (See how stupid I am?) She stepped into a patch of morning sunlight and she looked around. She seen me in my boat and as I closed in slowly, she dropped the robe. She posed for me in a somewhat conservative, blue, one piece with a hand on her hip and one knee bent forward. She could see I has alone, and she had a serious look of concern on her face, not glad to see me but not unhappy or sad either, just serious. I found the look hypnotic. Our eyes met and stayed locked on one another as I kept sailing right at her. She didn't even stir or change that expression as I crashed onto the beach under full sail. I didn't mean to, and the surprise snapped me out of my 'mindset' which temporary relieved the 'physical' aspect of that morning.

"Hi" I said as I looked up at her after a sandy somersault where I ended up at her feet. She said not a word and she barely glanced at the run aground Tiny Two that was now on its side, half out of the water with its sail flapping against the sand with the breeze.

"I just stopped by to see if you wanted to go water skiing with me and my neighbors, Joe and Smitty" I said as if crashing a sailboat was a perfectly normal way to begin a conversation. She looked me over as I rose to my feet and I dusted the sand off myself. Her steely look never lightend and frankly, it was giving me the willies. It is like she was deep in thought, choosing what she would say carefully. Very intimidating. Finally, after an awkward pause, (awkward for me at least) her words came out in a charming eastern accent of perfect English that hinted of a western education, a voice that reminded me of how Cleopatra sounded in the movies, a captivating and enchanting sound in every way, except for what she actually said:

"When I had seen you and your 'friend'..."

"Cousin..., that's my Cousin Rose." She started over:

"When I had seen you and 'Cousin Rose' sail past in your little boat..." her eyes lifted for a split second at the crash site of the Tiny Two, "I thought it would be nice to meet you two and have some friends for summer but before we meet again, you come with soldier men."

"That's just Joe and Smit..." She cut me off:

"I know who they are!" She snapped.

"They're just..." Again, she interrupts and this time she steps towards me and I can see a fire in her eyes. (She smells of coco butter.)

"They're just men, soldier men at that, and you come with them. That makes you one of them, part of their schemes and plans. The same as everywhere, they come and they mettle in things, control things, run things and when they are done, when all of value is gone, they leave you to the wolves!"

"What?... No!"

"Yes! You don't see it yet because you are still a child!"

"What? Wait just a minute, I bet we're the same age."

"Ha-ha-ha!" She laughs a genuine laugh. Amused for a second before she continues with her diatribe.

"Compared to you..." She pokes me in the chest with her finger at that moment, (I love it) "I have lived a thousand lives, I have seen things that would make your worst nightmares seem pleasant, things that would make you never want to close your eyes again! You're just a boy!" She has me squared off on that beach, right in my face, I can smell her breath, a slightly sour smell. (Orange juice?) She has said her peace and she probably believes that I am shivering in my sandals, reduced to an American Teen a thousand miles out of my league, but I have something left for her, something that makes her gasp in surprise and amusement and I look her right in the eye as I deliver the knock-out punch, the three words she doesn't expect but she just might want to hear:

"I love you!"

She is truly stunned. She gawks at me as if she has just heard it all, and before she collects herself, I shove the Tiny Two off the shore and back into the water and as I climb back in, I turn to her and yell:

"See you at the party next weekend!"
Chapter Thirteen

It was a couple of days before I caught Joe and Smitty at home and even though they went straight for the bong, they had changed somehow.

"Brian! My man! Come on in Buddy!" Whatever was up, it didn't seem to have hurt our relationship any, quite the contrary.

They both seemed to be in a good mood, but all they said in between bong hits about anything new was:

"We were lucky you tipped us off about Carabresi, you did good!"

It was clear that they had been busy with 'things.' Things that they still collaborated about with each other in between bong hits but I was kept out of the loop. Need to know. They smoked as if this was the first chance they had had in a while. They seemed relaxed and relieved, glad to be out of their stuffy dress blues and back into shorts and tee shirts. I was hoping that the summer would return to normal except for one thing that I hoped would be a change for the better:

"I asked Maya to go water skiing with us" hoping that they would be impressed with the fact that I had a date, after all, she didn't actually say she wouldn't go with all that "one of them" talk or whatever that was. Joe and Smitty froze. Smitty in mid bong hit, which only lasted a second as that pause turned into a coughing fit. After he composed himself, they both stared at me with grave looks on their faces.

"What?... I stopped by when she was sunbathing. I wanted to know if we could hang out together. What's wrong with that?"

"Look..., Kid..., I know she's got some big titties, and she's about the right age, but it might not be a good idea..."

"Not a good idea?" I was getting pissed off! Here was the only girl my age within a hundred miles, and with looks that only last week had drove grown men, these grown men, into a drunken, lusty drinking binge in her honor with just a peek at her in a bikini, and now, my pursuing her was "not a good idea?" Give me a break!

"You guys are just jealous! You should have seen the way she acted when we spoke! She might as well have been posing for pictures in a magazine! And the way she touched me. (A poke is a touch.) She's too young for you guys anyway, let me have this will ya?"

"That's not what we meant."

"Then what is it?" I said angerly, ready to scrap our friendship as men are always ready to do over love, it is just our nature.

"You just don't know Brian..., the truth. If you did, you probably wouldn't want her." There was nothing that could change my mind. Whatever was in her past, was in her past. Whatever was wrong with her could be fixed. They just wanted her for themselves, even if they couldn't 'legally' have her, they wanted her as their pet, to titillate and fire their imaginations. I was enough of a man to imagine and believe that. No matter what they said, my affections would not be dampened, my 'love' would prevail.

But what they did say came very damn close.

"Black Widow" was the term they used after they had sworn me to secrecy. The story was so shocking and sensitive that Joe anguished deeply before he finally began telling it at Smitty's insistence.

"He needs to know, Joe, besides, he's just a kid, no one will believe him even if he did say something."

"We could still get in trouble, a lot of trouble!"

America has its enemies, adversaries and opponents buried deep and untouchable behind boarders and protected by agreement and treaty but, just the same, if they could be eliminated, the world (at least the 'world' of some) would be a better place. In these times before hovering drones and their deadly missile strikes, elaborate and dangerous missions where brave and motivated men and women stalked their pray, sometimes for years, was the norm. But sometimes we get a break, and a reward is in order, even if that 'break' was the result of an entirely different kind of motivation.

I promised my secrecy and for fifty years, I have kept it. But as I had recently learned that Joe and Smitty had both passed, and as my oath to them was to keep them from getting in trouble, (not possible while in the grave, may they rest in peace) I believe I can safely tell the story, at least if I keep the full names of the players under wraps.

The people on the hunt were close, very close, and when the 'break' unfolded, when their mission was carried out by someone else and for very different reasons, then the original mission was changed to one of rescue. We didn't need to do that, the objective was met, the goal was achieved. So-what if a teenage girl and her family paid with their lives? But the right people were in the right places and the intel from the debrief could be valuable, so the risk was taken. The details they learned were indeed important but that didn't make it any less shocking.

Maya, the daughter of a university professor, had an older sister and she caught the eye of a certain dictator's son as had so many others. Officially, the dictator was an ally to America, but his three sons, not only were they collaborating with our enemies and held dangerous and blatant views to usurp and overthrow the father who refused to believe any of that, and who turned a blind eye to overwhelming evidence, and he also turned a blind eye to his sons 'other' behaviors. Behaviors regarding the fact that if you caught their eye, and if they desired your 'attention' you would probably never be seen alive again.

Maya's sister, flattered and charmed by the attention of the important young man, met his brothers and was led into the sealed, basement room where their fetish crimes played out. She had no idea of what went on down there but after the fact, Maya had heard enough somehow that when one of the same young men also approached her, she took matters in her own hands.

She avoided their chamber of torture and moved fast and had dealt with all three of them in a single afternoon. Separately, all three were lured into private, secluded places. The oldest under the foot bridge at the public park, the middle child in the back of his BMW, the youngest in a gas station bathroom. All three had released their bodyguards and went off alone with the young girl which was the standard operating procedure for these monsters. One by one, they all ended up the same; throats slit in a pool of their own blood.

Luckily for Maya and her parents, our people stumbled upon one of the brothers before anyone else had, and there was time (with just minutes to spare) to nab the family and ship them out of the country. Mr. Carabresi's 'job' at the obscure and remote radar base was the end of the line of a troubling and chaotic trek involving a number of countries, bases and endless debriefs and interrogations, and it was their last chance at anything close to a normal life. So, when it appeared that all was at risk with celebrations and speeches or whatever, you could understand Mr. Carabresi's concerns.

At that time, and forever after, I have reflected deeply at Maya's actions and I was greatly impressed by her courage, but as Joe and Smitty pointed out, it was a selfish act of revenge and a death sentence for her and her parents as well as other relatives who probably did pay the ultimate price back in their home country. But still, as I reflect back at all of that, even now, so many years later, her actions and motivations capture my thoughts and imagination like nothing else ever could. I have come to the conclusion that she could probably live with her self-inflicted traumas and she might even be proud that she took those actions. (I wouldn't blame her.) My big take away was a regret that I didn't get to know her better, I wanted that kind of sureness, that brand of certainty, that type of mettle in my life but then I come to my senses. It was a suicide mission and a risk to those around her. Who knows what a person like that is capable of, and whatever happened to her, I hope someone had the good sense to keep her on our side.

The Carabresi family bowed out of the block party, "family obligations" they said, and in a way that was the truth. But someone else was there, Grandma's and her late husband's "mutual friend."

"Is that the kid?" The older man in the local dress of the area asked Joe and Smitty. They answered yes and he came my way and when he was close, I could see the Rolex on his wrist.

"Rodney 'Rex' Hamilton" he said his name was as he pumped my arm in a firm handshake and he insisted that I have a seat next to him at a picnic table away from the others.

"Look Kid, I can't give you the details, but I can say that you really saved our bacon and we won't forget it. A whole lot of work nearly went to shit if it weren't for your tip-off, Son."

"It was nothing."

"No, it wasn't Kid, but officially that's exactly what it was, if you get my drift."

"What was?" I asked, not "getting his drift."

"What was what?" Was his cryptic answer and I was beginning to understand this game that he was playing.

"Sir, I don't have the slightest understanding of what you are talking about" I said with what I hoped was a knowing smile on my face.

"Hey...," 'Rex' said with a grin on his face as he looked me right in the eyes.

"You catch on fast!" He pulled his wallet out and started to thumb through it.

"Here's something you need to hold on to" he said as he handed me a business card with an embossed logo on it. In raised gold leaf were the letters in all caps; C.I.A.

"You call that number, anywhere in the world, toll free, and leave a message, and I'll get it.

"What kind of message would I leave?"

"That Son, is a good question, and when you are ready to answer the question of 'what do you want to do with your life?' That is when you need to call. So, what do you want to do with your life?"

That was an easy question and anyone who had been around me for any length of time already had the answer. Joe, Smitty, Rose, Grandma and even Uncle Dick and Aunt Vicky and Cousin Randy, who I had only spent one evening with, they all had heard of my plans and my endless rantings and theorizing of building a hotrod. It must have sounded like the misguided plans of a boy who had spent too many hours reading car magazines, and just because I have spared you (the reader) of much of this growing and forming (I was still buying car mags every chance I could) plan, doesn't mean it wasn't still my top priority. (Besides getting laid of course.) For those that met me, it must have seemed that this was just a go-to form of conversation making. An icebreaker for a young man with a limited repertoire of social skills. But for me, it was a matter of dead seriousness. And it wasn't just the process of the car building that appealed to me, in fact, that seemed to be a matter of grueling labor, a necessary process to achieve the goal that I desired, and that goal was the actual owning and operation of said hotrod. I daydreamed of washing and waxing, of tuning and adjusting, of knowing every single nut a bolt and what it did and how it got there and why. The kind of knowledge that could only be achieved with the construction being performed by the owner; me, and coming from a family where my Mother assembled electronics, and my Dad built boats and nearly everything else, including our house, it was a real disappointment that my Dad didn't share any interest in the car hobby.

Rex listened patiently to my well-practiced spiel about the hotrod hobby and when I was through, he replied:

"When you get over all that, give us a call."

When I get over all that. Geez! That reminded me of something my Dad would say, right before his trade-mark speech about how you should never buy a car that didn't run or take one apart that didn't and, etc., etc. But Rex did add one thing:

"If you ever get in a jam (getting arrested?) you might let that card fall out of your wallet, it could change things if people think you got friends in the right places."

Joe and Smitty spent a lot of time with Grandma that day and after some apparent planning, Joe came over and handed me a flyer that advertised what was billed as the world's biggest car show, to be held on the beach of Daytona.

"Were going and were leaving Wednesday morning, so we can get our spot." This was like a dream come true. I had read about this annual show and to go with Joe and Smitty meant the world to me, and not just to enjoy the show but also because they are 'cool' which meant smoking, a lot of smoking.

This was sort of a reward for what had happened regarding the Carabresi's and for what was so far a successful summer in general where I had kept myself occupied, (found things to do which let Grandma do her own things) showed responsibility by keeping my room and bathroom tidy (a lesson learned from my friend Chris back home, who, as I mentioned before seemed to get away with anything as long as he picked up after himself) and for my care of the Tiny Two, which I kept immaculate by cleaning it after every sail, including installing the fitted cover after each use. (The truth is that I loved that little boat and wanted it for my own. It was certainly not a toy and it must have cost as much as a new car. The condition that Randy had left it in showed what a spoiled rich kid he was.) My relationship with Rose was a factor as well because with all of our apparent clashes, she was becoming a lady and I could be trusted with her and I even may have helped her with that progression just by pushing her buttons from time to time. Most young guys (Randy perhaps?) would just ignore or bully a young girl that offered no real profit for the time spent with her, but I did kind of like her, and lessons were learned for both of us. It was a two-way street, a much more sophisticated arrangement then the crude, top-down hierarchy of my family. (Do as I say, not as I do.) But Rose slipped and let out a brag during one of our last days together, she confessed that her and Grandmother were going to Disney World on the same weekend that I was going to the car show and it was a secret because they were afraid I would be jealous about it.

"Disney World is for babies" I said when she told me that and I didn't give it another thought.

The last day that Rose and I spent together, I persuaded her to go on one last sail with me in the Tiny Two.

"You just want to stare at Little Miss Slutty-Slut-Slut."

It stung a little to hear that, but it proved that Rose was completely in the dark about Maya and her family which was a good thing and made me feel somewhat superior and trusted. The truth was that I was far from over any feelings I had towards her and my vision and the actual definition of beauty that for me would be guided and affected for years to come by the form in a certain gold bikini. But, all things considered, any future with her was off the table, but that didn't stop her from ruling my dreams and starring in my fantasies. (Just keep the knives away from her!)

"No. I want to explore the jog in the lake" the "balls" as Joe had called it. I had seen something interesting there. A dark, round 'feature' of some kind that could be seen from the surface. What could it be?

"I don't know Brian, that's where the gators live." That wasn't exactly true. While the gators have the run of the lake after dark, their nests and breeding grounds were mostly at the swampy, far end of the lake, the place where I almost became trapped before I learned to sail against the wind.

"It will be okay Rose, especially during the day." (It was a widely held belief that even she had heard repeatedly that the gators hid during the day and were more afraid of you than you of them.) "I saw something strange out there, I want to check it out."

"What do you mean 'strange?'" Rose asked.

"I don't know, a deep spot I guess."

"That's where the water comes into the lake, everybody knows that." Still, I wanted a look for myself and Rose agreed to accompany me as an opportunity to prove that she was right about something if for nothing more. We managed to sail to the area before the usually reliable morning breeze strangely petered out early that morning. The water was as smooth as a sheet of glass in the calm, suddenly windless morning and the 'feature' that I came to see was plain and easy to see.

"See, that's where the water comes in..., the sink hole" Rose was right about the first part of that but I didn't think "sink hole" was the correct term for this almost perfectly round 'hole' where crystal clear and cold water upwelled from, keeping the lake filled. I threw the anchor overboard and pulled in the slack of the line and tied the rope off short to keep us over the hole.

"I'm going down there" I said as I fitted a swim mask to my face and went over the side. This part of the lake was deeper than most of the rest of the lake; about forty feet. The rest of the lake averaged only around twenty to thirty feet max. It was all I could do to reach the bottom next to the 'hole' which must have continued to at least twice that depth. I could see something down there, something yellow. Something about it looked familiar for some reason. I had to get a closer look. Back up for air and back down again I would go, getting a little deeper and able to stay down a little longer each time. Rose seemed content to stay in the boat and she worked on her tan. Eventually she fell asleep. I could definitely see something yellow in color in that upwelling and it was something certainly unnatural. My curiosity was peaked. I got an idea. I climbed back into Tiny Two from over the stern and that woke Rose from her nap.

"Are you ready to go yet? I don't like the way the sky is looking." The morning sun was about to be blocked by a band of clouds and a warm, summer rain shower might be on the way, but unless it brought wind, we weren't going anywhere, I wasn't going to row all the way back.

"Just a minute, I've got an idea I want to try" and I pulled up the anchor. I untied the line and retied it so I would have the maximum length available. I used the oar to position the boat just right, and as Rose gave me a confused and somewhat worried look, I clutched to my chest the little mushroom shaped chunk of galvanized iron that is the anchor, and over the side I went. The extra weight pulled me along at a great clip and I was right on target. I passed the depth of the lake floor that was the furthest I was able to go without the assistance of the anchor's weight and I went straight into hole and towards the yellow mystery and that is when I learned a lesson about free diving and physics all at the same time. Water pressure quickly becomes extreme the deeper you go and air trapped in the lungs of an otherwise skinny kid, air that would normally keep him buoyant, compresses to a point that even after I released the anchor, I continued to rapidly sink as my dive mask collapsed against my face.

Down I went, past the yellow 'thing' which turned out to be metal sign. It said "Danger! No Diving Allowed!" Good to know but a little late! Right to the bottom I sank. The light filtered in dimly down there in the cold, and I could see a chamber that went off into the pitch-dark distance. It was obviously the den of a monster! It must have been because the floor was littered with bones!

Fear gripped me hard, and not just because of the gruesome sight in that chamber but because I was already near the end of my breath. I looked up and from the bottom of the hole and the daylight of the surface seemed to be a mile away. Oh my god, oh shit, oh fuck, oh crap! My mind screamed as I swam with all my might but made little progress. My lungs burned with pain and my vision was beginning to narrow. You have really done it! You're going to die down here! I had only cleared the hole and I was beginning to black out when I bumped into something, the anchor rope. Of course! I grabbed the rope and with one tug, I shot up more distance than a dozen strokes and kicks. Again and again I pulled myself up, regaining my buoyancy as the water pressure started to decreased. Finally, and blindly I broke the surface and while under the bow of the Tiny Two and as I held on to that rope, I panted until, fuzzy at first, my sight began to return. I don't know how long a loitered there, but it was far longer than just a couple of minutes and unknown to me there was more going on.

Rose stood ready with the boat's oar as her weapon. She had written me off long before as dead. There was no way I could still be alive after being under the water for that long. And with the violent pitching of the boat from the pulling on the anchor line, she believed that could have only come from the death struggle that the monster, now circling the boat, must have caused as it killed me and stuffed me into some crevasse under water for a meal later. Now the creature was after her. She watched it as it swam along the surface, watching her with its beady yellow eyes. She could hear its breath panting, so close as if it was right under her. Round and round it would swim, certainly fixed and interested in her now, and not just passing by. Perhaps emboldened with the easy kill of her cousin, (me) that stuffing another corpse in one of his hidey-holes might round-out a productive morning for him. On and on this went. Rose was petrified with fear. I had no idea that any of this was unfolding and when I finally had the strength to dip down and plunge up over the stern of the boat, I was meet with a face full of plastic oar. "Whack!"

"Owe! What the hell Rose!" I yelled as I put my hand to the impact and pulled it away only to see blood on my fingers.

"Shit Rose! What the f..." That's when I saw the beast. A large crock, bigger by far than the boat was long. Fuck! Rose was still holding the oar in a death grip, she seemed to be in catatonic state, wide eyed and useless. I scrambled to anchor line and I pulled it up hand over hand in a blur of activity. The sky had darkened, and the wind had begun to blow again with a sudden fury and after I shoved Rose out of the way and down into the bilge, I raised the sail. The sheet filled with a 'pop' and we began to move. The gator followed, now looking more curious then hungry. I pushed the tiller over and the building wind shot us forward but all it took was a flip of the gator's tail to match that pitiful increase of speed. Just then, the now mostly black sky let loose, rain fell in bucket loads and the wind whipped up violently. The sail must be reefed. It was if Capt. Hornblower himself issued the order right in my ear. Two rows of cleat lines usually fluttered in the wind from the sail. The lower row for strong weather, the upper for severe. I wanted to go straight to the upper row but as there was no time and limited space left in the lake for the sea anchor, I would need help.

"Rose..., Rose..., ROSE!" Her eyes glanced up as she held tight to the drop keel housing exactly as she did when we first went out in this boat.

"You need to hold the tiller" I screamed over an already howling storm. She just shook her head 'no' as a bolt of lightning that nearly blinded both of us was followed quickly by roaring thunder. Rose increased her grip and I could see that she had begun to cry. I could see the far shore of this part of the lake approaching rapidly but I noticed something else that brought even more concern: The aluminum mast! Another bolt of lightning and a crash of thunder.

"ROSE! ROSE! GOD DAMNIT ROSE!" And I yanked her straight up and as lost her grip on the smooth fiberglass, she gasped, snot and tears from her face caught the wind and landed on my chest with a splat. I slammed her down in the cockpit and thrust the tiller in her hands.

"Keep us into the wind while I reef the sail." She looked at me blankly.

"INTO THE WIND!" I yelled and pointed my arm in the correct direction, and she complied among gasps and sniffles.

"That's good" I reassure her as I had about half the cleats tied but I must reach down and adjust her steering to complete the task. With only seconds to spare, I join her in the cockpit and after ensuring eye contact, I issue my orders:

"Ready about?" The order, ingrained and automatic by now, is registered with a nod.

"Hard-a-lee!" And we both duck the boom and scramble to switch sides.

"Very good Number One! Just a few more of those and we'll break into the main channel and it's all downwind from there!" She nods her acknowledgement; her tears have decreased, and she wipes snot away from her nose with the back of her hand as if that will make her now ready for anything. More lightning and thunder, but she kept a brave face. I don't believe she understands the danger of the aluminum mast. I wish I didn't.

"Ready about?" Suddenly, we are blasted with hail, it stings against my bare torso.

"Hard-a-lee!" I see a smile cross Rose's face and she lets fly a gleeful squeal; she is enjoying this now! At least one of us will die happy! Back and forth we tack with the little boat dipping the rail deeply on each leg, I bail with one hand as I hold our course with the other in between the maneuvers. Rose takes over the chore of bailing without orders as I adjust the sheet line with the winch, and I shoot her a look of prideful accomplishment for her initiative. Just one more adjustment and we'll be heading down the shoot, straight to Grandma's stretch of beach. By now the lake is whipped into a state of rolling, breaking waves three and four feet high. The Tiny Two crashes into each one and a torrent of water spills in over the bow each time and collects in the bilge but Rose bails it right back out. Up each wave we climb only to be thrown back into the trough, again and again and over and over, it's an exhilaration that we both share, now with grins on our faces. If it wasn't for the lightning, this would be fun!

Grandma is standing out in the storm in her long raincoat and a matching bonnet is covering her hairdo. Joe and Smitty have joined her as they all watch us barrel in. The landing will be difficult and more than a little dangerous, but I can't risk letting the boat get away from us in the storm as we wade into the shore. A captain is responsible for his ship, I won't risk my sterling reputation because of the danger.

"You're gunna have to steer us in and when we hit the shore, jump to the high side so you don't get hit by the boom as I let it fly."

"Where do I steer?"

"Head straight for Joe! He'll get out of the way." Rose steers straight and true as I release the keel board safety pin and hold the board down with my weight until the very last, possible second while I have the sheet line wound around my hand. The distance is reducing quickly, and I see a fire in Rose's eyes like never before. We get so close that I see looks of terror on everyone standing at the shore before they all scramble out of the way! I feel the grounding of the keel and I yank it up and let the boom line fly. There was no need for a formal order to abandon ship as momentum and good sense had us both leaping over the rail and rolling to a stop in the sand under the heavy downpour. I turned towards the Tiny Two and am joined by Joe and Smitty as we muscled it up to safety and secured the madly flapping sail. Rose had sprung up off the ground and was meet by Grandmother who she hugged with a huge grin on her face.

Soaking wet, we all dripped on Grandmother's porch where there was an impromptu 'after action' review. Rose told of the gator but downplayed her fright both of that and my 'death' and I told of my trip to the bottom of the 'hole.'

"You free dove that far?" Asked Smitty.

"That's right! And there's a cave full of bones at the bottom." Joe and Smitty started snickering at that statement.

"There is! I saw it with my own eyes! The lair of a crock I bet." Joe and Smitty's snickers turned into laughter.

"What?" I asked.

"You would lose that bet! Me and Smitty threw those bones in there, nearly a whole summer of bar-b-que's worth."

Being Navy men, Joe and Smitty were both avid scuba divers and they threw those bones in there as a joke, they thought it would frighten a subsequent diver. They were right. They also told us about how those caves, those chambers, were often interconnected. With the right equipment you could follow them and end up in the next town. At many points, well pipes shoot right through much of it and these systems are the cause of the many sinkholes have gobbled up cars and entire houses. Then I realized why the yellow sign had seemed familiar, Joe and Smitty had its twin displayed in their living room as art.
Chapter Fourteen

We had spent almost all day packing the van the day before. Coolers full of food and beer, boxes full of even more food such as breads, crackers, chips, cookies and other boxes full of enough K rations from the base to last a couple of months. Joe and Smitty were always prepared for any upcoming apocalypse and those preparations included a pair of long guns, a scoped rifle and a couple of pump-action shot guns hidden behind the paneling of the walls of the van. Joe's chrome Forty-Four Magnum rode in plain sight on the van's engine cover as always. We had tents, tarps, blankets, sleeping bags, extra clothes and toiletries and gallons of drinking water. Smitty had brought his guitar and he let me sit in front as he plucked away in the back. (He was even getting pretty good at it.)

We weren't the only ones on the highway heading to Daytona Beach for the show. Dozens of muscle cars, street rods and other custom vans, many with wild and detailed airbrushed artworks painted on them also rolled down the asphalt. It was an exciting and electric atmosphere. At one point we started to pass a convertible full of college girls in bikini tops and Joe pulled up next to them. "See if you can get them to show us their tits" Joe suggested.

How would I do that? But the challenge was already trust upon me, so I leaned out the window and with a combination mouthing my desire and pulling my tee shirt up as a demonstration, much to my surprise they instantly complied! Smitty put his guitar down in mid strum to share in the sight as we all hooted in extreme delight. Four pairs of different size bobbies flopped in the wind which increased the total number of such a sight for me to five. That started a game for us and by late afternoon I had lost count of how many I had seen. No one was exempt and we got the biggest laugh and made the loudest hoots at a lone little old lady and although it took several attempts before she realized what we were asking, she eventually nearly drove off the road showing us a girdle and a lacy support bra! It was the funniest thing I think I had ever seen. But then again, we were smoking big fat joints and sucking down beers all day.

By early evening, we were snaking through back roads and cutting across parking lots in the outskirts of Daytona, on a route perfected over many summer vacations that eventually had us on the beach and avoided the gridlock of the 'ordinary' ways of arriving. Along the beach we traveled, and I was surprised both by the number of people already camped out and the fact that you could drive right on the beach. Joe and Smitty had a particular spot in mind and were overjoyed that it was still available: "Sweet! There it is!"

It didn't look all that special but as Joe and Smitty pointed out the many features, the appeal was self-evident: "Right over that hill is the public bathrooms, with tap water available. Just down the beach there (Joe points to our right) is 'Hotel Row' and in their parking lots and along the beach is where the car show will be and all the way at the end is the carnival." (Joe points to where a roller coaster, a Ferris wheel and other rides are set up about a mile and a half away.) Turns out Joe was pointing out these things because he and Smitty were planning to do somethings that I couldn't partake in such as hitting the bars and casinos, so I would have to find my own things to do. Fair enough. But they also declared that they might be "out of it awhile" because of another reason.

"Are you guys planning on dropping acid?" You should have seen the looks on their faces! Priceless. They were surprised that a country bumpkin would have had access to anything like that but out in the country, many people out there are actually hiding out for various reasons and they brought their habits and recreations with them. LSD was a recreational value: For a couple of dollars a hit, you get an entertainment lasting all night, and it was easier to get for a kid then alcohol. As I said before, no ID check at your local dealer.

But it was a strange and challenging drug. The few times that me and my friends had taken it back home were mostly spent walking around in the woods. We would start off all laughing and joking but we would eventually find ourselves laying on the ground somewhere, all curled up in a ball riding a mental roller coaster of cartoon like images, with shapes, colors and patterns endlessly running uncontrollable, right through your head. The come down was a little better, sort of a social bonding where stories were told, and dreams were shared as we would watch the sunrise after tripping all night. The thought of doing it in public was daunting, probably not a good idea. But as Smitty cut pieces of the blotter paper up, I decided a half hit would suffice. (They often forgot I was only thirteen, or maybe they thought it would be entertaining to potentially watch me trip balls.)

They didn't make it to the clubs or casinos that night. The small amount I took provided me with an edge of sorts, an uplifting and a boost to my intellect (or so it seemed) and a reduction of my overall shyness, which I perceived as an enhancement to my social skills. (Or at least it was a trick that made everything seem that way.) Joe and Smitty; having did bigger doses, they just melted, their bodies reduced to lumps that fused with their folding chairs with eyes wide open and silly grins on their faces. Cars and people driving, and walking past were providing all the entertainment they needed, but I had other plans. I had changed into my dress clothes, an outfit I wasn't even going to bring but that I packed at the last moment. I strutted out in front of them and as a captive audience, they were at my mercy. The change of clothes seemed to strike them as something unbelievable, as if I had changed into a different person. Their faces gawked at me and shined as if they were children, and when I busted out doing the 'robot' they fell out of their chairs laughing so hard that drool was spilling from their mouths. When I started talking in a mechanical voice, they begged me to quit and promised to "kick my ass" later if I didn't.

"I-AM-GO-ING-TO-TAKE-A-WALK-MEAT-BAGS!"

"Go! For god sakes just go!" They chortled to the point that others around us were staring at them with weird looks on their faces.

I was high, very high, but in my good clothes, I felt okay. Just keep it together. I was heading for the bright lights of the carnival. Their colors were hypnotic and danced upon my retinas under the spell of the drug, but it was the call of potential social contact that kept me moving. Even on a Wednesday night there were people everywhere, and by people, I mean girls. Some dressed in evening wear, nice clothes such as I was wearing but most were still in sundresses and bathing suits from earlier in the day, with matted hair from swimming and still slick and shiny with tanning oil.

I heard live music from inside one of the clubs that I was passing, and I went to the large picture window and watched the band play for a while. The music sounded fantastic, this cover band played better than the original recordings, or so it seemed to me. I had never been inside of a 'dance club' in fact, the only thing close in my hometown was a club that didn't even have any windows. I watched the people inside; men in suits and ties and women in sexy, busty cocktail dresses, all 'cutting loose' with their best dance moves, I found the sight comical, and I was glad that I was physically 'under control' even as I watched lusty and downright 'dirty' dancing from the many gorgeous ladies inside.

"There you are!" Said the lady as she grabbed my arm and spun me towards her, a red dress with a chest full of cleavage spilling out and a slit up the side of her skirt where a long, shapely leg, smooth with nylon, was thrust out and greeting me. A pretty, but somewhat lined face, heavy with make-up and framed with flowing, dyed blond hair had a pair of eyes that seemed to struggle to focus as if her glasses were misplaced.

"I beg your pardon Sir, (she called me Sir) I thought you were someone else. I was dancing with a man with the same kind of shirt you are wearing. I do apologize, please forgive me."

