 
FEDERAL FOLKWAYS

William White-acre

Copyright 2018 by William White-acre

Smashwords Edition

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography

*Other works by the author:

(novels)

Surrounded By Mythology

I, The Hero

True For X

Forgotten Faces

Memory 2.0

Mysterious Logic

A Rush Of Silence

Heaven On Earth

Follow The Contrails

(Photography Books)

A2Z

Dance

Sand People

Magic City

Flesh

Human Condition

Table Of Contents:

Chapter 1: Winter Josie

Chapter 2: Spring The Termination

Chapter 3: Summer Jo Jo's Real Estate

Chapter 4: Fall Being Marooned

Chapter 1: Winter Josie

JOSIE

It was cold as hell that winter sometime in the 1960's, more like New England than Virginia, with biting winds and snow that came down in feet instead of inches. People were ice skating on the ponds that dotted the countryside. Snowdrifts had reached up and over my car in the driveway. I, personally, was sick and tired of shoveling snow.

I had met her back in the summer. She was coming out of the grocery store in town and she dropped one of the bags she was carrying. I helped her pick it up. She smiled at me and thanked me, giggling. "You're welcome," I had managed to say, stammering. Her mother had honked the horn, motioning for her daughter to hurry up. She turned back to me and crinkled up her nose and said, "Mothers." I nodded and smiled back at her. Then she was gone. I watched her drive away, hoping that she might look back, maybe wave.

Fast forward to the school year. I spent the majority of the first few weeks of school hoping to see her in the halls or in one of my classes. She was nowhere.

I lived in a suburban town where families moved often, coming and going frequently. Just another bedroom community for the US Government housed in Washington DC. She's moved I told myself, trying to deny my disappointment. I never even knew her name.

It was around Halloween, I believe. Gene, a friend from school, had invited me over to his house. We were hanging out in his basement. Then his next door neighbor came over. I didn't know him. He went to Parochial school in a neighboring town. "Wanta play pool?" he asked us.

We went back over to his house. His family had a large rec room with a ping pong table and a pool table. It was like striking pay dirt. We must have played for hours.

After playing pool, we had switched to playing ping-pong, with the victor commanding the table. An errant shot had sent the ball rolling down the hall towards the utility room. "It's by the tool shelf," Gene called out, pointing. I bent over to pick up the ball just as the back door opened.

When I stood up there she was. It was her. She was wearing a Catholic school uniform, with knee socks. Mystery solved. Now I knew why I had never seen her around my High School.

"Hi," she said, smiling.

"You can disappear. Now!" her brother called out from across the room. "We don't need any stupid sisters hanging around down here."

I couldn't say anything. I just stood there. Stone. Statue. Speechless.

"I love your uniform," Gene heckled, laughing and pointing. "What are you ten years old or what?"

She ignored their remarks and said to me: "Haven't I seen you before?"

"Yeah," I muttered, dropping the ping pong ball, where it bounced across the linoleum floor.

"Are we gonna play today or what?" her brother demanded to know, smacking his paddle on the ping pong table. "I'm about to beat your ass in this game."

"I doubt that," she shot back, laughing. "Everybody in the neighborhood beats my brother."

"Yuk, yuk, so funny," her brother countered, smacking the paddle again. "The ball's over there. If you can stop looking at my goofy sister maybe we can finish the game."

I blushed. She bent over and retrieved the ball from next to a stack of last year's National Geographic and handed it to me. "Kick his ass," she whispered. I watched her disappear up the stairs.

I lost the game and endured her brother's gibes gladly. I had found her. Better, I knew where she lived, and I was playing rec room games with her idiot brother. Life was good.

"When can we go back over to his house and play some pool?" I asked Gene when we were heading back over to his house.

"I don't know," he said, shrugging. "The guy's kind of a jerkoff. I can't stand to be around him that much."

"He's not that bad a guy," I offered, trying to sound neutral. "Nice pool table," I added a moment later.

"You ought to see his sister out of that uniform," Gene said, whistling. "Gooood lookin'," he chortled. "Great bod."

"Really," I said, trying to sound uninterested. "Kind of hard to tell in that uniform thing. They really have to wear those to school-huh?"

"Yep. Pretty stupid," Gene said. "Their parents are devout Catholics. I think they are on a first name basis with the Pope. The older brother is a priest."

"Really."

"Don't get any ideas about Josie," Gene suddenly warned. "Catholic girls are the worst. Besides, her parents hate Protestants."

Josie, I was thinking. Her name is Josie. I could still see her long blond hair and blue eyes, with the sprinkling of freckles on her nose.

"Protestant, what's that?" I joked.

"You are," Gene declared, pointing at me. "Don't start another religious war in my neighborhood."

"Do you think she likes me?" I blurted out.

Gene turned to stare at me, then said, "Pa-the-tic. Don't embarrass yourself."

Embarrassment was a small price to pay, I was thinking as I walked home, trudging through the fallen leaves that were piling up on the streets. "I think there's a rake in the shed that has your name on it," my father announced as I was coming in the back door, but I didn't listen. "I guess we could let the leaves just sit there all winter, make good mulch for the lawn," he continued sarcastically. I closed my bedroom door and turned on my stereo.

Romance came hard. Being that we attended different schools, it was increasingly difficult to maintain a connection, if you will. But I'm getting ahead of myself somewhat.

Autumn. Football games and dances, then the inevitable change of the season, bringing cool, crisp weather. Josie was never far from my thoughts. Okay, day dreams really if you have to know the truth. I could still see her in that plaid skirt with the clean, white shirt covered by a gray sweater. Fantasies being what they are, I imagined any number of scenarios about us, the "us" being a couple embarking on going "steady."

Jokes aside, I creatively angled to visit Gene's house frequently with the hope of encountering Josie some way some how. Of course Gene was wise to my plan. It was rather obvious, I guess.

"Maybe you could put up a sign on my front lawn saying: JOSIE, I LOVE YOU," he exclaimed, taking the time to deride me for being so hopelessly (helplessly) smitten. "I'm so sure Josie's mom would just love to have you over for dinner anytime. Make it Friday night and you can have fish," he teased, laughing.

"Fish," I said absently, pretending to ignore him.

"Yeah, shit for brains. They are Mackerel snappers, you know," he explained, punching me on the arm. "Catholics," he added when he noticed the confused look on my face. "Boy, where were you brought up?"

"Oh, I get it," I said, frowning at him. "So what's wrong with fish on Friday?" I joked, smiling at him.

"I guess you could always convert," Gene suggested with mock seriousness. "Yeah, that's right, then you could make a pilgrimage to Rome and kiss the Pope's ring. You might like that."

"Sure," I snorted, punching him back. "Like you've never thought about getting it on with Josie. I bet you spy on her from your bedroom window at night. Pervert. Come to think of it your bedroom is on that side of the house. You probably beat-off when you catch her getting undressed."

"She ain't that hot," he exclaimed unconvincingly.

"Oh yeah, right," I shot back, smirking. "I betcha have binoculars stashed in your room right now. You do, don't you? Admit it."

"She's a stuck up bitch," he declared. "And she's flat anyway. Like a board."

Gene's mother came home and that ended our in depth discussion. "You boys want me to make you something to eat?" his mother called out from the kitchen. Gene shook his head no in my direction, then motioned for me to follow him upstairs. "No thanks, mom," Gene called from the stairs.

We sat in his room tossing a football back and forth from one bed to the other. I was trying to control myself and not look out the window. I had timed my arrival at Gene's house to coincide with the time Josie returned home from Parochial school. It had taken me several visits to coordinate my surveillance of her house.

"I see what you're doing," Gene said, shaking his head dejectedly.

"What?" I said with about as much innocence as I could muster.

"Pathetic with a capital P," he muttered, zinging me with a pass that bounced off the wall. "Nice catch," he sneered.

"Nice pass, jerk-off," I shot back, getting up to pick up the football. I quickly stole a glance out the window.

"Do you think your parents will let you transfer to Saint Francis of Sissy High School?" Gene asked in a girlish voice, laughing. "Hey, I got it. You could study to be a Priest. Yeah. I can see you wearing one of those goofy collars and going around saying 'Domini, bless you my child.'"

"And I can see you with a nose out to here after I pop you a few times," I said, throwing a few shadow punches in his direction.

"What about that bad knee you got from playing football? You know you have to do a lot of kneeling all the time. Might be a problem when you convert. I guess you could get dispensation from the man in the beanie...like a waver or something. I got it. A Papal decree, yeah, that's it. Please be advised that he doesn't have to kneel at mass because before he became a homo Catholic he was actually a man and played football."

"Where's you binoculars?" I asked boldly, ignoring his diatribe against me. "Come on, I know you got 'em around here somewhere."

"No, no, you mustn't look at nubile little girls anymore. You are going to be a devout Catholic," he said in a lofty tone of voice. "No more sinful thoughts from you."

"You are so full of shit it is coming out your ears, Gene," I cried out, walking over to the window and looking out. I could see a bus coming down the street.

"Is that the bus I hear?" Gene sang out, cupping his hand to his ear. "It must be the bus bringing back the Papist stooges after a long day of reciting their catechisms. My, my, let me dust off my crucifix."

I saw the bus stop a few houses down from hers. Several kids got off the bus. Two boys were trying to say something to Josie. She turned away from them and cut across her neighbor's lawn. One of the boys yelled out something in her direction. "Could you get any more conceited?" he heard one of them shout out.

"That must be the fairy princess now," Gene said, walking over to the window. "Josie, Josie, I would gladly die a thousands deaths for just one kiss from you," he recited in a stentorian voice, falling to the floor as if he had been stabbed.

"Funny guy," I mumbled, continuing to watch her walk to her house.

Gene jumped to his feet and quickly slid open the window then leaned out and shouted, "Josie, up here!"

"Don't you dare," I warned, trying to pull him away from the window.

"Josie, my friend here wants to know if--"

I yanked him away from the window and tossed him across his bed. She stood on the lawn below looking up, perplexed. Gene's dog was barking downstairs and I could hear his mother running the vacuum cleaner. Gene was laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath.

I edged to the window and watched her bend over and pet Gene's dog. Then she stood up and brushed the hair out of her face. "His love knows no boundaries!" Gene suddenly shouted out. She looked up at the open window. I froze in place. We looked at each other for a moment, then exchanged smiles; and she was gone, disappearing into her house.

"You are going to die," I announced angrily, jumping on Gene and wrestling him to the floor.

"Boys! Boys!" his mother called out from the hallway. "Don't break anything in there," she demanded, opening the door to his bedroom. "What are you two doing?"

"Mom...mom, Sean has gone positively mad from unrequited love," Gene said in an affected tone of voice. "All is lost."

I punched him and said over my shoulder as I released the headlock I had him in, "We're just fooling around, Mrs.--"

"Mom, save me from this love starved maniac!" Gene pleaded.

"It must be Josie again," she sighed, closing the door.

"What did she mean by that?" I wanted to know, pushing Gene away from me.

"Sean, like you're the first one to have a thing for Josie," Gene said, laughing. "Get in line, pal."

It was not until late November that I finally got to have an extended conversation with Josie. Up to that point in time I had only exchanged greetings and small talk, with a lot of smiling to go along with it. I was determined to make up for lost time.

Our small town had a new Community Center, with a large hall that doubled as a gym during the day and dance floor at night. As I remember it, I believe it was just before Thanksgiving. The town fathers had sprung for a live band to play for us restless teenagers. Activities, that's what kids need, so said the Community Center director, a man who had just been hired to coordinate the town's civic recreational direction. Something like that.

I was going to be fourteen in December. My dancing career included maybe three previous dances, two of which centered around learning a box step waltz without crippling my dance partner. Rock and Roll dancing would alleviate that problem however. Being detached from your dance partner at least eliminated the need for First Aid after the song finished.

Slow dancing, of course, was a desirable thing. Our version was more or less like a wrestling hold whereupon you hoped to snuggle up to a female as close as possible without being accused of groping. To this point, I had only done it once before and that was in my basement, while the 45 spun on the turntable and a crackling, scratchy rendition of a Motown favorite played. My dance partner had been a friend of my older sister's, who like to flirt with me or take pity on me, whatever I chose to believe.

She had introduced me to the finer aspects of slow dancing as we clutched each other and she slowly but inexorably pulled me tighter until I could feel her breasts make contact with my chest. An electric thrill stole through my body when my hands slipped past her bra in their descent downward towards her waist. "Go with the music," she whispered in my ear and I could feel just how soft her hair felt against my face, as I grew intoxicated on the smell of her shampoo. A raging erection had made itself known in my jeans, poking, trying to say hello.

"Gross me out!" my sister called out from the stairs, where she stood aghast after discovering her best friend dancing with her "uncool" little brother.

That ended that. My dance lesson was over. We unclenched and she was gone, leaving me standing there looking stupid.

Who can forget the initial feeling when you walk into a dance? What emotion is that exactly? You're excited. Charged. You hear the music playing. Semi-darkness awaits you as you open the door. Rhythmic adrenaline, at least that's what a friend of mine used to call it. He was a musician or at least he could play an instrument, the guitar to be precise, so his cosmic, slightly whimsical analysis of the situation can be forgiven.

Hormones can't be overlooked. Animals in the wild have mating calls or, at times, screeches. This summons the other and it all begins. We Homo sapiens like to dress it up a bit, make it more palatable. It's still the same thing though.

There I was. Gene and I had made our grand entrance. No one noticed of course. It was dark, like I said. A band with some local renown was playing up on stage. They were known for being able to play (read duplicate) any popular song and the audience wouldn't know the difference. It was a dubious distinction but they were nevertheless popular.

We scanned the territory, letting our eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. It was crowded. The Recreation Director had scored a hit with this idea. The youth of our town were easily manipulated. Spike the punch with saltpeter and tranquilizers and the proverbial teenage problem would be solved.

I hadn't expected it. Truly. Somehow I reasoned that Josie just wouldn't be participating in what the rest of us did. In fact, there was another girl that had slipped onto my radar screen. She was in my math class. We had shared equation theories on several occasions. By mutual consent we had agreed to study together and you know what that really meant. Geometry my ass.

However, there she was. Tight slacks. Angora Sweater. Hair pulled back in a pony tail. Bass Weejuns. Right out of a catalogue.

"Look who is here," Gene sang out, laughing. "Could this be the night?"

"Screw you," I said nastily. "I'm looking for another chick," I said boastfully.

"Sure you are," he countered, smirking. "Better say your Hail Mary's."

"You're a riot," I muttered, looking around the room, as if I might be indifferent to the female form not twenty feet away, my omnipresent muse, as it were.

Josie was talking to another girl. They were bookends of sorts. Catholic girls, I surmised.

"Check this out," Gene announced, and with that he was off to ask a girl to dance. I could see him doing his version of the latest dances with a girl from our homeroom. She was tall and pretty and (okay) "stacked." With her back turned to me, Gene raised his eyebrows and grinned. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he looked perfectly uncoordinated as he flinched this way and that, doing his facsimile of an American Bandstand reject.

It happened right about then. I was scanning the room, searching. My eyes landed on Josie. She looked up and waved. Waved. I checked on either side of me to make sure she wasn't sending her wave off in another person's direction. Then I waved back.

Magic happens this way. Doesn't it? Divine providence perhaps, or so it would seem to us mere mortals.

Josie motioned for me to come over. Now I didn't want to misinterpret her signal. Had it been a summons? She had indeed used her index finger. She was smiling.

"Aren't you Gene's friend?" she asked me when I got close enough.

"Gene who?" I joked, smiling, trying to sound composed, suave even.