"Forgive you! Why it is my pleasure! A gorgeous creature like you, your mistake is my delight!" I did mention the drug and its apparent enhancement of my overall behavior. I would never have had the guts to say something like that ordinarily. She smiles wide and with her weaving, it is plain to see that she is drunk; very drunk. So much so that she must rest her hand on my midsection to keep her standing. (I like it, a lot.)

"I'm sorry you missed your friend, if there is anything I can do, just ask" I say as I place my hand on her midsection. She looks me over; I seem to come into her focus for at least a couple seconds.

"Why you're just a boy!"

I embrace her and kiss her deeply; this lady is not my cousin! She tastes like booze and cigarettes, (gross) but she smells of expensive perfume. (Cancels out the bad taste somewhat.) She is aggressive, animalistic, and that long leg wraps around body and pulls me in. Someone hoots some laughing encourage from a distance and she breaks away from me, panting.

"Will you come to my room?" she asked. I nod. I'm impressed by her strength as she yanks me by the hand to the elevator. Before the door is even closed, she is all over me with her tongue halfway down my throat and she moans as I grab a handful of soft, squishy boob. Up a few floors and the doors open, and she had removed something that had let her hair spill down in a fragrant, cascade of messy fun. The self-control I had before is gone. She props her ass out as she bends down and fumbles with the room key. (Nasty!) I grab her by the hips and thrust myself in to demonstrate that loss of self-control and she purrs as the door opens. (I'm a madman!) I swoop in for more kissing (I'm already okay with the taste) but she stops me with a breathy plea:

"First, a quick drink, and then I'll slip into something more comfortable" she said as she fills two glasses right to the top with some kind of brown liquor. She presses the drink into my hand and with a little stumble of her feet, she downs hers in one giant gulp and dashes into the bathroom carrying a small suitcase in her hand. There is a lot of banging around in there, as if she may have fallen down, a couple of times. She is in there quite a while and I consider asking if she is okay when the door bursts open and there she is, and it is worth the wait! The silky red teddy spills over her body, barely hiding the private places and allowing so much smooth, supple skin to show that it is criminal. (Especially if she had seen my ID!) She is certainly over twice my age (maybe closer to three times or more) but she has still got the goods! This is it! Finally!

I am fiddling with buttons and my belt and she is looking at me with a lusty look while she is biting her lower lip. My belt flies free and down go my pants and something else flies free just as her eyes roll back in their sockets and down she goes! "Flop," face down on the bed.

"Lady?... Lady?... Wake up please lady"

No!... What the hell?... She shouldn't have had that last drink! I think as I try to shake her by the shoulder, trying to wake her as I stand over her with my boner sticking out and my pants around my ankles. She begins to snore, and not in any kind of dainty fashion ether! I am reminded of an Ox or perhaps a Water Buffalo. She ain't waking up anytime soon! For a second, I consider doing 'something' but what? (I'm so stupid!) But as I look her over as she is flat on her face, I can see that her flat ass is far from fine, (used to be, I'd bet) her arms are also kind of flabby and frankly, I might have dodged a bullet here! Like anyone would have seen me with her anyway! I consider staying, perhaps she would be 'good to go' in the morning, but that buzz saw noise says forget it. I try one last time to wake her. No dice! Then I take her hand and press her palm around my stiff, throbbing junk. It is a sick, perverted thing to do, but it seems to cause a break in her snoring, a little murmur of sorts but as I release my assistance, her hand falls away and the buzz saw returns with a vengeance.

Later, after I got dressed and left, I walk around the carnival for hours. I'm just hyped up enough that sleep is impossible. Grandma gave me a hundred dollars for the weekend and I still have thirty and some change from the fifty that she gave me before. The carnival and the midway are open all night, and after last call at the bars, things get downright busy there for a while. I'm still checking out the ladies as I walk around but face it, my 'big chance' had passed me by. Even if I did meet someone, what was I going to do? Bring her back to my sleeping bag? Is that really out of the question? No. The chances of something like that happening twice in one night were slim to none for me, but then I saw her, a pretty teenage girl was looking at me as her and her friends were leaving the fairgrounds. Why couldn't I have met her earlier? I wave at her and she flashes me a peace sign as her friends turn to look at me and giggle.

I play arcade games until the dazzling lights finally start to look normal. I'm coming down and I need to eat something if I want to get some sleep. I walk back to the campsite. Joe and Smitty are still up but they are 'busy.' Smitty was in the pup tent and judging from the noise, he was either banging the hell out of some chick or wrestling a shrieking badger. Joe also has a girl in his van but they're just sitting in there with the doors open, obviously 'tripping balls.' He must have taken some more with her. They both say "Hi" as I pass, but they seem miles away. She seems like a hippy chick and she has a very pretty face. They're both wrapped up in a blanket. I found out later that next morning, after the blanket had fallen away some, that they are both naked.

I make a sandwich and set up my sleeping bag behind the van. When I wake up the next day, Joe and Smitty and their guests are dead to the world. Even the smell of the coffee I make doesn't stir them. I decide to go for a swim.

I watch the surfers ride their boards in. It seems simple, they use gravity to swoop downhill at the front of the wave. I could rent a surfboard, but it doesn't really appeal to me all that much. I just want a swim to wash the skank off me from the night before. I use that term to reduce the disappointment that I harbor. I would have given that old gal my all. The thought of what might have been, and the fact that I was surrounded by a thousand bikinis,' meant that I had to rush into the water before things became obvious. (Can you understand the 'torture' of a boy my age?)

Daytona Beach is a noisy place, with the crashing of the surf, the constant traffic as an endless stream of cars cruise the beach, and then there are these single engine airplanes that pull colorful banners across the sky, one after another, all day long. Some of the banners advertise the car show, officially starting on Saturday and running through Sunday but already well underway in every other aspect except for the formal judging. Other banners advertise everything from upcoming rock concerts to dinner specials at local restaurants. Another noise is the ever-present squeals, shrieks and screams associated with kids swimming.

The waves are monstrous but in between them the water is shallow with no undertow that I notice. I quickly learn that if I bend down and hold my breath as the waves hit, I can let them pass over and easily walk out further into deeper water. While underwater, I look around and see nothing but flat sand, no obstacles of any kind. I can see why this is such a prime surfing beach. The water has refreshed me, and I feel clean and awake, but I haven't really done any swimming, just a lot of walking and standing in the surf. Kind of boring. I decide to try something. As a big wave approaches, I launch myself down the front and swim like a madman and I am carried down and away, right back in towards the beach. Body surfing, I guess. I develop a side stroke style depending on which way the wave is breaking, and I easily learn to ride the waves almost all the way to the beach. This is kind of fun! Back out I 'walk' and then I glide back in. Over and over I do this, going out further and further before riding a wave back in. I'm out there a couple of hours I guess, and eventually I notice Joe and Smitty and their 'guests' have awakened (Smitty's 'friend' is a big gal) and they watch me surf in. I head back out for another run and before I catch a wave, I make sure they are watching. This is all well and good and fun, but at one point as I prepare to catch yet another wave, I hear sirens and see Joe and Smitty and their new friends waving their arms frantically and beckoning me to come in to shore. What the hell? I also hear an announcement, some kind message over a PA system but over the noise of the surf and the airplanes, I just can't quite make out what it is saying. I've got to get closer. I'm about to begin my run and Joe, Smitty and many others are still waving and appear to be shouting, and I notice I'm the only one still in the water. That's weird! I catch a big wave and I'm riding back in quick and about halfway there; I catch the message:

"Sharks sighted, Get out of the water!" Oh, that makes sense. Shit!

I made it to shore and managed not to get eaten and I found out later that those banner toting aircraft double as shark spotters. When they see a school of sharks approaching, they radio it in, and that section of the beach is closed and cleared. They can even drop explosive if required to help get them moving along.

"It's usually over in fifteen or twenty minutes" added Smitty. The ladies had left but they promised to return later. We made some lunch. After that we gathered behind the van to smoke, no need to attract attention from the law or others who might want us to share. (Sorry, we couldn't supply the entire world.) "No more blotter acid" declared Joe and Smitty agreed. "Weed and beer is all we need" and I had to agree. That is some weird stuff.

I told them both all about the lady in the red dress and received a royal dressing down.

"Oh, you fucked up man! That was a once in a lifetime opportunity, Bro!"

"Yeah man, a bitch like that would have destroyed you."

"But she passed out."

"So-what."

"That would have made it better."

I just couldn't be sure if they meant those things are not. They sure seemed to mean it. But then Smitty said something that I believe he did mean:

"Look Kid, Joleen will fuck you, she'll fuck you good!"

"I appreciate that, but that's okay."

"What? She's not good enough for you? That's some good lov'in, you don't know what yer a miss'n."

"Jeez Smitty, the kid doesn't want to be crushed if she rolls over."

"You got it all wrong Joe, a big girl like that is the best; they stay 'put' when ya fuck'um." Joe got a hardy laugh about that but then in all seriousness, he turned to me and said:

"Smitty might prefer those big gals but your first time should be special, Kimberly wants to fuck you, she said you were cute. I'll set it up for you."

That was super awkward to hear. I didn't say anything because it seemed to be a heartfelt offer, but it was super weird none the less. But I did find her attractive, I certainly wasn't going to rule it out, but I had so many concerns: Did Joe want watch or be there? Sharing her? I've heard stories about Navy guys! I really don't believe I could handle that. Too weird! I don't want to be that close of friends. Was it really that obvious that I was a virgin? (Answer: Yes.)

Those girls didn't show up at camp that night which was a relief for me. No matter how attractive "Kimberly" might have been, I just couldn't get over that Joe had been with her, it would be like on some level that I was kissing him! I'm just not that free and easy. Many are, I suppose, just not me.

Joe and Smitty went out to the clubs that night. I went back to the carnival. I was sort of walking in a daze, I couldn't get Joe's 'offer' off my mind. He probably had her phone number, and it wasn't like I would know Joe for the rest of my life or anything. I was only here for the summer anyway. Maybe this is how these things happen. She was an attractive little thing, very pretty in the face, kind of flat chested but such a nice, shapely little ass. I had just about had myself talked into it when I felt a tap on my shoulder as I waited in line for the roller coaster:

"Hey, will you sit with me? I don't want to go by myself." It was the girl from the other night who was with her friends!

"Sure! I would be honored" I said with a little bow. She gave me a little laugh and a smile with some pretty messed up teeth, although she was very pretty other than that.

"Oh, you're a real gentleman I see" she said with a definite southern twang to her voice. (I liked that.)

"Didn't I see you here last night?" And I flashed her a peace sign.

"You remembered! I wasn't sure if you was the same guy, but I thought you might be."

"I didn't forget you! I've traveled three thousand miles to get here and you're the first interesting thing that has happened." I hoped she would be intrigued by a world traveler, and I hoped that the rest of the story would imply some level of exclusivity. (When did I get so smooth?) Her face lit up at the statement and I was smitten and already planning our future together. (There would be some dental work.)

"I'm Tammi, Tammi Breuer. My Daddy runs the Circle Kay Dude Ranch, ever hear of it?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Of course not! What was I thinking? You said you traveled three thousand miles to get here. You're not from around here. Look, I just gets to talking, maybe I gets nervous (Nervous? Was I intimidating her?) when I meet a cute guy (Whoa! I heard that!) and my mouth starts to a get a roll'n and it's the way I am so if you tell me to shut up, I'll understand."

"I could listen to you all day! Your voice is like an Angel singing, and I've been so lonely, I'm staying the summer with my Grandmother, and there is no one around my age, she lives in a retirement community. The only reason I'm here is because her neighbors brought me to the car show, but they dumped me off to go gambling at the casino."

"That's where my Daddy is! An I know what ya mean, ya know, lonely? Them girls I was with last night, I don't even know them, their parents are staying at the hotel an we met at the pool. We camp in a motorhome, on the beach."

"Were camped on the beach too, in a van" I wished I hadn't have said that, I kind of implied that I was with some old people and Joe and Smitty might be a little too hip for this young lady, They might even say something inappropriate if they met her, after all, they had just offered me sex with some random women that they had just picked up.

"A van! Cool! I want a van so bad! Just think, it's like a car and house all in one! Did ya know that they're gunna be like a million of them at the show? A whole section for them, cool huh? If I had a van I'd drive right across the country. I wanna see everything. Deserts, mountains, forests, cities, everything. Oh, there I go again, a runn'n off at the mouth. I said you could tell me to shut up, I don't mind. You should probably say someth'n. Where you from? Is it a big city?" That made me laugh.

"Big city? It's the opposite of that. There are more horses then people. In fact, if you wanted to drive cross country, you would have too to get to my town, in fact it's hardly a town, more like a village. Ha! Now look at who is the motormouth."

"More horses than people? Sounds like my kind of town..., a village. I've been working with horses since I was four. Do you work with horses? Of course, you do." (I do, but the end I have the most experience is the end opposite of the one that the bit goes in. But I'll leave that thought to myself, as if I could get a word in edgewise.)

"All the way across the country. My, you must have seen so much. I'm jealous of you already and I don't even know you. Oh, here I go again, a runn'n off at the mouth. Do think you could put up with me?"

"I..."

"I hope so, cause I think you're a cutey-patooty (?) and..." She only pauses a second as we are seated in the coaster and the safety bar is lowered.

"And it would be nice to have someone to walk around with at the show and look at the vans with, and did I mention that I love vans? It's like a car and a house..."

I kiss her. That ought to shut her up! She tastes like peanuts and candy and her hair smells like lemons. The roller coaster car starts up the grade, the kiss lasts to the very top and I have a hand cupping her breast by then. I pull it away as we start down the other side. She puts my hand back where it was, and she starts kissing me!

Arms around each other, kissing, feeling her up, but the coaster was too extreme for all of that. We held each other close but our mouths were used only for shouts and hoots until the ride ends.

"That was amazing! What a rush! You want to go again?"

"I..."

"Or we could ride something else. Anything you want. I got loads of tickets, a whole purse full, my treat. Oh, we could go to the haunted house, nice and dark in there."

"How about a walk..., under the boardwalk?"

"Under the boardwalk? I don't know, this is all so sudden, I don't want you to get the wrong idea, I'm really not that kind of a girl..." I kiss her again, not deeply, just a lingering dry affair on the lips.

"You see? That's what I mean. I have already gone too far. You think I'm easy..."

"You said I could shut you up."

"Ha! I did say that didn't I? Fair enough! Okay, let's go for a walk, under the board walk, and you can shut me up again if I talk too much." I hope she talks and talks!

The entire fairground site is fronted by docks and under that is 'under the boardwalk' not a true 'boardwalk' per se, just an area under the docks where you could get some privacy. We decided to 'do it up right' which meant strolling back to my campsite, snagging some cold beers and a blanket. Joe and Smitty weren't there which was a load off my mind. Who knows what they might say to Tammi, I didn't want to risk it, even though here we could have all the privacy we wanted, at least until they came back.

I was getting used to her jabber anyway, and I was enjoying walking around with her, holding hands, showing the world; 'hey losers, I got a girl!' She was a couple of years older than me, a strawberry blond with a few freckles. She wore cowboy boots and a flannel shirt, and I had a feeling that was her outfit wherever she went, probably even church. Too bad, I bet she could rock a dress. (That's a bet I wouldn't lose.) Eventually, I did manage to get a few words in and when I told her the name of my hometown, (Olalla) she thought that it was the funniest thing ever.

"Oh-La-La? Do you gots Elves an Trolls there? Ha-ha-ha!" That was kind of funny!

We spread the blanket out and cracked open some beers and things got serious real fast. She let me unsnap her bra, and with her blouse unbuttoned, there was much in there to fondle. I was moving in so my kisses would really count, when some noise just on the other side of the pilings proved that we were not alone. There were other lovers down here. Tammi stopped and started to refasten things; the other couple were to close for her comfort.

"Do you want to find a place more private?" I asked in a whisper.

"Yes! There is drug users that come down here, and prostitutes." She silently straightened and tucked in her blouse as I rolled up the blanket around our two remaining unopened beers. Suddenly, there is a man's voice next door that said something like "I'm gunna like that!" And Tammi just about shits a brick!

"I know that voice! That's my Dad!"

"That's alright," I whisper, "They don't know were here, we'll just sneak away, and your Dad and your Mom can just..."

"My Mom is at home!" That said, a furious young cowgirl springs to the other side of the structure and all hell breaks loose! Boy! You think she can talk? You should have heard her cuss!

"You god damn muth'a fuck'n rat bastard..." And when the 'lady' started to rise up and say something, Tammi wound up and knocked her flat with just one punch! Damn! Instantly, her wrath turned to her father now and with a cowboy boot to the groin, she literally knocked the wind out of him and that was followed by a blur of punches that had had blood flowing from his nose and an eye instantly swollen shut. Again; damn! I felt obligated to try to intervein before she killed him, and he was not a small or helpless man either. I grabbed her arms from behind her and she almost flipped me judo style, but she eased her momentum at the last second and mercifully spared me. I can't say it enough here but once again; damn!

So, here we are, what a scene! Probable hooker..., out cold and with a possible broken eye socket. Tammi's father, holding his crotch, and struggling to breathe while trying to pull his pants up as blood from his nose has already covered his shirt as if he has been stabbed multiple times and his eye has swollen to the size of an apple. I am holding Tammi tight and I feel her heart racing as if it is ready to explode and I notice that the back of her hand is swelling up and is already turning black and blue. I think she has broken some bones in her hand, but I don't think she has even noticed yet. What passion! Could you imagine her in the sack? Damn!

She is letting me hold her back. With the adrenalin levels she is demonstrating, she could easily break away and finish us all off. She is panting and putting off so much heat, that I wonder if she will burst into flames. Spontaneous Combustion, I never gave it much thought before but now, I think that I am a believer!

"How dare you!" Tammi spats out towards her father in between pants and her squirm tells me she could be loose in a nano second, regardless of how tight I hold her.

"Now if we could all just take a breath and step back..."

"Who are you? What are you two doing down here? (Busted!)

"Who is this guy pumpkin?" (Pumpkin? I like that.)

"This guy? Why..., why..., I don't know his name."

"You don't know his name?!"

"In all fairness Sir, she didn't catch it, she talks a lot!"

"Well..., that's true."

"I know he's from Oh-la-la! Can you believe that?"

"Oh-la-la? What the hell is that? Did you escape from a warlock's dungeon?"

"Ha! Good one Dad! Oh, I know! He's on a quest to find the holy beer mug!"

"Ha-ha-ha!" What a weird family!

"It means something like 'Many Berries' in some forgotten Indian language." They both look at me as if that is the most fascinating piece of trivia they had ever heard. Again; what a weird family!

"My name is Brian."

"Brian Daddy, I like that name! Is it from the bible?"

"I'm not sure, I don't think so. My face hurts, it hurts bad!" The 'hooker' begins to moan.

"You two need to get out of here and someone needs to call an ambulance for her" I said, and I let Tammi go and I grabbed my blanket with the beers rolled up inside and I walked away, never to see any of them again. I wasn't back at the campsite five minutes before an ambulance passed by, followed by two police cruisers, all heading to the pier. Just wait till Joe and Smitty hear this story!

"She punched the broad?"

"And then went to work on her old man! Broke his nose and her hand do'n it!" Joe and Smitty looked dubious, the tale appearing a little too tall. But there was more to their ambiguity, first and foremost was their incredible state of hung overness. Casino drinks, LSD aftermath, non-stop big, fat doobies, and lack of sleep had taken their toll on these men. But something else had soured their moods, apparently the girls they had meet had stood them up.

"Look, why don't you go ahead to the car show, I think I'm gunna catch up on some zees before I check it out" Joe said and Smitty seemed to share that plan as they had already started the day drinking beers and smoking.

The world's largest car show was something that should take more than a single day to take in. So, a systematic approach was in order. In the cordoned off areas of the front hotel/casino parking lots, were the local dealership stocks, where pretty girls in miniskirts showed off polished-up examples of current line-ups. I disregarded those vehicles entirely. The mid 1970's was the peak of low horsepower 'smog motors' and excessive plastic construction and my magazine reading and my personal observations hammered that theme home. It was a low point of American industrial might that this teenage boy and many others couldn't help but notice that troubling fact.

Between the hotels were the 'aftermarket rows' where speed equipment manufactures displayed all manner of go-fast and racing parts and components that promised to reverse (illegally) the short comings of the current emission limited new cars and convert older models into fire-breathing, legend producing examples of automotive prowess guaranteed to fuel bench racing sessions for generations to come. I passed most of this by as well, I had been reading all about this kind of stuff for years by now so, for me anyway, it was nothing new.

The first section of display cars that I came across were the 'brassy' era cars. The horseless carriage buggies from the turn off the last century. The 'putt-putt' era of driving gloves, flowing scarfs and goggles. A time of a leisurely pace, country roads and adventure; not really my cup of tea at the time.

The next section featured the 'between wars' time span, and this I found a little more interesting but really only because of the excessiveness combined with the decadence on display. Massive machines, so large that they must be climbed up into and could hold a large family as well as some servants. Trimmed in polished metal and silk and leathers to a point that it was as if you were traveling in a lavish, luxury hotel suite that happened to have wheels attached. Names such as Duesenberg, Pierce Arrow, Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Lincoln and Cadillac adorned massive chrome-nickel plated grills that did more than just funnel cooling air to radiators, they snubbed their art-deco noses at a world of have-nots and established the classes defining who's who and us and them. Fantastic and mechanically interesting machines, but as I would never own one, my interest was more of one of worship and historic trivia than anything more concrete or important. Just an era of misguided and even shameful asset distribution, to be judged by future populations with a disturbing and critical gloom rightfully attached.

Next was the postwar American section. Here decadence continued but had filtered down to a more 'everyman' price range that appealed to me but in hindsight, that kind of luxury sort of 'dissed' the rest of the world with an 'in your face' statement of 'we got ours' and 'tough shit' for you vibe. But the appeal for me was more about higher speeds, smoother riding and mass production as opposed to hand built which implied that I could (and will) possible own something like this in the future.

Then that same era was represented by foreign (mostly European) models in an adjacent section and with the exception of a few dedicated performance sport models by Porsche, Jaguar and Ferrari, most of these could be summed up in a single word; boring! (Sorry fans of these types of cars but were talking about the opinions of an American teenage boy here, and his simple biases, which meant little and have certainly changed over time.)

Things started to pick up as a preceding area was highlighting racing cars. Road Racing, Formula One, Drag Racing and NASCAR types were on display as well as the drivers who were being interviewed and signed autographs as fans lined up. I eagerly inspected the machines and I remember being a little disappointed at the crude and slip-shot construction of many of the drag cars and most of the stock cars. The Formula One cars were the exception. Here, components and workmanship rivaled the aerospace industries in both construction and technological prowess. By this time, computer aided development (CAD) was being utilized in many aspects of these cars and it showed. It must have been somewhat humiliating for the trial and error, yankee engineered drag racers and circle track racers to be in the same section of the event as these high-tech marvels, as the builders and drivers of the former certainly didn't seem to be hanging out with latter.

The catch-all and one of the largest groups, the 'Muscle Car' section was next. Here was a mish-mash, hodge-podge collection of cars that ranged from many that could have been driven straight from local used car dealers to jacked-up, fat tire embarrassments, complete with white and even pink spray painted rear axle assembles poking out from underneath, as if it were a hint of panty showing through. Even a kid like me found many of those cars just plain tacky. But the mostly original Z-28's, the Boss Mustang's, the Dodge Chargers and even the Rebel AMX's and others had their appeal. These types of cars were the last and greatest compilation of iconic American values and design concepts, (until the modern era) and even though most of these at this time were just common used cars, in time, they would be recognized the world over as the last of a great era and they would become highly collectable. No one would have believed back then that these same cars would fetch six and even seven figures in just a few decades.

By far the largest and most popular and hyped car category was the 'Street Rod' division. The movies American Graffiti, The California Kid, songs such as Li'l Deuce Coupe, Hot Rod Lincoln and others, entire magazines dedicated to the subject and an American devotion beyond rational explanation pushed this genre to the forefront and defined the expression of the words; Hot Rod.

To most here, this is the rhyme and reason for the entire car show, the beginning and the end of the hobby, the movement and the farthest many would ever see as the future of anything for the automotive enthusiast. I too was swept along in this wave of DIY enthusiasm with so many hours of reading the details and peculiars of building these types of four wheeled art forms with their flame paint jobs and their chromed-out engines and their impressive back-yard, shade-tree workmanship and engineering, but as I looked at them closely, something was lacking. Maybe I just wasn't old enough. Maybe the stocks of available vintage tin had run dry. Maybe it was something else, something that wasn't obvious or that for some reason I couldn't quite put my finger on, but as I inspected and critiqued example after example of what I thought was the apex of the hobby, the top-rung of the art form, I found a disappointment in the cars and in myself for my blind loyalty and my natural allegiance that I had never before questioned.

Suddenly, I was looking at vehicles with absurd ergonomics, ridiculously high wind resistance, antique and obsolete suspension systems, dangerous and foolish crash worthiness and accident survivability, dubious comfort and questionable ease of operation. All the chrome, flames and flash in the world was being replaced by thoughts of actual use and enjoyment. Don't get me wrong, I still wanted badly to build, own and operate my own custom car, but these model A and T bucket jalopies, well..., they may not be for me. I found myself looking back towards the muscle car section with newfound and reinforced hopeful longings.

After a lunch of a chile dog and fries, I noticed Joe and Smitty half a mile away, just starting to inspect the first section of display cars. I decided to let them be, I had no desire to look over cars that I had already checked-out, although it would have been nice to share insights and observations with someone. I really anguished over the thought of not spending this day with Tammi. I felt guilty and gutless for leaving so abruptly the night before. Frankly, her actions scared me. Chicken shit! Or at least took me by surprise. Maybe I just didn't want to get in trouble. No guts no glory! Even if that didn't happen last night, I'm sure we would have not nearly have made the progress that I was making through the show without her, with all her non-stop jabbering and what not. Still, it would have been nice to share the day with her or someone. I even found myself missing Rose as I kept thinking of things to say that she would have found interesting. But the biggest pang of regret of not having Tammi to share with is what was just ahead, the big craze of the era that would soon and unexpectantly fade nearly as quick as it rose; the custom van section.

Tammi's love and enthusiasm of these "car and a house in one" machines were forefront in my thoughts. I kept a lookout for her boot wearing, fine cowgirl ass (now probably with a cast on her hand) but due to what had happened, I think their vacation was cut short. Still, I kept a lookout, both for her, or for some other suitable bachelorette.

Does that last statement sound sexist today? Does it objectify the opposite sex? Does the term 'opposite' signal a disparity and an inequality just by itself? At what point does what was once considered natural and normal, even healthy, become creepy and even criminal? Is it when 'those kind' of thoughts taint and reduce value? When clothing, hair and make-up narrow the potential worth and usefulness of a human being? When types are cast, and bigotries overreach actual capabilities? The answer to these and many other questions resides in which way people lean with regards to two other important questions; Do these things even happen? Or, do they happen all the time?

But this a story of what had happened then, not what is happening today. A young man in the 1970's was encouraged, enabled and bombarded with thoughts and examples of what to think and how to act when presented with the image of an attractive woman. That sort of behavior is presented here in honest and naked terms. All the future evaluation and revaluation is just hindsight today, and it will do nothing to 'unthink' already thought thoughts. If you (the reader) find the train of thought of a heterosexual, common, average, red blooded, American teenage boy offensive, the product of a caveman-like, knuckle-dragging and an outdated personality type that should disappear or be outlawed and eradicated, that is your right. But, to ignore and disregard those types of thought patterns that did/do exist is also folly. The fact is that this is how young boys/men think and thought. It is as old as man itself and it probably isn't going anywhere soon, but if you find it unpalpable and regressive you can stop reading right here and right now. But if you have a boy child, if you know one, if you care about one or most importantly, want to understand one, to purge yourself if these kinds of thoughts and behaviors will only deprive you of potentially important behavioral aspects and social information. You have the intelligence and the discrimination to decide what is what. I believe in you! So, grin and bear what irritates you. Remember, this is an historical record, not a theory to be advanced and debated. None of this has been written to glorify or lionize one side or another, nor is it designed to disregard or insult either. While it is impossible not to seem to advance one aspect or another and it is inevitable that some biases will come through, (some strongly, perhaps) it is my intention to tell a story of things that happened to an American Teen honestly and truthfully, with the cards falling where they may. So, if you plan to stick it out, read on and enjoy yourself. I promise you there are things coming up that are unexpected and unbelievable. Uncommon things that just can't be made up, but don't worry, they are not the kind of things that nightmares are made of, on the contrary, delightful things, but probably not what you might be thinking either. Many of those things from the outside might appear to be unimportant or even stupid, but they meant the world to those involved. So much so that a book was written about it. (This book.) But if lunk-head, horn-dog thought processes offend you, I implore you to reserve judgment and muddle through. Or, on the other hand, if you enjoy that sort of thing, well..., you may have some 'problems' as well, but I'm not going to walk on egg shells or beat around the bush and dance around about what I want to say just to be in the good graces of some form of Thought Police that are here today and gone tomorrow.

That said, I congratulate you on your brave, good sense to stick it out! Bully! To those easily offended quitters, who needs them! I can say that because they're gone now, they decided to heed my advice and have went on to read something else, something with wizards and magic perhaps, or vampires or zombies. It's just you and me now and we're interested in the real world. Outstanding!

Vans, vans and more vans. Who would have thought that this craze would be just a flash in the pan? Young people with doubts and worries of the future saw them as a place to crash, a motorized apartment, a flat that you could move instead of just being able to move into or out of. But young men, they saw something else, a love machine, a bedroom and a wet bar where 'making out' was only a parking space away. But not just men were intrigued with this concept. I imagined Tammi's allegiance lay towards the former aspect, but I'm not exactly sure.

The seventies produced a sexual equality not often discussed but that seemed to be encouraged, even quietly pushed forward by those with a vested interest, and I often wonder what the result of that was in the big scheme of things. Part of that newfound seventies equality of the sexes has to do with the equality of sex itself.

Men seemed to have had the upper hand, a dominance that rewards repeated prowess as a virtue, a feature to be worshipped and exploited. Historically, women, do not share this same concept when engaged in the same behavior. Many want to destroy that ancient taboo, both as a social advancement to place woman on an equal footing as men, and to eliminate any stigmas, any outdated and unnecessary baggage of past behaviors, to toss an entire ancient concept into the ash heap of history as unwarranted. On the surface this seems to be an inarguable and easily defendable concept and many men approved and supported that movement, but it is when we ask why that we see an uglier truth surface.

Men who supported this new and enlightened social concept had a darker motive; to increase the pool of available sexual partners. Why is that a dark concept? Because it also reduces or even eliminates any form of responsibility. With the advent of birth control, no matter what promises were made in the context of 'pillow talk' the bottom line is often 'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am.' Women who want the same 'freedom' of men, must also share in the petty unimportance and trivialness that is sexual conquest. Not a problem? We could do that. It is just an obsolete social barrier anyway, best forgotten and disposed of anyway, right? Sure! Except for one enduring concept; long term pair bonding. Here is where men and women differ, and I plan on offering an unscientific and layman reason of why that might be.

Men, who have proven sexually superior, with many sexual conquests, tend to be a social prize, a reward to the final woman who lands such a specimen. It shows the world that she has what it takes to keep such a man interested and satisfied. A validation to her and her concepts of righteousness, sexuality and lifestyle.

Women, who practice and strive to the same virtues, in men's eyes, tend to be seen as dirty. The moves, the actions, the learned traits of their love making, as well as all the germs and viruses of all that had come before, are shared, at least on some psychological level, with each new subsequent sexual encounter. The result is a sliding scale of worth from honorable wife and equal partner, to a regression of value bottoming out only as a plaything. And as Stevie Nicks sang: "Players only love you when their playing." But unfortunately, as woman lose their looks, even the status of plaything disappears.

Whoa, caveman! How dare you write such garbage! You don't know anything! You're just a know-nothing, uneducated blow-hard stuck in a dying world! When you and everyone like you are gone, the world will be a better place!