She laughed and then introduced her friend. I promptly forgot her friend's name because I was zeroing in on the fact that Josie knew my name. How? I couldn't remember ever offering it.

"Do you like this band?" she asked me, leaning closer so I could hear her over the music.

"They're pretty good," I said, passing judgment easily. "I heard them a couple times at a few parties before." This was, technically, a lie. I had heard them once before and it was at a friend's house where the band was rehearsing.

She smiled at that response and I noticed her lithe body swaying to the music. Lithe? Well in those tight slacks, you know. Her friend said something that I couldn't make out over the music. Josie nodded. Then the friend walked away.

I was nervous. What was I going to do now? I wasn't prepared for this.

"What would you think if I asked you to dance?" she asked suddenly, smiling at me. "Is that crass or something?"

Now, at the time, (at least with my hormone drenched mind), this was akin to asking me to marry her. My knees got weak for a moment and I tried to muster up some aplomb. Be casual. Be cool.

"I'm not much of a dancer," I explained, trying not to sound too pathetic. This wasn't exactly true. Back home, in front of the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door, I was a funky soul brother, able to chuck and jive with the best of them. I had rhythm that hadn't even been invented yet.

Well we danced. And we danced. Her dance card had just one name in it. Mine.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gene making faces at me. The jealous jerk. He lived right next door to her and he had never even gotten beyond the "Hi neighbor" stage. I couldn't have cared less about his rotten opinion at this point.

If I could only bottle it or, maybe, inject it into a virtual reality program or something. What would it be worth? The stock in the company alone would be off the charts.

Slow dancing. I would call it Slow Dancing, version 4.0. Pick the time, pick the sweetheart, and pick the music. Of course you could never duplicate that first embrace.

I don't remember the song. Perhaps I should, but at the time my senses were a little clouded. The tactile sense had over ruled all the others momentarily.

Thus it began.

After that night we would meet after school at her house. Her mother was cordial at first, deeming me, I suppose, insignificant. This was the era of housewives so she was always home, or so it seemed. Stealing the Mona Lisa would have been easier than stealing a kiss from Josie.

I was to learn rather quickly that this household had a resident saint. Josie's older brother was not only a priest but a Jesuit as well. La-dee-dah, I thought at the time when Josie's mother informed me of this sterling fact. I wasn't impressed. Of course, I was blissfully ignorant of the Jesuit's remarkable history and such. To me, he was just another older brother that probably was going to dislike any guy hanging around his beautiful younger sister.

One fateful day I was to meet the Saint, Father Jamie. Josie's parents definitely had a suffix fixation when it came time to select names for their offspring. Josie's other brother was named Eddie.

The Jesuit was slight of build, about five foot ten. He wore wire rim glasses and had short black hair that he slicked straight back. My immediate reaction to him was surprise at his wimpy handshake. Wasn't this guy going to head to Africa or South America to save the savages? Not with that girlish grip, I thought. Then I noticed he had a strange, unnerving habit of staring at you when he spoke. His blue eyes seemed magnified behind his bifocals as they latched onto you. It was all I could do to keep from slapping him.

Father Jamie spoke in a soft voice. I wondered how he was going to project that voice in order to deliver the word of god. Maybe he spoke louder in Latin. Who knew? When I first met him he was deceptively dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt. He could have been your average Joe in the neighborhood, maybe the older brother home from college, say Washington and Lee or William and Mary or some such University where they have a chapter to the nerd frat.

The next time our paths crossed he was in his work attire, so to speak. I was standing downstairs waiting for Josie to change out of the monkey suit she wore to school, hoping to make it down to the basement before her mom discovered me lurking in the vestibule. Father Jamie appeared on the top landing, pausing to stare down at me. He was in full regalia. His long, jet black soutane swished as he made his way down the stairs. I wanted to call him Padre, but thought better of it.

"Hello," he greeted me with softly, offering his limp hand.

"Hi there," I replied, trying not to stammer, shaking his bony, feminine hand. Strength is in your beliefs, I told myself, smiling at him.

"So you don't attend the Parochial High School," he suddenly said, eyeing me.

"Nope," I answered, looking upstairs, willing Josie to appear.

"I see," he said solemnly. His hands disappeared into side pockets in his floor length dress. "How do you like the local High School then?"

"Fine," I said, shaking my head yes for emphasis.

There was a yawning silence for a moment before he asked, "Where do you attend mass?"

Mass? I thought, wondering if I should just dash out the door and never look back. I wanted to say: "You are awfully presumptuous aren't you?" I didn't say that though. Instead, I said, "I don't." Nice and short.

Father Jamie stared at me for a moment then said, "You don't?"

I don't think I had ever heard more condemnation in just two simple words before. This was rapidly becoming a standoff of sorts. I wasn't afraid of this pansy priest, and I didn't care if he had the entire backing of some black clad secret order of busybody Jesuits. To hell with them.

"Well, Father, I happen to not be Catholic for one thing...and for another I'm an atheist," I declared proudly.

Father Jamie recoiled as if he had been punched. I heard Josie coming down the stairs. Too late. A few seconds earlier and this all could have been avoided. The damage was done.

"Josie, can I have a word with you," Father Jamie stated, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her off into the living room. I could hear them exchanging sibilant whispers. I've done it now, I thought.

Things changed after that. Even after Father Jamie had been called away to the Congo or wherever, the welcome mat had been lifted for yours truly. Before I may have been the token Protestant, able to fraternize with the family in controlled situations, but now I was persona non grata. I wasn't even allowed to pet the family dog.

This was a bad turn of events, very bad. I was in love. Parents and centuries old hatred be damned. On my side of the religious chasm things were less strident. Although my parents deemed Catholics weird and basically lackeys to Rome, they had posted no concrete prohibitions about interacting with the Papists. We were Baptists, secure in our belief that the one true path to god was through a whole lot of shouting and singing. Besides, Baptists, as their namesake implies, used gallons and gallons of water to cleanse the world of our debasing sins. What's a little conflict about what Church to follow?

The Roman Catholic Church saw it somewhat differently. We were outcasts, and, generally, unsophisticated louts. Martin Luther had come way too late on the religious scene to be causing so much trouble. The Pope was infallible, even if he was some Italian living in luxury in the Vatican. Damn it all, there just had to be one, indivisible word of god. It wouldn't do to have all those sinners out there interpreting the Bible any way they saw fit. The Church had been around for centuries and they had long since gotten their act together when it came time to disseminate pious instruction.

Josie's mother had the inside track. She had a son who was a priest. The path to the Kingdom of Heaven had been well greased. No pagan upstart was going to throw up a roadblock, preventing her family from enjoying the fruits of a cushy afterlife.

Oh I don't know if she thought along those lines or not. I can speculate. She was probably just being more of a protective mom than anything else. I was the barbarian at the door I suppose.

At any rate, we moved on to the stealth mode. Being deceptive didn't come easy to Josie. She was remarkably honest. Very open. Now being deceitful for me was second nature. Lying had long ago become a reflex with me.

We began our underground romance. She would meet me at various prearranged spots around town, where we would enjoy each other's company, which extended to the occasional make-out sessions. Nothing sordid ever happened beyond a little groping and sloppy kissing.

These assignations continued on into the winter. As I said before, that year was one of the coldest on record to date. It had snowed early, just a week before Christmas. We actually had the phenomenon of snowdrifts.

It was a Saturday as I remember it. I had convinced Josie to meet me at a friend's house. We were all going to go sledding. Going sledding was relatively novel for us. It seldom snowed enough to blanket the streets entirely. Our town was, however, blessed with plenty of juicy hills to ride on. In the summer months, I had done a great deal of skate boarding, as I routinely defied my mother's prohibition about riding in traffic.

"Don't worry about it," I told her over the phone. "You can use my sister's sled. She won't mind." There was silence from her end of the line and I could hear her breathing. In the background several different voices drifted on the line.

"It's my stupid brother," she whispered into the phone. I could hear her tell him to get lost. "Can Jenny come with me?" she finally asked.

"Sure," I said, although I didn't particularly like her friend because she was continually telling the both of us that we were going to get caught seeing each other. "Dress warm," I advised her.

"Okay," she said, then sighed.

"What's wrong?" I wanted to know, as I pressed the phone receiver tighter to my ear. "Come on, tell me."

"Nothing," she muttered.

"Josie," I coaxed.

"Well...there's this thing I need to talk to you about," she informed me in a lowered voice, as I imagined her looking around to see if her mother was monitoring her phone calls. "My mom...that's all."

"Oh know," I said, exasperated, by now used to the mother and daughter conflict that was threatening to end our romance.

Josie laughed and I imagined her sitting by the phone twirling her hair as she always did. "It's nothing bad-silly. I'll tell you about it when I see you. Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

It had gotten really cold overnight, leaving the roadways with a layer of thin ice. Several cars had been left by the roadside. The owners had apparently given up on trying to make it up several of the hills in the neighborhood. Their cars were left at odd angles to the curbside, with the rear ends sticking out in the road.

The day before the snowplows had come through and pushed snow up against the cars parked by the side of the road. Most of the car owners had just left their cars partially buried because the weatherman had predicted more snow was on the way. Not my dad though. He had insisted that I dig out the car and clean it off even though his work had been canceled due to bad weather. "Builds up the muscles," he said, flexing his arm at me and smiling. I wanted to hit him over the head with the snow shovel.

Gene and Jenny didn't particularly like each other. He would have liked to get in her pants I suppose but he just couldn't abide by her personality, which was, in all honesty, a little on the abrasive side. For her, she thought Gene was social scum of sorts and barely tolerated his presence. Anyway, that was the foursome that cold day in December.

To this day I can still remember what Josie was wearing. She had on a pair of overalls and what we called a car coat at the time. It was burgundy and had a hood. Her blond hair was hanging down to her shoulders and she had a brown knit cap on. She was wearing flimsy cotton gloves that I made her take off because they were only going to get wet and then her hands would freeze. I had given her a pair of my sisters ski gloves to wear, along with some rubber boots.

"Did you do your rails?" Gene asked me eagerly, as we were walking the few blocks over to where the best hill was for sledding.

"Yes I did," I answered, exasperated because he had asked me twice already.

"My sled is going to be fast as lightning," he announced to no one in particular.

Jenny rolled her eyes and made a snorting noise. Gene stuck his tongue out at her. "You are so immature," she chided, looking away. "And you are so ugly," he countered.

"Here we go," I said, by now used to their sniping.

We were pulling the sleds behind us as we walked. The neighborhood was now alive with people, kids mostly. Snowball fights were raging. Mr. Benson, my immediate neighbor, was out in his driveway using his brand new snow blower that all the neighbors made fun of him for buying. "When I have the cleanest driveway in town they won't be laughing anymore," he had declared to me one day as I stood admiring the expensive piece of machinery in his garage. Mike, the neighbor that lived across the street, was trying to shovel his car out. We could hear him cursing all the way down the street about the damn snowplows.

"Looks pretty steep," Josie had said when we got to the hill, as we stood on the crest looking down to the bottom.

"Don't worry about it," Gene assured her.

There must have been a dozen kids already making runs down the hill. Two younger girls were going down the hill on one of those saucer things, twirling wildly and screaming their heads off. A father had his young son wedged in front of him as he tried to guide a toboggan downwards in a straight line.

"Wanta watch us make a run first before you try yourself?" I suggested, grabbing hold of her hand.

"Oh no," Gene protested, "you two aren't going to be doing that stuff all day are you?"

"Screw you," I said to him, as I kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Now you're making me sick," Jenny complained.

"You two are both just jealous," Josie said, hugging me.

"I can't stand anymore of this," Gene stated, as he jumped on his sled and took off.

We watched him as he careened down the hill and slowly edged over to the side where he took advantage of a natural bank on the slope to jump over. A few kids at the bottom of the hill whooped and applauded his effort. Gene slid to a stop and jumped up to take a bow.

"Show off," Jenny muttered.

"Okay girls, let me show you how to do it," I started to say.

"I know how to do it," Jenny exclaimed, pushing her sled into place.

She sat down on the sled, slowly put her feet on the guide bar, latched onto the lead rope and slid away. Slowly she picked up speed then before she realize it she was out of control and heading for a large impression in the slope that gradually gave way to a steep section before abruptly ending at a chain link fence around a neighbor's house.

"Watch out!" Josie shouted.

"Jenny ate it!" Gene yelled up to us gleefully. "She looks like a snowman."

We could see where she had come to a stop against the fence. Fortunately there was several feet of snow piled against the fence. Her stocking cap had flown off somewhere in the middle of the hill. A group of kids near her were pointing and laughing. I heard her tell them to go to hell.

"Sean, I don't think I want to ride down the hill," Josie informed me, smiling wanly.

"It'll be okay. All you have to do is go slow until you get the hang of it," I explained. "How about if we ride together a few times. That way you can get the feel of it."

"Great wipe-out," Gene said breathlessly, dropping his sled down next to mine. "Man, that hill is steeper than it looks. You can really get going fast if you want to."

I was trying to wave him off, so he wouldn't scare Josie anymore than she already was. He was oblivious. An adrenaline rush had taken possession of his brain.

"We're going to try it together," I said, giving him a look that I hoped conveyed what the immediate situation was.

"Josie, you mean to tell me you've never ever been sledding before?" he said, incredulous. "That's hard to believe. Where you been?"

"Come on, Josie. Don't listen to him," I said protectively, guiding her onto my sled.

"Oh, I wish I had a camera," Gene cooed behind us. "Another picture for the scrap book. Me and Josie sledding together before we got married."

I flipped him the finger behind my back and climbed on my trusty Dayton Flyer or whatever it was called. The damn thing had been hanging in my basement for almost two years and had only been used maybe three times. The varnish on the wood deck was still in mint condition. Even the painted label hadn't yet to fade in the elements.

"Watch out for that side," Jenny warned, pointing to the right side of the street. She was breathing heavily from the trudge up the hill. "It's a lot steeper than you think."

"You ride like a girl," Gene spat out, laughing.

"I am a girl if you hadn't noticed," she snapped.

"Really. You could have fooled me," Gene said, grinning.

"Like you aren't always looking at me and all," she stated arrogantly.

"Oh yeah, sure, dream on," he shot back.

"He talks about you all the time," I said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, he does," Josie chimed in with. "Can't shut him up half the time.

With that, we were off. I had snuggled up tight against her on the sled. I could smell her hair in my face. She was leaning back, bracing herself by wrapping her arms over my legs. I pressed my cold nose against her cheek and she squealed.

Slowly, I guided us down the hill, careful not to head towards the right. Using my feet, I brought us to a controlled stop at the bottom. She leaned back against me and then we kissed. A couple of Junior High School girls at the bottom embraced and mimicked us. "Must be true love," one of them said, giggling.

"That wasn't so bad now was it?" I asked, pulling the sled up the hill. "Nothing to it."

"It was fun," she said enthusiastically.

As we were walking up Gene and Jenny zoomed by us going down. "Kamikaze!" Gene yelled out, speeding right by us. "Nutcase!" I shouted back at him.

We sledded all morning, until we were tired and hungry. After a little while we finally got the girls to ride the sleds in the preferred manner by lying face down on the sled and using your hands to turn. Jenny had taken right to it. Josie was more fearful but we managed to convince her it was the best method.

"Don't touch me," Jenny commanded, stiffening.

"Like I'd want to," Gene exclaimed, sliding to the back of the sled.

"You two haven't a chance," I chided, laughing at the two of them trying to sit on the same sled without touching each other.

"Keep your hands on the rope," Jenny ordered.

"I'm going to cop a feel on the way down," Gene said, leering at her.