Sure, okay, fair enough, but pretend I don't mean it. Imagine it is just a statement posted for dissection and dissemination. For the purpose of conversation starting only. What would be a logical follow up?

Such a statement implies that as a women's looks fade, there is no hope of retention, of desirability over the long haul, but that is only true if physical attraction were the only criteria of the relationship. Factor in that the initial attraction plays into the chance of producing children and add childcare skills and abilities to the overall mix and that significantly strengthens the hand of the female. As does the ability of the male to act as provider, especially during the physically venerable period of the actual birthing of those said children. But there are other important bonding rituals, such as attention to details regarding favorite foods and drinks, music and other entertainment specifics and probably most important; a sense of humor. With a lifetime of this kind of careful attention and thoughtful togetherness, the bonding process will progress far beyond only physical attraction.

I know, I know, this may all sound as if it is from a hundred or more years ago, a savage refute of so much modern and established dogma but remember, this is just a thought experiment, mentioned only to help with considering one, simple concept: Imagine if what I have outlined above is an example of natural, ingrained, hereditary social behaviors and attitudes. A 'Blue Lagoon' aspect in which stranded humans might revert to, when no other input or information was available, and that is the point of all of this. In a world with an absence of parental and academic guidance and input, where kids basically run wild and learn what they learn 'on the streets' wouldn't this natural behavior be dominate? Isn't most concepts of equal rights and unisex conditions just learned behavior anyway? Initiated and reinforced from outside elements? Left to our own devices, wouldn't we display natural and hereditary behaviors? Might they be along the lines of male provider/female nurturer?

Who knows? My point is that in the seventies, many of us kids relied on instincts, and with powerful physical desires coupled with a bombardment of changing and ill-defined sexual concepts and 'norms' that seemed to bend and change with every prominent group that manages to get a foothold in the press or gain their fifteen minutes of fame in some other way, it made for an ill-defined and possible unhealthy world view that led to monsters, (i.e. Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton, Jeffrey Epstein..., wow!, this could be a long list!) teen suicides, high divorce rates, unrealistic cohabitation expectations, dangerous nostalgia, unhealthy life choices, flimsy beliefs, and a general unsustainability in virtually all matters, important and/or trivial.

That is why a man, especially from that era, can look at a pretty girl and want to play Farmer's Field. That is, harbor an overwhelming desire to plow her. At age thirteen I didn't even know how to use the tools, but the desire was natural and overwhelming anyway. Today, the tools have been mastered and the desires remain. Don't think for a minute that the old fart across the room is exempt from this kind of thought. Ladies, he might not dare say so, but in his mind he's the farmer and you're the field. But one day those thoughts will end, and he will be six feet underground very soon after that. But I digress, this about an American Teen walking around at a car show at Daytona Beach Florida, three thousand miles away from his family and about to look at a collection of custom vans in the mid nineteen seventies. He is a mixture of raging hormones, sexual misinformation and incomplete education. If he sees a pretty girl, don't be surprised if he may think inappropriate thoughts and react in crude and animalistic ways which might be considered shameful, obsolete and embarrassing or, depending on your point of view, they could be considered perfect, natural and productive. Whatever your personal beliefs, please consider what is written above as a disclaimer, a subtle warning of what may or may not lie ahead. Once again, you be the judge, that is your right and whatever you decide is fine with me.

The vans are mostly arraigned in themed categories with 'love machine' as probably the most prevalent. Actually, all the vans could fit into that class to some degree, but the overwhelming criteria revolving around that category is a combination of one or more of the following 'heart shaped' items; bed, pillows and/or 'port hole' windows. The second, almost mandatory accessory of that class was some form of artwork, either statutory or an inside or outside painting in the theme of some form of naked (or nearly naked) women. A subset of this theme was the psychedelic love machine that featured strobe and/or black light effects playing off of any number of wild, colorful paintings and patterns. These merged with the disco themed units and they usually had the pervious mentioned accessories but also included a mirrored disco ball or two. (Or more.)

Music and band themed vans were also popular and many of them featured airbrushed reproductions of popular album cover art painted on the outside and stitched into upholstery patterns inside. Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones and other band themed vans, all cranking out the songs of their tribute band in a highly amplified and at a distance, a mixed together and overlapping droning. There was an entire row of Elvis vans and in another row were Beatles themed vans who the owners had the good sense to somehow link all their music together simultaneously. (Low power radio broadcast?)

Medieval castle and knight themed vans were also quite prevalent with owners often dressed in period clothing or some even wearing complete suits of armor. Cowboy and chuck wagon themes were represented and many of them featured exquisite hand carving and fine cabinetry work and enough hanging lanterns and even some with mini chandeliers, along with enough other period tools and equipment to fill a small museum. Some war themed vans were small museums, covering the Civil War, the Great War, (WWI) World War Two, with one notable version from that era featuring a bomber theme complete with sexy nose art and aircraft type seats and vintage cockpit instrumentation. Vietnam was represented both with tributes and criticism to field units such as the Air Cavalry and a B52 themed van, but they were parked right next to antiwar and world peace themed vans which made for a couple of rows of tense stand-offs and heated discussions in a Country still far from closure regarding those issues.

More controversial theme vans were lumped together that included a few Nazi and slasher themes, (including a Charles Mansion tribute) but their construction and presentation was so blatantly aimed at shock and insult, that the actual effect was diluted as a joke. Zombie and biotech disaster and response vans, (many with a surplus of bio-suits and gas masks) nuclear apocalypse, UFO invasion and flying saucer themes, complete with many a costumed alien walking around and available for photographs, dovetailed the former. (And not without more than a little dissatisfaction from the UFO fateful at being lumped together with the apocalypse themed as they were.)

A small section of India themed vans seemed to have been driven straight from some normal use somewhere (India?) and were sort of a throw-back and seemed out of place with their brightly colored brush painting, excessive use of gold leaf and silk streamers and enough wind chimes and hanging mobiles to cause a seizure. They seemed to predate the entire van craze and probably will outlast it as well.

An outer row featured factory prepared camper vans and larger motorhomes and a steady stream of interested, potential customers were being given tours by smiling, kiss-ass salespeople, but all that was just a sideshow, and not of much interest to the diehard enthusiasts.

Then there were the real oddball vans, and some of them were extraordinary, both in imagination and construction such as the 'Cave Van,' made of real rock impregnated fiberglass, inside and out, that looked and felt just like real stone, complete with depictions of animals being hunted, scratched and painted on those artificial rock walls in authentic, cave man styles, and with real bones lying about, with a lion and tiger fur sleeping nook and a real fire crackling away right in the middle of the thing. The little old lady who lived in a shoe was a giant shoe with mag wheels, sort of a motorized, high-top, buckled, turn of the century roller skate with window frames and planter boxes. Dr. Seuss was represented with a crazy wheeled contraption where the Cat in the Hat sat high above in a flying bridge of sorts with his furry hands on a steering wheel and his goldfish friends were up there in their bowl to keep him company. This section was also shared by crazy 'stuffed animal' themed vans of teddy bears, zebras, and a rhino and oddly enough, crab and spider themed machines. Then there were the superhero vans.

Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Batgirl, The Joker, Mr. freeze, Wonder women, (including her invisible plane just above it..., at least that was the joke) The Flash, Aqua Man and others had vans representing them that were obviously funded by the television and movie studios and most likely built by their set constructors but they were immensely popular none the less. But then there was the coup de gras, the cream of the crop, the top shelf and they were separated by three distinct criteria: Exterior paint, interior design, or both.

'Paint job' was a term that didn't do justice to what was on display on these serious contenders. Here were masterpieces of the airbrush technic that rivaled Da Vinci, Michelangelo and other masters of realism. Images (usually of the female form, but some also integrated landscapes as well) that rival photographs in quality. Hundreds, no thousands of hours were spent on these, as golden sunlight was depicted enhancing and warming the hair and faces of models of the human form, and also reflected from the surfaces of lakes, seas and streams. Shading and perspective drew the eye in, and captured the soul, as the hordes of transfixed spectators would attest. Here, both brutish and superficial thugs stood side by side with the dainty and the meek, hypnotized in cool, calm rapture and personal, fulfilled visual satisfaction.

The impressionist was also represented as color and shape wrestled emotion from passing spectators whether they wanted it to or not. The eye transformed the sights of these examples into a place, a harbor and a structure for the feelings of the observer to sit and relax, or to scream and lash-out, depending on the pattern and the form and the psyche of the observer. Many of these vans were so remarkable and extraordinary that guards were posted and nearly all of the serious efforts had security ropes positioned around them.

Interiors were judged for more than just layout and workmanship. Materials had to support and complement each other, and the forms and shapes had to flow and mingle with the light and spaces. Interest and imagination had to be captured, the eye had to be pulled into these dream worlds so that ordinary life would be left behind. Comfort was more than softness and relaxation, it had to provide security and safety, a mental and physical state of Zen of therapeutic proportions. How would all that be achieved? I don't know but it was, by a Chevy van of modest (at first glance) attributes.

No roped-off or guarded airbrushed exterior on this one, just a golden ultrafine metal flake color that reflected a calming purple/blue hue effect in the sunlight. Inside, a lapping water feature flowed into a coy pond where live fish provided company and a Zen garden was ready to be sculpted with a provided miniature rake and hoe. Fine, rather plain lacquered woods and silk upholstered screens and panels played silly, fun little games with the light that streamed in from stained glass windows of barely perceptible colorations. Neat little pillows and precisely folded blankets added a calming, organized charm to the sitting/sleeping area. Materials of smoothness and softness tricked the mind and invited the body to want them to be touch with the natural nakedness of bare skin only, in a world and in a way that couldn't be explained but could only be experienced by entering this place and relaxing within.

That van provided a halting to the show, a place of crowded, mouth agape wonder as people just lost themselves and their minds went blank but were also somehow overwhelmed, both at the same time as they just stared, and all trivial thoughts and worries of life seemed to drift away as the mind crawled inside the magical place and became one with the vision and the promise that beckoned from within. This rather spartan and unassuming entrant won Best in Show by unanimous consent of the judges and it also won The People's Choice award as well.
Chapter Fifteen

The trip back was a rather somber affair with none of the gaiety as in the beginning. Not that the trip was in anyway a bust, it was just a matter of accumulated fatigue that only sleep in a real bed would relieve. Oh, we smoked and talked, and both Joe and Smitty expressed their concerns and disappointments that I didn't get laid, as if that were their newest and greatest concern. But the real purpose of that kind of talk was to make me feel uncomfortable for their entertainment, and in that, it was 'mission accomplished.'

Another subject spoken about was the total agreement concerning the "Jap Van" as Joe called it as the overall show winner. (It didn't have a 'name' as so many of the other vans did, that would have been too plebeian for such a work of art.) "If ya couldn't get laid with that thing, ya might as well hang it up" Joe said to unanimous agreement.

Joe and Smitty also spoke of "loose ends" regarding some personal situations at work back at the base. I assumed (correctly) that it concerned the Carabresi family but as that was a 'need to know' subject, I didn't pry. But after we arrived home, there were official messages and notes waiting for both Joe and Smitty that had them both concerned and even a little alarmed. Apparently, some of those loose ends would need some immediate attention. Imagine my surprise when I stepped into Grandma's trailer and found that some of those same loose ends had spilled over here as well.

"Look! Grandma got a citation from the President" Rose said as she carefully held up the parchment, highlighting the signature of President Carter.

"What?" I said as I skimmed over the document. "For a lifetime of dedication..., a steadfast and timely action in a time of urgency..., repeated and unselfish service..., in recognition of deeds past and present...,"

"What the hell is this all about?" I asked Rose as the parchment didn't actually list a particular deed or achievement.

"I don't know..., But Grandma is a hero, and next weekend the President will be here to pin a medal on her chest."

"What?"

"You heard me. That's why I'm still here, so me and my Mom and Dad can be there. Their having a big parade at the Navy Base about it."

"What?"

I reported all this right away to Joe and Smitty, but they already knew about that and more, and what's more, they seemed overjoyed about at least some aspect of it.

"The President isn't going to be here personally, but your Grandmother's citation is straight from his desk."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, and it's a big deal! Just wait and see what they got planned."

It was hard to wrap my mind around something like this, it seemed to me to be the stuff of Hollywood or of a spy novel. I wasn't the only one taken for a loop as Rose must have laid-out a dozen different outfits for the upcoming Saturday event, only to change her mind at each one. The only one who seemed calm and in control was Grandma herself, but even she spent time working on some project that kept her scratching-out notes and filling her trash can with waded-up paper scraps. The anticipation was killing me! I thought of raiding her trash can for some clue of what this was all about, but I decided that it might spoil the surprise, so I refrained. "Operate on a 'need to know' basis" was a recently learned tenant and perhaps it is important that I conform to such an ethos, not doing so might be detrimental to my future. I was in the company of important people and state secrets, time to play the part. If my buddies back home could see me now!

A limousine from Navy Reginal Headquarters arrived early Saturday morning and the driver ran the engine to maintain the level of airconditioned coolness inside. Meanwhile, He stood at attention outside of the vehicle until he saw us step out of our door and at that prompting, he sprung to assisted us with our bags and jackets and he held doors open until we were all seated and situated. He gently closed them, all the while remaining in a state of rigid attention and with perfect military discipline. Rose stared goo-goo eyed at the handsome young man, obviously planning her wedding and deciding on how many children they would have. She noticed me looking at her and as if she was reading my mind, she flipped me the bird while Grandma wasn't looking! I had to laugh. Rose wore a trim, white, knee length skirt and a matching blouse with a matching purse and a white beret over a neat hairstyle of a pulled tight bun that gave her an appropriate military vibe. Once again there were curves in her blouse where usually there wasn't. As retribution for her earlier display of her middle finger, I pulled my shirt out when she was looking, and Grandmother wasn't, as if I had boobs. Rose's eyebrows raised in total alarm and she began rapidly punching my shoulder in playful but painful retaliation.

"Hey!... That's enough out of both of you!... I expect you two to be on your best behavior!... And I mean all day..., even if you get bored..., you got that?"

"Yes Grandmother" we both said in perfect unison.

"That's better."

I was enjoying my first ride ever in a limousine. I noticed the smooth, quiet ride, the powerful air conditioning and as Grandmother was peering out the window, I released a latch that allowed a compartment to fold down that revealed four cut crystal tumblers and a bottle of some kind of booze. Rose, and even Grandmother looked intrigued for a moment before she calmly issued new orders:

"Close that back up and don't mess with anything else" which was too bad because I had discovered the switch that raised and lowered the privacy glass that would separate the front from the rear and now that it was forbidden, I ached to operate it.

We rounded the lake and turned onto the road that had only one destination; the main gate of the base. As we approached that point, the guards stopped all traffic and waved us right through as our driver returned his salute. I had to admit, it felt pretty good to be the center of attention and it was clear that Grandma and Rose seemed to share in that feeling. It was a fun bit of pomp and ceremony, but it wasn't the last of it, not by a long shot.

We approached the parade ground that was done up in spectacular fashion with white balloon arches, hundreds of flags and streamers, and several white gazebos of a temporary tent type, with chairs and linen covered tables inside all facing a stage and a podium framed and draped in American flags and Navy placards. We were directed right on to that field and the driver steered us right to the front of the podium and as soon as the car stopped, the band was struck.

"Oh my God!" Exclaimed Rose and I had to share in that sentiment. But Grandma was all business, and as the driver opened our doors, she stepped out as if this was an everyday thing. We tried to follow her lead but as Rose stepped out, there was a cat call whistled from the civilian section of the crowd that made her blush (even though I think she was flattered, it just took her by surprise) and I turned protectively towards the offenders with an exaggerated scowl on my face and laughter erupted from that same section. We were led to the center gazebo where I recognized one of the VIP's sitting there; 'Rex' Hamilton. I gave him a nod of recognition and he returned the gesture by pointing his finger at me as if it were a gun and he 'fired' with a wink. Grandma was seated next to a uniformed officer, and as she took her seat next to him, she said:

"Hello Captain Wilkins, I see you're looking well..., nice tan."

"Why hello, I know we've met, but I apologize, I have forgotten your name." Rex rolls his eyes.

"That's why you're here son, that's why you're here" Grandma tells him, and Rex nearly loses it as he must pretend to be coughing into his hand as he struggles to stifle his laughter. The blatant cut isn't lost on Rose and she turned towards me and with no one else looking, she mouthed me a wide eyed "Oh my God." Wilkins only flashes second or two of displeasure, as if he is used to this sort of thing and he returns to his cocktail and to his blank, dumb stare.

The brass band is belting out patriotic songs and Navy standards and one point, the band leader looks to Wilkins and with a nod, the music dies down to a single snare drum and the honor guard is marched out onto the field under that single drum's cadence. Captain Wilkins rises from his seat, straightens his uniform, and in an impressive and practiced manner, he marches to the podium and it is clear that he is good for somethings.

He reaches to microphone and as the honor guard presents the colors, the single drum stops playing. Wilkins waits for complete and utter silence before he speaks:

"Please rise for our national anthem" and we do. The band plays the familiar song in slow precision as the flag is ceremonially carefully unfolded, attached to the pole and slowly raised in a presentation so well timed that it is only at the top of the pole for a few seconds as the song ends. Wilkins begins his speech:

"Please be seated... Today..., it is my great honor to recognize two of our own who have went out of their way..., who have shown initiative..., who had recognized grim realities and had risked personal security and established protocols, because of potential danger to a fellow man... This behavior..., this action..., is being recognized not because it was required, but because it was not required... They didn't have to do these things..., in fact..., it would have easier and safer if they had not... But they had seen a danger..., an unraveling of something for which much had been invested, and even though they didn't know the details..., they had seen that a man was in trouble and they pushed and risked until they found those in the know of those details..., those that could help... They did that on their own time, and in addition to their own duties and without even the slightest prospect of reward... In fact, a reverse investigation had to be launched to find the source of that useful and important information, the timely tip-off that saved the day... The United States is grateful and rewards..., when it can..., these kinds of selfless acts even if the details must remain confidential... So..., with that said..., I have handed the Sargent in Arms a note with two names listed on it... and those two will be awarded the accommodation and be promoted to the rank of Non-Commissioned Officer... After that..., we will honor a friend of this base..., a special guest who has been honored by the President himself for recent and past patriotic duties and endeavors important and essential... I will turn the podium over to a representative of the President who is with us today for that rare and historic, official presentation but first..., Sargent!... Call the men listed forward!"

Those men were Joe and Smitty. They came forward and while standing at ridged attention and in crisp, perfect dress uniforms, the good conduct medals were pinned to their chests and a set of stripes for their sleeves were handed to each of them, officially acknowledging their step up in grade and rank.

With that portion of the formal ceremony complete, Joe and Smitty were dismissed, and they fell out as the band struck back up. Wilkins returns to his seat with us and he turns to Hamilton and asks:

"Maybe someday you will tell me what those boys did?"

"Need to know Captain, need to know."

Rex gathers himself up as the band started to wind down. He makes his way to the podium just as the music ends.

"Ladies and gentlemen..., it is my honor and my great pleasure to be here on behalf of the President of the United States of America. I am here as his direct and authorized representative..., empowered with actual, legal authority in a chain of command just a handful..., just one handful of fingers away from the chief executive of this great Country... I don't mention that as a boast..., but as a clarification and as a marker and as a 'gauge' of the importance..., and the rarity..., of such a unique and heartfelt ceremony of recognition.

Sometimes..., events..., and situations require..., assistance from varied and precisely place individuals of trusted and proven capabilities. Where deeds and efforts usually go unacknowledged, events that might seem unappreciated, and remain unsung for reasons of security and secrecy but..., occasionally..., and finally..., some..., of those brave and important people can be singled out and rewarded..., at least symbolically..., even if the events themselves, can't be... Today is one of those rare and special days.

The official document..., the parchment bearing the President of the United States of America's signature and official seal, has already been delivered..., and it recognizes and authorizes the..., intent..., the framework that my presence here signifies..., but that was just the groundwork..., the start..., and in my hand is the real and lasting symbol..., the real reason that we are here..., the gift and the surprise:"

"The Presidential Medal of Freedom!"

The audience is blank, dumb with disbelief. We heard the words; the award is not one that hasn't been heard of before, but the surprise is what is causing the pause, the lull in response, the inaction. This can't be real! No one expected this. These kinds of things don't happen to ordinary, actual, real people. The delayed standing ovation started with four people springing to their feet and clapping in this order: Rose, Me, and Joe and Smitty followed by everyone else.

Grandmother is called to the podium. In shock and in complete surprise, (especially to Wilkins, who's blank, comical look is priceless) she is presented with the medal and it is placed around her neck against a backdrop of continuing and thunderous applause. The band starts up again and hands are shaken, backs are slapped, and Rose and I beam with unbounded, delightful pride. Her parents are here as well, and they take this opportunity to join us at the VIP gazebo. They had been among the civilian guests, uncertain if they should be sitting with us or not, so they hung back, just happy to be witnessing the event and they are floored at both the context of the ceremony and what a grown-up young lady their daughter had suddenly become over the summer.

Still at the podium with Mr. Hamilton and at a break of the band's music, Rex asks Grandmother if she would like to say a he few words.

"Yes, I would" and she steps up to the microphone and it is adjusted for her height. She waits until the entire gathering quiets down, as she looks around until she finds what she is looking for; the Carabresi family. She has a knowing look on her face as she looks them over. I think I see that caged animal look of worry once again on their faces. Grandmother smiles warmly, she has rehearsed this next bit all week:

"I first came to this area of the country almost fifty years ago, newly married, camping right on the ground, riding from place to place on the back of my new husband's Indian motorcycle. It was in the heart of the depression. There was a lot of talk of socialism back then, but my new husband wouldn't have any of it. 'Nobody is going to look out for me better than me' he would say and 'If you think some bureaucrat is going to have you in his best interest, you're crazy' but that kind of talk is only half true. No one can go it alone. He needed me and I needed him. And both of us needed our parents and our siblings, and not for financial support, although there was some of that, but for trust and confidence, to confide in and to confess to. Because when you know the deepest secrets, the absolute worst things, and you still have each other, you have at many levels already conquered the world and then you can face anything..., you can face your fears... But it is not enough to have this bond with just your family..., your blood..., you must seek out others, the people that need you and your help."

She finds the sweet spot of the microphone so she can drop her voice in a way that makes her words sound personal.

"America is place of fresh starts, a place of new beginnings but only for those who want it, for those that are willing to work for it. Freedom is not for the lazy or for blind followers, it is for leaders, the bold and the brave. But you can't go at it alone. Sometimes you must reach out, other times you must accept those that reach out for you. No matter what has happened..., with effort you can overcome what may... I believe that..., I have seen that..., I have lived that, and so can you!"

"Thank you."

It was a good speech, heartwarming and uplifting and it received due accolades from the crowd, the general population that is assembled here, but the words were not really for them, especially the last part. They were directed and projected to just three people, and they stood spellbound and speechless during the whole thing. I know because I had watched them. They knew that grandmother was speaking just to them, it couldn't have been more obvious. Grandma would meet with them later and often. She would steer and prod, she would push, and push and she wouldn't take no for an answer regarding a host of subjects and situations.

The Carabresi's had no idea what was in store for them. But it wouldn't start right away. Timing is everything. She would let them settle in first. In the meantime, Grandmother and I were going to take a little road trip.
Chapter Sixteen

The good-byes between Rose and I were quick and painless as is usually the case with young people. Perhaps gut-wrenching soul searching is a learned behavior. Uncle Dick was impressed with the condition of the Tiny Two and he slipped me a fifty. (I was honestly hoping that he would just give me the boat; he certainly wasn't using it. I have my dreams.)

It was a little sad as I watched them drive away in that Continental, especially when Rose turned around for one last look and waved. I half expected that she would flip me off one last time, I kind a wished she would have, it would have made it easier. I bet she thought about it. It's too bad I never got the chance to ask her about it later.

Grandmother was up early the next morning and while wearing the overalls that she usually tended her flowers in, she was packing her bags.

"Come on Brian, you need to pack your bags, I want to be on the road before the traffic hits, so let's go, quick like a bunny."

"Where are we going?" She didn't answer. That's strange.

A half hour later we were on the road, gobbling up the miles at a lively pace. I had asked a few more times where we were going so that I could dress properly but she hadn't answered, she pretended she didn't hear me which was a crock because her hearing was fine. I finally came to the conclusion that it was either a surprise or she hadn't decided yet for some reason. I decided on dress clothes; tan slacks, fitted, button-down long sleeve shirt and dress shoes. I wore my dark sunglasses that my aunt had bought for me and Grandma wore her large, dark, prescription sunglasses and she had left her hair down and wild, which was normally unheard of for her. But there were other hints besides her hair that this trip was to be something other than normal.

Besides her devil-may-care flyaway hair, she hadn't put on any make-up. Also, she had a relaxed and determined driving posture today, with her hands far from any 'ten and two' position. It was as if a dozen things were on her mind all at once and she was in a blank silence all at the same time. Introspective, and at the height of awareness. Whatever the deal, it wasn't affecting her speed which was nearly almost constantly ten miles an hour over the limit and she remained perfectly centered in her lane as well, never a swerve or disruption of her concentration, not today anyway.

"When did you learn to drive Grandma?" After some moments of thought, she answered:

"I used to drive the tractor when I was ten" she said without taking her eyes from the road and in a new 'matter of fact' manner that I had a feeling was going to be the haul-mark of this trip.

"Your Grandfather taught me to ride his motorcycle when I was fifteen. I drove trucks during the war when Doug was in Europe." (I don't believe I had ever heard her use his first name before, it seemed like a clue to what was on her mind.)

"Medium size trucks, not tractor trailers..., had to have a combo license for those, but without power steering, they were still a handful none the less, especially over the passes... We had to do our own loading and unloading and keep the cargo secure along the way. Boy, you knew you did a day's work after all that! Really earned your pay! Which was meager, but we didn't complain, it was for the war effort you know." (I didn't know.)

"Did our own maintenance and repairs..., checked and tightened the belts, topped off the coolant and the oil..., that is if they would give you any. Even had to adjust our own brakes. They were supposed to do that for us at the motor pool, but getting them off they're asses to do anything? Ha! (She said 'asses.') Even if they did, chances are they'd screw it up! Girls were killed from their incompetence, best if ya did it yourself, at least you'd know it was done right." Fascinating!

"Did you have to drive alone?"

"Of course! What, do ya think we were helpless? We worked as hard as the men, harder usually. Couldn't ask them for help, they'd just claim later that ya 'owed' them something for it, unless if that's what you wanted..., it was best if you kept to yourself."

"And for some girls..., to be 'owed' something..., is that what they wanted?"

"Most of the girls were single, but a lot of them had to leave because of pregnancy." She let that sink in, it seemed like a glimpse into the real world. After some reflection, Grandma had more to add.

"Sometimes you had to show a new girl the ropes. That was usually nice, both for the companionship, but especially for the help with the loading and unloading. But often, it was more trouble than it was worth... I remember this one gal... All she would talk about was this fella, the man that got her the job. She would go on and on about him and how they were going to be married after his divorce was final..., about why she took the job so he could take care of that... What a bimbo! She wouldn't pay attention to a damn thing because she considered it all temporary, just a break before she started her dream life. What a fool! It was obvious he got her the job a be rid of her. Everyone could tell! And what little she did learn was a complete waste of time because she had to leave when she started showing."

"Showing?"

"Yeah, you know, because she was knocked up?" She turned in my direction and lifted her glasses: "Pregnant?"

I think sometimes Grandma forgot how young I was, but it was clear that she has little patience for people with problems of self-control and stupidity. Was this a clue about her and my Mother's strained relationship?

After several hours, we exit the highway and we had lunch at a diner and topped-up the gas tank. But to my surprise, instead of returning to the Interstate, we took a direction marked with a sign that said; "Old Coast Bye-Way, Entering Unimproved Area, Proceed at Own Risk."

"Why are we going this way?" Grandma remained silent, she heard the question and seemed to be forming an answer, as if she was asking herself the same question.

"I want to check on something."

"What?"

"There is a little town down this way with a diner where Doug asked me to marry him. I wonder if it is still there?" Bully! An adventure! This will be fun! Outstanding!

"That's great Grandma!" And I meant it.

About ten miles down that road, the pavement turned to a sort of oiled sand, but it was still mostly smooth, and we could maintain almost fifty miles per hour, but we had to be ready to slow for the many washouts. There were many 'home steads' out here of junky trailers and hap-hazard shacks, littered with the hulks of rusty old cars and trucks. Whenever we saw people working or kids playing, they would all stop what they were doing and stare at us drive by in eerie fascination.

The old cars lying about got me talking about my hopes and dreams of restoring and building a hot rod and this time when I talked about it, Grandmother started asking questions with some real and honest interest. Together we probed the entire process, from discovery and purchase of a suitable 'donor' car, through the process of sand blasting and rust repair, the paint and bodywork, the re-chroming and reupholstering, engine and drivetrain rebuilding etc., etc. At each phase of every aspect of the steps I outlined, she would ask question after question such as "What makes a car 'suitable?' What will that cost? How much time will that take? Etc. It was really the first, real interest from an adult ever of the subject and I even surprised myself at all the knowledge that I had accumulated over the years from my study of car magazines, repair manuals, parts catalogs and price lists. For me, it was a magical way to kill the many hours we spent on the road and it left me more focused and dedicated than ever towards realizing such a project.

From a house and a family that built nearly everything we owned; it was all a natural extension of that kind of upbringing. I had a place all staked out, the flat area behind the barn. Here I could rip into things and it all would be mostly hidden from the house. With my progression on such a project, my father was sure to get on board. What a bonding experience it would be. By the time I got my driver's license, the project would be complete. What a fool-proof and ambitious plan designed to teach and instill a grounded work ethic, an opportunity to develop an ability to consider multi-step, long-range plans and forward thinking as well as the experience of completing complex tasks and the overcoming of difficult challenges. Grandma had a good laugh when I paraphrased John F. Kennedy:

"We choose these things not because they are easy, but because they are hard."

The terrain we were traveling through became hillier as we penetrated deeper north into Florida's pan handle. By now we were so far into the sticks that it wasn't clear if this area was even electrified. We passed over a little rise and, in the valley below, there was a sight that had me yelling "Stop!" A homestead 'compound' surrounded by hundreds of vintage cars and trucks. A private junkyard where a boy like me could get lost in imagination and realize his dreams. Examples from the twenties to the sixties were here, all scattered about and dying to be scooped-up and taken away by a loving and concerned young man in an example of such good will that should be so obvious, that they should be paying me for the honor of my assistance in the matter of restoring one of these cars. A chance for future generations to behold an example of historic preservation. A shade tree Smithsonian endeavor. But the reality of the place had us staying firmly in the car, that reality was a sign reading "Trespassers Will Be Shot." But still the sight of the place fired the imagination, especially when Grandma asked:

"Which one might be a 'suitable donor?'"

I scanned the area row by row and I noticed more of what I had noticed before about cars of this region, and that was the heavy rust. Even though this place and my home back in the Pacific Northwest has nearly equal amounts of annual rainfall, the difference in the salt content and humidity made the two areas as different as night and day when it came to the condition of old cars. Back home, old cars are everywhere and in good to excellent condition, here, cars only a few years old had holes in the wheel wells and rocker panels that you could stick your arm through. I explained that to Grandma but kept looking until I pointed out a 1956 Chevy Sedan.

"That one."

"It looks like a wreck Brian; I don't think anyone could save that thing."

"Not that car, but one of that model, one with less rust and a two door, see the great lines, the styling? And the steering and braking systems can be updated to modern standards and a newer engine from a wrecked car from a junkyard will bolt right in, saving a ton of money"

Back on the road, I fell asleep and found myself in the strangest dream. We were bouncing along a dangerous mountain road with a sheer cliff face to the left, and an impossible drop off to the right.

"You can't let your eyes wander for a second, you never know what is around the next..., will you pay attention? For Christ's sake! You want to get yourself killed?" I look towards the little lady with the big voice. She is wearing a greasy jumpsuit, there is a patch over the breast pocket: "Ladies Motor Auxiliary" it said, and there is shapely female form pictured on the logo, holding a steering wheel in one hand and a gearshift lever in the other. The very next second, a bolder the size of a washing machine is rolling down the cliff at breakneck speed and the little lady slams on the brakes.

"You see? If I hadn't stopped, we would have been creamed!"

"Oh, I think it would have missed us" I say as if I know what I'm talking about.

"That's where you could be wrong! One sliding rock is nearly always followed by another and...," just then the whole hillside in front of us lets go in a thunderous roar...

"Wake up sleepy head..., we're here" Grandma says as she shakes me by the shoulder. I have a look around. We are adjacent a seedy bar with a dozen choppers out front and a few beat up pick-up trucks as well. "Saloon" is all the faded sign proclaims. We're not going in there are we?

"Hasn't changed one damn bit!"
Chapter Seventeen

Grandma steps from the car and after a little stretch to relieve the stress of the road, she makes her way to the door. I, on the other hand, have a thousand reservations about going anywhere near this place or any place even remotely like it. She stops in the parking lot. Good! She's coming to her senses. She takes a deep breath, apparently savoring the smell of raw gasoline, brunt rubber and hot motor oil.

"That takes me back!"

She continues towards the rickety door. You have got to be kidding me! I think to myself as I follow. I help her with the door, it takes a hefty pull as it drags against a sagging floor. She walks past as if that too is a familiar thing. We clear the threshold and as Grandmother removes her glasses by pushing them high above her forehead where she leaves them, held up there by her wild flowing gray locks, every single patron of the bar is frozen in mid statement and/or action to stare at us. I leave my sunglasses right where they are, I don't want anyone to see my eyes and possibly reveal my growing concerns. (Oh, be real! I don't want to show my piss-pants fear of these ruffians.) She looks all around the place, ignoring the people. She walks a little this way, a little that way and when she's done:

"This place was a dive fifty years ago and it's still a dive today!"

Everyone just stares at her.

"The only difference is that the last time I was here; I had just spent three hundred miles on the back of an Indian Commando."

She finally makes eye contact with some of the tattooed up, ruff and tuff as nails, long haired, muscle bound customers and their sex-pot old ladies, and she says:

"Which one of you losers is going to buy me a beer?"

I don't believe it!

"Right here Ma'am, it will be my pleasure!"

The whole place erupts in laughter. Once again, I don't believe it!

Never had I seen and heard such respect, not hardly a cuss word was spoken in front of my grandmother, a chair was positioned for her and the waitress wiped it down with a clean bar towel before there was even a thought of her sitting down. The quick beer offering patron brought her that brew with a deep bow, and a genuine, polite attitude that you would have thought would have been reserved for royalty, and Grandma was eating it up. I stayed standing by the door as if I was some kind bodyguard in my fancy clothes and while wearing my dark glasses, possible versed in some sort of martial arts as my prowess certainly didn't emanate from my size. In my dreams!

For over an hour, Grandma told stories of what this area was like fifty years ago to a captive and willing audience. She answered questions, checked out tattoos raised her glass in toasts, (She took only a few sips of her beer and no one dared comment about that.) and finally she told her story:

"Fifty years ago, my boyfriend Doug..., he proposed to me right over there, at that table..., (She points it out, the one by the front window.) I can't tell you what a thrill it is to see that it is still there..., (She walks over and drags her finger across it.) although it wouldn't kill someone to dust it once in a while."

Hearty laughter rattles the very walls of the shaky old building.

"And now..., my grandson and I, (everyone looks towards me and shoot my 'finger gun' back at them, exactly as Rex Hamilton did to me that day at the Navy base) have retraced the route that Doug and I took back then..., and I'm her to tell you that at my age..., my ass prefers a car seat to that damn, hard tail motorbike."

Again, the laughter thunders.

We didn't stay much longer after that, and when we left, everyone followed us outside and waved good-bye while grinning from ear to ear. After we were safely in the car and a few miles down the road, I had to admit that they were the nicest bunch people I had ever seen.

"Their nothing but a bunch of stink'n reprobates! Drinking this early in the day, and it's not even the weekend! Disgusting!"

Whoa! Really?

"Well, you have to admit, they were polite and..., don't take this the wrong way but..., you are their queen!"

She turned towards me and raised her glasses and shock her head, but I detected a barely perceptible wry smile. I love these little glances of the 'real' world!

We drove on and on. We found a small town and a diner, and I ate probably the best cheeseburger I've ever had in my entire life. Grandma asked the waitress about where the nearest hotel might be, but she only knew of the ones near the business corridor, out towards the interstate.

"That's the wrong way, were heading towards the coast."

"You had better gas up then, there ain't noth'n between here and there, an the road ain't that great either."

We took the lady's advice and I filled the tank (that was my job now) and I also filled the gas can that was in the trunk, the one we usually use for the lawn mower, so we have some extra fuel, just in case.

Now this was the sticks. Soon, we really were in the middle of nowhere. No electricity, no telephone poles, and these dirt service roads weren't even coated with oil out here, so a cloud of dust marked our progress. The only sign of human habitation was an occasional tar paper shack poking out of a brush covered field every once in a while, (most looked abandoned, but one I noticed did have some smoke coming from a crooked stove pipe) and the occasional abandon car or truck. But Grandma seemed to know where she was going, and she pressed on. Finally, well after dark, she announced:

"I'm going to try to make the coast, but it might take all night... We're going to have to sleep in the car tonight."

Grandma was in the zone, reliving a nostalgic trip of the distant past as we continued to trace the route of her and Grandpa's motorcycle trek, and also it seemed she was re-living her wartime truck driving memories as well, as she pulls an all-nighter.

I don't know where she got the energy. She seemed attentive and focused and I knew I didn't have a thing to worry about. It should be no surprise that I fell into a fitful sleep after I sat there and pondered things awhile. Things such as my approaching sobriety. I thought of Cousin Randy and his "Wherever you go..." speech but way out here? Forget it! But that's okay, it would do me some good to clear my head. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, or even if I'm just looking at something in the shadows, I swear I can still feel the LSD still flowing through my head. Will that ever go away? Also, as always, I thought of girls. Their curves, their moves, their styles, their laughs, their feel, their tastes, their smells, Would I ever 'score?' What would it be like? Why all the hype? Could something really feel 'that' good? I had so much to learn!

When I woke, we were parked somewhere, and Grandma had moved to the back seat and she was sawing logs with a sleeping bag rolled out over her as I had over me. She must have dug them out quietly, or, I was just out of it and more than I realized. I silently opened the door and stepped out of the car; I had to pee. Behind a pile of scrap metal and rusty cable, I did my business as I looked around in the moonlight. We seemed to be at an industrial landing, littered with maritime equipment. Pilings, timbers, sections of docks, large floats, cables, chain, turnbuckles and pulleys, (some huge) all piled-up and laying about everywhere. I could hear waves breaking not far away down the hill on a shore that must be there, somewhat out of my line of sight from this vantage point. There were lights out along the water, the ocean, or at least it was a huge bay. There were muffled sounds of machinery, and the occasional rap of metal on metal, someone pounding with a hammer far away out there on that water, a graveyard shift worker perhaps, out among those flickering lights. Oil derricks they seemed to be as my eyes started to adjust under the starlight. I noticed a few porch lights of the few industrial business buildings and a streetlight on the paved road that fronted this landing, apparently, we had returned to civilization at some point during the night but this area was far from urban, and quite deserted at this late (early?) hour.

Zipping up my fly while behind that junkpile, I thought I saw something moving among the debris. Curious, I bent down for a closer inspection. Like an anthill, the scrap pile was alive with motion. What the hell? Scorpions! Hundreds of them, some already are on my shoes! I leapt away blindly in the dark and instantly and painfully I tripped over something. Springing right back up in sheer panic, certain that I was going to be, or already was, being stung by the deadly little monsters, (they're poisonous, aren't they?) I staggered and flailed in the general direction towards the car. Out of the shadows and in a flat, sandy spot, and with some assistance from the streetlight and with the moonlight shining down, I made a thorough inspection so that there would be no chance of bringing any of the pests back into the car with me. I seemed to be clear of them but my choice of inspection places proved to be a poor as suddenly, thousands of some kind flying, black sand flea began to pour out of holes in the ground right under my feet, with many of them taking a direct path under the cuff of my trousers and straight up inside of my pants! Holy shit! I fumbled with zippers and buttons, leaving a trail of dress clothes including socks and shoes (all were suspect as being infiltrated) as I made a beeline back to the car where I made a hurried but thorough last ditch pat down and inspection before entering the car and eventually, when I could be as certain as possible of being bug free, I covered myself back up under the sleeping bag. Even after all of that, I spent what seemed like hours slapping, brushing, scraping and scratching at every itch, sure it was more bugs. It was traumatizing. I'm never stepping outside again!

In a misty morning of filtered daylight, I could see someone was milling about out there as I looked through the now fogged up car windows. Grandma was still out of it, the late-night drive must have done her in. I would let her be and handle this intrusion myself, that is if I had to, except that I didn't have a stitch clothes on under the cover of my sleeping bag. No problem, they'll move along. I cleared a little spot of window fog, down low on the window so I could sneak a peek. A girl! And what a girl!

Dark skin, African dark, but with straight, shiny, jet black hair. Mulatto, (Can you still say that?) barefoot, long, smooth, muscular legs that went on forever, or at least to the cut off blue jeans, cut off short, short-short short. A white, sleeveless blouse that was tied together in the front shows off a firm midriff and a half dozen undone buttons plunge a neckline right down to that knot, and as she reaches down picking up my clothes, beyond ample breasts nearly spill all the way out with the help of the lack of a brassiere. Damn!

One by one she picks up each item of clothing, shakes each one off and after carefully inspecting them, even my underpants, she folds and stacks them together. She glances towards the car from time to time. With each item smoothed and draped over her arm, she shakes the sand out of my shoes and stuffs my dress socks into them, and with my clothes over one arm and with my shoes carried in the fingertips of her other hand, she walks, no, sways, to the front window of the car and raps on it with her knuckle. Grandma's eyes pop open at the noise.

"Who's that?" She whispers to me through clenched teeth.

"Some girl, she's got my clothes" I thoughtlessly whisper back.

"What? Why?" But I'm already rolling down the window and Grandmother pulls her covers all the way over her head and remains still. I guess I'm on my own here.

"Good morning" I say as I keep my sleeping bag pulled tight around me. She looks me over..., a few times. A knowing smile crosses her thick, lushes' lips and she stepped back to a practiced pose, with her hip thrust out. She looks as if she is savoring something to come and it turned out she was.

"Why goot moan'n ta you ya young buck" she said in a Creolean accent so thick that I could hardly understand her.

"Teems da action be gitt'n a might hot lass night at dis ear lover's lane, no?" She 'asked' as she held up my clothes.

"Such a hurry ya be'n in an such! Ever-ting so thrown down what not."

"No, I..., it's not like that."

"Dat okay, nun o' my bizz-niss! But if'n dees tings be yours," she steps back further,

"Why don't cha walks out ear an git um?" She said with a big, sexy grin on her pretty face.

"Yeah Brian, why don't you do that?" Grandma said under her breath and under her blanket, barely holding back her laughter as she eves drops.

"You're not helping" I whisper back to her.

"What makes you think I would?" Grandma shot back. I am really on my own here!

"Come ons li'll mans, I gots tings to do, ain't gots time fa ya fool'ns. Ya wants dees tings? Ya gots to show me ya wants dem!" Grandma laughs again under that blanket.

"I's a waaaaaaaaait-en!" The Cajun queen said with an exaggerated pout on her lips so sexy, that under the wrap of my sleeping bag, matters of self-control were at Defcon 5. No way I'm stepping out there now!... Or should I?

"Amber Lynn Bergeron! What in da hell da ya tink ya be do'n?" Said the powerful, angry male voice (and almost as equally Cajun sounding) of the apparently white half of what must be her parent's, and he is in no mood as he stomps his way closer.

"Why Daddy, I jus be retun'n da..."

"You be a given it away likes a Saigon Whore! You is!"

"No Daddy, I..."

"An YOU!" The enraged man with his heavily scarred face and with tattoos covering his arms, and with a few missing teeth, a dangerous looking man who had turned toward me pointing, as he said that and then this:

"Ya come down here to do your drugs! Ya tink ya cane corrupt my li'll girl? Why..., why..., you jist come out'a dare! Come out right now! Ya got damn little punk! Come out so eyes can kick yer ass! Come out befores I come in an git cha!"

"Sir..., please..., it's just a misunderstanding. She's got my clothes because..."

"SHE'S GOT YOUR CLOTHES?!!... Just what kind'a kinky game da you two tink you a be a playing now?" The man thundered.

"No!... a... she's got my clothes but I'm here with my Grandmother..."

"GRANDMOTHER!" The man and his daughter both said in perfect unison and both with troubled, shocked and disgusted looks on their faces. There is a muffled chortle from under Grandma's blanket as the father and daughter turn and stare at each other in wide eyed amazement.

"Amber Lynn, give the sick little freak his clothes back."

"Gladly!... Here ya go..., weirdo!" and she threw them at me."

After they had walked away and I had got dressed and we had got moving again, but before I had explained what had happened, Grandma looked at me and said:

"You handled that very well."

What the hell?

In fact, she never asked a thing about it. What reason did she think I had taken off my clothes? She probably didn't want to know. But I told her, I told her the whole story of the scorpions and the bugs and she laughed her butt off, we both did! But the funniest part by far was this:

"Can you imagine what they thought?" She said and we would laugh again, a dirty, inappropriate bit of laughter that we could never really share with anyone else, it was just too twisted.

"I hope they didn't get my license plate number!" Grandma said and we would laugh even more.
Chapter Eighteen

We followed the west coast of Florida south and passed apparently never-ending industrial sites servicing oil derricks and fishing operations. Eventually, the blue collar feel of the area turned white and the dockyards and shipping containers were replaced with yacht clubs, mansions and grand hotels.

"This is the place of old money, where those who wouldn't be caught dead in Miami stay" Grandma said. Whatever that meant. Many of the boats docked at some of these gated clubs were fantastic. Some had their own helicopters and landing pads. But the sailing ships were catching my eye. Some were historic and grand, with gold leaf trim, crow's nests high up in the masts, and ornate Captain's cabins spanning the entire stern of the ships with large, decorative windows framed with frilly curtains and adorned with hanging lanterns. But there were some others, modern things of functional practicality which begat a certain unspoiled, clean, no nonsense approach that spoke to me. Here, stainless steel and anodized aluminum replaced high maintenance wood and rope. Modern, high strength materials cleaned up and simplified the busy and complicated redundancy. When possible, rigging is fitted inside of masts and booms, out of the weather with the winches below deck and out of the way. Sails are raised and lowered into and out of flush mounted lockers built right into the decks surface and that, and all the under-deck equipment could be all serviced in any weather from below, in dry, well-lighted leisure.

I wondered what my Dad would have to say about these modern features. His boat was a retro looking affair with a gaff headed sail configuration and rows of belaying pins, each with a neat roll of coiled rope. I suppose the nostalgia is part of the fun, but it all was anything but low maintenance. Built-in busy work I suppose. No, he would find some fault with these new designs as he would with just about everything. He was such a dream crusher: Don't make waves, don't rock the boat, don't do anything bold or different. Stay in the shadows, let others make the mistakes and choose a proven path based on other's disastrous experiences. Is it any wonder that our family is poor? No guts, no glory. Perhaps he is just trying to keep our feet on the ground, preventing us from the disappointment of shattered dreams by eliminating them in the first place. You may have heard the saying that in America, anyone can grow up to be President. My Dad never said that. What he would imply instead is that us kids were only just slightly above being retarded with regards to intelligence. My Mother would take it much further, she had no problem declaring our incredible stupidity in her many savage tantrums and very regular fits of rage. I haven't missed any of that over this summer.

"I've been thinking about sleeping in the car, wearing the same clothes day after day, and I'm thinking it's not for me! So, when we stop for lunch later, I'm going to use a phone and call ahead for reservations to a place I have wanted to see for a long time, and when we get there, I'm going to set you up in your own room. Nothing special, but you can get your clothes washed and there should be plenty of things for you to do, and as for food, there is a buffet open twenty four hours a day and as a guest, you can eat anytime and as much as you want, but there may be a dress code, especially for dinner, and you will have to be on your best behavior" explained Grandma.

"How does that sound?"

A room of my own? All I can eat? Are you kidding me? Hot damn! Bully!

"That sounds fine Grandmother" I said trying to hold back my enthusiasm.

"And you'll be okay on your own?... I plan on having spa days, massages, hair and nail treatments, and I might be taking in the opera, or a formal dance..., the point is you wouldn't be interested in those things so you're going to have to find your own fun."

"I'll be okay, but I'll miss you."

"Oh, Brian, that sounds great!"

The way she said "sounds" do you think she's on to me?

"The Grossetto"

That's what the sign read, and we wheeled in under the foyer between limousines and tour busses in the dirtiest car there by far.

"Be sure you take everything, there bringing a cart for you. The car won't be here, I'm having it cleaned and serviced while we're here... Here he is." A man in a tux pushes the cart my way. I begin to pile my luggage on it after he had arrived.

"Please Sir, I beg you, allow me to handle everything."

Whoa! I beg you? Handle everything? This guy is going to expect a big tip!

"Brian, honey..., look..., here's some money, make it last..., see you next week."

Next week? There are two hundred and forty dollars in the wad she handed me before she slipped away with her 'servant,' (butler?) all twenties, I've never held so much money before in my life. You have got to be kidding me!

The man in the tux introduced himself formally as he handed me his business card, "Wendel" was the name.

"Anything you need, day or night, just call that number and me or my staff will make it happen, Sir."

Anything? My staff? Sir? Am I dreaming?

We stroll across the lobby. 'Wendel' points out arched passages to different places; the dining hall, the fountain spa, the outdoor pools, the gardens, the gym, the sauna and steam rooms, the athletic fields, the library, the billiards room, reading rooms, sitting rooms, tea rooms, the words seem to blend together in my ears as an impossible, overwhelming prattle of unbelievable information. I feel as if I'm sure that this is just a dream and I will wake up any second, probably with bugs crawling up my pants.

I also find myself distracted from what Wendel is saying from this overwhelming and impressive architecture that we are passing over, under and through. Polished marble floors of unique, interlocking design layouts, achieved from the use of dozens of different shades, textures and grain patterns of the stone, but with traffic areas and sitting alcoves fitted in fine, and apparently hand woven rugs and carpets all depicting different scenes from nature, mostly exotic animals presented with corresponding background landscapes. I could spend all week looking at just them and I wouldn't even come close to seeing them all.

Giant pillars and columns of more polished marble stretch forever up the walls, broken up by intricately carved dark wooden paneling with paintings in gaudy gold leaf frames in just about every available remaining space, and I'm sure each one is an actual masterpiece. The giant columns support an overhead dome of mostly blue stained glass with pictures and images set in an 'under the sea' theme of swimming fish, octopuses, seahorses and other sea creatures among corral and ferns, all of which form the translucent top, a cap for the main event, the coup de gras, a statuary fountain at the center of this 'lobby' (a space more than large enough to host an NBA game) where a forty foot Poseidon steadies his trident in one hand and hoists his goblet high with the other (from which the water of the fountain flows) while a topless mermaid sits in his lap with a playful smile craved on her pretty face and she is tickling Poseidon's grinning cheek with the tip of her tailfin. There must be hundreds of pounds of gemstones imbedded in Poseidon's and the mermaid's clothing and jewelry (what little clothing there actually is) and hundreds more gemstones in his goblet and trident. All of it plays off the natural light shining through the dome of stained glass, built before electrification mentioned Wendel, and fed water by a natural artesian well which was the basis of this entire resort.

My room is in separate and detached section from the rest of the resort, modeled after what was probably the outbuildings for the staff or perhaps even at one time the stables. They matched the grand style to some degree on the outside, but, except for some rugs and paintings, the insides were pretty much standard hotel faire but that was more than adequate for me.

My own room! My own bed! My own color TV! Pinch me!

"If there won't be anything else Sir, I will take my leave now."

Okay, here we go. I saw this coming. I pull out the wad of money and start to peel some off. Do I have to give him a twenty? Would just a ten seem cheap?

"Oh, Sir please! This is not that type of establishment!" Then he leans in closer and talks under his breath:

"The standard is gratuities for outside ententes only, that is, taxis, takeout food, other than from our kitchens, and anything on the golf course, that is run under separate management. Other than that, don't give it a second thought. You must understand, this a spa resort, we can't expect our patrons to be carrying money around besides," he leans in even closer and drops his whisper a little lower:

"Many areas are 'clothing optional' and where would they carry money?"

"Clothing optional" that was a concept I didn't expect. Just what went on in such an 'area'? Titillated, confused, perplexed, it was all more than I, at that age, could realistically comprehend. What silly notions and wrong-headed visions the thought produced. I looked around at the other guests, wondering who was here to 'get naked' everybody? Would I be able to see that somehow? Or, to do that, would I have to be also naked? Probably adults only. That thought was a relief and probably just as well because frankly, most of these patrons were as old as the hills and as wrinkly as dried prunes! No thanks! But what was worse was that many of the old geezers seemed to be looking at me! What were 'they' thinking? And not just the ladies! Gross! What was the name of this place again? But then I would see some young lady (or young enough lady) and I would be lost so far in my own imagination that I would have to sit down for a while, with my jacket folded up in my lap. But that wouldn't last long with all the elder attention. Are those old farts looking at me? An old man unfolds his glasses and after he puts them on, he smiles at me. Okay! That's enough of that! I have to find some kids my own age or I'm just going to stay in my room all week. But first, I had to find something to eat.

I walked into the dining room and I just stood there for a while in wide eyed wonder. My mother was fond of saying that "People in China are starving" as an incentive for me to finish eating something that I found disgusting, (which was often, my mother wasn't much of a cook) and I had to wonder what those starving Chinese would have thought of this place. Along an entire wall were a row of chefs working grills where you could get your steak cooked to order. Heated steamer 'islands' contained main and side dishes of casseroles, stews, vegetables, several kinds of rice, every kind of potato; mashed, baked, hash browned, (even at night) French fried, curly fried, steak fries. Pasta islands with every kind of sauce imaginable. Heated bread baskets, chilled salad bars, an ice cream fountain with a soda jerk stationed there to make floats and blend milkshakes or to make you a Sunday or a banana split. But it was the dessert island that blew my mind. Cakes, cookies, puddings, parfaits, mousses, fudges, brownies, cupcakes, chocolates, hard candies, gumdrops just to name a few, all arraigned around a steaming, burbling 'fountain' of melted chocolate sauce with fresh fruit slices on sticks ready to be dunked then eaten.

I didn't know where (or how) to begin. A pretty young lady in a crisp, white 'serving dress' (a rather tight and short, somewhat sexy 'chief costume' complete with the floppy white hat) must have seen my confusion and she rushed up to show me where to get my plate and silverware and how to begin serving myself. "Remember to get a fresh plate or glass every time you come back for more" she said with a wink and a smile before she went back to her 'real' job which was busing the tables. I ate so much that I thought I would burst and even though I didn't have to, I left 'my' girl a ten-dollar tip.

Back in my room, I noticed a compartment that 'Wendel' hadn't shown me and when I opened it, to my surprise, it was packed full of little bottles of different kinds of booze. I took a bottle out and rammed it in one gulp. It was some kind of peach schnapps. The syrupy sweet liquid wasn't really to my taste but between it and the large meal, I was out like a light even though it was only early afternoon. Alone, and with a big, soft bed, I guess I was more tired than I thought.

I woke at about eight o' clock that night. Refreshed and suddenly bored, I took a shower and dressed in casual clothes, not too dressy but more than the shorts and tee shirts that were the standard for men during the day. (Even here apparently.) I had noticed a sign outside of the grounds of the Grossetto, in a strip mall a few blocks from the entrance that read "Arcade." There was a small arcade at the bowling alley of my hometown (actually, the neighboring town) and a larger one in the Tacoma Mall and both of those and hopefully this one promised one thing; kids my age.

Coin operated video games were brand new at this time, a time well before home gaming consoles and especially PC games. They took their places beside the time-honored pinball machines along the walls around the pool and foosball tables of these places. Space Invaders, Missile Command, Asteroids and something called Galaga drew lines of kids who would put their quarters up in a row on the machines as a way to call 'dibs' for a turn on the machine to challenge the current, reigning winners. I was pretty good at Asteroids and I considered putting up a quarter as a challenge but there were other games here that I had never seen before. A big crowd of kids were gathered around the Galaga machine where a kid wearing a rather strange outfit of dress shoes, black slacks, a leather vest and a frilly, ruffled shirt was absolutely crushing the high score. He was wearing rings on nearly all his fingers and he had feathers and beads woven into his long hair and he wore stacks of jingly bracelets on his wrists and he sported a tilted fedora on his head. Looks gay I thought. Wouldn't last a minute back at my hometown. But part of me was impressed, his style took guts, more guts then I had. And he was just a little guy; short and skinny. Then I saw the game for me.

"Grand Prix Racer" it was called, and no one was playing it. I had never seen it before. The hard plastic 'bucket' seat faced electronic 'gages' with only the speedometer as actually functionable. Yellow 'pylons' (really just pixilated sticks) unfolded on each side of the video screen forming the 'track' that had an otherwise black background. There was a 'gear shift' with only two speeds; hi and low. The top of the screen denoted the three top scores that were established by overall top speeds; 242 MPH for ASS, 241 MPH for DIK, and 240 for FUC. That struck me as humorous, but that sort of thing was standard faire concerning posted high scores. Inserting a quarter brought out a simple graphic of a three-two-one go! And I floored the gas pedal and quickly shifted into high gear. The 'track' consisted of a long straightaway followed by a series of sharp turns; left-right-left-left-right. I braked hard and while losing all my speed and in a symphony of electronic tire screeching, I barely made it through the corners and had to shift back to low as I exit back onto the straightaway. Round and round the 'track' I went, unimpressed by the game and pretty sure now why it was vacant. This sucks! But still, with some improvement, I found I could make it through the 'corners' without having to shift down and began to approach the high score top speed. 220, 230, 232 etc. Then I did something desperate, probably because I was already getting bored with the machine; I didn't lift on the gas pedal and I didn't hit the brakes. The 'corners' came up and to my surprise, and with just some quick flips of the wheel; left-right-left-left-right, I flew through the 'corners' without a tire screech or a reduction of speed.

"Congratulations- new highspeed achieved" said the electronic female voice among falling electronic 'confetti' and a blaring 'trumpet' (?) sound and as a cavalcade of exterior lights on the machine blinked on and off. But that was only the beginning. I had stumbled onto the 'cheat' the flaw and the weakness and each new lap bested my last high score until the congratulatory announcement, confetti, trumpets and blinking lights all merged into one strange (and annoying) blur of light and sound. The high score top speed rose ever higher as the sound became an electronic miss-mash, an audio crash that couldn't have been foreseen by the designers, but the simple circuitry and infallible program continued. 400, 500, 600 MPH and by then the screen was just a blur and I was 'steering' by pure instinct alone. Left-right-left-left-right, a slight pause was all the straightaway is now, and then again; left-right-left-left-right. By the time I saw 666 as the top speed, I whipped the wheel in a suicide crash to lock in that devilish and way-cool score number, and by then the entire arcade patronage was crowded around. What glory I absorbed. Such accolades were showered upon me. Nothing could spoil my accomplishment (or so I thought) as I punched in the top three high score spots; FAS-FUC-BRI.

"Oh! Some richy-rich gunna show up the townies?"

"What?"

"Dat right! Come from da Grossetto ta show us up! Bet ya got dat game at home, found da big cheat like we be impressed! Shit!" Said the exaggerated Cajon voice in the fedora.

I was pissed!

"No!... You don't know what you're talking about! I never seen that game before and as for being 'richy-rich,' I live in a log house with an outdoor bathroom, a hand water pump and six brothers and the baby could kick your ass!" I said that as I approached him, stopping just short enough in case he might have a knife. He stood his ground, stone faced and relaxed. I was twice his size (at least I felt that way) and I didn't see any of the others there jumping in to defend him. Then he just let out a little laugh, not particularly at me but sort of with me somehow.

"Shit player, I was just fun'n..., truth is I ain't never seen nut'n like dat ba-fore..., I shouldn't have called ya out..., my bad!... I's just upset cause ya destroyed 'my' score. So..., I apologize..., We cool?"

What could I say after that?

"Sure! Whatever, I'm just touchy about being called rich. Because I'm far from it, I've never been called that before. My Grandma bought me these clothes." Everybody laughed. I don't know why I said that. I guess it was because I sort of liked that kid. I could never dress like him or act as cool as he did and when he called me out, I wanted to wring his neck, but I also wanted us to be friends. I sort of feel the same way about my brothers, (except they were nether flamboyant nor cool) a love/hate thing; I love to hate them. (Just kidding.) I desperately wanted to meet some kids my age and there was this little blond there who I think was checking me out. But now that I looked again, she seems to be with this other kid, an older kid, but still she is giving me pouty looks and playing with her hair.

"Hows abouts we goes outsides and burns one?" The flamboyant young man said as he holds up joint.

Wherever you go...

"Just ta show dare be no hard feel'ns"

It could be an ambush. If they knew about the wad of bills I had in my pocket, they might have considered it, but I didn't think that was the case. The little blond and her boyfriend joined us.

"Oh-la-la! Shit bro, what kind a place dat be?" Li'l Donk asked as he choked on a hit from his doobie of fine Colombian.

"It's not as messed up as it sounds. In fact, it's not really anything, just a bunch of trees and my dumbass friends."

"If ya gots friends, it cain't be all bad" said Li'l Donk, a little man full of self-reflection and streetwise philosophy. (Or full of something anyway.)

Li'l Donk, (son of Big Donk perhaps?) Jason and Kelly were friends and they were all riding around that night with Jason who had his mother's Chevy Nova. The smoke was powerful and Donk (or should I call him Li'l for short?) said he could score me some. It was ten dollars a gram (!) a frightful amount and I wondered if he was ripping me off but when we stopped at a turn off where he was going to walk the rest of the way, I handed him sixty dollars and asked him to get all he could. I was a long way from home and I probably wouldn't have another chance to score.

Drug seeking behavior. It might sound sad and it might be dangerous, but it was what it was back then, and it wasn't something that I quickly outgrew either. For kids with no real future, that is, no college plans or even a home after the age of eighteen, there just didn't seem to be any harm in living for the moment. My only plans were to build a hotrod before I got my license at age sixteen and as serious as I was about that, the chances of actually pulling that off were slim to none, and I knew it. But when I was high, those impossible plans, and the vicious realities that we endured were temporarily set aside and we could be somebody, somebody with a chance of a future. Especially when I was with friends, even fast friends. They were probably in the same boat. Jason's mother's Nova certainly wasn't a show car. His chances of college weren't much better than mine at building a hot rod, so instead of being sad about things, we got stoned. And Jason, he had something great that I found myself growing increasingly jealous over. He had a girl and she was proving wonderful.

She was interested in everything I said. She kept inching closer to me in the car and touching my arm and even my leg, several times. Jason seemed okay with it, even amused. She was a petite little thing, blond, blue eyed with a pretty face with the cutest little upturned nose. She was a little flat chested, but she had enough to catch my eyes, in fact, she did catch my eyes; caught them staring right at them and I swear she arched her back 'pretending' to be stretching. Too much!

"If we only had some booze" she said wistfully at one point.

"I've got some, back at my room, a whole bar full!"

"I could just kiss you!" Kelly said as she lunged towards me and her hand stroked my leg, up then down, and with all of that right in front of Jason. There was no doubt about it now, that was more than a flirt, it was a tell, a far less then subtle clue and an understanding of what might lay ahead and of what she may yet do.

Donk returned with a look of 'mission accomplished' on his face. He jumped in back and I stayed in front with Kelly sitting between me and Jason. She snuggled up to Jason as she shot me sultry looks as we raced to the Grossetto.