"That's it. NO way am I going down on the same sled with him," Jenny shouted out, jumping up.

"Jenny, come on," Josie cajoled. "It's just a race."

It had been Josie's idea. A race, couple against couple, seemed like fun. Not going to happen or some such sentiment was probably going to be the outcome.

"Chickenshits," I announced. "You two know you can't beat us. Admit it."

"You're full of it," Gene said, jerking a thumb in my direction.

"Let's make a bet," I suggested, winking at Josie. "If we lose Josie and me can't touch for the rest of the day."

"Can't touch...like in no hand holding or kissing type of thing," Jenny said expectantly.

"Right," I confirmed.

"For the rest of the day," Gene said.

"Yep," I said.

"What if we lose?" Jenny asked, clearly interested now.

"Then you two have to kiss," Josie answered. "And on the lips."

"Gross!" Gene exclaimed.

"For me, not you," Jenny said, glancing at Gene.

"Sounds like a good bet to me," I said, grinning.

"You're demented," Gene said, pointing at me.

"Better yet, how about a French kiss," I suggested.

"Like that would ever happen," Jenny spat out, pretending like she was gagging.

"You might like it," Gene said suddenly.

Jenny turned on him and said, "I'm going to puke right now. Right on you."

"Children...be nice," Josie said, laughing.

Well we did race and we did win but Jenny and Gene refused to kiss. They shook hands instead. Afterwards we headed to my house for lunch.

Throughout our relationship Josie and I had been able to meet at my house. My parents had no prohibition about me seeing a Catholic girl. Although my parents might not have agreed with Josie's religious bent, they weren't worried about any undo influences that might sway my religious proclivity. Besides, my people came from a long line of evangelical missionary types, who, when pressed, could probably convert anyone at anytime. Some pretty, fair-haired adolescent surely didn't pose a problem for the real god--that being our god of course.

We happily barged into the kitchen, tossing off our hats and coats by the back door. Our fingers were numb and our toes ached. "Look at the red noses," my mother greeted us with cheerfully. Then we heard the welcoming words: "Hot chocolate anyone?"

Retreating to the privacy of the basement, we ate lunch and drank our hot chocolate. My dad made some half-hearted attempts at getting me to do some snow removal work but it went unheeded and he went away rumbling about the youth of America's general all around laziness. Josie and I sat on the couch holding hands, while Gene and Jenny sniped at each other, but in a good-natured way.

"I have to be home around four," Josie informed me, squeezing my hand.

"We've got plenty of time," I said happily, wishing Jenny and Gene could disappear so I could get in some prime makeout time.

"Wanta sled some more?" Gene asked, as he looked out the window, noticing that it was beginning to snow again.

"I'm tired," Jenny answered for us.

"I wasn't talking to you," Gene said, frowning at her. "I thought we could try Moore Avenue, you know, where that steep section is. I heard you can ride it all the way down to where Mulberry Street crosses it."

"No way," I said, skeptically, because he was talking about a distance of at least a half a mile or more.

"That's what I heard from Betters," Gene assured me. "He said that about four or five years ago when it snowed this much the road was rideable all that way for sure...and it was fast as hell."

I could detect the excitement in his voice but I was thinking of the girls. He was talking about riding on the street where there might be traffic, not to mention some of the sections of road were steep as hell with sharp curves in them. It was borderline dangerous. Of course, I wanted to do it.

"You girls up for some hairy riding?" I asked hesitantly.

"I don't want to get all cold again," Jenny answered reasonably.

"I don't want to get all cold again," Gene mimicked, holding his arms tight around his chest.

"That's not what I sound like," Jenny declared defiantly.

"Yes is it," Josie said, as we all laughed together.

"This is absolutely the last time I ever do anything with you all again," she stated. "I mean it."

"Oh please, Jenny, won't you reconsider," Gene sang out, giggling. "What would we ever do without you? I truly think the world would stop for us."

"You are such a comedian, aren't you?" she shot back, walking over to slap him on the arm.

"No touching," I said, laughing.

We bundled up again and set out in the falling snow. After a few blocks the inevitable snowball fight broke out, boys against girls. Virginia snow was wet and therefore perfect for making snowballs. Gene and I lobbed a few at the girls until they surrendered, but not before Jenny sneaked up behind me and stuck a cold, icy snowball down the back of my shirt. I chased her down and tackled her in the snow, where I returned the favor.

It took us almost half an hour to get to Moore Avenue. Apparently we were the only fools out to meet the challenge that day. The Avenue, like most of the streets, was lined with snow covered cars parked along the side. The new snow was already covering the few tire tracks that were left on the road. Although it was a heavily traveled road in good weather, it was obvious that only a few cars had attempted to make it up the long hill in the last few days.

"This is it," Gene called out, dropping his sled next to him. "Check out that curve down there," he added excitedly, pointing. "I think we can bank off that buried VW over there."

My eyes followed where he was pointing. A massive snow drift, aided by the snow plow, had completely buried a VW bug, leaving an odd almost oval shaped lump in the snow. Jenny and Josie were standing off to the side stamping their feet to stay warm.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," I whispered to Gene, hoping the girls couldn't hear me. "Looks kind of dodgy."

"Don't weanie out on me," he commanded, eyeing me. "We can make it all the way past Mulberry. I know it," he hissed, slapping his hands together to stay warm.

"What about them?" I said, turning my back to the girls, who were looking down the hill.

"What about them? They can go slow behind us," he explained. "Listen, how many times are we going to get a chance to do something like this around here? Like hardly ever-right? You don't want to miss it, do you?"

"No," I replied, kicking at the snow building up on the street.

"Listen up, girls, we are going to make a run," Gene announced, glancing back at me and smiling.

I pulled Josie off to the side and coached her on what to expect and what to do. She smiled back at me, laughing at my concern. "I'm getting just the least bit cold," Jenny called out, as she lined up her sled. "Yeah, give your wife a big kiss so we can get movin'," Gene demanded, picking up his sled. "Go slow," I said to Josie, "and use your feet to slow you down like I showed you." "Yes sir," she said playfully.

He ran about twenty yards and then jumped onto his sled and zoomed off. I watched him for a moment. "Here goes!" Jenny shouted out, as she followed Gene's lead. I looked back at Josie. She motioned for me to go on. I ran hard then mounted the sled, almost immediately slip-sliding on a patch of ice. Glancing back, I could see Josie carefully starting out.

The street surface was fast, and steep. The snowplow had leveled the previous night's snowfall into hard pack, making for very little resistance. Spots of the road were icy. My sled was humming over the surface.

Up ahead, true to his word, Gene was angling for the buried VW. With a loud thump he careened up and over the car, landing hard and then sliding sideways. He used his foot to correct his descent and kept on going. He's crazy, I thought.

Jenny was doing fine off to my right, as she managed to control her speed without any difficulty. Before I realized it I was going so fast the cold wind was making my eyes water. I couldn't see Gene at all. He had gone completely out of sight.

Squinting, I saw that the curve in Moore Avenue lay directly ahead. "Here's the curve!" I shouted out, hoping that the girls would hear me. I shifted my weight and leaned into the curve, just missing a park car as my sled slipped on a large patch of ice.

Betters was right, I was thinking, as the rushing sound of crunching snow whisked by under the rails of my sled. It seemed likely now that I could make it on beyond Mulberry Street if I maintained this speed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a car stopping at a stop sign on a cross street. I hadn't thought there would be any traffic to worry about. The driver honked his horn at me as I sped on by.

In the distance, more than a block after Mulberry Street, I could see Gene standing there. He was waving his arms and shouting. "Jump this! Jump this!" he screamed out, pointing to a natural rise in the road. I angled over to where he was pointing and launched off the snowy ramp, landing hard and rolling off my sled. I slid to a stop on my butt and laid there laughing.

"I think I broke my ass," I said, breathing hard.

"Nice landing, Mr. Spastic," he said, running up to me to help me up. "Was that cool or what?" he asked excitedly. "Let's do it again...only this time I want to try and go longer. If I get a better start and make a tighter turn on that curve I think I can make it all the way to Livingston Street. What do you think?"

"I think you're nuts. You almost killed yourself going over that car, Gene. I sure hope you didn't leave any scrape marks on his paint job."

"No way. I cleared it no problem. Did you see my landing? Almost killed me," he shouted out, laughing.

"Where are the girls?" I wanted to know.

"They'll be here, don't worry about them," Gene assured me.

We waited. Gene chattered on about his run and doing it all over again. He was going to go even faster. I kept looking back up the street.

"I'm going back up," I said, grabbing my sled.

"Let's go," Gene said eagerly, falling in step with me. "This is the part that sucks," he said next to me, grinning. "We need to get somebody to give us a lift back up, somebody with a truck or something so we could just throw our sleds in the back and go."

We hadn't walked but only a block when we saw the girls walking down the hill. Gene and I exchanged glances. I could see that Jenny had a worried look on her face.

"What happened?" I asked, concerned.

"Oh nothing, Sean, just that Josie ran into a car," Jenny said almost angrily. "Where were you guys anyway?"

"We went on ahead," Gene explained.

"Are you all right?" I asked, walking over to Josie.

"I guess so," she said, holding her head.

"She banged her head," Jenny stated. "Got a knot as big as a golf ball on her forehead."

"I'm all right," Josie protested.

I gently slipped her cap back and saw that there was a small knot on her head just above her right eyebrow. There was no abrasion or cut and no blood. She smiled up at me and shrugged her shoulders.

"She wiped out on that stupid curve back there. I think she ran over an ice patch or something. Anyway she went right into a parked car. Boom!" Jenny explained.

"Stunt woman," Gene sang out, laughing. "She knows no danger."

"Yeah, right," Josie said, trying to smile. "I feel kind of dizzy. Talk about headaches," she mumbled.

"I'll make a little snowball and you can put it on your head," I suggested, bending over to scoop up some snow.

"You know, maybe we should get on back now," Jenny offered, looking at me and secretly pointing to her head. "Might be a good idea."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I agreed.

"What?" Gene exclaimed. "I want to make some more runs."

"So make some more runs, Mr. Concerned," Jenny chided, glaring at him.

"If you are trying to make me feel bad then you've succeeded," he shot back.

"Then my work is done," Jenny stated, grabbing onto Josie's arm. "Come on, I'll help you back home."

Two days later my Josie was dead. There, I've said it. She died.

Contusion. Brain hemorrhaging. Undetected trauma.

She returned home with Jenny that day. Later that night she awoke complaining of a severe headache. By morning her parents had taken her to the Emergency Room.

Death. It came suddenly. I learned about Josie passing away from Jenny. Of course I hadn't been in touch with her family. Tearfully, Jenny told me over the phone. I didn't believe her.

I was almost fourteen years old. Grief took hold of me, lashing at my sense of youth and invincibility. She can't die, I told myself over and over.

I was not permitted to attend the funeral services or the wake afterwards. Bitterness towards me gripped Josie's family. I was blamed for her untimely death.

On a clear, frigid day just before Christmas I went to her grave site. A cold wind was blowing. I stood by her grave staring at her name on the headstone. It wasn't possible. Removing my glove, I ran my hand over the letters of her name. "Josie," I whispered softly, while several tears froze to my cheeks.

A few months passed. Jenny and I ran into each other in a store in town. We had nothing to say. We stood there looking at one another for a long moment then she said: "I miss her." "So do I," I said in a quiet voice. She turned and walked away. I never spoke to her again.

After High School I moved away from that small town in Virginia so close to Washington DC. It was some five years before I returned. Many things had changed. The population in the town had soared, forcing the boundaries to expand deep into the Virginian countryside. I hardly recognized anything anymore.

It was late Spring. Everything was in full bloom. With a little difficulty, I found the graveyard. Housing developments had sprung up all around it.

There are no limits on sadness, so it would seem. I could still cry. I did, as I looked down on the gravestone again. Yet it made me happy to see that someone had placed flowers on her grave. "I still haven't forgotten you either," I whispered, as I ran my fingers along the letters of her name.

Chapter 2: Spring The Termination

THE TERMINATION

GOING BACK

It was another one of those times. I had quite a few of them lately. It was a peculiar feeling. Although I was only in my late twenties, I felt somehow old, as if I had had my chance and missed it. I glanced out the window of the train and watched the grimy outskirts of Philadelphia come into view. Soon I would be back to my past.

"Do you work in Washington?" the woman seated next to me asked. I looked at her cheerful smile and wished I had never begun a conversation. The train was crowded, with all the seats taken. I was in no mood to chit-chat.

"I use to live there," I replied, turning to look out the window again. A train raced by in the opposite direction which rattled the windows, startling two children sitting in front of them. They screamed, then laughed, while their mother sitting across the aisle told them to "hush up, you two."

"It's a nice place. I love the monuments," my seat mate continued. "I always thought I'd like to move there; but I haven't yet." She sighed, then said, "Then you must live in New York."

"No," I said.

"I see," she said, looking at her watch.

The truth was I didn't live anywhere in particular. I had changed jobs frequently and with that came a change of locale. I didn't feel any connection to any place. I hadn't realized just how disconnected I was until recently when a friend asked me about my favorite football team. I didn't have one. I had no allegiances.

The train came to a stop and the conductor shouted out Philadelphia, enunciating every syllable. People bundled in heavy winter coats trudged up and down the aisle looking for empty seats. "Hey man, there's no damn seats open," a tall black guy shouted out to the conductor. "Where we s-pose to sit?" The conductor motioned towards the rear of the train, then disappeared into the next car.

"I guess we're lucky to get seats," my seat mate said, smiling.

I looked at her and forced a smile. She was pretty. Early thirties. At first I had wanted to chat, probe, find out something about her; but then I had changed my mind. I didn't think I could endure three hours talking to her.

"Last time I came down to DC I got stuck in the smoking car. It was just awful," she said, holding her nose. "I finally stood in between the cars for the last hour of the trip."

"What are you going to DC for?" I finally asked, regretting it immediately.

"I'm going to see my sister. She lives in Chevy Chase. I go down about once a month or so. She hates coming up to New York. Who can blame her?" she said, laughing. "We're twins."

"Really," I muttered.

The metroliner sped on, leaving Philadelphia in its wake. I thought about going to the club car, maybe have a beer. Might be too crowded, I said to myself.

"Are you staying right in Washington?" she wanted to know.

"No," I replied.

She kept looking at me, expecting more. Finally she said, "Georgetown is such a nice place, don't you think? I would love to live in Georgetown. Some of the shops there are just so interesting. It has such a colonial feel to it. Ever spend much time there?"

"I use to live there about five years ago," I said.

The kids in front of them were now arguing over a toy. Their mother had put headphones on and was listening to her walkman. "Mom," one of the kids shouted, "Lisa won't give me back my--" "I can't hear you," their mother sang out, tapping the headphones with her finger.

"You have to have lots of patience to be a parent," his seat mate said, laughing.

"I'd like to smack the crap out of them," I stated.

She glanced at me, a mild look of horror on her face. Then she began fumbling in her bag and pulled out a paperback novel. She smiled grimly at me and opened her book. She didn't say another word. Mission accomplished, I thought.

ST CROIX

I was going back, returning to what constituted my home. Several years had passed since my last visit. I hadn't kept in touch with anyone. There were a few friends I could look up. I had no plans. It could be weeks before I would land another job.

Sean was a friend from High School. We had been good friends. I never communicated with him, but whenever I passed through town we would renew our friendship. This had been going on for some five years.

I caught up with Sean at his parent's house in the suburbs of DC, on the Virginia side. He was surprised, as he invariably was. I always seemed to appear unannounced.

The fire was going in the living room. A cat, a dog, lounged near the warmth of the fire. Sean's parents welcomed him from their ensconced position on the couch, protected by a fleece throw. "Coldest winter I can remember," Sean's father said. "Would you like some hot chocolate?" Sean's mother asked. The domestic scene unfolded before me, leaving me with an ache somewhere inside. I could scarcely remember a family life.

"The stuff is in the basement," Sean announced, heading to the stairs.

I followed him downstairs, glad that I didn't have to "visit" with Sean's parents. I had known them since High School but now, after having moved away, I never felt comfortable around them. I had long since forgotten what it was like to interact with parents. One of my parents was dead and the other I rarely spoke to.

"Where did you say it was, mom?" Sean called out from the basement. His mother said something but we couldn't hear her. He continued to rummage through dusty belongings stored in the rec room. "So can you go?" Sean wanted to know. "Warm weather, can't beat that!" he exclaimed. "Drink some rum punch, catch some rays, can't wait."

"I guess so," I said, non-committal. I wasn't sure I had enough money. Then again there was the cold. And I had never been to St. Croix.

"Listen, my brother rented a house right on the beach with some of his friends. Some of which are horny females," Sean said, poking me in the ribs. "Could be some action for us...you never know."

"Did you find it?" his mother called from the top of the stairs.

"Here it is," Sean said, pulling out a canvas duffel bag. "Got it, mom," he sang out. "I'm ready now." He held up a set of snorkeling gear and smiled. "Can't go without this."

They were experiencing one of the peculiar sensations of modern travel. It always struck me as strange when you could easily leave behind cold, bitter weather and in a few hours be in inviting sunny warmth. On the plane we had too many rum and cokes, prepping for the island vacation. We were drunk when we got off the plane.

St. Croix's open air airport introduced us immediately to the tropics, as a tepid breeze infiltrated the concourse. Off came the sweaters. The sky was a crystalline blue overhead, with porcelain clouds passing lazily by on the trade winds. "Look," Sean said, pointing to a small booth at the entrance to the airport concourse, "free rum." An elderly white woman was manning the booth, handing out little paper cups filled with Cruzan rum. "If this isn't paradise, nothing is," Sean exclaimed.

We staggered over to a taxi and asked the driver to take us to Frederiksted. He eyed the two obviously drunk tourists for a moment, then reluctantly put our bags in the trunk. Although we were too drunk to know, it was our first taste of the subtle hostility and racial tension that existed on the island. The driver said nothing during the ride, depositing us at the address scribbled on a crumbled piece of paper Sean had handed him. The driver opened the trunk and stood there, while we retrieved our bags. "How much of a tip do you want?" I asked nastily, handing over the fare. The driver stared at me coldly. "Come on, let's hit the beach," Sean declared. I shrugged and followed Sean into the house.

There was no one home. It was a two bedroom house, with a large living room and patio right on the beach. It was clearly inhabited because there were clothes strewn everywhere. A stack of dirty dishes spilled out of the sink in the kitchen. Drinking glasses stained by the telltale sign of pinacolatas were scattered throughout the living room. The unmistakable odor of pot permeated every room.

"There they all are," Sean said, pointing out the back window, where they could see some people sunbathing. "Let's surprise them."

A group of five people were buried in lawn furniture, glistening with suntan lotion. A half empty blender was sitting on a low coral rock wall that separated the property from the beach; the owner had wisely installed an outdoor outlet right into the wall. An expanse of blue water stretched out to the horizon.

"Know where I can get any rum around here?" Sean called out, laughing.

"You made it!" Preston, his brother, exclaimed, jumping up. "I thought maybe you weren't coming."

"And miss this, no way big brother."

"Gene! I don't believe it. What are you doing here?" Preston said, shaking my hand. "Haven't seen you in...damn, I can't remember when."

"Been traveling some," I said evasively. "Hope you don't mind me dropping in like this."

"No, no problem," Preston said, turning to introduce me to everyone. Names floated by.

They had been there for three days and were well adjusted to the rhythms of the island. This was their yearly vacation. Five lawyers, four of which worked in the same office, a high powered Washington law firm. Preston worked for a government agency. As a group, they had planned this getaway for months, pouring over brochures and checking with travel agents.

Finally after months it had come to fruition. Getting away from Washington, away from the cold, escaping winter, was worth any amount. Through a client, they had been given a lead on this property. Right on the beach, it rang in their ears like a chant. A deposit secured it for them and then all they had to do was wait.

I felt uncomfortable. I had agreed to go on the spur of the moment, not taking time to think about the arrangements. After all, I only knew Preston. There never had been any mention of my unannounced arrival and what reception I might encounter. I knew there was a high probability that I wouldn't like these people: five lawyers in one house. It was frightening.

I eased into the situation, made easier by the mellow attitudes of my new house-

mates, compliments of a steady diet of rum and narcotics. They were all professionals competing in the politically charged atmosphere of DC, and they were all heavy drug users. This revelation shocked me at first. Everyone I knew had done drugs before. This was the norm. Yet that had been before, in the Sixties and somewhat into the Seventies. There had been a progression away from drugs. So I believed.

I was disappointed with myself. Now I felt naive, even stupid. How could I be ignorant of this? I asked myself. I had traveled so much in the last few years I had, paradoxically, lost touch. The Eighties were being fueled by a nationwide pharmaceutical cache. Everyone seemed to be indulging.

That first night I was transported back in time. This group was doing what I left behind years before in college. How could people in their late twenties and early thirties be still ensnared by this, I wondered, as we passed around another joint or laid out more lines to snort. It became a night of hazy revelry, fueled by sweet tasting rum.

When I woke up in the morning the relentless tropical sun was already filling the house with unmerciless sunlight. My head ached from the rum and my body was scorched by the previous day of sunbathing. I had fallen asleep on the couch. I could hear Sean snoring from just outside the door, where he had collapsed in a lawn chair.

I had an unquenchable thirst so I drank directly from the faucet. I didn't care if the local water was good or not. I stumbled around the living room looking for my sunglasses, desperately trying to ward off the sunlight. There was no one else stirring. "I don't think I can take another week of this," I said, searching through my bag for some Tylenol.

Later that day, as everyone came to life around noon, I put names to faces. Crystal was Preston's classmate from law school. Boyd was Crystal's colleague from work, as was Sally and Mary. They were all unmarried.

It was clear that Preston and Sally had paired off and were having a vacation romance. Boyd had a repressed desire for Crystal but wasn't going to act on it because of the firm's prohibition of such things. While Mary was in the process of ending an affair with a married man and was uninterested in starting any new endeavors at the moment. After cataloguing this bit of data, I settled in so I could enjoy my stay on the island.

They didn't want to see the island particularly, except for the catamaran trip to Buck Island to go snorkeling. For the most part they were content to stay at the house, soak up the sun, and relax. Working on a tan was top priority. Returning to DC without one was out of the question.

I took to exploring Frederiksted on my own. The tourist industry wasn't as prevalent here as it was in Christiansted on the other side of the island. With the exception of the cruise ship that docked there periodically, most tourists avoided this side of the island. Even the tourists who got off the ship were taken in a van to the other side to buy souvenirs. The capital of St. Croix was overrun with t-shirt shops.

The island was beautiful, as expected. Although I was jaded after having traveled to so many locales, I was still impressed by the mountains and beaches on the island. Then there was always the tension. It was palpable, never being far from the surface. Black. White. Race. Class. Money. Have and have not.

It wasn't complicated. Just a short time before several whites had been slaughtered by a few black men. They had been brutally killed on a golf course. The symbolism was intentional. The murderers were later apprehended. Their motive had been a political one. Strike a blow for blacks, for the underclass. Their one act of carnage had almost been a death blow to the tourist economy. People were afraid to come to St. Croix. Investors abandoned projects they had begun on the island, leaving construction sites half finished. Condos went up for sale, with no buyers.

The whites huddled in their beach front communities on the north shore and wondered who would be killed next. Fortunately for them the militants responsible for the murders had many sympathizers but no followers. Slowly, the island got back to normal, returning to the monetary balance that had the blacks living in the interior, while the whites hugged the shore, keeping their eyes on the friendly changing blue spectrum out their windows.

Resentful blacks co-existing with their economical benefactors was the framework for the societal order. The Cruzans detested the mainland whites for coming to their land and co-opting their lives. Although the power structure was populated by blacks, they were no more than figureheads parroting what was dictated by the real power brokers.

They would be gone in a week's time, so none of it mattered. Have fun. Enjoy the scenery. Drink the rum.

"I got a racquet for you," Preston said, smiling. "Come on, what are you scared or something, afraid I'll beat the crap out of you?"

Preston and I were old tennis partners. We had been known to play in the middle of the day in the notorious Washington summer humidity. Obsessively running down every point until we were exhausted. The one benefit was they never had any trouble getting a court at one in the afternoon.

"Listen to you," I retorted, grinning, "can't wait to take advantage of the fact that I haven't played in months. Shame on you, Preston. And now you're going to let me play with a girl's racquet too. What a guy!"

"I could be wrong, but I think I hear something...yeah, there it is, I can hear your knees knocking together. Must be awful to go through life scared all the time," he said, laughing.

"Ten bucks says you can't win best of three," I stated, pulling a note out of my pocket. "No, what I see is a guy definitely on the down side of thirty. Probably can't even bend over."

"Easiest ten bucks I ever won," he chortled.

The owner of the house said they could use the Bishop's tennis court. "Don't you just love the Episcopalians? They know what god has in mind for the religious," Preston had said, as they walked on the court. The Bishop lived down the street in a large house with well kept shrubbery. The tennis court was in his backyard.

They had gone early, hoping to avoid the heat. Playing in DC's version of heat and playing in a true tropical heat were two different things. After the first game they were already drained. I was sure I could smell the rum oozing out in my sweat.

Right from the beginning it was obvious it wasn't going to be a serious match. Their serves limped over the net and any shot hit beyond the vicinity of either player was a winner. Soon they were laughing. Then they were stumbling and falling down. And then they didn't bother to get up.

Before long they called it a day and staggered back to the house on the beach. "The tennis warriors are back," Crystal chided, giggling. "How did it go?" Sean asked. "It didn't." I said succinctly, plopping down in a lawn chair. "That's why I didn't even bother," Sean declared. "Golf would be more appropriate to our state of mind," Boyd said. "You have to have armed guards to play golf here," I exclaimed. They ignored my remark.

At night, they would make large sumptuous meals, with each person pitching in. Preston was an excellent cook, so he was in charge. Duties were assigned to everyone. I was useless in the kitchen. I was soon relegated to washing dishes.

After dinner, we would sit on the patio listening to the night sounds and watching the moonlight on the water. Then another cache of drugs would be opened and we would indulge, while trying to play charades. This would soon become a ridiculous endeavor as each person's own level of disorientation would kick in.

We would be deep into the evening before anyone succumbed to fatigue and called it a night. Sleeping arrangements were unregulated. Taking possession was the method. Find a place and 'crash.' I felt uneasy about appropriating any of the beds, so I camped on the couch.

Eavesdropping on lovemaking was unavoidable. Preston and Sally would close the bedroom door, an attempt at being discreet. The acoustics in the house were diabolical. Coital interplay was broadcast with uncanny precision throughout the house. On my second night there I had been sitting on the couch discussing politics with Boyd as a riveting dialogue of love cascaded from the back bedroom from Sally and Preston. Boyd, ever the proper gentleman, had continued to make his point about why Jimmy Carter hadn't been able to become a good President, apparently oblivious to Sally's exhortations for Preston to not stop.

Amused, I had snickered, secretly envious because Sally was very attractive and, as he knew now, sexually experienced. Preston did indeed stop, in time, so they continued their conversation about the Hill and other aspects of Washingtonian machinations.

On his third night there, I unexpectedly stumbled on my friend Sean and Crystal sharing a bathtub. The door wasn't locked so I charged in and tossed up the toilet seat. I had already started relieving myself when I heard giggling. Turning half around, attempting to keep my aim true, I saw them there in the tub. No bubble bath to strategically cover appropriate body parts. Crystal wasn't a true blond.

I finished as quickly as I could then excused myself. Sean laughed. "Want to get in with us?" Crystal asked. "Not enough room," I replied and slipped out the door. I could hear them splashing as I went outside to sit on the patio.

The week was over. We didn't want to leave. Winter still waited back home. At the airport, we took advantage of the free rum samples. I was sure I never wanted to taste rum again. The warm trade winds wafted through the concourse, reminding us of what we were leaving behind. Most had gotten tan. Some were still harboring a red tint, with a quilt pattern of peeling skin. Crystal was crying, holding onto Sean and blubbering about having to leave.

Suddenly Preston was running down the concourse, panicked, pulling everyone off to the side. "Listen, they have dogs sniffing out the baggage. Anybody have any stuff left in their bags?" They all looked at each other. Sean and I were the only ones at ease with the turn of events. We were clean.

"Oh no, Sally, did we finish all of that ounce?" Crystal exclaimed, grabbing her by the arm.

"I think so," Sally said. "Yeah, we must have."

"Everybody has a tag on their bags, right?" Preston asked. They all nodded. "Shit, that means we can't just walk away from the bag. They're gonna nab us for sure if there's any residue in there."

"I'll check out what's going on," I said non-chalantly. I walked over to where a man in a uniform was leading a German Shepherd on a leash around the line of bags waiting to be loaded on the plane. The dog was pausing here and there to sniff at the luggage. "Good boy," the man was saying encouragingly.

"I ain't going to jail," Sean whispered to me. I laughed and said, "I heard Crystal say to Sally that she didn't have enough room in her bag so she put some stuff in yours." "Real funny," Sean said.

The dog stopped at a backpack and started to paw at the top, then the dog started barking. "What you got, General? What did you find?" the man called out. "Hey Tom, looks like we got something here!" "Man, I hope that's not one of our group's," Sean declared.

We walked back over to the others and asked them if anyone had a brown backpack. "I've got a backpack but it's more a green color," Boyd said. They all turned to look at him. "Well the dog's picked out a brown backpack and they're about ready to check it out," I explained.

Two guys in uniforms were going through the backpack. "Bingorama!" one of the them exclaimed, holding up a baggie of pot. "That's not my bag," Boyd said, relieved. "Some poor bastard just fell in it now," I said, shaking my head.

It was an uncrowded flight so we moved to the back and spread out. We all stretched out across the seats and went to sleep; except for Crystal and Sean, who indulged in hand sex under the blanket until they too fell asleep.

LESLIE

Even though it was a week night it was crowded at Winston's. A line out front slithered down the sidewalk. The impatient patrons turned their backs to a late winter wind that whipped down the streets of Georgetown. I wished I had worn my warmer coat. A solid half hour past before we were allowed in.

"Beer everyone?" Sean called out, heading for the bar. "Irish whiskey for me," Crystal shouted. "I need to warm up." They took a seat next to the dance floor. Pounding music reverberated throughout the club. Crystal leaned over and yelled into my ear: "Gene, want to get laid tonight?" I wasn't sure I had heard right. I just smiled. She got up from the table and walked onto the dance floor and started talking to a girl dancing.

"Dance?" Preston yelled out, and he then escorted Sally to the dance floor. Sean was tapping his fingers to the beat on the table. Mary and her date were having an argument about something or other. They had been fighting ever since we picked them up in Crystal's car. I wanted to tell them to shut up. After spending the last several weeks with this new set of friends, I wanted to tell them all to "find some silence." I loved that expression. I had heard it on TV, from a British comedy show. The lead actor had turned to a squabbling group of people and shouted that at them. It had worked. They had quickly gone quiet. This group of people just seemed to talk too much.