I kept looking at Kelly, trying to be subtle about it, she knew I was looking at her and she seemed to be digging it. But she was also busy, busy with her hand out of my sight in the only place it could be, and Jason looked pleased about that as he drove. Donk made small talk as he examined the weed.

"Looks like some gooood shit bro!" he said, apparently not the least bit surprised or disturbed about Kelly's 'behavior' which could not have been unnoticed by him. It was if he and her had already shared something, as if there isn't anything that she could do that would surprise him. Am I imagining things? Another glance at Kelly and she mouthed me a kiss. Oh crap! This is happening!

The rooms at the extended, separated units of the Grossetto where my room was had their own parking lots so my guests could join me unnoticed by the staff. Each room had a small deck and I urged them that we smoke out there, especially concerning Donk's cigarettes.

Donk rolled joints and we smoked them. Kelly drank something called Cream de Colure straight from the bottle as the rest of us mixed various rums with cola from the soda machine. Kelly was all over Jason and she was pulling his shirt off as they charged back into the room and they both fell into the couch of the sitting area. I could see them through the sliding glass door as I faced Li'l Donk and we continued to smoke. They were tearing off each other's clothes.

"Dat Kelly, she a live one... You like her yeah?"

I didn't answer. A topless Kelly's head is bobbing waist high on a pants less Jason and her breasts, although small, have enough mass to sway with her repeated back and forth movements. I reach inside and close the curtain, but it is too late, my mind is blown, I don't think after seeing that that I will ever be the same.

"You could have her, right afta Jason's through..., it's no big thang."

"What?"

"Dat right! She like you! I cane tell! She'll fuck da shit outa you! If'n ya don't mind sloppy seconds!" He said with a laugh.

"Have..., a..., you..., a..."

"I've been wit all da hoes!" Answered Donk before I could finish asking the question.

"Yeah, but..., I mean tonight..., are you going to..."

"Nah man! I gots a classy lady. I'll be go'n home to her later. But don't let dat stop you!"

"But Jason?... He wouldn't mind?"

"Shit bro! She ain't his property! But he might wanna be dare! Ya know..., help'n! He kind'a kinky."

I don't have to think about it. That would be just too much. While I find her attractive, to do things in front of another man is way beyond my comfort zone, beside my a..., lack of 'experience' would be on display.

"So, ya gunna do it? Tap dat fine ass?" It sounds like a steam train in there as they must now be in a more conventual sexual situation with Kelly's yelpy moans as the whistle, and with Jason's animal like grunts mixed in. I worry that the whole building will hear the noise but luckily, it doesn't last long.

"I don'ts blame waz, Ya don'ts seem like da kinky type. Best gets a nice girl like I's do, probably sleeps better dat way."

But Li'l Donk and I drink and smoke more, a lot more, and after a while, he has a change of heart and so do I.

"If ya shy, you cane take her in da bathroom, have'r all private in shit! Den me an Jase will spit-roast da bitch (?) right'n front of ya if ya want!" I was so hammered by then that I agreed.

"Okay! I'm in!"

What the hell! I wasn't going to see any of them again. Who cares if my 'lack of experience' shows? It's not like something like this could be even more embarrassing. We stagger in off the deck and straight into the room. I have fought through the shyness and have found my courage through copious amounts of hard alcohol. Yes, with the room spinning and in front of strangers, I will let it all hang out. Jason has passed out on the floor, but Kelly rose up off the couch, naked as a jaybird, with a big grin on her face and she looks fine as hell and fine with whatever is happing and she is the sexiest thing I have ever seen, and that is the last thing I remember as the spinning room closed in.
Chapter Nineteen

I don't know what happened after that. All I know is that I woke with a pounding headache, the room a mess, and all the weed and the booze had been taken. I told Wendel that some kids I met must have come back and stole the booze after I went to sleep.

"They must have climbed up the deck, I should have suggested that you keep that door locked" Wendel said. "I'll take care of it" he added, and I didn't hear anything more about it.

But I remembered everything before that, my decision, her naked body, her big smile, the entire experience, especially her 'bobbing' head and the swaying of her breasts, it all haunts me, even still. I was just too young, too pure and naïve to be unaffected by it. To see how things could be, changed and tainted how things should be. I don't recommend such early and complete exposure to such sexual mayhem. (Probably impossible for today's kids, thanks a lot internet!) The lines between wholesome and disgusting were blurred forever. Perhaps not a problem for the swingers and the players out there, but for someone with the hope of building a home and a family, something was compromised, I'm not even sure what, but others can see it, your wife will see it. Perhaps I'm making something out of nothing. Maybe I'm just too impressionable, others probably would have forgotten it all long ago, but, then again, I'm not 'others.'

The chefs lined up at the grills cooked omelets and eggs to order in the morning at the buffet. Eggs over easy with toast seemed to clear my pounding head, that and coffee. I never cared much for coffee before, but now I could see its value. In fact, from that summer on, coffee would make or break each morning. It was funny how seamless the joining of this with my Grandmother would be in a new morning ritual starting right after I had arrived. It was as if we had always started the day drinking coffee, she never once commented on my sudden start of the habit. I think she wanted someone to share in it with.

With food in my belly and with the magic of coffee, I was awake and alive but far from in a right mind. The exploits of last night, the visions of nakedness, (both Kelly and more disturbingly, what I saw of Jason) the second guessing and the regrets, the theft, all of it had left me in a confused and sour disposition. I was both upset and happy at the same time because of the weed being gone. While it would have been nice to be high, I also blamed it for everything else: The frustration, the mistrust, the confusion, the uncertainty, even the hangover. No, I would clear my head, learn to be happy sober. It was time to grow up. But right now, I would go for a swim.

The locker room was as grand and ornate as everywhere else, and it was beginning to grate on me. Such decadence! Right outside the gate, people out there are poor. I began to wonder what the staff really thought about us as they called us Sir and Ma'am, what did they say among themselves? I bet it was a whole lot different then what we hear! It didn't help that these old fogies here in the locker room seemed so intent on smoking stinky cigars with their shlongs hanging out and flopping around. I couldn't get out of there fast enough as their 'eye fucking' left me feeling violated. Faggots!

The basement bathhouse was an architectural masterpiece of polished marble. Huge pillars, six foot in diameter at their base and tapering gracefully as they reached up and ringed the open space to hold up a ceiling in craved relief of winged nymph fairies, (young boy fairies mostly) gay! With the two in the center of the depiction holding a pail where the water flowed down from, and at that great height, the water atomized to a point where it seemed to turn to vapor and landed noiselessly in the center swimming pool while forming another perfectly round shaft that gave the illusion of another pillar matching the others around the edges but hanging out impossible in space in the center of that pool. An illusion naturally lit from a row of what from the outside were ground level windows that from down here were way up high next to the craved relief ceiling and that exaggerated yellow shafts of sunlight that poured through those windows of yellow tinted stain glass. Around the edges of that pool were dozens of clamshell shaped bathing pools each fed warm, flowing water from some form of statuary such as a dragon's or a gargoyle's mouth or from the pitchers held by naked nymphs, (young boys and girls) snail and conk shells held by crabs and octopus, the blowholes of dolphins and narwhales and even the penis of a boy child. I have had just about enough! But as I look at it all and soak in the grandeur, and as I considered joining the few dozen people swimming in the pool at the center of the of the place, a grinning old man stepped out of one of the clamshells and I realized that I had stumbled into a 'clothing optional' area. Sick weirdos!

I stomped back into the locker room, past the old codgers and their swinging peckers and back to my locker, pissed off that I couldn't even take a swim in this sick, twisted place when a staff worker in a toga style wrap stopped me.

"Whoa sport, what's the beef?"

"Look! All I want is to go for a swim, not be the star of some sicko's fantasy!"

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable at the outdoor pool" and he pointed out a different arched threshold.

This is more like it! Families, kids, Moms, (some lookers even in that last group) but I still felt that I had to get my thoughts and my passions under control. Looking at every girl I see as an object of my desire just couldn't be right, and now that I had seen just how 'free' (i.e. slutty) some girls could be, (Kelly) well, that wasn't helping. So, I swam lap after lap, burning off the weed and sweating out the alcohol, hoping to change myself, to become someone else, someone serious, formidable and important. A man a woman would take seriously. But as I surfaced after one such pass, I saw a young lady and, in a heartbeat, all my haughty, upstanding, high ideals became naughty, low brow and degenerative. Damn! Look at that! I have GOT to get me some of that! But I wasn't even sure what that really even was.

Would I ever change my views and stop objectifying woman? Not as long as they continue to dress and act so damn sexy! Sorry people, but maybe it's the way I'm wired, or the way I was brought up or the time I was brought up in, but try as I might, the look and the attention of a pretty girl is hypnotic and the effect is certain, and for those 'men' who claim some different reaction? I don't believe it! Whatever else they may say, it is a lie and you can take that to the bank!

I settled in with a routine, swimming, eating, sleeping and staying true to my other established norms which meant that I picked up the latest car magazines and continued to advance my plans of building a hotrod. I would occasionally spot some suitable young girl, but with my new self-reflection, I restrained from any hyper aggression so, besides a smile and when I felt brave, a wave, all I got in return was the same. I am SO lonely.

Try as I might to the contrary, I thought almost constantly about Kelly and that arcade, about the 'action' that might be available there, about what the money in my pocket and what a hotel room all to myself might yield, and what it could mean, but I didn't have the nerve. After all, they had robbed me, and I was embarrassed, both at my thoughts and at my behavior. If any of them saw me take one step into the door of that place, they would know exactly why I was there (at least that is how it seemed to me) and that just wasn't me. Or was it? I just don't know anymore.

By the end of the week I was ready to go. This life at the Grossetto was too fancy for me. I walked around feeling out of my league and out of touch with the few others that were anywhere close to my age that I happened to see there. But I was kidding myself if I thought I was any better than those kids at the arcade either. I wanted my destiny to be somewhere in between, but as I thought about going back home to the log house and getting loaded with my idiot friends, it appeared that those kids at the arcade were actually much more sophisticated then me and my friends. They certainly had less hang-ups and a ton more guts. They were living life and I was letting life pass me by and I didn't like it. I was in a funk. What's wrong with me? The answer was obvious yet mysterious and elusive: I need to get laid!

On the other hand, Grandma was on a roll. She had a spring in her step and a gleam in her eye and she seemed ready to take on the world. She had a new outfit, a new hair style, newly painted nails that matched her lipstick, and most importantly, a new outlook. Gone is the nostalgic reflection on the past and I hoped that some of that new outlook would rub off on me.

"So, Brian, what did you do all week?" She asked.

"Oh, not much, swimming, took in a lot of art, ate SO much! Caught up on sleep, watched TV, read, there just wasn't many people my age here." She seemed to understand, especially that last part.

"We still have some time left. I have some stops planned where we might turn some of that gloom around." (Did it show that much?) The first of those stops was only a few hours away. We had to turn the car inland, back into the swamps and by early afternoon we were on an airboat, racing out deep into the swampland where the highlight of the trip was feeding a big old gator some marshmallows. There were supposed to be Dugongs to see on that tour, (an aquatic sealion type of mammal) but we never saw any, probably because they were nearly extinct at this time.

The next day, after a night at a roadside motel (and Grandma snoring) we pulled into a place called the Cypress Gardens. Here, decades of manipulation with shears, machetes, cables and logs and fencing had sculpted a living wonderland of vines, trees and brush. A full-size castle was the center piece of the decades of effort, complete with a drawbridge, guard towers and a cathedral sprier said to be the tallest in Florida. Big Whoop! Elevated walkways (made from the same technics) meandered around full-size (and larger) dinosaurs, elephants and even a whale. Living outbuildings formed an old west ghost town on one side of the grounds and a full-size pirate ship graced the other side. It was an interesting display of living, on-going botanical engineering but when we were done, even Grandmother had to admit:

"I remember it being more spectacular when we were here with the grand kids."

Two days on the road was required for our next stop and this one was guaranteed not to disappoint: Disney World. Grandma was worried that I might be too old to enjoy it, but as she was just recently there with Rose, I got the feeling that She was the one who really wanted to go back again and that I was just tagging along. Whatever! While I'm sure many (most) kids grow up gaga over Disney, I had never given it much thought. To me, Disney was more of a movie studio than a place. Sure, I had heard of it, but as I never thought that I would ever get to go there, and as I really thought it was for babies, I never gave it a second thought, and even now, I planned on putting on a happy face just to please Grandma as she seemed so excited about it. But it turned out to be way cool.

What impressed me was the scale of the place. I had heard it had a monorail and I expected some little toy. After all, Seattle, has a real monorail, so I know about monorails. To my surprise, Disney's was the very same model and type, and that was just the beginning of the surprises. Grandma was like a kid in a candy store, whisking me from one place to another. We just had to have lunch in the Teaky Room. Why? The show is run every ten minutes. Oh. All over that room, what appeared to be carved faces and animals in a Hawaiian style began to move, sing and dance in an impressive and actually a rather entertaining spectacle. I had no idea! Grandma delighted in my surprise.

"Even Rose knew about that!" Grandma said with a laugh.

It's a Small World After All is for babies but I found the engineering fascinating. An entire underground river system and a small-town worth of anatomic robots. I found the simplistic music rather repetitive, but Grandma happen to get seated next to a young couple with a little girl and they welcomed her to sing along with them even though I found it all more than a little embarrassing. Oh well, at least their having fun!

The Haunted House was another surprise. This place was full tricks and treats. As soon as you walk in, right away you are overlooking a ghoulish ballroom where holographic ghosts in tattered formal wear are waltzing around. How do they do that? But that was just the beginning. A vast mixture of anatomic, holographic images and other projections combine for some incredible and truly shocking displays that actually did frighten me on several occasions, much to Grandma's delight.

"Ha-ha, didn't see that coming did you!" No, I guess I didn't.

Space Mountain was at this time a brand-new attraction. Grandma passed on joining me on that one. What a spectacle! The waiting area is like a space port, complete with a terminal gate to your 'shuttle craft' car. Above you is a star-scape as real as any actual night sky but fantastic with spiral galaxies, cloud nebulas and an occasional and extremely realistic shooting star or passing comet. Once strapped in your 'shuttle' car, the countdown is pretty standard: Ten, nine, eight, etc. But after that, things get crazy. In the pitch dark and under that star filled 'sky' you're in an indoor roller coaster where you can't see anything that might be approaching. So, bracing yourself for the turns is impossible and there is the constant fear that something may come along and take your head off! I had the overwhelming urge to duck down as low as possible during the entire ride.

Everything at Disney had a certain appeal, I even enjoyed The Hall of Presidents, realistic robot versions of past presidents combined with good old fashioned, patriotic Americanism, what's not to like? But what left a lasting impression on me was the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse. It is so realistic that we had walked past it several times before it dawned on me that it was an attraction and not a real tree. A hidden elevator in the 'trunk' carries you up to several 'treehouse' sections housing giftshops, storyboard areas and niches and nooks where you could sit and enjoy the view. Just outside of those places are safety-railed viewing platforms where brave guests could enjoy views that are truly breathtaking. But what captured my imagination about all of this was what if one of these 'trees' were built in the middle of a real forest, (such as somewhere like where I'm from, The Pacific Northwest) wouldn't it be the epitome of a hidden, blended-in with nature home? And what a view you would have! If I were a millionaire, this would be the kind of estate I would consider. I wonder why no one has ever built such a home? Maybe someone has, but as you pass right by it, you would never notice.

The drive back was quiet. With only a few days left before my flight back home, I was reflecting on what that meant. 'Reflecting' was the wrong word. 'Suffering terror' may have been more accurate. My trip here was supposed to be a form of punishment for all the 'goofing off' with my friends that I had done and to give my poor mother a 'break' but now I realized that the 'punishment' was the fact that I had to leave all this and go back to my old life and it scared the crap out of me! It was so easy to imagine that as soon as my parent's backs were turned, my older brothers would ravage my new wardrobe and take what they pleased. Claiming later that I had 'given' the things to them and any talk to the contrary would be considered a lie, which was their standard operating procedure, my word against them, A scenario where I always lose. "Why would they lie? Besides, we're well aware of you and your stories!" Then the 'real' truth would be revealed: "You need to be less selfish and learn to share!" With that said, my possessions would be passed along to my sneering siblings, and I was the bad guy for resisting, and any protest was just me whining and would be answered with my Dad's belt. ("I'll give you something to whine about!") It went that way a thousand times. My brothers were being rewarded for their constant ass-kissing and I was the problem for raising objections. It had been going on that way for so long that it was now automatic, and my parents, for the life of them, couldn't figure out why I still resisted. "He'll just never learn" was one of the few statements that my Mother and Father agreed with each other about.

There was more to the story of what I considered unfair treatment, (besides the fact that I actually was a bad kid that did what I pleased as often that I could) and that was the fact that I actually had friends. My brothers were social outcasts. They didn't have any fashion sense, they forgone regular bathing, they never bothered to comb their greasy, ratty hair, they had the conversation skills of cavemen and they seemed to find that any effort to advance their social skills was just a bother and a hassle. They stuck together as some sort of gang of inbred hicks and everybody could see it which was an arraignment that my parents found preferable. Not having other kids' parents to deal with as a blessing, which seemed to be a major reason why they had built this compound way out in the middle of nowhere in the first place. Here, they could wear dirty old clothes, forgo bathing and generally avoid the scrutiny of others and my opposition to it all was the fly in the ointment that must be reigned-in and put down. I was the danger that could upset the apple cart of plans so deeply imbedded that they didn't even know anymore that that was their reality. They thought that they were normal, and it was the world that had gone mad, and they were protecting us from it all. I think, that like many who were put in similar situations, they were just taking the easiest way out. That is why they got married in the first place, so they could just give up on all that bothersome effort required to 'keep up with the Jones's' and so they could just do their own things. It was me that kept getting in the way!

All that above that you have just read, might be somewhat exaggerated, but it is true enough that it all factored into my belief system at the time. The constant belittling and the demeaning outburst I endured only reinforced that mindset. To be free to do what they wanted meant that they could say and do almost anything, and without the peer pressure of friends and neighbors factored in, the lengths and scope of their blanket statements and their unrestricted views of things turned savage. Television shows with liberal views were forbidden, books and reading in general was put down as unmanly: "Put that book down! You want to be some kind of book worm? You want to ruin your eyes? Go out and find something 'constructive' to do." But the real disconnect concerned college. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Mr. Spock's brain had been removed and installed into a vast, complex machine to be used to run an entire world. Dr. McCoy had to link his mind to a workstation that was part of that vast machine and it contained the wisdom and the knowledge of an entire civilization, including their medical knowledge. This was required to receive the necessary information required to return Spock's brain to his still living, zombie-like body. But it was a dangerous procedure, certainly not to be attempted more than once. After the information transfer, the procedure seemed simple and basic to McCoy and he performed the operation at blinding speed until he started to forget what he had just learned, and he started to lose his confidence. Capt. Kirk made the suggestion that "Bones" should reconnect Spock's vocal cords with his remaining and fading knowledge and Spock, who was still privy to the vast knowledge of the alien's memory banks could, after that, guide McCoy with his own voice to complete the procedure.

I was eight years old when I saw that episode.

I remember being so impressed and influenced by that show at the time that all I would think and talk about was the fact that I wanted to become a brain surgeon when I grew up. It was the perfect career choice, I would be working with my hands as both my Mom (with her electronic kits) and my Dad (with his boat building) did, and I had heard that being a doctor paid well, and doctors also seemed to marry successfully. (Already an important concept to even an eight-year-old, at least this eight-year-old.) I was so wrapped up in this plan that I was drawing pictures of scenes of me sawing open skulls and using hammers and screw drivers in there. This caused a buzz in my third-grade class and some genuine encouragement from my teachers (a brain surgeon is a doctor after all, a prestigious profession, but my drawings may have raised a few eyebrows) but my father had different ideas.

"Look, Son, you ain't gunna be no doctor."

"Why not?"

"That would take college, and there ain't gunna be no college. I got seven kids and college cost money, big money! You're gunna have to get a job. You don't wanna be some egghead (?) do ya?" That was his more honest approach to the subject, but when I tried to probe deeper, I got what at the time seemed to be his true feelings about it:

"You're too stupid for college." But I believe now that the former was closer to the truth. My Dad was thinking of his retirement, and as all of us boys approached the age of eighteen, (even with all their ass-smooching) we were expected to move out on our own, even if that meant having your clothes thrown out on the lawn and the door locked in your face. (Exactly what happened to my older brother and that became an example and a lesson for the rest of us.)

My teachers immediately noticed my sudden disillusionment and abandonment of my plans to become a doctor and at some point, they called me aside to talk about it, and I told them what my Dad had said.

Big mistake!

While they told me of ways one might use to get around the money problems, of scholarships and mentor programs that might be available, and glowing, feel-good talk of how I should reach for my dreams and how I could be anything I wanted to be if I tried, they never could have foreseen the wrath that was unleashed when I tried to repeat their words to my parents.

"You said WHAT?!"

Everything after that was a blur of shouting and screaming, with the overall take away of something along the lines of "How DARE they poke their noses in our business! Who do they think they are? Is nothing sacred?"

As the years went by, my parents seemed to double down. Extra credit and after school activities were met with "Do they think were made of money?" and "I'm not a taxi service!" Prominent academics on television and in the news were laughed at as they scoffed: "Career students, probably can't even tie his own shoes!" Thoughts of breaking into a highly paid profession was met with lectures of how "Money is the root of all evil." It was a constant and blatant indifference that over time had taken its toll. By junior high when my grades began to slip, it was a laugh when I was told by teachers and counselors that "It will be hard to get into a good college if you don't pick your grades up." Hilarious! Repeated suggestions of extra credit, mentoring opportunities and scholarships fell on deaf ears of those of us who knew that we will be on our own long before there was any chance of any of that happening. Keeping a roof over your head, keeping yourself feed and keeping a car running so you can continue those first two things would be top priority for years to come (and longer, much longer) and we knew it. Was it that unusual that we might try keep a lid on all of this by self-medicating with drugs and alcohol?

The miles rolled by under our wheels as grandma might have been wondering what I was thinking about as I stayed so quiet. Perhaps she knew.

"I've been talking to your mother on the phone, there is a surprise waiting for you when you get home."

"Really? What is it?"

"I don't want to spoil the surprise, but it's something you're going to like. It took me a lot of effort to talk your mother into it, but I think it is for the best."

What on earth could it be?

We pass a big road sign: "Kennedy Space Center, Next Exit, Tours Daily"

"Do you like rockets?"

Do I like rockets? What a dumb question, I'm a boy, growing up in the Space Age!

"Yes."

We took that exit.

I was impressed with scale of Disney World but as we approached this place, the massive facility stretched out right to the horizon. After we entered, we navigated using signs with arrows directing us confusingly all over the place and finally we arrived at lot denoted as "Visitor Parking" with only a few other cars in it. After some wandering about and more sign reading, we eventually located a building labeled "Visitor Center" and we joined some others already inside.

"A receptionist, or she might be a secretory, she said she would get someone who might give us a tour..., but it's been awhile" said a man who was with a little girl of about eight years of age who was beginning to fidget in boredom. An older man who looked like a college professor (he had patches on the elbows of his cardigan) and his surprisingly attractive wife (see why I want to go to college?) also waited.

But the waiting was not much of a surprise, judging from what other issues that were evident, such as the cracking sidewalks, the badly mowed grass, the peeling paint and the general griminess of..., well..., everything. A look across the grounds from the waiting room's large (and dirty) windows showed dozens of piles of evidently hi-tech (and I'm sure, wildly expensive) equipment; bashed-up workstation consoles with lengths of loose wire streaming out from them, television monitors and bar-graph displays, blank digital displays, lamps and other lighting and even office furniture that had been apparently pushed together in those piles with a bulldozer that was still parked nearby. Other construction equipment (or was it 'destruction' equipment) and areas blocked off with orange cones and yellow caution tape dominated the hap hazard area.

"Seems we might be one of da last to tour dis place" said the 'professor' to his wife and the rest of us in a heavy (Austrian?) accent.

"You mean if ever we get a tour" added his wife who spoke as if she was as American as apple pie and nearly as bored as the little girl.

America's space program had fallen from grace by this time, especially since the embarrassment of the disaster of Skylab, and it was still a long way until the Space Shuttle program began in earnest, and the neglect of this facility plainly showed. Major mission transitions, re-evaluations, a lapse interim period of idleness and drastic funding cuts had already taken their toll, and all of this in only a few years after the heyday period of Apollo.

Even the 'decommissioning' that resulted in these great piles of expensive junk had seemed to have ceased as hardly a soul (especially any workmen) seemed to be around, and this is a weekday.

"Do you think they would let us have some of that stuff?" I asked out loud.

"I was wondering the same thing" said the man with the daughter.

"Dey don't seem to be concerned wit it, left in da rain like dat" said the professor while Grandma and his wife glared a knowing look that seemed to say to the rest of us: "Forget it!" The men and I look at the floor in a shared "ah shucks" sort of moment.

Finally, a young Sargent is lead our way by a young woman in uniform (the receptionist/secretary I presume) and he introduces himself as Sargent So-and-So and he takes us into a once, grand conference room, now with several lightbulbs burned out, stains in the carpets and apparently missing over half the furniture with messy boxes of what appears to be phone and intercom equipment spilling out in their place in a room now used for storage then for meetings.

"Welcome to the Kennedy Space Center, I'm sorry Major Nelson and especially Barbra Eden are not here today, ha-ha, (no one laughs at his lame joke, I don't think the professor even knows what he is talking about) but I have a film to show that details the operations here." I think he should have said operations that 'used' to be here. He dims the remaining lights; starts the film and he abruptly left the room and that is the last we see of him. Some 'tour.'

The scratchy film with an often-garbled soundtrack highlights past glory and future dreams such as a nuclear-powered spaceship mission to mars (?) but conveniently seems vacant of any real information of anything after Apollo Eleven. Nothing concerning the Apollo Thirteen explosion, not a thing about the many problems of Skylab, nothing concerning the current development of the Space Shuttle. Later, after the film is over, we seem to be on our own. I take the initiative and turn the lights back up. Then, in a bit of devilish fun, I literally take over the tour.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if you'll be so kind and follow me."

"Now you're talking" said the man with the daughter and they all follow me as if it's official, and with looks of levity on their faces, except for the little girl, I think she thinks that I am actually in charge now. We burst out of the conference room and we catch Sargent So-and-So chatting up little miss secretary and they both look guilty as sin about something.

"Oh..., is the film over already? I'm sorry, I must have lost track of the time." Yeah right!

"If you will all make your way down to the Saturn Five booster area" he directs our attention out towards the gigantic rocket that is separated in stages and laying out in the field on its side, by pointing at it through the window. Hey, don't strain yourself..., lame!

"I will have a tour guide (a 'real' tour guide this time?) meet you there." Whoa buddy, really putting in the effort here! He immediate picks up the phone as I lead the group once again to the place that he had pointed out.

"Right this way, watch your step please."

"Thank you young man for your courteous attention" said the professor's wife loud enough to be a dig at Sargent So-and-So.

"My pleasure Madame, we must let everyone here get back to their important 'work' shouldn't we?" We all exit the building giggling, even the little girl.

We all might be paying the price for our joking as we stand around at the fenced-in landing, the apparent gathering area for tours, near "Stage One" of the giant Saturn Five rocket display. We stand there for a long time.

"I don't think anyone is coming" said the man with the little girl. But the professor's wife will have none of it. She sees an older man in an orange jumpsuit, chomping on the butt of a cigar, walking with a total disregard for the sidewalks and as if he owns the place.

"Sir? Sir!... Are you by chance our tour guide that we have been waiting so long for?"

He looks us over with a surprised look on his face. Then, he looks all around and especially back towards the visitor center and his expression turns to one of disgust. He looks at his watch for a second, then, with a warm and genuine smile now on his face, he approaches us.

"Sure!... Yes!... Tour guide..., why not?"

"Sir, I don't want to impose upon you, if you have other, more important things to do..."

"Sweetheart, I have given tours of this equipment to Kings, Princes, Generals and three sitting Presidents. I have been on this project since before the blueprints were drawn and I will remain until the entire system is fully decommissioned..., sometime next month."

"Once again Sir, we don't want to impose, we just want..."

"You pay taxes, right?"

"Why yes, I..., a..., we do."

"And you would like a tour?"

"Yes..., yes, we would..., very much!"

"Why lucky for you, the requirements have been more than met. Let's get this party started." That said, the man yanks away some of the yellow tape, kicks a cone out of the way and with a deep, exaggerated bow, he motions us forward:

"This way, please."

"I think we might be in for a treat" the man with the little girl said.

"He may just fire the damn thing up and take us for a ride" Grandma said, and she got some uproarious laughter. Good one!

"Could we really go for a ride Daddy?" said the little girl which brought another round of laughter and a pout to her face which quickly vanished as her Dad pulled her close and said: "You're cute sweety."

The man gathered us up in the shade right up next to the mammoth device and it was hard to believe that something that huge could even fly. It was also nice to be here in the shade after standing so long out in the sun, a fact not lost to the man.

"No, no, this will never do" he said as he pulls a walkie-talkie from one of his many pockets.

"Line Control-Line Control, this is Rust Leader, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear Rust Leader."

"We got a code gold, level five at the Sat Five assembly area, repeat code gold, level five, do you copy?"

"Yes Sir! Code gold, level five at Sat Five assembly area One?"

"Rodger that! Small party, but we need to red streak everything here, especially the hydration cart. Copy that?"

"Rodger that Rust Leader, it's on the way!"

"Okay then, soon, we can get started on the right foot, but for now..., you there..." He's talking to me.

"Come down here." I snap to attention and sprint to where he beckoned. He looks pleased at my vigor.

"You look pretty spry; how would you like to be my assistant?"

"Yes Sir!"

"Good!... Here, take this" and he hands me a beat-to-shit, but extremely high quality, aluminum flashlight with a NASA logo on it.

"When I get this hatch open, your job will be to climb up in there and shine the light on each thing as I describe what it is. Will you do that for us?"

Are you kidding me? Climb up in there? Hot damn!

"Yes Sir! It will be my pleasure!" I wasn't kidding. He twists some fasteners with a special key wrench that is on a ring of dozens of such devices and what must also be a hundred conventional keys that he produced from one of his many pockets, and with a shove of his shoulder in a move so natural that only a thousand repetitions could make it seem so easy, the hatch swings down and to the side and already I'm sure we have pulled far away from any resemblance of the 'standard' tour.

"See that main feed pipe, the one running right down the center, get on top of that and be ready with the light." I do what he says. It is cool in here, the result of the insulation for the liquid oxygen that once flowed through here, I find out later.

"Now folks, if you could gather round here...," everyone crowds around the open hatch.

"This..., this, is the heart of the Saturn Five..." I shine the light on one of the five, Volkswagen size, crazy looking contraptions with its hundreds of wirers and pipes and tubes connected to it in every possible way that he his pointing out and is describing.

"The turbine pumps that feed the main engines. They spin at over thirty thousand revolutions per minute and could fill a swimming pool in just seconds. The fuel flows from the main manifold...," I follow his lead with the light.

"Through the distribution valves and check valves that prevent back flow, all powered by the combustion of the engines themselves."

"Vhat if 'backflow' is not prevented?" Asked the professor, apparently holding some of his own knowledge of such things.

"Ka-bluey!"

"Ka-bluey?

"Ka-bluey!"

"I see!"

"Daddy? What's Ka-bluey?"

"Like the Fourth of July Honey."

"Ow! I like fireworks! Will we see some?" The girl asks the man.

"Oh..., I don't think so..., and I don't think you would want to see that kind of fireworks."

The man points out and describes dozens of other components: Feed pumps, priming pumps, back up pumps, start-up pumps, flow meters, sending units, heat exchangers, etc., etc.

"All that flow is needed to..." he moves everyone towards the rear of the rocket stage and signals for me to come back down. But as I reach for a hand hold, something loose falls away and lands at my feet. It is the handle of a gigantic, flat blade screwdriver, as long as a sword, and with a clear plastic handle big enough for use with both hands and with a NASA logo laminated inside.

Whoa!

"The pump feeds these engines, but first the fuel travels through the double layers of the combustion chamber cone to keep it cool before it is ignited for thrust..., some 1.6 million pounds of thrust..., per each engine! And each combustion chamber swivels on its own gimbal assemble and..., and..., where did you get that?" he is pointing at the giant screwdriver in my hands.

"It was in there, behind some pipes" I say while pointing in the general area of where I found it. He looks shocked, speechless, flabbergasted even.

"That..., that is..., let me see that!" I pass it over and he looks pissed. He inspects it top to bottom, right to left, he squints his eyes at a row of numbers stamped into the steel of the blade shaft. He starts checking his many pockets, looking to see if he has something, a notebook perhaps, as if needs to record the row of numbers for some important reason. I interrupt his actions:

"Can I have it, Sir? You know, finders' keepers?" Grandma shoots me a cross look and the man gapes up at me utterly dumbfounded, as if he can't believe what he is hearing. Suddenly, his face lightens up and he starts laughing his ass off. He looks quite insane for a bit as he struggles with his self-control, finally he asks:

"Finders' keepers?"

"Look, Sir, he's just a kid, he doesn't know what he's..." The man cuts Grandma off with a polite raise of his hand.

"No-no, it's a fine, even an appropriate request. I just forgot what is going on here. This rocket, this..., 'government asset' had been signed off as inspected by teams of highly paid, extremely qualified people. A breach in operations such as this..., this...," he can't seem to find the words he is looking for and he just holds the large tool up in his hands.

"Could have just a few months ago, caused someone to lose his job, even his pension. But it dawned on me that that was before..., now..., it doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter. The project is over... I'm over!... A few weeks from now..., I'm retiring..."

"Hey that's great, good for you..."

"Forced retirement."

"Oh..., a..., look, I'm sorry."

Just then a blue step van pulls up and out jumps some kitchen staff members in white aprons and with little, white, folded paper hats tilted on their heads.

"I'm sorry Sir, we put together things as fast as we could. We have sandwiches, cookies, crackers, fruit over ice and ice cream..."

"Ice cream?" Asks the little girl.

"Do you want us to set up here? Or at the end?"

The beverage cart was set up on the spot. Iced tea and fruit punch were served while the food cart was wheeled to an area near the rocket's final stage and set up under a tent awning. A detachment of the Honor Guard in clean, crisp dress blues also arrived in a second van as the tour resumed and waived of their usual, ceremonial duties, the guard detachment made themselves useful by being Johnny-on-the-spot carrying pitchers and refilling everyone's beverages. Further usefulness was discovered when the little girl couldn't see something that the man, our guide, was pointing out (now using that giant screwdriver as a pointer) and with the father's permission, one of the guards lifted her up as she squealed in delight.

"I might need some help also" Grandma said and instantly two young men were at her side, stuck to her like glue for the rest of the tour, even lifting her up a few times as well as the little girl giggled.

"Hey, no fair!" 'complained' the Professor's wife and that couple also instantly had slavish assistance from more of the young men in what was becoming a running joke that was providing levity and entertainment for us all. But for me and our soon to be retiring tour guide, it was all serious business. This man knew this gigantic machine like the back of his hand, and with the help of my monkey-like dexterity, we opened almost every hatch, removed at least one of every type of access panel, cracked open fuel tanks and peered inside, disconnect and reconnected multi-pin electrical connectors, operated cable and lever assemblies while the man explained each system so precisely and so thoroughly but also in such a lively and simple manner that even the little girl was fascinated.

"I'm going to be an engineer and work on rockets when I grow up!" She blurted out at one point and we all couldn't have been prouder. Our tour guide got a little choked-up at that point and he had to take a short break as he gathered his thoughts, but the girl's beaming father snapped him out of it with a grinning slap on the back. He may have given tours to kings and presidents but from the way he was putting his all into this tour for us, I think this may have been his best work yet and he seemed to be enjoying it more than ever. I hope it wasn't his last tour!

The staff car pulled up with a screech. The Lieutenant Colonel jumps out, still straightening his tie and smoothing out his uniform. He bounds straight to our tour guide and after giving us a quick once over, he asks him:

"Geez Ben, I didn't hear about a gold level five today, I was on the golf course. Who's the VIP?"

"Right here!" He points to the little girl.

"A future, American rocket engineer!" She curtseys for the Colonel. He looks perplexed and leans in close and says to our guide:

"Look..., a..., Ben, I know about your retirement and I'm sorry about that..., really I am, but you can't just call a gold level five, there's paperwork involved and..."

"Excuse me..., Sir..." I pipe in.

"Perhaps to wasn't made clear, the VIP is right here..."

Grandma is shooting me a cross look that could kill, but I think I know what I'm doing.

"Less than two weeks ago..., this Woman..., a Great American and a veteran of the Woman's Auxiliary Corps was decorated by a representative of the President who, under his direct authority, a man just steps away from that high office, and authorized by signed parchment, bearing his actual and legal signature and seal, she..., my Grandmother, was recognized and rewarded for her quick and effective action regarding an important international incident of a classified nature, as well as for a lifetime of other, heroic services by being awarded, with great ceremony, the Presidential Medal of Freedom."

Everyone is staring at Grandma, and she doesn't seem to mind. I continue:

"If you need confirmation, just call this man" and I hand over Agent Hamilton's business card.

"Hamilton? 'Rex' Hamilton?"

"Yes Sir! Hung the medal on her personally."

"What..., what, incident?... What did you do?

"Well Colonel...," Grandma leans in and with a gleam in her eyes, and she says in a low and serious voice:

"I could tell you..., but then I would have to kill you!"

He looks genuinely shocked, as if his life might actually be on the line. Grandma can't keep a straight face any longer and she laughs.

"Ben, you got yourself a gold level five here!"

I shoot my 'finger gun' at the Colonel and he looks like he might just shit a brick.

The tour kind of peters-out after that as the new focus of interest is my Grandmother, as she tells of details and of her reactions to the award ceremony back at the base in a true, need-to-know fashion that kept details hidden and increased the allure and exclusiveness to a point that kept everyone (including me) spellbound. The way Grandma danced around names and dates and other facts as she clearly and effectively related her thoughts and feelings about the ceremony was simply amazing. I was astonished at her ease at such banter, and it was clear that this kind of thing was something that she was well versed in. A peek in a window overlooking a deep well of experience. (Who knew?) Not me!

Under that awning and while eating sandwiches and fruit, stories were told well into late afternoon and of a wide variety of topics while one of the Honor Guard's young men had produced a football and me and the little girl went out repeatedly for forward passes again and again in the cool of the evening until we were both grass stained and exhausted.

"She'll sleep tonight" the father said as we finally wrapped it up and I approached the adults conversing at the linen covered folding table who were now surrounded by the kitchen staff and the rest of the Honor Guard who had all stopped being just underlings or hired help long ago and were all bonded together and equal members of the human race under the presence of my Grandmother because her mere existence demands such behavior. I notice the giant screwdriver jabbed into the grass next to 'Ben' and I go near it. At a lull in their stories, I ask:

"Do you mind?" And I touch the tool as if I would like a last look.

"Oh, you can have it! What the hell! Finders' keepers..., I guess it will make a fine souvenir."

"Souvenir?... Sir! I'm planning on building a hotrod..., I'm going to need all the tools I can get! This might come in handy."

"That, young man is music to my ears! Excellent!" Said 'Ben' beaming with a big smile, which reminded the Colonel of something and he sent his driver back to staff car and the young soldier came back with a big box from the Ford's trunk which he gently spilled out on the table as the Colonel declared:

"Here we are; some gift souvenirs for everyone" as brand-new NASA flashlights and NASA logo baseball caps spill out. I still have Ben's beat-up torch laying on the ground where we were playing catch and I grab it up and pass it towards him as I eagerly snatch up a shiny new example and a ball cap but Grandma snaps up the old crusty thing and asks Ben:

"Can I have this one?"

"Why on Earth would want that old thing?" He asked as Grandma seemed lost as she traced scratches playfully with her exquisite painted nails in a dreamy, melancholy.

"Why?... I'm not sure?... If this thing could talk...,"

"Yes! Please! By all means Ma'am, but if that damn thing could talk..., you'd hear a whole lot of cuss'n!" That said, Grandma flips open her purse and tosses it in with the most content and pleased look on her face.
Chapter Twenty

Patina, honestly, I don't believe I had ever heard the word before. That is what Grandma called the wear and tear on that old flashlight as she fiddled with it, examined it, played with it as we waited for my flight at the gate in the airport terminal. I still didn't see the point, the reason it made a difference, isn't shiny and new better? Sure seemed that way to me. She laughed at me.

"Brian, you've got a lot to learn. This wear and tear, these scratches, these nicks and pits, this what put men on the moon! This should be in a museum, the Smithsonian. This is a treasure, a national treasure, I should have never taken it from him. I'm going to put it in the shoe box with my award certificate and my medal and some other precious things."

Other than a quick goodbye, that was the last time I spoke with her. After a hug, I was on my way. The weather was perfect, the takeoff and the entire flight was smooth, the transfer at Atlanta was seamless, I fell into a fit-full sleep after a sandwich somewhere over Texas and I woke terrified, about twenty minutes from landing at SeaTac.

Heart racing, palms sweating, throat dry, possibly hyper-ventilating, my chest tight with anxiety, I believe I'm having a panic attack! Just settle down! Relax, nothing to be upset about. That was a lie. It had hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't think I can do this! The thought of going back, resuming the old ways, the hierarchy of the family, power based on the physical strength that only ascending age differences can yield with my father at the top, ready with his belt to shape and clarify any 'stray' thoughts of anything other than his total control. No! I can't do this! I consolidate my options. Let's see, I have two hundred and sixty-two dollars, some eight complete outfits including four pairs of shoes, two dress, one pair of sneakers and a pair of sandals, all packed in a large suitcase. My carry-on includes my books, magazines, souvenirs and with the blade of a large NASA screwdriver sticking out. I could take a taxi south, no, a bus, no, I could take a taxi to the bus station, no, I've got to make my money last. I'll walk to the bus station, head south because it is warm down that way, I may be outdoors for a while, at least until I get a job and that's when it hit me, 'get a job' why, that is my fate here. Why scramble on the road to live the same life that I'm destined to live here? This sucks!

Then I remembered my friends. I have missed them. I thought of all the stories I would tell them, the girls, wait a minute, I never got laid. This was a disturbing detail, any story of conquest was just a laughing matter if there isn't any real conquest, every man knows that. I might as well save those stories for a physiatrist, or I could write a book about it someday, teachers are always trying to pull personal and embarrassing things like that out of us. Sickos!

Maybe it won't be that bad. Perhaps my Dad and I will bond over my sailing skills. Mom will be impressed with Grandma's secret double life; I know I was. If she even believes me. And my friends, well, with the money in my pocket, I'll score a big bag and I will be in their good graces, at least temporarily. Then I thought of Janis. Beautiful, lovely and more importantly, willing Janis Bancroft! I should have written! Oh, nobody writes anymore. But with nice clothes to wear (if I can keep my brothers from them) and with money in my pocket, I'll take her out to someplace nice. Well start up right where we left off. Then I remembered the puking, and the long, exhausting walk back to her house and the less than passionate goodbye; "I taste puke..." We'll start back up, right before all that, perhaps. That thought gave me hope and knocked me right out of my funk. The thought of her topless gave me more than hope, it gave me hope in my pants!

The plane coming in on final approach and the landing diverted my lusty thoughts and I regained my self-control in time to walk normally off the plane with the other passengers and without my carry-on held in such a way as to block the view. But it was touch and go because I had vowed to phone Janis as soon as I could, and my biggest hope was to be visiting her tonight and that thought kept me right on the edge. Would Mike give me a ride? I could offer him gas money!

"Brian?... Brian!... There he is..., Brian, this way!" Called my mother. She is with Ken, my next older brother, a harmless chap and my mother's favorite. Jenny, my only sister is also there with Tom, the youngest.

"Look at that tan!" exclaimed my Mother. "And your hair, so light colored now, you could pass for a blond!" Sun tanned and sun bleached, I hadn't even noticed. But the real change was my mother! Nice clothes in a modern style, hair styled, make up and something I don't believe I had never seen on her before; painted nails! My brothers and sister were also more up to date with decent clothes and, for the boys, haircuts that were not Dad's signature buzz-cut. What gives?

There had been some changes while I was away; big changes. Apparently, my mom and dad had had it out. Some kind of big conflict where my mother had stood her ground and demanded change. Good for her! She had completed her residency at the hospital and was making pretty good money now. She had come out of her shell and had become more social and had increased her circle of friends. Her and father's separate lives had blossomed into a full-blown split that wouldn't, couldn't be mended, although they technically remained married and they still lived under the same roof, but even that wasn't to last that much longer. But there was a financial incentive for both of them to make that work, at least for the time being.

Mike, the oldest (the bastard, as Grandma let slip) was off at a Civil Air Patrol summer camp in a program that would defer his draft status for a while (a very real and stunning situation that I wonder if today's young men would be able to handle, and I'm certain they wouldn't put up with, and why should they?) and Dale, the step son, he had joined the Navy and had recently shipped out. Greg, the half-brother, had moved in with his real mom (a woman who I had never met) which left the remaining family more manageable. Mother had bought her own, brand new car (a Datsun 1200) which cemented her independence by taking my dad completely out of the loop when it came to many of the day to day little and not so little chores and operations that may have been a sort of glue between them.

When we arrived at the log house, there were more surprises; gone were the chickens and the ducks and the pigs and the cow. So many chores were eliminated, Including the early morning wood gathering and chopping because a new, electric furnace had been installed. The huge and elaborate vegetable garden was reduced to just a little stand that was mostly just little more than an herb garden now and even that wasn't maintained with any passion.

But when Dad came out of his shop, instantly I could feel the new and frankly, bizarre tension that must be the new normal.

"Bill, (before Mother used to call him 'Dad,' and he called her 'Mom') look at his hair! See how light it is now?"

"I see it Beth, could use a tight haircut though." Oh no, don't you dare!

"After you get packed into your room, come out and I'll show you the latest on the boat" he said in a friendly manner that was a pleasant surprise to me and a little strange sounding. He had always yielded authority before as a tyrant, like the God that we children had never really learned about in any formal way, because, for all their quirks and particularities, my parents were both completely secular and godless, at least back in those days. Science and technical advancement were the hallmark of their generation and as we were constantly reminded, we were lucky to be part of that version of such a 'blessing.' Polio and other diseases were eradicated, breakthrough drugs such as penicillin promised to end VD and that and the 'pill' would usher forth the sexual revolution, old hang-ups that they had suffered through would be a thing of the past for us. Big, fancy cars, vast highway systems, cheap energy, high yield factory farming made possible with massive fertilizer production and use, a time of better living through chemistry, yet we were the selfish ones for not wanting to fight for it all in some back water such as Vietnam. How selfish. Yet for all of their belief in science and technology, college was out. How strange.

But this is fantastic! Mom finally coming out of her shell, Dad talking like an even-handed, sane person. A home run in a more normal and modern fashion, I just might be able to bring friends here now! Hot damn! I should call my friends, especially Janis, sweet, sexy Janis! Oh, I had better go and check out Dad's boat first. Just wait until he hears about my sailing! Maybe he will give me a ride to see Janis. My mind raced with possibilities under this new household structure, finally we were becoming normal, what a blessing. I was pumped with optimism, high on possibility.

The boat looked great, painted now, ruddy red anti-fouling paint below a sky-blue stripe of a water line, painted gloss black above that. "Gimbal" painted across the stern and edged in gold leaf. I skipped up the temporary steps of the 'ladder' built to access the inside. Dark green paint covered the deck with some kind of grit added to it to enhance the grip, and the cabin and top were painted a buff tan color. The inside looked complete, with bunks, cabinets, cubby holes for storage and a neat little cast iron wood stove built in with a little stove pipe popping up through the cabin top. Only the mast and the rigging remained to be finished and installed and that is what Dad was working on up above in the workshop area of the two-story shop that we simply called "The Barn." I hear him coming down the stairs.

"Come on down here boy" he demanded.

"I want to have a look at you." Suddenly, he didn't sound so easy going and enlightened as he had seemed to be in front of my mother. I scrambled down out of the boat to where he was standing.

"Yes Sir?" I said as I reported. He looks me over while standing as high above me as possible. He is being as intimidating as he can. I can smell the booze on his breath. He tussles my hair and not in an affectionate way.

"We'll have to get Rosy down at the hardware store to cut off this damn hippy hair" he said as he moves his grasp to the material of my shirt and while rubbing it between his thumb and his fore finger he says:

"Nice shirt, a little big for you, I'll bring it down to Greg, it will fit him fine. Will go through your other stuff after diner." I must have balked with a look of shock or some other tell or perceived protest because in a nano second, he has his hand on his belt and he is screaming in my face:

"God dammit boy, if you think this 'change' with your mother means you're getting away with anything you got another thing coming! Your gunna learn to share, and you're gunna be a part of this family, this entire family or so help me God you're gunna regret the day you were born! Your mother may have Kenny and Tommy, but your ass is mine! And I got a whole summer of chores lined up for you! So, starting tomorrow, you can kiss those fancy clothes goodbye, and you better be ready to work! At least one of my boys is going to learn to be a man, God help me!" For a secularist, he has no problem citing God when it suits his needs.

The confrontation was so harsh and so sudden, that it was hard to take seriously. The lesson learned was this; stay the hell away from that psycho. He went back to work, and I turned tail and went back to the house, I had some phone calls to make. The entire experience was just a blank in an otherwise great day. It was so surreal and unbelievable that I just ignored it, blew it off as unworkable, unrealistic, I would deal with it later and in my own way, somehow. Right now, I arranged to meet my friends at the smoking road, it was time to get loaded, very loaded, in fact, after the way he spoke to me, I may not be back tonight, maybe ever! I've couch camped before and with money in my pocket, I could go a long time before I wore out my welcome.

I remembered one more thing to check on before I met my friends. I pushed my desk chair to the entrance of the closet and stood on it as I looked to the very back of the top shelf. What the hell?... No! This is the last straw! Like a flick of a switch, my future was set, what little trust I had was destroyed. I see how this game is played. Part of me was glad it happened, it allowed the no holds barred response and the 'game on' mentality that would rule from now on.

"Janis? I'd forget about her dude" Wig said in a news flash that struct hard, right to the bottom of my very soul and affected me much more deeply than my father's tirade, but not quite to the level of his theft. This was important, my Dad's ranting was just an example of his crazy talk, but his stealing of my hiem joints (I was sure it was him) was a real slight and a deep injustice.

"Forget about her?"

"Yeah..., Don fucked her, right after you left, then she got all crazy about it and when she heard about Don with Karen Letcher..., she stabbed her in the neck with a fork, right in Meyers's. [restaurant] She spent the night in juvey before the judge pulled her out. Now she's see'n a shrink. My sister says she heard she's going to a private school next year, somewhere back east."

"Don fucked her?" I thought he was my friend.

Wig smoked his stash with me, and Chris joined us later with a big bag for me that he got fronted to him. He also brought a half rack of warm beer that he snagged from his dad's garage and we drank it up. A couple beers, about twenty bong hits, some stories of Disney World (Space Mountain in particular) and even the story about the old broad in the red dress, which they found amusing and oddly, they gave me almost the same comment that Joe and Smitty did:

"She would have torn you up! You fucked up! You would have never forgot that!" Etc. I also related what my Dad had said, and they matched that with some stories of their own:

"That fuck'n weirdo stopped in his truck when I was walk'n down the street. He called me over and told me I couldn't hang out with you after you got back! Imagine, telling me who I can and can't hang out with! Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"What did you say?"

"I said 'FUCK YOU! You're not my dad!'"

"He told my Dad the same thing at the Grange Hall, and he [his dad] got pissed! 'My kid ain't good enough for you?' He asked. Then he invited him outside and he wouldn't do it. Pussy! My old man would have cleaned his clock! He [my dad] ain't been back there since."

This was the kind of things I needed to hear. These were true friends! (Don? Right now, not so much! He must have known I would be sore about what happened with Janis and that is probably why he stayed away. Not that he was afraid of me or what I might do, it was just because it was awkward. Janis wasn't my property and he knew I would get over it, and he was right about that. If anything, Don, the toughest, most violent kid I knew was in his own way showing some compassion, I eventually realized that I should be flattered.) But still, I was devastated about the news. I really had my hopes up about picking up with her where we had left off. Maybe someday we will meet again, and the thought of her being with my friend might fade by then, but for now, it was over. But then Wig told me of something that was a pleasant surprise:

"You gunna come get your car tomorrow? Buzz wants it out of his yard."

"My car?"

"What? You don't know?"

Wig was dating Buzz Hillis's daughter. The Hillis family lived at the top of our hill. Apparently, and as a result of talking to her mother, and probably part of this new and bold 'awakening' that she was going through, my mother had bought me a car to fix up, and not just any car but a 1956 Chevy Two Door 210 Coupe.

"No fucking way! Are you shitting me?"

"I wouldn't get too excited."

That was the surprise that Grandmother had mentioned. Don't get too excited, too late!

"It's got some problems" Wig said as we immediately started walking up the hill because I couldn't live another second without seeing it. When we got there, I didn't see the problem. In gray primer, it looked like it was ready for paint. No rust holes, no dents, it was missing some chrome pieces, and the entire front bumper assembly. Wig said it didn't have a transmission (Buzz bought it so he could use that in another car he was fixing up) or an interior, but that is what junkyards were for. Suddenly the money in my pocket would need to be spent carefully and I would have to see about my old job at the Cabello's farm. The wheels were turning in my mind. What an infusion of hope! Janis who?

I was so stoked as I staggered home late that night. So many new and wonderful opportunities were opening up all around me. Plans unfolding, dreams suddenly within reach, hope for the future. And I didn't want to come home, what was I worried about?

It seemed like I was forgetting something as walked up the drive. Dad's bedroom window was dark, Mom's new car was gone from her parking space which meant she was off to work. I would slip in the side door as I had done a thousand times before, round the corner and:

Bam! The impact from behind was violent, but the cheesy wood paneling of the unfinished rec room (the result of a disagreement between my mom and dad about how it would be finished, and as a result, it was just never finished) absorbed the energy of the blindside slam. I spun around in alarm and before I could process what I was seeing, I blurted out:

"Hey! What the fuck!" To a weaving, psychotic man in his underpants with a belt in his hand. He grabbed me by the arm and while swinging his belt at me (rather ineffectively I might add, too close for a full and effective swing) he shouted incoherent, run together phrases and orders about all kinds of absolutes and blanket statements regarding everything and everybody and future concepts and realities and "for my own good" and the "good of this family" and "this stops now" and a dozen other things as we danced a war dance with him in the center and me circling him and after a few minutes of this, he stumbled his footing and I shoved as hard as I could and he lost the grip on my arm and down he went in a heap. I bolted out the door and when I had some distance out on the lawn, and with all the other kids watching from their bedroom windows, I shouted at the top of my lungs:

"FUCK YOU OLD MAN!"

I booked down the driveway, and in the time that I had calculated that it would take for him to put his pants and boots on, I heard his truck start up with a heavy-footed roar. No problem, he would race up and down the road in a blind fury as I took the trail beside and behind the graveyard that lead to Chris's house. I was muttering and cussing at every breath as I started the short journey, but by the time I got there, I was already laughing. If you could have seen his face as I pushed him down! All that swimming, and with me finally getting plenty to eat all summer, I had gained strength and I had gained confidence. I had some options. I knew he wouldn't have the nerve to bother me here at Chris's house. My relationship with his family was of a type where I didn't even have to bother Chris by rapping on his window, I went straight to the front door and his mother let me in, and she even made me a sandwich before she set me up in the guest room.
Chapter Twenty-One

Chris Loaned me some clothes and after a shower and a pleasant, sit down breakfast of eggs and bacon with toast, as his mom gathered up my dirty clothes to add to their daily wash load. I had formed a plan, we would stop at my house and I would stealthily make certain that my dad had indeed left for work and that my mother was soundly in bed, and after clearing some brush and pulling weeds at the flat space behind the barn, we would see if Buzz would help us get my car home.

I had thought about it overnight. The car was a part of my mother's 'escape' plan. (A small part.) Certainly, my father was not on board, the fact that the car was still at Buzz's pointed to the chance that she still wasn't certain that she wanted to go ahead with this part of the plan. I remember Grandma saying that she had to do some talking to get my mother to agree to it in the first place. Perhaps she hoped on using the car as leverage to control my behavior, to make sure that I earned the right to have it with constant good deeds and acceptable behavior or whatever. New outlook or not, something like that was not beyond her capability. Her and my dad both preferred to be coddled with on-going bootlicking to stoke their egos as my older bothers constantly demonstrated. Whatever the factors involved; my plan was to force the issue. It's easier to ask for forgiveness then for permission, besides, Buzz wanted it gone from his yard and it was already paid for, in fact, I was told that my mother already held the title. If everything went according to plan, the car would be out back behind the barn and conveniently out of sight from my mom, (unless she walked out there) and perhaps even hidden from my dad because there are no windows in the back wall of the barn, and as dad usually went straight to work on his boat until well after dark, he may not notice it until the weekend, and maybe not even then.

The second part of my plan was to stay a few nights with Chris's family. (Not an unusual circumstance) In all of my father's rantings the night before, he never did say I was grounded and as I knew, his flying off the handle would not be shared by him with my mom, they just weren't that close anymore. Their lives were so separate that even discipline wasn't shared. When a child wronged one parent, that parent set the punishment and just as everything else, never the two would meet. Something such as that would mean that they would have to interact together. God forbid! The time at Chris's would help my dad to cool down and meanwhile, his reaction will be to have the car hauled away (if he even notices it) but that would mean having to interact with my mom (for she held the title) and for her to relent and go along with his punishment for me by getting rid of the car, for something that she would have probably enjoyed witnessing, that would be a retreat of her entire new and bold social change. (At least that is how I hope she sees it.) A change that she had planned and nurtured for years and was something that meant much more than some old car. No, if dad was against it, mom was for it, and vis-versa. It didn't even matter what 'it' is.

The third leg of my three-legged stool of success involved my behavior. If I could stay out of any real trouble such as making messes, causing problems (face it, staying out late wasn't even much of a problem, that was more about breaking their rules and a personal swipe at their authority, it really wasn't any sweat of their backs, in fact, I had noticed that they both didn't go very far to catch me doing that, to be caught would mean the burden of applying punishment and following up on that said punishment, it was more of a hassle for them than for me. Besides, the fact that I had a social circle intrigued them, (or at least my mom) both of them grew up on farms during the depression, social contacts were rare and probably not all they could have been. Even they could see the 'less than perfect' social paths that my older brothers were on. Is that what they wanted for the rest of us? Especially my sister? (I don't think so!) So, if I kept my grades up, stay out of any real trouble and if I could include the other kids, just keep them occupied if nothing else, I could be leveraging my parents instead of the other way around. Boy! If the issue is important enough, I could be pretty smart!

Buzz worked swing shift at the Navy Yard, which meant that he would be home in the morning. I had told my brothers and my sister that I was bringing my car home (as if I had permission) and they tagged along out of curiosity and as my recruited push crew. There were no seats in the car, so buzz set a wooden crate in it and we pushed it out to the street as he steered while sitting on that crate. The hill between our houses provided the motivation after that, and we all climbed inside for the 'ride' in my new car.

In just minutes, I could see a problem and the reason that there was no interior. I remembered Wig saying not to get too excited and I think I was seeing what he was talking about, but still I remained upbeat about it all, for now. We coasted right into the driveway and after us kids got out and pushed, Buzz steered it right into the spot that Chris and I had prepared. Buzz knew my mom worked nights and that she was asleep so he left without any further ado, and due to what I had discovered about the car, he might have been in some additional hurry to get out of there. But as he had mentioned, he had only charged my mother a hundred dollars, so I don't think he had any real guilt about it. But as I looked it over critically, even at age thirteen, I could see the hopelessness of the situation. My mind spun with all kinds of 'plan B' scenarios, such as finding a used transmission and getting it running (it had an engine, but I didn't have a clue if it was any good) and driving (it did roll, as the trip down the hill proved, and it had at least some brakes because Buzz had used them to slow for the driveway) all of which could help it to be sold at a profit, but even that level of repair would take money, and tools, and using my father's tools? Forget it! I had planned on getting my own tools and Wig had offered to loan or sell me his late father's tools, but he admitted that there wasn't much left after his uncles had pillaged them. Chris said he could scrounge some things up as well but as I looked this thing over, it was clear, I didn't want to spend a dime on this wreck.

The problem? Apparently, this car had spent some time parked in a flood, a flood probably of salt water. A perfect waterline about one foot up from the bottom circled the entire car. Below that an intense effort of repair had been initiated involving yards of fiberglass cloth and gallons of body filler. All covered up in a spiffy coat of gray primer, and even though the work was fairly recent, already it was bubbling out in a million places with quickly returning rust. No, this wasn't what I had in mind. I was just a kid, but I had enough smarts to see the folly of such a project. But it wasn't all a complete waste.

"Keep the windows rolled up or we'll suffer the ravages of outer space!" Were my orders as Captain of the Star Ship. A ship that had been transformed from a great racecar, on a cross country race, to an aqua car as the ocean needed to be crossed, to a flying machine (we were all fans of the movie 'Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang') to finally a star ship, travelling at warp speed. Oh, what kind of worlds would we explore when we finally open the doors? We had found the best use for this car, a tool of pure imagination. With motor noises, (internal combustion, turbo jet and finally rockets) realistic 'ride' simulation, (us kids jumping up and down and swinging left and right as they did on the bridge of the Enterprise on TV) and turning the steering wheel while my 'crew' operated dash controls that instead of heater, lights and vents, now were operating powerful warp drive engines, life support systems, proton torpedoes and phasers. Hours were spent as my mother slept soundly without us kids in the house making noise, and perhaps due to the fun, and the fact that I had already lost any real interest in the car as being much of an investment, I refused to worry about my dad and his draconian promises of a future of obedience and toil. (I was worried about that, greatly worried, because he obviously meant every word he said, but as it was so unpalatable and generally unacceptable, that I just couldn't wrap my mind around it, and therefore, I blocked it out, ignored it completely, because if I didn't, I would have been consumed by it and I certainly wouldn't be able to use my imagination to turn this car into a spaceship for the entertainment of my siblings.)

That is what we were doing as my mom came out to check on us after she had wakened. A carload of bright, shiny faces were deeply ensconced in a world of fun and imagination, so much so that we had skipped lunch which allowed mother a bonus of some extra sleep.

"Thanks for the car Mom! It's just the kind I wanted. Mr. Hillis delivered it, I think he wanted out of his yard" I said as she looked unsure and troubled, worried about it being here and that its arrival hinted that the entire ordeal was already out of her control. But as my little sister and brother and even Ken tried to shout all at once and over talk each other in a mad passion of over-imagination regarding racing, sea voyages and space travel, even mother was drawn into the fun. Already it had produced an afternoon of bonding and togetherness which was only interrupted when my father came home from work.

"What do you think you're gunna do with this wreck?" he said to mom. She didn't answer. He didn't act surprised; he probably had heard that she bought it off Buzz from his work buddies.

"Whatever you do, it's your problem" and mother just stewed as her face got red as a beat as he turned towards his shop, ready to start his evening labors. We wouldn't see him again until she rang the diner bell, which regardless of the degree of their marital separation, it was still her duty to provide meals. I was amazed that he didn't say anything about last night's outburst or assign me a chore of some type, but I knew to was coming, it was just a matter of time. Perhaps the car was already driving a wedge between him and his plans for me as I had hoped. Maybe its presence had surprised him, threw him off his game for at least one evening, symbolizing my mother's resolve and commitment to stand her ground. But I think mother and I both knew it was only temporary, he would find a way to undermine the situation, and any gain now would only mean a more complete humiliation later. I/we could be sure of that. But sometimes, unexpected things happen.