The music had died away momentarily. The hum of conversation coursed through the club. The bartender rang a brass ship's bell as a customer tipped him handsomely. "All set," Crystal announced, sitting back down and wrinkling her nose up at the beer. "Sean, honey, you know I hate beer. What happened to my Irish whiskey?" "Didn't have it," Sean replied, frowning. "Vodka--rocks would have been a nice substitute," she chided. He started to get up from the table. "Let the waitress get it," she said impatiently.

"What's all set?" I asked.

"Did you see that girl I was talking to...on the dance floor?" she said, smiling. "Pretty good looking, huh?"

"Not bad," I replied.

"She's a secretary at my office. Name's Jill. Real sexy. Interested? Good, I'll bring here over," she exclaimed, excited.

Jill was attractive: slender, with long brown hair and a dark complexion. He liked her immediately. By one in the morning, as a Clint Eastwood film was just ending in a hail of gunfire, I was eagerly grappling with the narrow cut of her designer jeans. She was laughing at my ineptitude.

After, as the rock music of WHFS played on the radio, and the spiraling smoke from Jill's cigarette ascended, I lay immobile, my pulse running ice cold like a long distance runner's. I lazily glanced around her efficiency apartment, noticing how sparsely furnished it was.

"What was I saying? Oh yeah...about Athens," she said dreamily, lost in a reverie about her trip to Greece a few years ago. " I was screwing this greasy Greek like mad while I could see the lights on the Acropolis out the hotel window. It all seemed like some cosmically wired event. Me viewing the historical past of Classical times and this modern day Greek--"

"Got anything to drink?" I interrupted.

"Sure. What do you want...a beer?"

"What kind you got?"

"Oh be choosy why don't you," she teased, jumping up to go in the kitchen.

It was a work day in the morning; she had to be up at seven. At six-thirty we were at it again. Her exhortations filled the room, harmonizing with the Bad Company song and static that had possessed the reception on her alarm-clock radio. I had surrendered my position of dominance, watching as she rodeoed her way to another orgasm, a multiple one in which she lay wheezing on top of him through the entire five minute newscast. During their frenzied lovemaking they had crashed into the bedside table and knocked the radio on the floor; Bad Company didn't miss a beat.

Then there was another beating, a thumping on the wall coming from the next apartment. "Oh shit!" she exclaimed, "I woke my neighbor up again. Too bad." When a commercial break came on, she rolled off of me and impassively mumbled, "That was pretty good. That always starts my day off right."

While she showered, I made some eggs for our breakfast. She came out of the bathroom dressed in a stylish dress, still wearing a towel around her head. They ate in silence, stealing glances at each other and smiling to ourselves.

"Hey, good eggs," she said, grinning.

"It's about the only thing I can cook," I admitted, laughing.

After we ate I did the dishes while she got ready for work. I could hear the hair dryer going and her singing. I knew it was coming. I had tried not to think of the inevitability of it. The morning after's were always the most awkward times. What amount of sincerity do I have to muster? I wondered. One night stands are like one act plays, they have a beginning and an ending, with nothing in between, I remembered reading somewhere.

It had dawned a beautiful warm day, a hint that spring was on the way. Because of the nice weather, she coaxed me into walking her the short distance to where she worked near Upon Circle, prolonging the good-bye. She kissed me when we had gotten to her work building. I watched her disappear in the crowd of office workers converging on the front door, then wiped off her lipstick with the back of my hand.

I borrowed Sean's car and drove out to Northern Virginia. It was in a small suburban town I had spent my High School years. Now, after being away for so many years, the town had changed.

As I drove down Maple Avenue, I looked to see all the familiar landmarks gone. The landmarks that remained were camouflaged by a creeping tide of functional architecture, which meshed--while driving--together to form one chain link blur of colorful stimuli. It was an advertising titillation, urging me to stop and buy a hamburger...an ice cream cone...aspirin on discount...mufflers with a guarantee...a succulent bucket of chicken...self serve gasoline...Kinney's shoes. When I turned on Wolf Trap Road, passing by the service station where I had always gotten my car inspected, the trappings of society's designed convenience were left behind.

Wolf Trap Road, once considered more a rural type road than a commuter's route home, now was also suffering from the industrialized girth of a suburban town. Gone were the tall trees whose branches lent a shady tranquillity to the old road, which twisted and turned its way into the historical Virginia countryside, where once scenes from the Civil War were enacted in all their hateful glory.

Several locations along the route brought back echoing memories, as if they were geographical milestones. On my left, just past Wilson Park, the house of an old friend caught my eye, bringing to mind an encounter that involved virginal trespass. The girl's name was forgotten. She had been older, so I seemed to remember. "And wiser," I said aloud, laughing, for a moment allowing myself to get caught up in the recollection.

Her house came into view and suddenly I was nervous. It had been over six months since I last called Leslie. One of her poignant letters had caught up with me, a letter simultaneously stocked with spite and longing. I always felt guilty sending off the token post card to her that, invariably, succinctly said nothing. I had been back in the area for a couple of weeks already and not contacted her. I had contemplated not seeing her. Now I stood at her door, my hand poised to knock.

Together in High School, where we had met in our senior year, we formed a bond which transcended all our subsequent changes. A decade later, with marriage, childbirth, and divorce endured, Leslie had become an independent woman. "I have to be intelligent and aware," she had told me the last time they spoke, as she summarized her present approach to life, "I'm on my own."

She accepted me for what she thought--she knew--I had become: a wanderer. She would be glad when I visited her, and sad when I left her; the cycle was intractable. Even while she had been married we had maintained a relationship; at the time it had been relegated to a platonic one. She had never been unfaithful. Yet there existed something between us, something that neither one of us could hope to define.

My knock echoed timidly. A child's voice rang out from inside. I found myself saying: "Holly, it's me." "Who's me?" the child's voice demanded from the other side of the door. Then the door was open and Leslie stood there with Holly clinging to her apron.

"Hello," Leslie managed to say.

There was a moment of silence, then Holly said, "Mommy, look who it is!"

"Yes, Holly, look who it is," Leslie said, bending over to move her daughter out of the way so she could open the screen door.

I stepped inside then awkwardly asked, "Do I have to ask permission to kiss you?"

"I don't think so," she replied, hugging me and kissing me lightly on the mouth, as Holly squealed with joy. "Mommy, don't I get a kiss too?" Holly asked. "Oh you're honored. Holly is picky about who she lets kiss her."

I bent over and kissed Holly, who giggled. "Do you remember me now?" She nodded yes and smiled, revealing a missing tooth in front.

"Come on in the kitchen," Leslie said, leading the way, "we're making Easter eggs."

I helped Leslie color hard boiled eggs, while peppering her with cracks about the improbable connection between an Easter Bunny and a resurrected Jew in a cave. Tears of laughter wellowed in her eyes despite her attempts to discourage my blasphemous jokes against her religion.

A Lutheran from birth, she had, in recent years, taken the implications of Lutheranism more seriously. After her divorce, she seemed to withdraw under the religious umbrage that her formalized religion supplied. First there had been the regular attendance at the local Sunday school sessions, then, in a few months time, she had asked to teach the teenagers in the Sunday school. Bolstered by her new injection of enthusiasm for religion, she conducted her Sunday school classes with a "Christian vigor," so said the Reverend of her church, who was proud of the beautiful, intelligent, Christian Leslie.

I was a pragmatist who admitted to having a certain prejudice against what I called "agony junkies": people who longed psychologically to experience a crucifixion. Years before, I had railed against the organized religions. After ten years of travel and seeing most of the world's religions in practice, I wearily accepted it. On occasion, as with the Easter tradition, I would ridicule it as more a reflex than anything else.

I talked with Leslie for a few hours. We arranged to get together for the weekend. I was glad, happy to know, that for the time being Leslie had no suitors to clutter up our reunion.

I was going to meet Preston to play tennis and I was running late. He was waiting court side when I arrived. The warm day had brought out all the hackers in expensive garb, which seemed connected inversely with their playing abilities. As usual, Preston and I were wearing a motley assortment of mismatched shirts and shorts, whose colors had been refined to a faded hue from countless washings.

"Think they'll last a set?" I greeted Preston with, pointing to his tennis shoes.

"Hope so," he replied, picking at the rubbery tentacles of shoo-goo on the toe of his right shoe. "We're next on the court by the way, in case anybody tries to get on," he stated, forever paranoid about infractions against court etiquette.

"How long have they been playing?"

Preston looked up and stared at the court for a minute. "The ones on the right just started and the other ones should be finished in about ten minutes," he explained, fumbling through his tennis bag and taking out a paperback to read.

"What are you reading?"

"Roadside Attraction," he answered, opening the book to where he had left off, marked by a bank deposit slip. He pulled his tattered tennis hat over his eyes to shield out the unexpected sun.

My muscles were stiff as we finally took the court. To my amazement, I discovered my top-spin forehand was on. Preston's ground strokes were coming over the net with a rigid velocity, digging into my racquet. I wasted no time compensating by taking the pace off the ball with high bouncing top-spin returns. I knew Preston was a serve and volley type of player, who hated playing baseliners who wanted to grind out each point.

The first three games were love games and I lost them all. I had, to my dismay, served out back to back double faults to break my own service. Preston smiled at me when we changed sides. We played on with me managing to drop shot my way to victory in only one game.

Between the first and second set I sat on the bench feeling totally exhausted. An ache had already begun to throb in my right thigh muscle. "How long do you think it would take for an ambulance to get here?" Preston taunted, laughing. "I let you win that set," I countered hollowly. Set 2 was a carbon copy of the first, except that I won one game by breaking Preston's serve: a moral victory.

With the tennis over, we settled down in the shade by the court. Two Community College coeds had taken over the court from us. We idly watched them play, focusing in on one girl's cheeks jiggling as they peeked out of an abbreviated pair of gym shorts. Preston wanted to know if I was going to be around for their annual excursion to Baltimore to see the Hopkins lacrosse team play. I wasn't sure.

I was hoping to have a nice, quiet weekend with Leslie. I had accepted Crystal's offer to stay at her townhouse in Georgetown. The four of us could spend the time together. That was the plan. However, at Crystal's townhouse there was an unwritten code that parties could and would occur spontaneously. This weekend was no different. What started out as a quiet get together for two couples blossomed into forty-eight hours of perpetual partying.

"My head is spinning," Leslie whispered, closing her eyes as she lay back on the bed.

"I told you not to do those blasters," I said peevishly, angry because she hadn't listened when I warned her earlier.

It was past three in the morning. The evening had started out innocently enough with Sean and Crystal pitching in on a group effort to fix dinner. They had been drinking wine, expensive wine, a gift from one of Crystal's clients. Then Preston and Sally showed up, almost immediately followed by Mary and her new boy friend.

"Come on, don't be so conservative," Mary's new boy friend, Joel, had admonished them, holding up the little canister of nitrous oxide. "I'm a dentist. I know how this stuff works."

"What do I have to do?' Crystal had asked eagerly, as Joel told her to start to hyperventilate. She had huffed and puffed until she was red in the face, then Joel had given her a shot from the canister. At first there didn't seem to be any reaction. Then she fell back on the couch and sighed.

"Give me a break with this junk," I had exclaimed. "What next? Maybe we can take hits from a bottle of Windex."

They had all ignored me, each taking several turns at the canister; which Joel handled like a benevolent pusher, all too glad to blast another greedy mouth. People were swooning as fast as he could crank it out.

There was a siren off in the distance, then the townhouse was quiet. I sat on the end of the bed and finished off a bottle of Molson. "Hello there," Leslie intimated and I turned to see she had undone the buttons on her blouse. "Hello, yourself," I said, setting the empty bottle on the floor.

Their muffled sounds of love making reverberated throughout the townhouse. Leslie giggled and told me to be quieter. I slowed my motions for a moment, until our combined noises had evaporated in the cool night air. I propped myself up to lighten the weight on her. She had turned her head to the side and I could see her smile showing through the strands of blond hair that had cascaded down over her face. One solitary drop of perspiration drifted down between her breasts.

"I missed you," she said, as she locked her arms around me.

"Me too," I said, kissing her.

"I told myself I wasn't going to ever do this again. It's too confusing."

"No it's not," I countered, raising up to look at her.

"Easy for you to say," she mumbled. Then she pulled me closer and whispered, "Don't stop."

I had been in Washington longer than I had intended. It was time. I was getting that feeling again. It's always the same. Spend a little down time somewhere then it was back to traveling, I thought. Although it was never without ambivalence. Part of me wanted to stay but part of me longed for the liberty of the open road. It was inevitable, I would have to be traveling again. Leslie hadn't asked when I would be leaving. She never did.

"I got a lead on a job," I announced. "I don't know if it's going to work out or not," I explained to Leslie, as we sat in a pizza place on the main drag of the small town.

"Where are you off to this time?" Leslie asked, handing Holly a paper napkin and pantomiming for her to wipe her face. I glanced at Holly, who grinned at me with pizza sauce decorating her chin, then back at Leslie. "Oh, right, I'm not suppose to ask where you're going. I forgot the rules," she said sarcastically.

"Leslie--"

"No, no. I know what I'm expected to do here," she stated, looking out the window, motioning with her hand as if she was waving the subject away. "Holly, eat the pizza right or I'll take it away from you."

Holly, instinctually knowing when her mother wasn't in a playful mood, said in a small, contrite voice, "Sorry mommy. I won't do it again--I promise."

Leslie nodded and pointed at the cheese topping her daughter had removed from the pizza slice. "That's a good girl."

"I'll be leaving in the morning, out of Dulles," I offered reluctantly.

"I appreciate the last minute notice," Leslie snapped, already putting up the emotive fortification that would help her withstand another separation.

"I'll be back," I said, trying to sound upbeat.

"Mommy, he'll be back," Holly said, looking at her mother.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Leslie replied, forcing a smile.

THE DECISION

The sleek Metroliner was on time. The trip from New York to Washington had gone by quickly. I could only vaguely remember the stop in Baltimore, where I had awakened for a minute before dozing off again. No time was spent in New York City. It hadn't worked out in Florida.

Again. I was returning and, as always, unannounced. I walked out of the cavernous Union Station into the tepid night air of DC in late Spring. Not far from the station was a bar frequented by Sean and company. I decided I might as well drop by for a drink and to see if anyone was there. I stood outside and peeked in the windows. It was a Friday night and the place was doing good business. I saw a blond standing at the bar and when she turned around I could tell it was Crystal. The whole group was with her. Casually, I walked in and stood by the other patrons at the bar and ordered a beer.

"What the hell! Hey everybody, Gene's here," Preston exclaimed, the first one to notice me standing there.

"What the fuck!" Crystal squealed, latching onto me and kissing me, where the eighty proof taste lingered on my lips.

"Hey buddy, when did you get in?" Sean asked, giving me a bear hug.

"I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I'd drop in for a beer," I said with a touch of irony in my voice.

"How was Florida?" Sean asked, draping his arm around my shoulders. "I know, I know, hot as hell, right."

"Been back long?" Preston wanted to know.

"Actually I just got off the train right this very minute," I replied, laughing. "Took the liner down from New York."

"What were you doing in New York?" Sean asked, motioning to the bartender to bring him another beer.

"Checking on a job," I replied evasively.

In the midst of the impromptu reunion a hand latched onto my arm and I turned to see Jill standing there, smiling. We exchanged greetings. At that moment, Crystal called out: "Back to the townhouse!" This prompted the intoxicated group to link up and form a walking, staggering brigade to their cars. I piled into Crystal's Mercedes, with Jill occupying my lap.

Preston went directly to the stereo when they arrived and put the latest album by the Eagles on, while Sally, in the tertiary stages of her second 'lude, collapsed on the couch. Mary began rummaging through the drawer in a corner cabinet. "It's all gone," Crystal called out from the kitchen. "Are you kidding me. No crank," Mary spat out forlornly.

I was thrown back into the scene. Three days before I had been working in a small, suffocating office on Miami Beach. Another job that didn't work out. Now, I was in their world, with Jill cozily sitting next to him telepathically tugging at my virility.

"We're out of toot," Preston whined.

Without the usual quota of drugs the party wilted rapidly. Before eleven, Preston and Sally had devised an excuse to leave. Mary took their lead and said good-bye from the front door. Another couple, who I didn't know and everyone had neglected to introduce, quickly left too, saying something about getting up early in the morning to go away for the weekend.

When they had gone, I, followed by Jill, trudged up the stairs to the third floor bedroom. My excuse of being tired was accepted by Sean and Crystal, who were heavily involved in playing a game of backgammon. "Fresh towels are in the linen closet on the second floor," we heard Crystal yell out as we were getting into bed. "Good-night."

Everything was in full bloom as I drove down the GW Parkway the next morning. There was a warm breeze blowing in the window. I was thinking how good it was to be back, for a little while anyway.

I slowly walked up to her door. I had missed her for the last month or so, more than usual. Suddenly I wished I had brought her a present, but then I never did. Standing at the screen door, I could see her seated on the floor in the living room, with an assortment of old clothes, toys, and trinkets surrounding her. I watched her for a moment before knocking. Slowly she turned her head. She didn't smile.

"Oh, I can just see the joy ready to burst out of you," I said jokingly, opening the screen door and walking in.

"Hello," she said, as if I were the next door neighbor dropping by to borrow something.

"What are you doing with all this junk?"

"I'm having a garage sale," she replied almost sullenly.

I kneeled down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Leslie glanced up at me, then returned to labeling the item's price tags.

"Mommy! Look who it is," Holly exclaimed, as she ran into the house.

"Hello, Holly," I said, adding, "maybe you'll be a little more friendly than your mother."

"I'm always friendly," Holly stated. "Mommy, can I go over to Tina's house to play?" Leslie nodded and Holly dashed out the door. They could hear her shouting Tina's name as she ran next door.

"You've got her fooled," Leslie said solemnly.

"Oh I do, huh," I said, irritated. "Okay, obviously my being here doesn't sit too well with you, so I'll just see you later."

"No," she muttered, standing up, "don't go."

"What's up with you?'

She walked over to the couch and sat down. "We have a problem."

"What's new?" I said flippantly.

"You are going to have to listen to me for a minute," Leslie said sternly. "Something went wrong...and I'm pregnant."

I looked at her closely. "When...how-how long?" I stammered.

She looked at me probably trying to remember when she had last seen me so disconcerted. "When--I think when we were at Crystal's that weekend. How long--over a month."

"I can't tell how you are taking this," I said, confused.

"Up until now, I've been taking it alone--all alone. You're off doing who knows what while I'm--" she broke off saying, as the tears welled in her eyes.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything," she blurted out spitefully. "But I've been going through this personal hell of mine by myself and it--" she broke off again and stared out the window.

"Leslie, I'm sorry but I didn't know what was going on--did I? When I left everything was fine."

"Everything wasn't fine, Gene." she shot back.

"I thought everything was," I repeated. She looked at me for a moment then got up and walked to the window. "Well it's been done. Do you object to an abortion...I mean on religious grounds or something?"

She spun around and glared at me. "Of course I've thought of an abortion. Do you really think I want to have your baby?"

"Leslie, calm down," I said in a quiet voice. "All right, you're pissed at me, I understand that, but then that's not going to help us right now."

"I'm going to have a damn abortion this week!" she shouted out, turning back to the window, crying.

"I want to be there for you," I offered.

"Look, I'm not pissed at you really. I'm just angry at the world, and at everyone in it. How could I be so stupid as to get pregnant?" she asked rhetorically, as she began to pace the room. "That night I think...I think I might have forgotten to put my diaphragm in."

"I don't believe this," I exclaimed. "You don't think you put it in! Kind of an important detail don't you think?"

"Well I was drunk and we had been doing those blasters things," she said defensively, her voice almost in a whisper.

"There's no use talking about it now," I declared. "The important thing now is whether or not you're psychologically ready to go through with the abortion."

"What other choice do I have?" she asked bitterly. "I'm not going to have your kid that's for sure. Oh I'm sorry...I didn't mean that," she said, reaching out to hug me.

Leslie, caught in the biological bind, suffering through bouts of psychological doubt and buffeted by religious questions, waited for the appointment, the termination. I aided her the best I could, supplying a steady stream of irrefutable reasoning. Afterwards, Leslie returned home from the procedure with her morals shaken, a cloud of depression scudding across her mental health. The hurt showed with her emotions drawn so tight.

In the twilight of our decision, we attempted to execute each necessary domestic chore, hoping to supply Holly with at least the appearance of normalcy. We were able to maintain her child's innocence, as she was blithely unaware of the chain of events. I tried as best I could to cater to Leslie and Holly's needs.

Weeks followed. An ersatz model of domesticity was constructed. Then a chasm began to form between us. The house, Leslie's home, seemed to swallow us, to incarcerate us, not permitting any possibility of fresh emotions. There was a psychological force compelling me to be there, with her.

On one occasion we ventured out. Preston had invited me to Baltimore for a lacrosse game. Leslie had been hesitant to go, to leave Holly behind. "Your parents will look after her," I had said, urging, hoping she would say yes. I knew we had to move on, to forget. I hoped a distraction would help.

Six of us piled into Crystal's Mercedes and drove up to Hopkins. Preston's fraternity at Hopkins was having a party, a homecoming bash for all the former fraternity brothers. It was a beautiful, sunny day. We smoked a few joints on the way there. Leslie seemed to be in good spirits.

The party at the frat house was in full swing when we arrived. Preston soon disappeared, making the rounds, visiting old friends he hadn't seen in awhile. We stood out on the lawn drinking foamy beers from the keg in the basement bar of the house. I was hoping being around Crystal and Sally would help Leslie make an adjustment. Easing her back with a social function seemed like the right idea.

At the game, I explained to her the rules of lacrosse, while the crowd cheered on 'Blue,' waiting for the cannon to fire signaling another goal. She curled her hand around my arm and smiled at me. I was hopeful the cloud was lifting.

By the end of the day Leslie had begun to participate in the conversation, even laughing. We went to a restaurant in Georgetown when we got back, extending the day, enjoying the warm night air as we took a table outside. I had noticed some men looking at her when we walked in. I knew she was the most beautiful woman there.

That night, after they had picked up Holly from her parents house, Leslie had fallen asleep in my arms. It was the first time we had really touched since the termination. In the morning, I awoke and found Holly had gotten in bed with us during the night. I kissed her on the forehead then got up to go get the Sunday paper.

As I knew, and Leslie sensed, brooding in the background was my eventual departure. My remaining there with her and Holly in a facsimile of a family unit was merely for a grace period, a period whose duration would last until which time Leslie could extricate herself from the repercussions of our act.

A few days later, while we were waiting for a concert at Wolf Trap to begin, I said, "I'm leaving on Thursday morning. Out of National." She said nothing. "It's an eight o'clock flight. On American. It's the only flight I could get in the morning."

Leslie was silent for a few minutes, with her eyes trained on the stage, before saying, "Do you want me to take you to the airport?"

"Only if you want to," I replied.

"Well, Gene, I know how you hate good-byes," she said, turning to look at me, her eyes giving away the resentment she was feeling.

"Look, I'm sorry about this but I was offered some job out west," I explained. "I'll call you as soon as I can."

"No," she declared, holding up her hand and looking away.

"I don't know what I can say," I said helplessly as she began to cry.

The next few days past agonizingly slow. Neither one of us broached the subject of me leaving again. Somehow I had not anticipated all the emotional pain. I knew on some level we loved each other. Yet there was a barrier between us now. I, on my part, had never delved into any morality play about what we had done. Expedience had taken precedence. For her, as I could now see, had been a crucible which threatened to effect the rest of her life.

Leslie had wrestled with her options. Choice became a razor's edge in which she struggled to not be cut by the act of deciding. Psychological sentiments played in her mind, echoing harshly as she excluded any outside influence.

She had wanted to consult her friends, even her mother. In the end, she couldn't convince herself to bring the subject to light, fearing what she might hear. It was her and her alone that faced the problem, leaving me with little input.

It had been raining most of Wednesday night. By morning, with the rain gone, a turgid heat created a dissipating mist that lingered over the roads. The headlights on Leslie's car pierced the wet shroud ahead of them. Rush hour was just beginning. A long stream of tail lights made an eerie trail of red blotches down the road. We didn't talk. The silence grew almost unbearable.

At National Airport, I relinquished the wheel to Leslie. She slipped over to the driver's seat from the passenger side. She sat there drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. I took my pack out of the backseat and stood by the car. Already dozens of taxis were jockeying for position in front of the terminal.

Leaning over, I said into the window, "Hey, Leslie listen, I didn't ever want it to be this way."

She looked up at me then turned away and said in almost a whisper, "Have a nice trip, and don't forget to send me a post card." Then she drove away.

I stood there watching her car disappear among the commuters, taxis, and buses. Turning away, pack thrown over my shoulder, I passed through the arriving passengers, once again feeling the stab of loneliness I always felt at crowded airports.

Chapter 3: Summer Jo Jo's Real Estate

MEETING JO JO

I could hear the music in the distance. There was a strange eeriness to it because we were hiking through the woods in the middle of nowhere and it was pitch dark. "Where's that music coming from?" I asked, dodging a tree limb that hung low over the narrow trail. "You'll see," was all Gene replied, giggling.

The hike from the car took us almost fifteen minutes. Gene had parked his car on the side of a dirt road that we had driven in on from Route 7. There were no street lights. There were no houses for that matter. It was rural Virginia, in the early summer of 1970. Civilization hadn't yet reached very far outside of Washington DC.

"Ow!" I screamed out as my shin banged into a stump in the middle of the trail. "This is damn stupid. I'm going back to the car."

"Come on, Sean, don't be a wussy," Gene hissed, continuing on into the enveloping blackness.

"You could've at least brought a flashlight," I replied, adding, "some boy scout you must have been." Then I caught my first glimpse of the tent. "What in the hell is that?"

"That's it," Gene stated. "AO."

"And that means exactly what?" I asked sarcastically, not realizing I was just beginning to hear the new jargon we would all become familiar with that eventful summer.

"Area of Operations, dumbshit," Gene explained, slapping me on the shoulder.

As we got closer, I could make out an Army surplus type canvas tent that had been erected over a raised 12 X 12 foot wooden platform. The floor to the tent was supported by strategically placed cinder blocks, raising the tent structure a few feet off the ground. In the front, a few cinder blocks served as front steps. A large pole was pitched in the middle, allowing for enough headroom to stand up. On two sides, the front and the back, the tent flaps were tied back to let the air circulate.

A few lanterns had been hung on either side and gave off adequate light, just light enough to see. As we got closer, I got a glimpse inside the tent. There were two army cots placed on either side. Next to them were several plastic milk crates serving as chairs. A large Coleman cooler sat in one corner and a single burner propane stove was sitting on top of an empty ammo box. One of the milk crates was being used to stock canned goods. Adjacent to one of the cots was a three shelf book case, two boards propped up on bricks.

This was all weird: the tent, the woods, the darkness; but it was the music that was so perversely strange. In accompaniment to the night sounds was...John Lennon singing a song from the Rubber Soul album. I was trying to place it. Then I thought, Where is that music coming from? You must remember, this was pre-boombox days. Portable radios had one inch speakers and gave off about as much sound as a yawn. This musical sound was truly amazing.

"Hey, Jo Jo, how is it?" Gene exclaimed by way of introduction as we approached the tent.

There were a half dozen people sitting inside the tent. I realized we had startled them. They hadn't heard us come up because of the music playing. I was instantly un-comfortable. I didn't know any of these people and they certainly didn't know me from nobody. I must note here that circa 1970 wasn't exactly a time to be caught with any narcotics of any sort. Twenty year jail sentences for simple possession weren't un-common. Being paranoid was an art form.

"Great," I whispered to Gene, "these crazies might do anything out here in these woods and who would know."

"Don't be uptight," he hissed back at me unconvincingly.

"Who is that?" someone wanted to know inside the tent.

"Gene, Gene Flynn," my soon to be former friend answered.

"Who?"

"Maybe you should have gotten an invitation, RSVP, asshole," I sneered under my breath.

"Hey, Jo Jo, it's me, I was here last weekend. You remember, with that girl from Langley," Gene explained, trying to be upbeat, or at least sound like it.

"What girl from Langley?"

This wasn't going good. I sneaked a few glances inside the tent just to see what we were up against. There were two girls sitting on one of the cots. Along side them was a short skinny guy with shoulder length hair. No problem there, I figured. The guy talking, Jo Jo, was sitting on the other cot by himself. I judged him to be about six feet, maybe 165, with an athletic body. Could be a problem. It was the other two guys that really worried me.

One of the guys had been sitting leaning against one of the cots. When we approached he had swung his legs around and was poised on the tent floor with his feet on the ground. He looked scary. He was wearing a leather vest with nothing under-neath and I could clearly see tattoos, prison type tattoos. The ones applied behind bars with little imagination and a lot of pain. To his right, the other guy was standing there with a large glass bong in his hand, still bubbling. He was actually smiling.

"Oh shit yeah, you were the dude with that Breezy chick," the guy with the bong finally said. Turning to Jo Jo, he added, "You remember, man, the chick with those cool eyes. Come on, man, last weekend, they were with the group that brought that blond Lebanese hash. Good shit!"

"Where is she?" Jo Jo wanted to know.

"Don't know. Met her at a party and she told me about this place," Gene explained, smiling.

"Nice place," I added inanely. The guy with the tattoos grunted and turned around and started talking to one of the girls.

"She was one cool chick," the guy with the bong continued. "Had everything together for someone in High School."

"High School," Jo Jo mumbled vacantly, fingering the stubble on his chin. "Yeah, she was the one with the cool eyes. Had the long blondish hair."

O-kay, I said to myself, we got a guy in a tent, living in the woods, listening to the Beatles and stoned out of his mind. A little unusual, you might say.

"She lives in Langley," Gene offered, edging closer to the steps of the tent. "Shouldn't be hard to get in touch with her."

"Ever think of becoming a pimp?" I whispered at his back as he started up the steps, while I stood my ground outside the tent.

If you didn't live "the scene" back then, or (better yet) if you can't remember, instantaneous friendships weren't uncommon. Although they were usually conducted in the confines of somebody's parent's basement or in parked cars where you could see any approaching police cruisers. We all bonded around the shared tenet that the war in Viet Nam was wrong, a crime against humanity, especially if you were expected to go over there and possibly die fighting it.

We also had something else that worked as a social adhesive and that was a nostrum. Now normally I would never use that word. I don't even know what it really means. It was a word I can remember Jo Jo using. We were talking one day about things and he said something like: "Every movement in history must have a nostrum and ours is this." He then held up a joint and gave it a weak military salute.

It was a revolution, little R. The next generation was searching for a voice. We were not going to head down the path they wanted us to. Of course we eventually did. I mean, after all, Jerry Rubin did become an insurance salesman or something. But at the time we were agents of change who just happened to be stoned on pot. Nobody said rebellion couldn't be fun.