A pick-up truck pulling a tow dolly came up the drive and went right around the barn before it stopped just yards from the old Chevy. The long-haired man who was missing a few teeth looked towards the car with a grin on his face as he climbed out of the cab of his truck.

"You Brian?" he asked me, obviously tipped off about me somehow.

"Yes."

"Look here son" he said as he pulled a wad of bills from his front pants pocket.

"Buzz sold dat dare car right out from under me, so, I'm gonna make ya an offer, one hundred twenty-five dollars, cash money! Dats a twenty-five dollar profit an ya didn't have to do a damn thing! What do you say? Dad had come back out from the barn and mom looked rattled at the man and his offer.

"No" I said, and dad looked shocked. I think he had seen this as a way out of the 'confrontation' with my mom, a way to defuse something that he hadn't thought through and to relieve a potential problem and situation that he didn't want to deal with.

"Come on son, that's twenty-five dollars, easy money!" Mom suddenly seemed to see what was at stake, and even though she was having doubts about the entire situation, to sell the car would seem to be a win for my dad and she suddenly wouldn't have it.

"That's Brian's car and his decision Bill" which clearly meant 'stay out of it.'

"Well..., what do ya say kid?" I could see this was more than an offer for an old car, this was a 'line in the sand' and a test of mettle. A sale would relieve me of a hopeless burden but would strengthen my dad's opinion that my mother was wrong, and that the entire idea was folly. I certainly didn't want that, so I shot for the moon:

"Two hundred." The man looked pissed. You could almost hear him gasp. My dad just shook his head as if he was saying "What a stupid kid, you'll never get an offer like that again" and he started to turn back to his shop.

"Okay..., dammit kid..., you drive a hard bargain but here ya go!" And he counted out seventy-five more dollars from another pocket and handed it to me. My dad looked shocked and amazed, even a little proud. My mother took me aside: "Are you sure about this?" I took her over to the car. "It's all fiberglass and Bondo Mom, this thing isn't worth fixing up" I said under my breath. Mom looked ashamed because it dawned her that Mr. Hillis had put one over on her, but I don't think he (or anyone) expected a kid to get very far with it anyway. Welcome to the world of used cars! I found out later from Wig that this guy who was buying it wanted the title more than he wanted the car. Seems he was a sketchy fellow who had another car just like it, so you can guess what might have been his plans, and it was probably something Buzz didn't want any part of.

To my amazement, from then on, dad seemed to be all of the sudden on board regarding a car for me, but I soon figured out it was just because it was a way to belittle my mother. The problem with it all was that she initiated it, and what was unacceptable under her guidance, was fine if he was in charge of it. All I knew was that I had just over four hundred dollars total and I seemed to be authorized to comb the Want Ads in the paper for a truly suitable project car. Also, dad had backed down (for now) on his work and haircut threats, but as I soon would find out, things weren't quite as they seemed.
Chapter Twenty-Two

The handshake sealed the deal. The nearly mint 1966 Volkswagen Karmen Ghia with a blown motor and an extra, good motor from the junkyard was mine for four hundred dollars, all with a clear title. I had done my homework; it would be an easy swap with a limited number of tools required for the job. The car would be good on gas and, as a bonus, it had good paint (forest green) that would buff right out but most important to me, it was stylish and cool as hell! It wasn't something such as my car magazines often featured, it was something better. Newer, and of higher quality, it was proof that I was moving on from childish hotrods and their limitations, to being a more sophisticated type of auto enthusiast. The best part was that car it was only a few miles away from our house and the seller was willing to help us tow it by steering and working the brakes, which he promised were brand new. The spare engine and a ton of other parts (including a new clutch kit) could all be carried in the back of my dad's truck as we towed it home. Never had I been more impatient for my dad to get here.

It was sad that I had lost much of my mother's interest about this car thing, but it wasn't the only thing that was used as a tool (or should I say weapon) in my parent's endless war against each other as I was being bounced around between them. Some kids seemed to benefit as their parents split up, as each parent suddenly tries to outshine the other as they shower the kids with presents and attention to 'win' their love. But I seemed to be getting the exact opposite treatment. The promise of a car seemed to mean that all the other necessities, except for the bare minimum, could be waived, but that was fine with me. All the hardship and trauma of my whole life would have been worth it as my grand plan was finally coming together. I had my money ready; I had recounted it a dozen times, I had called the guy again because my father was late, he said it was no problem. Where is he?

Finally, he arrived but he was not alone. Crap! What the hell? I rush right out to meet him, I've got a lot to explain, but if we hurry, we still have plenty of time. I start my pitch before he is out of his truck (after all, we need to hurry) and I get to the point about the blown motor when he stops me short.

"How many times do I have to tell you! You never buy a car that doesn't run! How many times do I have to tell you that before you get that through your thick skull? It's like I'm talking to a brick wall here!"

Whoa! I thought we had an understanding. This was to be a project, the goal was to completely overhaul a car, a special and valuable car, before I was to get my license. My years of endless talk about this had made that crystal clear, and in these last several weeks I thought that we were finally on the same page, but now, it was clear that he was just shining me on, but why?

"Lucky for you son, that's all over. Jim, (he points to the old guy sitting in the car that followed him here) he's going out of his way to do you a favor. He's agreed to sell you a car."

"What kind of car?"

"For Christ's sake son! Do you always have to be so god damn stupid?"

I don't know what he is talking about.

"This car..., Dumbass!"

No fucking way! Not in a million years! This ugly ass piece of rolling birth control is just about as far from what I had in mind as possible. It's like a living nightmare. Already I'm thinking of ways to get the Volkswagen here without my dad's help as he is pointing out the 'features' of this, the world's ugliest and lamest 'car.'

"The tires are like new, new battery, recent muffler... Are you even listening boy?

No! I'm not.

Dad's wasting his breath. My money is staying right in my pocket, no matter what he says.

That is, except for the next thing he said:

"Look boy, Jim went out of his way to give you this deal, (deal?) and if you want a car, this is it! It's this or nothing! Do you understand me?"

Unfortunately, I did. This was my only chance I had at a 'parental sanctioned' automobile. I tried to look at it in a different light and I felt as if I might be sick. I suppose I could use it when I go out on my own, as transportation to go back and forth to some lame job. A crappy car for a crappy job digging ditches or something. Who knows? After several years I might even earn enough to attract a fat, ugly wife and together we'll scratch and claw our way into a rut where I might find some way not to want to kill myself.

"How much money do you have boy?"

In the bleak self-pity that probably is my life from now on, I answer honestly:

"Four hundred eighteen dollars."

"Well Jim, he could work the rest off. How's that sound?"

The rest?

The deal was done, my pockets were empty, and my dad pulled the eyesore to the edge of the yard. He held the keys up in my face and said:

"You pass driver's ed, then, you can have these. In the meantime, just one foul up, one bone headed move, and I'm taking it away, and another thing, I don't want you hanging around with those juvenile delinquents that you call friends. If see them around here, the car's gone! If your grades slip, the car's gone! You're gunna start acting right from now on, or when you're sixteen, you're walking!" Of course, I am. No surprise about any of that!

My dad drove 'Jim' back to whatever rock he crawled out from under and Ken and I looked over the heap. Even he couldn't put lipstick on this pig. The only thing it had going for it was that it was a two-door hardtop, and once, it might have been somewhat stylish.

1963 Ford Galaxy 500 XL Sport Roof, white with a light blue interior. It had heavy damage down both sides, it was missing about a third of the exterior chrome and nearly all the rest of that was smashed to shit, the back bumper was stoved-in at a couple of places but it had all of its hubcaps, and there were no cracks in the glass, not even in the windshield. The inside was a different story, under all the heaps of trash and amid over-flowing ashtrays there was some potential. It had bucket seats and a center console with a floor shifted automatic, and under all that grim, we didn't see a single rip in that thick, heavy duty vinyl upholstery. I decided to clean up the old Junker. What the hell!

"This kind of makes up for your heim joints, right?"

"What do you know about that?"

"He gave them to Harry Tate; I saw that box that you had them in on a shelf in his shop."

I processed this information silently, acting in front of Ken as if it was no big deal, but in my mind I thought about every aspect of Mr. Tate's shop that I could remember as I cleaned out the car, the lay out, how far it was from the house, the fact that they didn't have a dog, the vacant lot next door, all sorts of things, and I would return to these thoughts over and over again as time went on. It became a hobby of sorts, something to occupy my free time. No, I wouldn't forget this little tidbit of information. Thanks Ken!

Ken soon got bored and went back into the house before I had almost completely filled an entire trash can with all the crap that was inside the car; burger and snack wrappers, smelly old clothes and rags and about a hundred empty beer bottles. But, what have we here? I found a spare set of keys under the seat! I take a break from the work and sit behind the wheel as I slip the key into the ignition. I look around, making sure no one is watching. I turn the key one click, dash lights light up and the gauges spring to life, it has a little less than a quarter tank of gas. I turn the key further, the engine starts instantly, quiet, smooth and willing. I'm starting to feel a little better. I shut it back off and stuff the keys deep into my pocket. My little secret!

I spend the entire next day cleaning the car while my dad is at work and while my mother is asleep. I vacuum for hours; I had to empty the vacuum twice. I scrub all the interior surfaces and wax the painted areas. I chrome polish the vast amounts of shiny interior trim and when I am done, I have to admit, it has one of the coolest and raciest interiors of any car that I have ever seen, and even the carpet came back to life and looked okay. With my secret keys, I popped open the trunk found the jack and the spare tire all stored in their places and little else. I expected to find it also all full of junk, but I was pleasantly surprised. I shut it right back up, I couldn't risk anyone seeing it open and realizing that I had a second set of keys. I worked on the outside until my father came home, and when he came over, he was truly impressed with how the inside had turned out.

"Man! I can't believe what a deal you got here!" Geez Dad, take it down a notch! I've already bought it. He is just trying to justify all the extra chores that he's going to get out of me. Oh joy! Can't wait! He produced the keys from his coat pocket and slipped it in and turned it, nothing.

"I disconnect the battery cables while I had the doors open, I didn't want the battery to go dead. The terminals weren't even tight, they twisted right off. (Which meant I didn't use his precious tools, which was a lie, actually I did use a wrench, but I put it precisely back, exactly where it had come from.) I had a feeling he would want to use the car, especially after I had it cleaned up, so disconnecting the battery was a deterrent, but the distributor rotor in my pocket was the real insurance policy.

I scrubbed the creases and dents and the flattened chrome strips of the exterior just like the rest of the car and by dinner time, it didn't look much different than it did before on the outside. While we ate, Dad went on and on about what a good deal he had found, but what he was really saying was "I saved the day and you, [Beth] almost led us to disaster!" I would try to set her straight later.

I made an effort to try and adhere to my Dad's strict, new 'parental guidelines' but face it, he works all day and Mom sleeps all day which meant that I could pretty much do what I wanted, and I did. That crappy old car just wasn't the incentive that he thought it would be. I considered the money that I had spent as just another theft, and as far as having that car around three years from now, well, it would still be here or it wouldn't be, I wasn't going to let it rule my life, after all, it was far from what I had in mind anyway and my mom now knew that. But strangely, my friends took more of an interest in it than I thought they would.

The car was parked in a spot that was not in a direct view of the front windows of the house and while my dad was at work, Chris, Wig and yes, even Don once again, they would come over and we would sit in that thing as if it were a clubhouse and smoke. Wig also knew a lot about car detailing, and we shampooed the carpets with supplies that he had brought over, and he turned me on to using Armor All for the upholstery, and he gifted me several Christmas Tree air fresheners. Of course, I told them all about the extra keys which we used for listening to the radio while sat inside and smoked.

It wasn't long after school had started back up when things got crazy. It was a result of several factors; boredom? Certainly! The fact that my promised slave labors never really materialized? That was a part of it. The thing about that was, putting me to work took up my Dad's time. He would have to line up jobs for me and then he would have to ride herd on me to make sure I finished them. He would have to show me how he wanted them done, etc. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed all that, it was that it just would have taken too much time out of his day. And the incentive of holding the car against me as leverage had lost its appeal as it was just sitting there, forgotten, with a big blue tarp folded up on its hood, weighted down with a big rock. But things aren't as they seem. My dad had thrown the tarp up there to keep it out of the mud or something and then he just left it there. But we found that it added a layer of security by blocking the view of the inside of the car even further and it prevented anyone (my dad) from opening the hood and discovering that the battery was reconnected. But it also gave the car a look of total abandonment, just a forgotten piece of lawn art, I had obviously lost interest in it, and it wasn't going anywhere, but that was just a mirage and a ploy to deceive.
Chapter Twenty-Three

New neighbors had moved in across the street from Chris, after the old man who had lived there before had died, and this young couple, they weren't interested in running the place as a farm any longer.

"I'm telling you guys, he had the tank filled just a few of months ago and this couple, they don't even know it's there!" What he is talking about is an underground fuel tank behind the barn.

"It's easy! Just fill a can and even if you're caught red handed, you can slip under the fence an be long gone before they can even get the gate open! I do it all the time."

But the real score would take four people; two to act as lookouts; one at each corner of the barn, another to work the pump and one to fill the cans. We could cache the cans in the bushes on the access road that parallels the pasture. A pasture that is sloped in just such a way that if you crouch down, you will remain hidden until you are right at the edge of the pump site. Then, if the coast is clear, the lookouts move to the corners of the barn where they have a full view of the entire house. If anyone stirs or if any lights come on, the lookout gives the signal and we all scamper back under the fence and across the pasture with plenty of time to get away and with no chance of even being seen, then we come back later with the car and fill it up.

Stealing the gas would be the easy part. The reason for all that would be 'phase two' which for me could have been called, 'Operation Learn to Drive' and it was so important to me that I was willing to risk everything to try and make it happen. So-what if I was caught. It was my money that bought the car, I paid for it, and they were probably going to take it away sooner or later anyway. Dad was already talking about Greg moving back up here and so it wouldn't be a surprise he had already mentioned: "He's going to need a car to drive" and if that wasn't a premonition of what he had in mind, I don't know what was. But it was Ebbert Lane and the View Estates that pulled the entire plan together.

Ebbert Lane was the back way into the View Estates housing development, a project that during these mid nineteen seventies, like many other such endeavors of this era, had ran out of money, and had been sitting idle for years. Miles of wide, flat roads had been punched through the forest, each with deep ditches dug along the sides for future power and phone cables, but nothing but the main entrance had ever been paved. It only took a couple of years before alder and poplar trees had grown twenty or more feet tall over most of the roads and all but a single lane, right down the center of those roads was all that still remained open, kept clear by the traffic of brush pickers (many types of wild flora could be harvested for ornamental decorative arraignments that the local brush shed bought) and partiers who frequent this area to get loaded or to have some privacy as a lover's lane. But for me and my friends, it would become more; our own personal racetrack!

It was an insane plot and was sure to fail but so strong was the urge to learn to drive, and more importantly; to drive fast and furious, that I didn't care, and if my friends were willing come along, fuck it! What the hell! I didn't expect to get away with for more than a day or two anyway. If car got wrecked, I planned on playing dumb, perhaps they would believe it was stolen, my plan was to act as if I thought my father must have taken it out for some reason.

Skipping school, that was something else, but we had heard reports that some kids, real bad kids, worse than us, who had dropped out of school, that almost two months had gone by before their parents were even notified. It was an era of small budgets and large indifference, but I had an ace in the hole, I knew that my mother disconnected the phone before she went to sleep during the day. We, like everyone else out here in the country, were on a party line, and that meant that the phone rang all day long. (Our ring was two short rings.) If the school called concerning my absents, no one would be there to hear it. It was all a crazy, stupid gamble but we wanted to do it, I wanted badly to do it, besides, it wouldn't last more than a few days anyway and if the car got ruined, at least Greg wouldn't get it, and unless he was planning on paying me for it, (ha!) that wouldn't break my heart.

About midnight, I set out to meet Wig and Don at Chris's house. Between them, they had the required four, five-gallon gas cans. I couldn't risk taking my Dad's gas can as it would be gone while it was stashed in the bushes during the day, that was too big a risk because he might notice it missing.

Chris was right about everything, and as a bonus, the pump was far enough away from the house that Don could really wail on it and the noise didn't seem to reach that far as I filled each can, one after the other. We kept one eye on both Wig and Chris as they watched the house, but the plan worked perfectly. In just over ten minutes, we were each lugging a gas can across the field and we stashed them in the deep brush off the access road.

The next morning, I had the cover story that I was meeting Wig and Chris and I would be catching a ride to school with them so I wouldn't be missed on the bus. Don lived further away and rode a different bus and he apparently wasn't worried about anyone reporting him missing, no one would dare do that. We lounged around that morning at the smoking road, keeping an eye on traffic, after my mother went by, we took the trails back to my house. My mother always went straight to bed after she got home, regular as clockwork, but I snuck into the house to make sure, and to check that the phone was disconnected. (It was.) Then I went to the car.

This was it! I never considered myself a criminal before, but with the gas theft of last night, and with the action planned for today, I, we, were in uncharted territory. It was trilling and exhausting at the same time. Stealing gas, skipping school and now, grand theft auto, it was a cascade of events certainly leading to disaster, but as I wasn't alone, I found the courage, as we all leaned on each other for moral support but we would never admit that or speak of it or even hint of such a thing. To show any concern would be a display of weakness, a 'second guessing' that might unravel the entire plan. Any critical thinking now could demonstrate the obvious blatant folly; too big of a risk at this point. It was all certainly twisted logic which only made sense to a bunch of kids, but it is what it is.

Wig would be the wheel man. He had his learners permit but he said he had been driving his mother around for years already and, as he had been telling us for forever that he was an expert driver, so he got the job. I rode shotgun and Don and Chris climbed in back. Wig fired up the whisper quiet engine and I was impatient to get going.

"I'm going to let the motor warm up a bit, it needs to step off the choke" Wig said as I scanned the house, certain that my mother would be peering out the back window, ready and willing to call the police, but Wig remained cool as a cucumber which was his way, Fonzie could take lessons from him. Finally, after several agonizing long minutes, he blipped the throttle and the engine fell to a relaxed idle that was barely audible. He pulled the shifter into drive and slilently, we pulled away. I kept my eyes fixed on my mother's bedroom window for the short time that it was in sight as we passed before we headed down the hill of the driveway and out of her potential view.

We weren't out of the woods yet as we had to make it the few miles to the access road by the pasture without anyone that our parents knew seeing us. Wig made the turn into that dirt road smooth and careful while making sure to use the turn signal. We got to the gas cache and we poured the gas into the thirsty machine as quick as possible, re-stashing each can as soon as it was empty while we all kept a careful watch, but the slope of the terrain worked to our advantage here as well, with a lookout ahead on the road and one up in the field, we would have time to throw the cans in the trunk (which we kept unlatched during the fuel transfer) and any possible inquiry from anyone who happened to come along..., well..., it was none of their damn business what we were doing as this road wasn't posted "No Trespassing." (A universal 'country' by-law in these times, or at least one we lived by when it suited our needs.)

That done, and with the fuel gauge now pointing well over the "Full" mark, we still had to travel a few more miles to Ebbert Lane, the old logging road that connected via a back way to the View Estates. Wig drove cool and precise while I was sweating bullets, sure that each passing car was an off-duty policeman or friend of my dad, and who was heading straight his way to report what we were doing. But after Wig turned into the shade of that quiet, picturesque dirt road, I began to relax and out came the bong. With several miles to travel before we entered the View Estates proper, and at this leisurely pace that Wig seemed to prefer and that wouldn't upset the residences of the few homesteads along the way, we managed to achieve a healthy buzz before we popped out onto the outer perimeter circle drive of the currently defunct housing track project. Wig cruised at an unhurried pace, Chris, and especially Don goaded him:

"Punch it, nail it, let's see what this thing's got," etc.

But Wig knew what he was doing. There was a wide flat area along the front, the main gate side of the project and Wig had been there many times with Aaron Moore, his brother in law, a crazy Indian, who he said had taught him to drive. Wig had mentioned that fact several times, but we never gave it much thought, but as Wig was soon going to demonstrate, his training was more real than we had guessed and had progressed far ahead of what we had ever imagined.

We entered the open area, the place where most who visited this place never went any further. At night, and especially during the weekends, this space was packed with partiers, occasionally there were even keggers held out here, but right now, during a school day, we had the place all to ourselves.

"You better dump out the bong water" Wig said and Chris, who had been on some of those rides with him and Aaron, he rolled down the window and did just that. Don and I were confused, what the hell? Wig moved the shifter into neutral and zipped the motor up a few times, as if clearing its throat. When the RPM returned to idle, he stuffed the shifter all the way into low gear. He seemed to take one last look around and at us before he nailed it.

Round and round we spun, doing donuts, "brodies" we also called them. My first instinct was to have him stop this madness; he is going to blow the motor! But he was carefully modulating the throttle, using it for control, gaining experience with the car, discovering how it was going to react and perform, like a scientist doing experimentation, he was testing, probing and when a certain level of knowledge had been attained, when a certain benchmark had been achieved, it was as if an invisible line had been crossed that lit a greenlight somewhere in what was now a surprisingly full vassal, holding what before was unknow and unappreciated, a keeper of hidden information of a fantastic nature, that space between Wig's ears, his brain, it signaled for his arms and his hands and his foot to perform the maneuvers, the actions, that allowed the insanity to officially commence.

Donuts were one thing, but as we fishtailed back and forth, again and again and again down the gentle grade of this wide stretch of dirt road, hanging it out farther and further and longer with each swing of the car's rear end as Wig sawed on the wheel, gaining skill and precision as each second passed, while the rest of us were dumbfounded with grins on our faces from ear to ear. I had no idea! At the end of that first run, we sat speechless as Wig asked:

"Any questions?"

That began the training, the clinic, the mentorship of higher education. The guilt of missing school mostly and immediately disappeared as we reached for and achieved more important learning. (To us anyway.) These classes would be the teachings that we would use and remember for the rest of our lives. They were lessons of applied physics, of geometry, of benefit analyses, of cause and effect comparison, to be studied in real time and at a blinding and shocking rate. Wig stayed many steps ahead of the rest of us as he explored and discovered new technics, often gleaned from our watching car chases on TV as if we were watching documentaries. Soon, we had mastered the 'front end washout' the 'J' turn demonstrated at the start of the TV show; "The Rockford Files" among other examples.

We found we could prolong a sideways slide almost indefinitely by hooking a rear wheel in those ditches along the side of those roads as the car bounced and skipped while producing such groining and scraping noises of protest that you would think we were leaving hunks of steel behind but we would pop out of such slides with no apparent change in control or operation of the car so we continued, just part of the fun that added to the dramatic appeal. But one of the biggest thrills was when Wig pioneered the "tree clearing" aspect of our tutelage. Not satisfied with just the wide portions of the available 'clear' roads, it may have been inevitable that plowing sideways through the saplings, the "pecker poles," some with trunks as big around as silver dollars, and many thirty and even close to forty feet in height would have to be added to our quickly growing repertoire of stunts. I was sure that this was a big mistake, surely causing damage to the side of the car. Already the entire operation was a gamble and to prevent being caught, we would quickly wash the car at Chris's house early each afternoon on these days of this illicit adventure before I drove the car home, carefully backing it precisely back into the old tire tracks, placing the folded tarp with rock weight exactly as it was before and then I would sweep away the new tire tracks, all before the other kids got home from school and before my mother woke up.

We started carrying an alarm clock and when it went off, no matter what, we would immediately begin our shut-down and wrap-up procedures. It had been weeks now already and it was crazy how long we had already got away with all of this.

I hopped out, certain I would see the entire quarter panel smashed up from sliding into the trees, but to my surprise, nothing! No fucking way! All I could see was some brown sap stains on the very bottom edge of the panels. Turns out, as we plowed into the trees, they would bend over at the impact only leaving small, sappy marks at the very bottom edges of the side panels as we skied right over them. Now, we had a new and visually frightening addition to our trill line-up. But the coup de gras was yet to come and it was beyond fantastic.

There was this long, rather steep downhill sweeper on the north side of the outer ring road that teed up with the front, main road that led to the main gate. This was a hairy section that required concentration and skill that tested even Wig, right to the very limit of his ability. This high speed section, attacked in second gear, (the speed gear) allowed for an extremely long slide as the gravity of the hill captured the momentum and tended to reduce the driver in some ways into a helpless passenger, but when preformed correctly, it was a trilling climax as we ended what had become a "lap" as we would slide back onto the main, front road. As trilling as that was when done correctly, the 'advanced' and final progression of that stunt was something of legend.

Wig entered the slide much too fast, we could all see that. While he sawed on the wheel like a pro, gravity would not be denied. It is a master without compromise and like a galaxy being sucked into a black hole, our destruction was eminent. All we could do was brace ourselves and if left alive, we would direct our scorn and wrath at Wig, sometime later, after our discharge from the hospital. The front road, usually the over-run and the margin of safety at the end of the long, downhill slide, approached at blinding speed and I remember the sick, helpless feeling as if it was yesterday. The feeling of gloom, of disaster, of death, and it approached in the form of a row of bushes beyond that tee intersection. We sailed sideways right across that main road as if it didn't even exist. This is it! Time to die!

In slow motion and in an eerie silence, especially as all four wheels left the earth, we gently and smoothly traveled sideways through the brush, and as some of it broke free, and as the leaves, sticks and twigs rained down over us through the open windows, we, each in his own way, prepared for the death that was sure to come. So quiet and peaceful it was as we rose out of the seats, experiencing weightlessness, I noticed Don was wearing a pendent neckless as it floated out and up over his face. Wig had lifted on the gas pedal and the engine was returning to that willing idle, probably for the last time, and as we floated airborne in space, we prepared as best as possible for the impact that was sure to come. "WHOMPH!"

Surprisingly, it was smooth, almost comfortable, as the terrain hiding under the brush here was at the perfect angle to catch our wheels like a mother catching a playfully tossed baby. It was like a dream but Wig snapped out of the spell quick and with a foot on the gas, and some rather lucky inputs on the steering wheel, we rode the ditch out of the gully and popped back out and onto the main road. Wig skidded to a stop and as we were all still quite stunned, we piled out of the car and we (I, at least) had a strong desire to kiss the sweet ground that we stood on. The realization that we had cheated death brought laughter, a strange, growing, psychotic form of the stuff that wouldn't quit. Finally, Don summed it all up with this declaration:

"Wig, as we went off that edge I was sure that if I lived, I would have to kill you, and I probably still should, but right now, all I can think is; that was cool as fuck!"

I looked over the car. No damage! We all walked over to edge of the road where we had slid off. Four tire slide marks just disappear at a the border of the brush that had just popped right back up after we had sailed right through it, completely hiding the now rather torn up landing area, but from here, unless you pushed aside the brush, there was no sign that we had went off the road at all, except for the tire marks but as the roadbed was hard as rock here, you had to really look to even see that, and we were standing right on top of them. Fascinating!

We measured by pacing the entire scene, just as we had done at other places and for other stunts. By this time, we had intricately and thoroughly scientifically developed the entire defunct housing development into a production, a routine, an 'act' of complex and exact proportions. We had identified landmarks, a log here, a stump there, and with practice and precision we used them as signposts to initiate certain 'authorized' procedures.

"Hold the slide to the left until the boulder, then cut back to the right to set up for the turn to catch the rise which will wash the front end out just in time to 360 at the four-way which will set you up for the slide through the trees..." Etc.

Any deviation was unauthorized. We had already slid off the road a few times but luckily, we found someone to pull us out. (Usually brush pickers, who were watching us with growing interest, and who had started cheering at some of our more complex maneuvers) The strict discipline was required because to be stuck beyond the time of the ringing of the alarm clock, would be an end of the fun for all of us, and forever!

But this last and greatest stunt just had to be folded into the show, so we developed and perfected it just as we had every other stunt until we had it down pat. We had to, because word was getting out, we had turned pro.
Chapter Twenty-Four

The Dolson twins were identical in appearance but known to be incredibly strait-laced. How Wig got them to cut school and meet us at the View Estates, I will never know but I could understand why he had made the effort. They were both stone foxes, no doubt about that, and no one had even come close to befouling them in any way. Wig was so intent on trying to change that, that he may have 'forgotten' to mention to Don and Chris that we were taking the car out on this particular day.

To our pleasant surprise, and while the twins had arrived at school that morning in their trademark, long, dorky 'church dresses,' they may have had different motives of why we wanted to meet them at the View Estates because they showed up there wearing much different clothes, not those long, bundled-up affairs, and in hindsight, we probably should have acted only on that fact and not went for a ride with them in the Ford.

Plunging necklines, short skirts and super cute pumps with big buckles would describe outfits that could only be called cocktail dresses. Identical in every way except color, one white, one black. They looked like a couple of sexy salt and pepper and shakers. We tried some moves on them, I sat close to White and Wig tried to put his arm around Black's waist at one point, but she refused his advances which caused White to move away from me as well. So far, a couple of hot looking cold fish. Wig had some wine, Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill that he snagged somewhere, (warm) but they wouldn't budge. When we offered them weed, they looked so incensed that we thought they might turn us into the police. There really was only one thing left to try and as we were frustrated with them already, we guided them into the back seat of the big Ford for a 'ride.' Why did they even come out here with us? Especially dressed like that! It was understood between Wig and I that we were to show them no mercy. Maybe 'this' would loosen them up!

"What happened out here? Why are all those trees bent over like that?"

That was one of the last coherent things I remember them saying.

Wig put on a textbook, clinic performance. He was hitting his marks, his timing was perfect, conditions were excellent but as I watched our guests, any "loosening up" was far from evident. Black, was looking rather green before the 'lap' was even half over. White, was turning as white as her dress and she had a strange look of frightful insanity in her eyes and neither of them seemed capable of making a sound, their mouths seemed to move a little, like something was trying to be said but nothing actually came out. Both of them had grips on the edges of the seats so tight that their knuckles were as white as snow. This don't look good!

Eventually, we headed toward the tee intersection, down the hill at highspeed, completely sideways, just as we should be, but we soon discovered that we were playing with strong medicine and messing with forces beyond our control. The bushes approached and Black's eyes rolled back in her head she fell into a slump, now just a limp ragdoll behind me in the back seat.

White took a different tack, her eyes became as big as saucers and something finally did come from her mouth; a truly terrifying, blood-curdling scream that increased in volume as we became airborne and went weightless. This is bad!

It got worse. The ragdoll that was Black, floated up and over the back of my seat in a lifeless heap and I could see that her lips were already starting to turn blue under her ruby red lipstick.

White, screaming in an ear-splitting pitch, seemed to be taking the opportunity of the zero G's to climb over Wig (using his eye sockets as hand holds I might add) and to try to take control of the automobile in a frantic and spastic show of pure, wild instinct that was sure to render Wig unable to drive us out of gully. (And perhaps leave him blind from eye injury.) Only the impact saved us. Black landed in an awkward way over the back of my seat with one of her arms flopping down, painfully striking me on the back of my neck, but the shock of the impact seemed to start her breathing again. White was deflected off of Wig, and she landed up front between us on top of the center console, her scream never ceasing but Wig was able to steer us back up and out on to the road where he skidded to a stop and angerly pulled White from the car while shouting in her face:

"What the fuck bitch! You trying to kill us?"

I gathered up Black and corralled her still mostly unresponsive living corpse out of the passenger side door.

"Where are we? What happened?"

I noticed that she had wet herself.

"You're trying to kill us-you're trying to kill us" White screamed over and over while she landed real punches and solid blows to Wigs face, chest and arms as he tries (less than successfully) to block her frantic attack. "SLAP!" An open hand slap finally stops her aggression.

White, red faced both from her screaming and from the slap is sitting on the ground hurling every insult and threat imaginable at both of us while Black noticed the result her weak bladder and she began to cry. We let them both be for a while, but as Wig finally starts to try and comfort White, she springs to her feet.