That first night at the tent--the AO--was a revelation, in more ways than one. I mean who knew you could hook up an expensive eight track player to a car battery with the right wiring and drive two real large speakers. There are audiophiles out there who will undoubtedly laugh. Eight track. You can be snobby but every timeframe has its level of sophistication. I still have memories of Norwegian Wood wafting out through the woods as if the Beatles were doing a live gig.

That first night, as we got acquainted with Jo Jo's world, I soon found out about how much Jo Jo loved the Beatles. He loved his music in general. Placed around the inside perimeter of the tent was a foot high stack of eight tracks. From classical to jazz to rock, he knew it all. Yet the Beatles were his favorites.

He had taken his name from a song on the Let It Be album. Nobody knew what his real name was. We knew very little about him; except that he was a Viet Nam vet and that he was smart. Been accepted at Georgetown. Got over 1500 on his SAT's. He seemed to know something about everything.

You would be talking about any old thing and he could supply a quote from Greek philosophers or Freud or some obscure poet. His eyes would sort of glaze over for a second then out would come some crisp, definitive verse or literary passage. Freak you out is what it would do. A moment later he would be back to normal, talking about the weather.

That first night we stayed a few hours: smoked a few joints, drank some really awful Boone's Farm wine, and listened to Jo Jo talk about Nam. One of the girls had asked about the war. The guy with the tattoos mumbled something and walked away. I never saw him for the rest of the night.

"A creeping disorder," Jo Jo had said, pointing at the guy as he disappeared into the darkness. "It's in his head. Feeding, always feeding."

"Is he okay?" the girl wanted to know, concerned.

"Only he knows," Jo Jo answered solemnly.

Now it can safely be said we, the arguably upper class of American society, living comfortably in Fairfax County, Virginia, were unaccustomed to discussing the Viet Nam War at any length. We were almost without exception against it, this war so many miles away being fought in a land that was about as relevant to us as Mars. As far as the specifics went, we were blissfully uninformed.

"It must have been so awful," the other girl chimed in, looking mournfully, if not sympathetically at Jo Jo.

"Oh it was indeed," Jo Jo said in a sing-song voice bordering on sarcasm. "You innocents will never know the evil of it all."

Then I said something. I hadn't spoken much, being somewhat intimidated by the whole weird scene. It just slipped out: "A war of kill ratios." I don't even know where I had learned that term or exactly how it applied. Probably read it in the Washington Post, although I seldom read anything beyond the Sports section.

Jo Jo stared at me. For the first time, I noticed he had dark eyes, almost black. He then went over to the eight track and popped the tape out. The night sounds of the woods rushed into the tent. There must be a million crickets out there, I thought to myself.

"Hey, I hear the Beatles got a new album coming out," Gene exclaimed with mock excitement. I knew Gene hated the Beatles. Too mellow. He preferred Led Zeppelin or Jeff Beck. I appreciated him trying to bail me out of a tight situation.

The awkward moment passed. Jo Jo laid down on his cot and was soon asleep. The rest of us took that as our cue to leave. I wanted to say something to them as we walked back to our cars. But what? I wasn't sure what line I had crossed. Had I really offended him? Brought up some disturbing images of his past doings in the war, was that it?

"Don't worry about it," the guy who had been holding the bong when we first got to the tent said, "he gets moody once in a while, that's all. Ever since the Beatles broke up--"

"Should I go and apologize?" I wanted to know.

"Nah, let it ride. He'll forget all about it by tomorrow."

At this point in time I was thinking to myself that it didn't matter one bit because the likelihood of me seeing Jo Jo again was pretty remote. The idea of tromping back through the woods again to go back to that tent seemed like one in a million. But yet there was something working there that I couldn't put my finger on.

"What's your name, man?" Gene wanted to know, sticking his hand out and giving the guy the pseudo hybrid black power type of handshake.

"Marty, I'm Jo Jo's liaison to the world," he said proudly.

I remember thinking at the time, must be Jo Jo's phrase, because this guy probably can't even spell liaison. He was Jo Jo's link to the outside world. Jo Jo didn't own a car. He didn't drive anyway. He didn't own anything, except of course the tent and its contents.

Jo Jo had met Marty one day in Falls Church. Jo Jo was hitchhiking. Marty pulled up in his custom painted midnight blue GTO, stopped, revved the engine a few times, then asked: "Where you headin?" "In whatever direction you are going," Jo Jo replied. They had been friends ever since. So it was told to Gene and me by an ever talkative Marty.

That's a part of the legend. Bits and pieces change over the years when I'm reminded of that time. My mind manages to dredge up most of the facts, at least as I knew them. In the three months or so that we were around Jo Jo, we got to know his circle of friends or followers because we did seem to worship Jo Jo on various different levels. We were young. Impressionable. Probably starved for something different, radically different; it was our quest for a slice of the avant guarde that would and could be convenient. Most of us were bound for college. This seemed to be a good tune up for that brave new world out there we would be experiencing. We all wanted to be ahead of our time.

I liked Marty. We were from different socio-economic classes, as they say in sociology. He was from Upperville, a small dot on the Virginia map. Had left home before he was eighteen. Dropped out. Worked odd jobs for a couple of years. Then fell into a job painting cars. It suited him. He liked to work on things, and was good at it. Not to mention the fact that he liked to get high on the paint. At least that was what we use to joke with him about all the time.

Easy going, Marty was the epitome of that. Although he was from a wreck of a home life, he managed to maintain a rosy attitude about almost everything. This outlook was useful when it came time to cater to Jo Jo's often schizoid mood changes. There wasn't anybody who didn't like Marty.

THE COUNTY

At the time, Gene and me were working a summer job for the County. We were paid $2.50 an hour to do maintenance on all the baseball and football fields in Fairfax County. It was hot, tedious work and we generally hated it. We had to lie to get the job, telling the supervisor that we intended on working for the County for the rest of our lives.

He was a cracker, who chewed tobacco and just happen to love the Redskins. My father was a season ticket holder. When I had applied for the job the subject came up because we were talking about working on the fields and things took off from there. Next think I know the guy likes me, except for my hair. "Cut that sissy hair and you got the job," he said at the end of the interview. One week later, I convinced him to give Gene a job, sans long hair also, of course.

We were assigned to a crew of the biggest bunch of misfits in history. I needed a summer job otherwise I probably would have turned around that first day and never gone back. First of all, we had to wear uniforms. The monochrome look might be in now but these green things made us look like, well, convicts. Not to mention the fact that we had to ride around all day in a green bus. Our crew was comprised of a dozen guys, ranging in age from eighteen to maybe late fifties. It was hard to tell with the older guys because some of them drank so much they could have been twenty-one and looked forty.

I can still remember some of them. You can't repress everything. Who can forget one-eyed Smitty? He was a guy, early thirties, who lived with his mother and carried a Donald Duck lunch box to work. Smitty was slow, but he was still a pain in the ass, so I never managed to dredge up much sympathy for him. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, we hated each other. It's hard to tell. I hated all of them.

That's not entirely true. There were two black guys on the crew that we got along with pretty well. After work we would often times smoke a joint together. They lived in Fairfax. One time they even came over to my house after work. We shot some pool in the basement and drank some beers. Then my dad got home and (as we said back then) freaked out. He was polite to them, but after they left he told me in no uncertain terms that hanging around with those kind of guys would get me in trouble. Translation: 2 black men, lily white neighborhood = doesn't compute.

My dad put out enough vibes that they never wanted to come back to my house. By the end of the summer they had both gone on to become truck drivers for the County; which was considered a plum job because of the benefits and steady work.

When you work menial labor a certain dynamic takes hold. It's sort of hard to describe. You have to bond with your co-workers some way some how or you'll end up insane. Eight hours of mowing grass, raking infields, or laying some sod tends to suck any and all life out of your brain. Then there's sickling.

The crescent shaped tool from hell. You haven't lived (died really) until you've been issued your very own sickle and told to: "Go on and cut down that there patch of weeds over yonder."

Such a marvelously simple tool. An ergonomically shaped wooden handle attached to a wickedly shaped blade. Damn thing will slice your "fucking finger off", in the words of our illustrious leader, or, in this instance, slice right through a guys' work boot.

One day we were hacking away at an overgrown section of weeds next to the side of the road. Real chain gang labor, with the commuters going by and ogling us, some frightened and some abusive. I guess it didn't hurt the illusion of looking like prison workers when some of the crew had actually been in prison.

This particular day had started out with me and Smitty arguing over who was going to sit in the front seat of the bus. Okay, I know, pretty pathetic, but hey I wanted to stretch out and "shotgun" was the best seat on the bus for doing that. Long ago the others had given up claiming the seat because invariably "one-eyed Smitty" would start crying if he didn't get his way. And I mean cry, full on tears and sobbing--blubbering even. Nobody had the stomach to see that.

Egged on by Gene, who was bored and needed some entertainment, I held my ground, or actually, my seat and refused to budge. There was the usual argument. "Boy, you had better git out of my seat or there's gonna be trouble," Smitty threatened, like he always did. To which I replied: "Park it in the back, jerk-off."

Some of the crew were entertained by this and I know Gene was, but part of the crew didn't want any noise so early in the morning. Dueling factions voiced their opinions, for and against. Gene laughed and exhorted me to hold my ground or seat. "I'm not gonna tell you agin to git out of my seat," Smitty threatened again, now shaking his fist at me. "Yeah,get out of Smitty's seat!" Gene shouted out, howling with laughter. A few of the guys let it be known that they really didn't care to hear anymore of this "shit."

I won out of sheer obstinacy. Smitty moved to another seat and sat there seething and whimpering all the way to our first job site of the day. Gene took a seat right behind him and spent the whole time counseling Smitty, saying things like, "Smitty, you're not going to take that are you?" and "Smitty, everybody knows that's your seat." Such a friend.

I had pretty much forgotten all about the seat coup by the time we got to the job site. We all trudged out of the bus, taking our time because, after all, we were getting paid by the hour. It was sickle time again. Another patch of weeds to be eliminated. And Sisyphus thought he had it bad with that boulder thing. Weeds always grow back.

We took our positions, flanking each other so as to initiate a cohesive assault on the weeds. It was important to establish a cutting pace that was in tune so each guy would cut the same amount. There certainly wasn't any rewards for the guy who finished his row first. We were all smart enough to know that.

When you are facing hours of hard labor it is important to create a zone for yourself. Maybe you could call it a Zen type of thing. Be one with the environment. Of course swinging a sickle about a billion times in succession tends to develop a particular mental displacement, say like a temporary lobotomy. Anyway, I had reached my zone after about an hour of hacking defenseless weeds to death and was more or less oblivious to my surroundings, and that included the occasional passing motorist who took the time to inform us that we, by decree and consent of the powers that be, were getting what we deserved.

Then it happened. I never saw it. No one did except for Smitty. He calmly and with deliberate ease took a swipe at my leg. The sickle edge parted the top half of my work boots like a ripe banana peel. Amazingly the blade hadn't penetrated the skin, leaving instead a jagged slice through my sock. Startled, I looked down at my foot, looked back up at Smitty, who had continued on with his sickling like nothing happened.

What to do? Now Smitty was notorious for screw-ups. The guy could only see out of one eye. I mean, hell, one day he had taken a wheel barrel full of fill dirt and walked it right off the back of a dump truck. He ended up head first in a mound of dirt, almost breaking his neck. Another time he had begged the supervisor to let him lay the first base line on a baseball diamond and when it came out looking like some drunk had done it, the supervisor yelled at him until Smitty started crying. But was this intentional?

I never knew. I was only thankful for his bad eye which led to his bad aim. The moral of the story was Smitty got his seat back.

Our bus driver was named John, actually Big John. His name was really John and he was really big, about six foot five, two thirty. Needless to say, we didn't give him a whole lot of grief. He had been driving trucks and buses for the County for about twenty-five years and had massive forearms to prove it. "Been drivin' way before they had power steerin'," he would say in his southern drawl. He was originally from Tennessee. Religious. Every time we passed a church he would mutter a little prayer.

I got along with him okay. Except for the time I got in an argument with him about religion. I didn't do that anymore. For a week after that he handed out the worse jobs to me--the atheist. Ever cleaned out a Port-a-Johnny? I may be an atheist but I'm not stupid.

Part of Big John's job was to keep tabs on the tools. He did it like he owned them himself. Several rows of seats in the rear of the bus had been removed so that the tools could be loaded there. Big John had rigged up a wall mount for the sickles, where they hung gleaming when the sunlight filtered in through the bus windows. Each worker was assigned his own sickle. If you abused the tool you had to face Big John. Believe me, after hacking away at some stubborn grass for a few hours you really wanted to abuse something.

"Don't let Big John see you do that," I warned Gene his very first day on the job.

"Go fuck yourself," he said, walking over to where he had thrown his sickle against a tree. "Nice job you got me anyway. Might as well be on a chain gang."

Then it happened. Gene looked down and right there on the blade was a giant nick, actually more of a notch. "Check it out," he called over to me. I walked over and took a look.

"Oh shit," I mumbled, "you're in trouble now. Big John is going to have your ass."

A few guys on the crew had looked over and seen the sickle then whistled, shaking their heads. Bad news.

"What can the dumb hick do to me?" Gene exclaimed with bravado.

"You're dead," was all I replied.

It was Big John's habit to check all the tools at the end of the day before we headed back to the garage. He took one look at Gene's sickle and snatched it out of his hand like it was in need of CPR. He held it up to the sun and examined it closely, running his fingers along the blade gingerly.

"Maybe he's checking for a pulse," Gene whispered to me, giggling.

"Maybe he's measuring it for your neck," I said, smiling.

"Funny guy."

"Flynn," Big John said in that gravelly baritone of his, "what did you do to your sickle blade?"

"I...I think I hit it on a rock or something," Gene replied, trying not to stammer. "You know, the weeds were kinda high and I was swinging away trying to cut down the weeds and I must have nicked it on a rock."

"You did, huh," Big John muttered.

The rest of us were standing around watching this play out. We had all been there. To be honest, Big John scared the crap out of us. He never said much. Kept to himself. Was fanatical about his religion. Was as big as a Mack truck. All the ingredients for a psycho to me.

"I guess they don't make sickles the way they use to," Gene offered lightheartedly, looking over to me for support. I frowned back at him, hoping he would get it that it was probably better just to stay quiet.

"Uh huh," Big John said, holding up the sickle and running a whet stone against it. "Flynn, do you happen to know how long it's gonna take me to resharpen this blade?"

There was a general buzz from us guys because we knew where Big John was heading when he started the questions. Several guys got on the bus, shaking their heads as they walked by Gene. Scrape scrape went the whet stone on the metal blade.

"I don't have any idea, Big John," Gene answered, putting his hands in his pockets and kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Here it came. We were waiting.

"Well," Big John said, taking a long, painful swipe at the blade with the whet stone, "I'd have to say about as long as it's gonna take you to clean out the garage when we get back."

And thus was passed the sentence. Not as bad as cleaning out port-a-johnnies but pretty bad. Besides, Gene hadn't insulted his religion. It wasn't a piece of cake either. The garage was a pit of filth, with oil and grim that Mr. Clean would flee from. Not one of us offered Gene our condolences. Didn't want to tempt fate. Who knew if Big John took off points for associating with the convicted.

On any given day of the week we would invariably end up having to do busy work. My bud, the supervisor, who drove around in a pick up truck, with a radio to keep in touch with the truck drivers, spent each day laboring to keep us laboring. The County was a huge place with lots and lots of ball fields but still there were gaps in the flow of work. To be honest, it was a tough job for him. He was like a commander in a war against grass.

"Who do you think'll start at half back for the Redskins this year?" the boss would invariably ask me in the morning, while we men loitered, waiting for the despised bus to crank up to take us to our eight hours of back breaking labor.