"Don't you dare come near me you damn devil!" And the pretty twin in the sexy white dress (now with a big brown dirt stain on the butt) reaches down and gathers stones that she starts chucking at him! And not prissy little girl throws either but overhand zingers that land with a solid "whack" when they hit home. Wig must dance and shift as he tries to put some distance between him and her.

"Knock it off! You crazy psycho!"

Black rushes in and grabs her arm.

"Let's just go back to the car" she said, and they start walking, but in the totally wrong direction. Wig's pissed off and he lets them walk for quite a while, finally he pleads:

"Come on, I'm sorry! Don't be that way. At least let us drive you back to your car!"

They give us the silent treatment; they won't even turn around.

"Okay fine! Be that way! But you should know, your car is the other way!" Wig yells and they stop. I confirm that fact:

"It's true, you're going the wrong way." They pause, and after a short conference, they turn around and walk back towards us. When they reach us, they seemed to have had a change of heart:

"Look, you can take us back to our car, but he must drive" White said as she pointed to me. After that, we spend the rest of the afternoon at Wigs washing the car so I can put it away and scrubbing the pee from the inside, it was everywhere!

Chapter Twenty-Five

The few days that we even bothered to go to school each week anymore was for finding out where the weekend parties would be then for much of anything else. Teachers, consolers and other staff seemed to give us a wide birth as we traded our quiet behavior for their need for discipline. We found that if we remained undisruptive, they were letting our lack of attendance and our falling grades slide, we were lost causes and fixing us was beyond their pay grade anyway. It was a job for the truancy officer. That indifference allowed us to slip through the cracks; for a little while anyway. We might as well live it up, but deep down, we knew we were on borrowed time.

The news from the Dolson twins raged around the school like wildfire. While their reports were supposed to inflict social damage as they declared what monsters we were, it had an almost complete opposite effect. Other kids were captivated at the thought of hurling around fast in a car out in the boonies, away from authority. The more terrible the twins made it sound, the more others wanted in.

"I'm not afraid" reported Tracy, one of the hottest girls in school and a social groundbreaker and the leader of the cheer squad as she 'scheduled' a ride during 'skip day,' the annual and illicit day of school-skipping celebration coming up next Friday, a day honoring all that is 'bad' of which we seemed to be the star attraction lately. She wasn't the only one ether, and that was just the junior high contingent. The high school crowd were the initiators of skip day and the reports filtering out from the View Estates promised a place where a party could be held without restraint. My friends and I gladly reveled in any attention that pointed at us as being part of these growing and glowing reviews as we felt we were the leaders of such important and positive feedback. I felt like the star of a major motion picture, just short of being asked to sign autographs. The gossip around school affected my every interaction and boosted each social encounter. I was getting approving nods from guys that I had never met, smiles and waves from all the girls, including some who even slipped me notes! I had a choice of dates for the Tolo, the dance that was coming up next month, all because I chose to break the rules. It was a life lesson of intoxicating possibilities, a bending of reality, a wave I would ride high right to the...

"Don Mx Xxxxxx, William Rxxxxx, Chris Exxxx and Brian Axxxxxx, report immediately to the Principal's office!"
Chapter Twenty-Six

Fame can be a double-edged sword as we were finding out. Vice Principal Whitford, backed up by the tough as nails, ex-marine PE coach; Mr. Hahn, laid out what would be our bleak and certain futures with experience guided from generations of similar confrontations. We would be bound for Vietnam if we were lucky, but more certainly we would be prison bound, if we didn't take this "last chance" that they graciously offered us to "turn our lives around" and "fly right." Summer school was guaranteed, required, due to our failing grades and poor attendance, and even then, there would be no guarantees of not being held back. Then they got personal, calling us "dregs to society" and "losers" and the "problem with the world." They expanded their opinions with reminders of how we wouldn't amount to anything, of how we would never have a good job, a successful career or get into a good college. But instead of wearing us down, of getting us to see the light, of scaring us straight, we realized there was another double-edge sword in play here; if they were right, and if all they said was true, and if we did what they said and lived as they demanded, the 'successful' outcome would be that we would end up just like them. It was laughable.

We were living our dreams right here and right now as they seemed to appear as nothing more than just another pair of corporate slaves, and to look at them and to believe that they were the 'living end' was lunacy. No thank you! Certainly they were actually right, and heeding their 'advice' may have been prudent, but they didn't understand the wave we were riding, the aspect of the celebrity attention that had never rained upon them and they could never completely understand that kind of 'success' and we weren't going to give it up without a fight. Bottom line: They caught us at a bad time.

An official written statement outlining our unacceptable behavior, to be signed by our parents under threat of expulsion from school. What a shame that would be! That was what we walked away with. We threw them into the nearest trash can. That's what bad boys do, and as the last hour had proven, we were bad boys; the baddest bad boys, and we were going to prove it tomorrow; skip day. I would find out when I got home if the school had managed to contact my parents, if they hadn't, it was on. If they had, well..., things might be more difficult. If the car was unavailable, that meant the entire production would be canceled. I felt that I couldn't show my face without everything that we had been promised. So, I decided to end all the rule breaking if I walked into the buzz-saw of informed parents when I got home. It was a fifty-fifty chance that an officer from the school had visited my mother that day, they had, or they hadn't. To me, it was as if I was letting God decide my fate: If he wanted me to settle down and fly right, he would have me walk into a home of screaming threats, lost rights and certain, lasting unpleasantness. If everything was cool, his plan for me was to finish what we had started.

I walked around the house before I walked in. The car was still there, the folded tarp still on the hood, just as it had been for over two months. (As far as the rest of the family knew.) I walked inside, everything seemed normal. I looked at the phone; it was still unplugged. God has spoken!

This might be the last day before everything goes astray. I decided to make the most out of it. The Ford had over half a tank of fuel in it. Try as we might, we just couldn't burn any more than that in a single day. That would mean there would be plenty for tomorrow. We had all four full cans stashed for later, but I had a stinking suspicion that we may not need it. I called Wig's house on the phone:

"Is Aaron there?"

"What do you want him for?"

"I want to see if he will drive me to Bremerton, to Harry Tate's house."

"You're going to get your hiem joints back, huh 'Hiemy?'"

Wig hadn't been calling me that lately and for that I was glad. I never liked that nick name. (Or any nick name for that matter.)

I offered to fill his gas tank if he would give me the ride and wait awhile and give me a ride back later. He agreed. I would meet him at midnight at the end of my driveway. He was already waiting there when I snuck out. To my surprise, Wig was with him.

"You might need some help, 'Hiemy' besides, that gas is part mine."

He was enjoying calling me Hiemy, but I hoped it would just be a last gasp sort of thing and because he was taking a risk on my behalf for nothing in return, and as I could use the help, he kind of had me over a barrel so I guess I could put up with some ribbing. He knew how much those rod ends meant to me and I think he understood why it had to be tonight and even why the gas we had stashed didn't much matter anymore, in fact, we took the cans away in the trunk of Aaron's car this time, we didn't think there would be any need for them to continue to be stashed there after tomorrow.

"My old lady [his mother] was pretty pissed, but she'll get over it" Wig said, apparently, she answered her phone.

"Don is in hot water, but he'll be there tomorrow, and he has a case of beer, cold beer!"

Chris, his parents didn't even bat an eye, ever since Chris's older brother was drafted, their opinion of almost any institution was so jaded that they couldn't of cared less, which meant that if the 'school' (just another fascist, criminal organization to them) was upset, oh, boo-hoo!

Aaron dropped us off at the vacant lot and promised to be back in an hour. He was going to a nearby bar and he was happy about that; a tank of gas and a reason to go out and get loaded. Wig and I walked towards Harry's shop that was across the vacant lot as our eyes adjusted to the moonlight.

Harry was one of my dad's boat building buddies and his 'shop' was an opened ended affair where two thirds of his boat project stuck out of a 'building' with one wall completely removed so there was no chance of any real security except for his lockable tool boxes and perhaps a locker or two, but what we were after was just considered 'supplies' and should be on the shelves along the wall furthest from the house and among things such as nuts, bolts and other hardware, with the racks of wood and metal supplies just beyond that. If Ken had seen them while he was there visiting with my dad, that meant the wooden box must be at eye level, probably very near the door where he would have been standing as he waited for Harry and Dad to finish their yacking before they left. I had made clear that this was a recovery mission and we weren't there to 'rob' him and as Wig was no thief (except for gas that the owners didn't even know about, or pilfering from wallets and purses, but we had stopped most of that) and I doubt he would have been there with me under any 'true crime' circumstance.

Harry Tate was a super nice guy and I bore no ill will toward him and I'm certain that he wouldn't have taken the rod ends if there was even a hint of any dispute regarding ownership. He was probably talking to my dad about some project where some bearing rod ends might have been useful and my dad, thinking that I was just a dumb kid, he thought that I wouldn't miss them or I would forget about them and I probably just considered them toys anyway so they might as well go somewhere where they could be put to some good use instead of just gathering dust, besides, I was three thousand miles away at the time. He was probably rifling through my closet looking for clothes to give to my brother's because he is too much of a cheapskate to buy anything new. If Harry noticed them gone and told my dad about it, tough shit! To prevent any chance of any repeat intervention, I was going to keep them from now on at Chris's house where I already kept the NASA screwdriver and flashlight and most of the dress clothes that I had got from my Grandmother where they were safe from pillage.

The operation was a joke. We walked up to the back of the shop from the direction of the vacant lot, took a look around, and with Wig watching the house, I strolled past the lumber and metal racks, looked up at the shelves just past the hardware bins and there the box was. I took it down, took a couple of steps back towards the open side of the shop and in the first beam of moonlight that was spilling in, I opened the lid and I could see that they were all there and apparently untouched. I got Wig and we ambled back to the drop off point. The entire 'scam' took about five minutes. Aaron didn't return until almost three in the morning and he was hammered as hell by that time. He, and some other willing patrons, they had stayed at the bar until they closed it down. Wig drove us home.

In the over two hours before that as we waited for Aaron, Wig and I smoked and talked. We both agreed that our 'driving' had been taken way to far, and that we were lucky that we hadn't been arrested already, and the chances of that happening tomorrow were great, but we weren't going to back down. If anything, this realization was a license to go all out. We brainstormed ways to go over the top with our 'ride' giving, trying to come up with some kind of gimmick or flashy prop that would make what would probably be our last hurrah legendary in some memorable way but as we yawned and tried to stay awake while waiting for Aaron, Things like super hero costumes with capes or decorating the car with streamers or something just seemed like too much work on such short notice and also, it all sounded a little gay when we heard ourselves saying those kinds of things out loud.

One other thing we did talk about was the future of school. I had been reading the material assigned (I am an avid reader) and I participated in the classroom discussions when I bothered to show up but homework, forget it! My time after school was my own. Wig agreed with that last statement, but he didn't do any schoolwork that I could see. He didn't even know how to read, (he claimed later in life that he had dyslexia, which was probably true) but he had a silver tongue, the likes of which were legendary. He could 'flip-shit' and cut down the mightiest intellect lower than whale shit, and he did so, on a regular basis. He was not a stupid kid, that is what attracted me to him in grammar school. He was a few grades ahead at that time, (over time, he had fallen back and ended up in the same grade as me) and even then he talked to adults as if he was their equal or worse, he would often talk down to them and they didn't like that! But I did, I loved it!

Besides his perfect hair, he was never dressed sloppy. He had three older sisters and he knew everything about women. I may have been a virgin, but at age sixteen, he had already fathered three kids but that was a 'secret' because each one of those young mothers had latched on to a husband who officially 'fathered' those kids. (By the time DNA exposed the truth, Wig's prodigy was well into double digits, not including grand kids.)

Chris was also a strange duck. The same age as Wig, he had also slipped back the same number of grades but not because he was dumb, he just had different priorities. Decades later, he could remember conversations and situations that I had long forgotten. I collaborated with him extensively on this book, and when I queried him about nearly anything, he didn't even have to pause to think, he had the answers as if they were right on the tip of his tongue. It is like he had lived his life avoiding 'conventual' knowledge so he could leave his mind open for the 'important' things.

Don, a truly psychotic and a violently dangerous psychopath, would seem to be the one who would be the leader of our falling from grace and our downward spiral of general anti-social behaviors but if you thought that, you would be wrong. Through all the staying up all night, through the school skipping, he managed to keep his grades up and he was incensed that he was lumped in with the rest of us and he stayed after and gave Mr. Whitford and Mr. Hahn a piece of his mind as he reminded them that he had notes excusing all of his absenteeism. (Hard to believe but that is what he said.) How he would explain his presence tomorrow at the View Estates will be interesting, but he will. (And he did.)
Chapter Twenty-Seven

The big morning had arrived with the duality both of dread and excitement. By now, in an almost robotic routine, we arrived at the View Estates as if reporting for work at a jobsite. But already there were obstacles thrown in our path. (Literally!) The entire front road was littered with parked cars with most of them forming a circle where a giant bonfire was being built.

"That stretch is out" we observed with regard for our planned runs. There were more logistic details to be dealt with as well. These high school kids who seemed to be acting as they owned the place, many of them brought 'beaters' (junky cars) and were already performing their versions of car gymnastics. It was laughable as they spun their tires and plowed their front ends in attempts to do a simple donut and many promptly became stuck in the ditches that we knew were hidden under the overgrown brush. Laughable or not, their primitive stunt attempts were physically in our way, and their presence (especially in the back areas) was a danger because of the risk of collision. We decided to go on an inspection tour, but first, Wig performed a mini exhibition in an area still left open on the front road and right in front of high school kids who didn't seem to know we were to be todays main attraction. It was a simple stunt, (for us) the double 'J' turn.

Approaching from the side and building some speed, nailing the gas and whipping the steering wheel got the back of the big Ford loose and a throwing of the steering wheel to the opposite lock at just the right moment of inertia to wash the front end around in an impressive display of slinging gravel and controlled mayhem. The tricky part was to maintain enough momentum to have the energy to complete the spin twice, i.e. the 'double' part of the double 'J' turn. The entire maneuver lasted maybe six or seven seconds and as we hooked back up after the second 360 and powered away, we seen dozens of slack-jaw gawkers, who were frozen in utter amazement. Stupid townies!

The rear and center 'track' sections of the area, and most importantly the long, downhill portion of the outer circle road that lead to the tee intersection, remained clear of roving partiers and wayward beaters (for now) but a more complete access to a more certain level of 'crowd control' would be required for the show to go on as we had planned. Don and Chris agreed to recruit the required 'course workers' that were needed. This is where Don's version of 'intimidation' would be useful. Big as a grown man and strong as hell, Don didn't mince words when it came to 'directing' others. As I said before, you did what he said, or you got 'thumped.' Simple as that. As kids we knew from junior high arrived, Chris and Don would approach them and explain what their required duties would be. Most were happy to comply, trading awkward feelings of being out of place at a mostly high school party, to being staff members, with the authority to 'move under the velvet ropes' so to speak, even if they weren't any real ropes.

"So, you're the punks we been hear'n about? Don't look like shit to me!" Said the leader, the biggest one of a group of some older kids who already seemed to be upset that we were organizing something at 'their' party. Don had already picked out the big one as the who, and with Chris, the how was also a done deal. The look between those two confirmed the standard operating procedure. Wig and I felt sorry for the big man because the violence would be swift and effective. Don was squared up, and Chris was also in position, ready to dive down to become the human trip wire as Don shoved. We had seen it many times before. At blinding speed, the big boisterous bully would be on the ground and if he got up aggressively, Don would be on top of him in a fury of punches that would keep him down, and it was our experience that usually the others around would only stand aside in dumb, shocked inaction. Bullying is an art and a dance that Don well understood and as these amateurs try to look and sound tough, he could see it was all posture. "If it were true, ya wouldn't have to say it" I heard Don say once as he addressed the subject in conversation one day. Don never boasted or issued threats; he was a man of action. He had perfected his craft probably since preschool and he may as well should have had his master's degree in it by now, and if these boys were asking for trouble, they would surely get it. But it didn't come to that.

"We heard a ride with you guys was..., 'something,' but we're not scared" the big guy said, suddenly sounding vaguely complementary, while still trying to sound tough in front of his friends, almost as if he was 'daring' us for a ride.

"Okay," Wig said, knowing that the course was still mostly clear for at least the time being, before more partiers arrived. The big boaster and two of his buddies got in back. They still seemed to have attitudes as if their presence was to downplay all that might happen, as if they were there to 'rate' us, to pass along a judgment to their peers, to put us in our place. Social structures can be a complicated web, wove from the strangest of mediums. I stayed in the front to perform the 'co-pilot' duties.

We were at the pinnacle of our perfected operations at this point. So much had been discovered and folded into the spectacle of our trial and error research by this time. We had multiple routes developed, each designed to incorporate a different stretch of the 'center' sections, the 'tree clearing' runs, but by this time, most of the trees were pushed over with such damage that it looked like an atom bomb had gone off. But not only had we separate, designated routes, but it was found that a 'reversal' was also necessary to combat the 'berms' that were building up. Each area now had two completely opposite sets of established stunt routines, designed to counter-act each other and provide a crosshatch effect to even out the ruts and berms that had formed and this change-up action eventually had many portions of the roadbed leveled back out and some areas nearly as smooth as glass.

The 'co-pilot' position became mandatory as we evolved our routines. His job was to man the shifter. The complexity of our advanced state of tactical stunt attacks required the driver to use his entire concentration in steering inputs and throttle applications. The co-pilot was the 'ultra' version of an automatic transmission, required now as low gear (the dominate gear) would need to be supplemented with precise applications of second gear (the speed gear) when required. The advanced 'J' turn (or multiple 360) required a complex shifter application that needed to be precisely timed; 'low-neutral-reverse-low-neutral-reverse' over and over again, depending on how many 360's in a row you wanted to do. (Three was the record. Here, you just ran out of space before you could do any more. We were damn lucky that we didn't blow the transmission perfecting that aspect of our driving.)

It also became necessary to provide a disclaimer, a 'pep talk' (or was it a 'prep talk') before taking a run with new passengers. Here, we explained that no matter how violent and out of control things might seem, we were actually rarely traveling at more than about thirty miles per hour (forty plus down the downhill finally section) and safety is paramount, but to maintain that safety, passengers must not interfere with the driver. This was said mostly to girls, we didn't want any repeat of what had happened with the Dolson twins. Guys, they usually didn't require any such disclaimer, scaring the crap out of them was a goal, especially if they started with an attitude as these three that we now had on board have.

Big fellows in the back helped with the performance of the runs which might seem to be the opposite of what might be expected. But the entire fiasco was an exercise in harnessing momentum, not raw horsepower. Extra weight in the rear seat lowered and moved back the cars center of gravity and although we could feel it, we didn't know technically at the time that extra weight increased the ratio of sprung weight to unsprung weight which allowed a more compliant suspension system that followed the contours of the road more precisely.

These three started the run as most of the others had, all brave and full of contempt, as if nothing we could do would impress them or especially, scare them, but as a few 'J' turn 360's would break the ice and turn contempt into hoots and shouts. Plowing broadside into a patch of trees would usually shut those same pieholes. Halfway into a good run, giggling glee and hoots of delight were replaced by serious silence and thoughtful contemplation, probably along the lines of something such as; "What have I got myself into" and; "When will this be over" and perhaps the most common; "Please Lord..." The blank looks and utter silence was the point when we knew we had them right where we wanted them, and that was when we would abandon whatever center section that we might be at and leave for the downhill section of the outer road.

If the passengers were frightened before, when second gear was selected and the long, highspeed sweep down the grade was executed, and the car, traveling now with the scenery passing in a blur, far faster than at any other point of the run, and with the car completely sideways where to see ahead was to be looking out of the side windows, that fright was turned into terror, and as the end of the road approached and as a row of bushes now filled that side window view, terror was replaced with something else, something powerful and dangerous, a tool of the devil, a concoction of the shaman, a prescription that we may have earned the right to prescribe, or that we had no business dealing with. Whatever it was, it was magic, and no one would ever forget it, for better or for worse. This case was definitely for worse.

"Whoomph/plop!"

"Oh-God!... No..., you didn't!... Stop the car-STOP THE CAR!" That was the consensus coming from the back seat, followed quickly be the unmistakable odor.

The big man, the leader, was reduced to a meager, embarrassed specter as his buddies poked their fun as he rode back to his car on the hood of ours, forced to endure the spoils of his failed sphincter, Wig mercifully rounded the edge of the already growing crowd to deliver him to his parked car without the maximum embarrassment that could have been applied.

Then things got serious. Posted at strategic spots were our cadre of hastily trained course workers, there orders were clear, to prevent people (and vehicles) from clogging up our precious track sections by signaling as we approached if they were successful at that directive by either waiving us in, or waiving us on to the next signalman, so we could operate with at least some margin of safety. The rides we gave progressed in an order due to earlier promises, until offers of cash poured in from those willing to risk it all based on the reports of those who would literally pour themselves out of the car as we returned, many who were speechless or babbling incoherent as the tee intersection, with its wild, mad and largely unexpected climax, which was the last hurrah before we brought them back to the party proper, and as it was an unexpected event that mostly stayed that way as new passengers were loaded in among the giggles of those in the know, people were willing to pay so that their friends might be equally shocked and surprised.

Everything was spiraling out of control quickly, the numbers of school skippers was well into the hundreds and others were crashing the party including group of motley looking bikers, and these were the days when bikers were real, not your dressed-up dentist or lawyer. Our unreliable course workers were disappearing from their posts and people were becoming spectators at different points beyond any resemblance of organized control, some with lawn chairs, especially around the tee intersection. Others were wondering around dangerously just about everywhere, we would see them out of the corners of our eyes as we barreled past, knowing if they were in our way, there would be nothing we could do to avoid them. By the time Tracy and her sisters had arrived, it was past time to wrap this up, besides, it was probably just a matter of time before the cops would be here.

Tracy, her older high school age sister Barbra, and seventh grader Monica, all had something wonderful in common; looks that kill. Tracy, eighth grade, already head cheerleader, and with a head on her pretty shoulders, was perhaps the most conservative of the three. Barbra, who I had never met before, the oldest, and most mature, filled out her clothing in a way only a true adult could. Monica, she was the wildcard, a perfect mix of naughty and nice, of nasty and (face it) slutty, in a way that only a girl of her age could get away with. A hush came over the crowd as they made their way to the open door of the Ford. How glad I was that the interior was freshly cleaned after that morning's first episode. (We had started carrying a box of cleaning supplies in the trunk that I kept jammed into the space beside the spare tire where it would stay put.)

I gave them my best, heartfelt and most passionate disclaimer speech yet. I had no intention of spooking these young ladies, but we had no plans of showing them anything less than a maximum effort either. There would be no-quarter given, and I told them that in all honesty.

"Oh, please! Mr. Dramatic! We've rode in cars before!" Declared Monica, who apparently acted as outgoing as she dressed. Okay, you asked for it!

They squealed, and they shrieked, and they hooted, and they giggled but our surprise, at the point that most would become quiet, Barbra yelled:

"Turn up the radio! I love that song!"

It was Ted Nugent:

"Hey baby!... In the back of my Ford!

I'll give you kiss'n n' love'n that you never could afford!"

All three of them screamed out the lyrics as Wig was doing the best driving that I had ever seen him do, but they were so wrapped-up in their singing that they didn't seem to even notice.

"This a Ford, right?" Barbra asked in a lull of the song before they all continued their serenade:

"Why don't ya follow me down to my place baby,

I'll show ya the real love game!"

We might as well have been on a Sunday drive on the way to church. Only the long, downhill run before the tee had them abandon their singing but instead of freight, all we heard were the shouts of rapturous, blissful glee as we slid off the road in weightless wonder. We weren't even out of the ditch as Monica exclaimed:

"Did you feel that in your stomach? Let's do it again!"

"Weren't you scared?" I just had to ask.

"We trust you Brain" Tracy said, then after a moment of reflection:

"Should we be scared?"

"Yes!"

Halfway back to the party, kids we didn't even know were intently waving their arms for us to stop.

"Cops! Cops down the hill at the gate!"

"Are they coming up here?"

"They will be! They're two of them now, blocking the gate, probably waiting for back-up." That sounded right.

"Shit!" Wig hit the gas and we headed towards Barbra's parent's Cadillac as I talked as fast as I could:

"I'm-so-glad-you-girls-showed-up-and-it-was-an-honor-to-give-you-ride-and-It-was-amaising-how-brave-you-were-and..., bye!"

Wig slide the car in a four-wheel drift to a stop (again, the girls didn't even bat an eye, as if this is how everyone stops their car) and I flung the door open and helped (pulled) them out as if there was no time to loose. (There wasn't.)

"See you at school!" Tracy yelled as we left them in a cloud of dust.

Waiting for back-up? Maybe, but if they were smart, and if they knew the area, they were waiting for a unit to get in position at Ebbert Lane and our only chance was to try and beat them there and make it back home before we are trapped. (If we weren't already.)

We bounced and flew as we bottomed out in the dips and launched over the rises as Wig drove like a madman. I gathered up the weed and the bong, ready to jettison them out window if indeed the cops were at the end of the road, in an attempt to reduce the number of charges that they would have against us. An old man working in his garden shoots us a dirty look as fly by in a cloud of dust. Further ahead, a pair of chickens scramble for their lives as we approach so quickly that I'm unsure if they got away or not. (I think so, I didn't feel a 'splat.') Just a few more turns to go and Wig has the big car so sideways on the narrow, one lane dirt road that both the front end and the rear end are scraping brush at the same time. God forbid if anyone is coming around a corner up ahead, we would definitely feel a 'splat' then.

Finally, the paved road approaches and no cops! Wig pulls out onto the street calm and cool, while using the turn signal. What a joke! We take a left, the opposite way than we usually go but if the cops are coming, we don't want to pass them and have them look us over. Calmly and slowly Wig accelerates the filthy car to exactly the speed limit and he keeps it precisely right on the mark. I keep a look out of the rear window (I can still smell the three sister's combine perfume scents- delightful) and in less than five Mississippi's, There's the cop! He zips into Ebbert Lane.

We had just finished washing the car when Chris came by. He and Don were a little bent out of shape because we had ditched them, but he could understand why, especially after we told him how close we were to being trapped in by the police. He described what had happened after we lit out of there:

Five minutes after we hauled ass, the cops moved up the hill. (We calculated that we took four minutes to travel the length of Ebbert Lane.) Kids and cars scrambled in every direction as the police moved in. They ordered everyone to stop but no one did, everyone just headed into the woods. Well not everyone, Chris didn't.

"I had no reason to run, I wasn't doing anything wrong. That place isn't posted."

Technically it was, but a "No Trespassing" sign wouldn't last an hour there, so the developers got tired of putting them up.

"I got a ride back after they let us go, they told us to 'clear out' but I bet there's hundreds still hiding up there in the bushes."

With the car cleaned up and plenty of time before my mom woke up, I make the short drive back home that conveniently circumvents any continuing, suspected police action, so except for my looming scholastic problems, I'm in the clear.

I creep up the drive like always. After all that hammering, the 'willing idle' has turned into a potato like 'chug' and what was fairly precise steering has turned vague and sloppy, and the brakes are now just mush. I open the door so I can lean down and carefully follow my old tire tracks back exactly into the parking space as I always do. After I shut it off and get out, I place the folded tarp up on the hood and adjust it precisely with the fold just parallel to the fender edge and I put the rock back on top, scooting it a little this and that way until it's perfect. Now to grab the fir bough from the bushes and sweep away the tire tracks...

"I'll take those keys young man..."
Epilogue

My mom was standing out over by the barn, probably wondering where the Ford was when I drove up, and she stepped around the corner and out of my sight as she watched me park and set everything back up. But as I handed her the keys, she didn't seem angry which I found unnerving, especially as I discovered that she now knew of my troubles at school. There had indeed been a visit from a social worker that day, and she was enraged, for a while, but it dawned on her what the problem really was; it was my father.

She, along with my Grandmother, had decided to enable me to pursue my dream of building a car just as I had talked about since I was nine years old. But Dad just had to come along and crush that dream as he 'took over' as he does with everything, and this what you get; trouble!

If everything went the way Mother, Grandmother and I had planned, all would be right in the world. I would be busy during my free time, working on a spiffy little green sports car, keeping my grades up and staying out of trouble. But no!... My dad had to stick his nose in and push for the exact opposite of that plan and my mother is going hold that fact over his head until come judgement day, and I don't blame her. Sure, she is disappointed in me, but she is a practical woman. The mess I've made of my schoolwork is my problem, not hers. And it was a valuable lesson to learn just that. I was made aware that I'm in charge of me, not anyone else, for good or for bad.

Summer school sucked, no doubt about it. Wig and Chris were supposed be there as well, but they both just completely blew it off. Don got out of it (somehow) and went on to graduate with the rest of our class but I learned something at that summer school, and it is not what you might expect. What I learned allowed me to graduate twice. Allow me to explain:

The Adult Education Program meet after summer school classes in that very same classroom, and I noticed my neighbor, Mrs. Cranston, was enrolled in that class, so as a break for my mom, I stayed late and caught a ride back home with her each night. But I did more than that, basically I ended up taking that class as well. Working with and helping Mrs. Cranston, a Romanian refugee whose first language was not English, I was exposed to all the material of her class and since I was there anyway, I sat in, and was basically, de facto, enrolled. (Though unofficially.) But this where it got strange:

The last week of that class (also the last week of my summer school classes) was the time for a series of tests for them to earn their GED's. (General Equivalency Diploma.) There was one different test on a different subject each night. I took those tests with the rest of that class and guess what! I passed them! (Handley I might add, I've always done good on tests, and I found these were fairly easy, I don't know if that is still the case.) So next year, at age fourteen, I began ninth grade as a high school graduate. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! I had a lot of fun with that fact.

"We'll never graduate with that attitude."

"I beg to differ, Sir. Perhaps you should check my transcript?" Zing!

But I would like to add another postscript, and that is about the 1963 Ford Galaxy 500XL. Many more years went by before the View Estates ever got finished, and my friends and I, we went there with several others beaters that we had acquired over the years and tried to relive some of those exploits, but we never got more than about twenty minutes or so out of every car we tried before it would breakdown. (Usually starting with a tire blowout.) Much later, when I happened to come across another example of the Galaxy that I could inspect, I began to understand why it lasted where other cars quickly failed. There were a number of design features involved, first and foremost was the ladder frame that had rails that hung down below almost all of the drivetrain components, so when we hooked a wheel in the ditch or mowed over trees, the frame acted like a pair skis absorbing the collisions and sparing the more suspectable bits such as the transmission, the cross members, the driveshaft, the fuel line and even the gas tank is mounted up and out of the way. Up front, a K member more suited for a one-ton truck protected the engine oil pan and the crankshaft pulley. And those frame rails began to kick down so early that the rear-steer tie-rod system (which is also mounted up quite high) is also protected extremely well.

The front spring eyes of the rear leaf springs are so cradled in that massive frame that they too are virtually out of any danger of receiving any kind of impact damage. But it was the "almost new" tires that my Dad had pointed out that was a big factor in why that car lasted where others could not. They were non-radial, poly-steel, 'tube' type tires, an obsolete type even then. 'Jim' probably thought he got a screaming deal on them somewhere when really that tire shop was just getting rid of some nearly useless old stock. But with innertubes, side forces on the tires as we plowed sideways can't 'break the bead' that is, the seal on the lip edge of a tubeless tire. (Virtually every tire made since the fifties.) So, as we were sliding completely sideways, those tubes were keeping the tires on the wheel and the air in the tires.

A final postscript: I used those rod ends for just what I had planned, the suspension link ends of the A-arms, and in other places of a specially prepared Austin Healey racecar that I eventually built in my garage and that I race in solo autocross competition. So, things worked out for us, but we were lucky. At virtually every step of this 'story,' disaster was only a heartbeat away. Just a slight change here, or a different turn there and who knows what might have been the result. I don't recommend hardly anything described on these pages to be attempted today. They were a product of another era, a result of times gone by, and much of it is probably best forgotten. That is why I wrote it all down; so it would be saved and I could forget it if I wanted to, but I couldn't, and even though I probably should, I don't really want to.

The End