I would think about it for a moment, deep in thought, and tell him: "Think the rookie might?" Tossing back an interrogative seemed to work, giving the boss back the upper hand in the conversation, like I really wanted to know his input.

This little drama played out a few times a week in the garage where we would meet every morning to get our tools and assignments for the day. There was lots of testosterone overload most mornings, especially on Monday. We didn't work weekends. Saturday and Sunday were reserved for organized assaults on our finished products. Torn up sod. Withering chalk baselines. Trash. It was an endless cycle.

I would imagine today things may have changed. There might even be a female or two working on the crews. Doubt it. Back then it was a male world. Locker room rules dominated. Every crew had their Lothario. Boasting was as natural as Monday morning quarterbacking.

We were fortunate to have two resident studs, one black and one white. Tyrone was a little black guy from Oakton. He grinned a lot, as if he knew something you didn't. He was harmless but annoying. Although, he could tell a story. If you chose to believe him, and nobody did, he spent his weekends in DC with any number of different "womens." Why any woman with half a brain would spend more than thirty seconds with him was beyond me but for entertainment purposes you had to suspend belief for a certain amount of time. When it's ninety degrees out and you are bent over digging up dirty sod any source of amusement comes in handy.

"Tyrone," Gene would usually say, "you look kinda tired today." That would be enough. Half of the guys would throw whatever was handy at Gene if they didn't want to hear it. The other half would sit back and go along for the ride, a trip to "Tyrone's world" as Gene called it.

"You know how it is," Tyrone would start with, smiling, revealing two or three gold teeth. We didn't. Probably nobody did. "Busy business."

"Bizzy...bid-a-niss," Gene would sing, using Tyrone's pronunciation.

What would follow was X-rated. Along with the howls of protest from some of the guys who didn't care to hear about Tyrone's sexual escapades was a chorus of "repent" from Big John. Tyrone always assured Big John, "My man, there's all-wayz time for dat."

The recurring theme of his adventures was the presence of "big womens." Tyrone was all of five, six and weighed (on the days he had two cans of Vienna sausages and a sixteen ounce orange soda for lunch) maybe one thirty. He was perhaps old enough, that is 21. He looked like he was sixteen.

"I had that girl every which way, Genie," he stated for everyone to hear. "Now you white folk don't ah-pree-shee-at what we black folk do," he said cryptically, laughing his infectious laugh. "It's true. It's true. Am I right or I'm I right?" he asked one of the other "brothers" on the bus, who just ignored him.

"How's that?" Gene asked, continuing the vaudeville act.

"Got's to eat it!" Tyrone shouted, sticking his tongue out and waving it around. "The bigger they are the more they likes it."

"How big?"

"Boy, I'm here to tell you...she was ripe for me," Tyrone said. "Her butt cheeks were as big as pillows. I ain't lying."

Unfortunately, we often times had to endure dueling Romeos. Tyrone would set off Mel. He was a thirty year old guy from West Virginia. Just got out of prison for writing bad checks, so he would tell you. Seemed like a badge of honor with him. He was of average height and build. Not a bad guy. Until it came time for him to establish his manhood.

While Tyrone was funny, Mel was just boring. The problem with his stories was that they always included the same cast of characters: him and Shirley. He did have props though. Along with the stories about him courting Shirley came photos. She was a dyed blond creature, so it would appear from the over or under exposed photos. Despite the prodigious amounts of makeup, she appeared in every photo with dark circles under her eyes. And if you listened to Mel's stories all the way through you often times were treated to photos of Shirley topless. Not pretty.

Mel kept these photos in his wallet. They had seen the light of day so many times they were worn out. We knew he would just take more.

On some days there would be a competition between Tyrone and Mel; which would most times degenerate into a shouting match. Tyrone generally won out. He was quick with the insult, leaving Mel fumbling along trying to defend his woman's honor and his impugned masculinity. Gene would play referee, actually fueling the fire until Big John would put a stop to it by saying: "The next man who says something will be cleaning out--pardon my expression Lord--shit houses." That would do it.

Out of earshot of Big John, Mel would mutter: "I liked to beat the hell out of that little nigger."

The odd thing was that when we were paired up to work the fields Mel and Tyrone were always working together. They would even eat lunch together, sharing their gross repast of sardines and Vienna sausages on crackers, washed down with 7/11 slurpees. Each day one would buy a package of cup cakes and they'd split it, sharing laughs with icing all over their faces and purple tongues from the grape slurpee.

To add to the hilarity was Joe. Joe was the oldest on the crew. He would never tell us his age but we guessed around late fifties. He was an alcoholic. Born and raised in Georgia, Joe moved to Virginia about ten years before, settling on a tract of undeveloped land just beyond Manassas. He lived in a trailer with his fat wife, who he called Frau Buttercup. "Because she's German, stupidhead," he would explain when we'd ask him why he called his wife that.

She was German, about two generations removed from the old country. She was, in every sense of the word, a hag. I know. One weekend Gene had talked me into going out to see Joe at his trailer. "Come on, we'll take our guns and do some shooting. Joe says there's nothing but woods all around his place." I didn't want to drive all the way out to the sticks but Gene convinced me that it would be entertaining.

It might not have been entertaining but it was certainly interesting. After about an hour of getting lost with Joe's screwball directions, we found the place. You know you're in trouble when somebody tells you: "All ya gotta do is take a right at the big oak tree." There was nothing but big oak trees. His little run down trailer was surrounded by trees.

It seems Joe had inherited the land from a relative. He took what little money he had and bought a trailer, then plopped it right smack in the middle of the property. He owned maybe fifty acres. If he would have lived he would have become rich after the way developers ran up the price of land.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I was glad Gene was driving because the road was nothing but bottomless ruts and mud. "How in the hell does Joe get his piece of crap Rambler back here?" Gene wanted to know, as he negotiated around another perilous drop off that fell away into a ditch. I'm glad its your car and not mine, I was thinking. "Come on, you can do it," he cooed, tapping the dash affectionately, as his VW bug bounced over another rut.

We finally saw Joe's place in the distance. We had been smelling it for a good ten minutes before seeing it. Joe's wife was cooking bacon and the aroma was infiltrating a three mile area. Think early Appalachia and you got the image we first saw. Would definitely make the Beverly Hillbillies homesick.

"Holy crap," Gene exclaimed, "this is white trash heaven."

"This is depressing," I said, adding, "and scary."

"At least he doesn't have any annoying neighbors," Gene said, laughing. "Should we stop or not?"

"Maybe we can turn around and pretend like we never found the place."

A dog suddenly appeared and jumped up against my side of the car. I jerked my arm back in, as the dog snarled and barked menacingly. Then another dog materialized on Gene's side of the car, barking. "Look,matching ugly-ass mongrel dogs that would probably bite your face off if they had a chance," Gene said sardonically.

"Git back here you two. I said git!" a woman screamed from the door of the trailer. The dogs slunk back towards the trailer, still growling. "Must be the lady of the house," Gene said, driving down the over grown road and parking next to Joe's rusty car. "You hold it right there while I tie up these dogs," Frau Buttercup ordered. "They're liable to bite any old one." While she struggled with the two dogs we edged out of the car.

The trailer was one of those trailers you might tolerate spending a weekend in on a camping trip. Under no circumstances would you ever want to live in it. Especially this one. Two of the windows on the front side had been broken and Joe repaired them by putting up ply wood. Because of the muddy ground, the trailer had sunk down on one side and listed a few degrees. There was no electricity. They cooked on a gas stove and had a few lanterns to light the trailer. Joe had a well dug in the back to give them water. Gene and me were both happy it was summer so we could sit outside because the inside of the trailer had a smell no man should have to encounter.

Joe came walking around the corner of the trailer then, tightening his belt as he walked. Been to the outhouse, so he told us, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he had just come. O-kay. We stood there for a minute, an awkward minute, made uncomfortable because we had never had any contact with Joe except for at work. This was all uncharted territory. What in the hell are we doing here? rang in my mind.

"Pretty nice place you got here," Gene said, not even attempting to squelch his laugh.

"I own it," Joe said proudly, motioning all around him with open arms. His wife snorted and said something under her breath, then slammed the door of the trailer behind her. Joe shouted at the closed door: "Where's my bacon, woman?"

There was the sound of metal banging, then the door opened and grease and bacon shrapnel flew out and landed in the dirt at Joe's feet. We looked at the bacon, at Joe, then at the door. "How in the hell am I going to eat that bacon now?" Joe wanted to know. His wife was still holding the pan in her hand and I was sure it was next to go air born. "Git down on all fours like those damn mutts of yours and lick it up," she replied, slamming the door again. She was fat enough that when she moved inside the trailer it seemed to shudder.

"I like a woman with a little spirit to her," Gene said, laughing.

"It's the German in her," Joe explained. "They all have a crazy streak in 'em."

Perhaps you've done this. Living today, in the video age, you might be reminiscing about the old times and think to yourself, Boy would I liked to have had a video camera back then. This was definitely one of those times.

We spent the day with Joe, mostly away from the trailer. Joe got his gun and showed us his property, while we took pot shots at beer cans and bottles placed up on tree stumps. He was a pretty good shot, for at least the first hour. It didn't take long before he was hitting the bottle of booze more than he was hitting the target bottles. Joe never went anywhere without a stash of booze. At work, he would show up in the morning with a thermos of coffee spiked with "JD", his favorite. Everyone knew what was in the thermos but did nothing about it. Everybody liked Joe.

Jack Daniels wasn't exactly his friend. Joe drank too much one day and drove his car right into a tree, one of those big oak trees. When he didn't show up for a few days at work one of the supervisors went out to his place. Having no phone, it was the only way to find out what happened to him. Frau Buttercup told him what had happened. His wife ended up selling the property later on for some serious money.

Joe had lived a hard life, working manual labor since he was old enough to handle it. The crew at work was a little despondent about his death for a while. We missed Joe telling us stories about his working on the roads in Georgia, about how he would suddenly cry out: "Eighty-one!", which meant the work gang had finished work for the day. He didn't know where it came from and what it meant exactly. For us it came to mean that it was the end of another hard work day and we were heading back to the garage to go home.

My one sad memory of Joe would always be that first pay day that I got paid. We were all standing in line to get our checks. Everyone was happy. Money in our pockets and the weekend coming up, who could ask for more? Joe was in front of me in line. When it came time to get our checks, we were suppose to sign the payroll sheet to show that we had received our checks. Joe got his check and bent over the desk in the supervisor's office to sign his name. I happen to be looking over his shoulder and saw him sign an X on the line next to his name. This can't be. The man is illiterate. It was a shock and I didn't know why. I later told Gene.

"What do you think?" was his reaction. "I mean the guy has been working ever since he could walk. They didn't have time for school where he's from. There's a whole different world out there you don't know about.

"Really. It just took me by surprise, that's all. Seems sort of impossible," I said, hoping Gene wouldn't make a big deal out of my reaction.

Of course he did, lecturing me for almost an hour about the "real world" and how I don't know anything. Maybe he was right. It's possible. People live in their own realm, seldom venturing out. I wasn't ashamed that I didn't realize about Joe. Although, I have to admit that it was a shock.

It had been several weeks since we went to Jo Jo's tent in the woods. I hadn't thought that much about it. Gene had told me to not tell anybody about our discovery. Why? Well, as Gene informed me, "We don't need a bunch of spectators coming out to see the exhibit, now do we?"

Then one day at work we were coming back from working on the football field at Herndon High School. It was me and Gene and one of the black guys who had gotten a promotion to truck driver. We had been sent out together in the truck with a load of sod to drop off. Most times we traveled in the bus with Big John, but on rare occasions the supervisor would send just one truck out to get the job done if there happened to be a backlog of work. Mind bending logistics, that's why he was the one to be General in the war against grass.

We were trucking down one of the back roads leading to Reston, taking the long way back of course, to kill time. We had our ears tuned, monitoring the radio in the truck in case the General was looking for us. Then there he was. It was Jo Jo hitching. We went past him before I could talk the black guy into stopping. It was definitely against the County rules to pick up hitch hikers.

"It's cool, he's a buddy of ours," I explained. "He's a mellow guy. No problem."

Jo Jo walked slowly up to the green truck, unsure what to expect. Everybody had seen the movie Easy Rider by now. Gene opened the door and waved for him to get in. He stopped by the side of the road and asked: "Where you heading?"

"Hey Jo Jo, how's it going?" Gene called out, stepping out of the truck, smiling.

Jo Jo stared at him for a moment, took in the convict outfit, then said: "And where would I know you from?"

Here we go again, I thought. As expected, Gene launched into the Breezy explanation again. He added Marty's name for further authentication. This got through to Jo Jo immediately.

"Have you seen him? Suppose to give me a ride. I've been hitching for almost two hours. It's hot as hell out here."

"No, can't say that I've seen him," Gene replied. "We'll give you a lift."

We did something then that we swore we never would. We smoked a joint on the job. Jo Jo produced one right after we got back on the road. It didn't take long to convince the driver. As expected, we got stoned and then we got lost.

"Can't be," I whined, leaning forward in the seat to look out the window at a street sign that had been shot about a hundred times. There were so many bullet holes you couldn't even read the name.

"I'm telling you right now," Gene said, "you missed the turn back there. I know what I'm talking about because we use to go drinking and parking out here all the time."

There was four of us crammed into the cab of a truck made for three. The driver, oddly enough, didn't seem too concerned. He was sitting there drumming his fingers on the wheel as if to some unheard music. From time to time the radio would come to life, crackle, then go silent again.

"Good stuff, huh?" Jo Jo asked, smiling. "From Nam, got a care package the other day. Potent weed."

It was. We were creeping down the road at a blistering twenty miles an hour and all of us were positive we were topping fifty. "How fast you going?" Gene kept asking, leaning over to look at the speedometer. I would then push him off of me and complain about being lost.

"This is it!" Jo Jo suddenly cried out. "Thanks for the ride. Saved my life."

"Are you sure?" I asked, unconvinced. "Everything looks the same out here."

"It's a short hump through those boonies. Much thanks. Riding in this truck reminded me of the Deuce and a halfs back in Nam," he said, stepping down slowly.

"Good reefer, man," the driver said, grinning.

"Here, let me lay another J on you," Jo Jo said, fumbling in his pant pockets for one. He handed it over to Gene and was gone, disappearing through a stand of dogwoods.

Big John's voice suddenly crackled on the radio, demanding to know where we were. We froze. "I'm too wasted to answer," I said, handing the radio's mouthpiece to the driver. He eyed it for a minute. His fingers hovered over the button. "Truck fifteen, do you copy? Comeback," Big John's booming voice demanded. "Somebody had better say something or we're fucked," Gene said. "We copy," the driver finally replied. "We're heading back to the garage."

Big John signed off. After three direction changes, we finally found our way to Route 7 and "booked" our way back to the garage. By the time we got back the high had worn off. No one was the wiser. Big John figured we had just been goofing off.

PAULA

Summer life went on. You went to your lousy job in the day then went out at night looking for fun. I was going out with a girl named Paula. She was a year behind me in school. I pretty much knew that our little romance wasn't going to last that long. In the Fall, I'd be gone and the natural order of things would set in. There would be new people to meet at college and she'd be getting reacquainted with her own circle of friends back in High School. It happened. Nothing to be concerned about.

We had met just a short time before I graduated. It was at a party after one of the baseball games. Although our High School wasn't exactly gigantic, it was big enough that you could go four years without knowing everyone. Somehow we had. I had probably seen her on occasion in the halls, or maybe at one of the sports venues.

Paula and I came from different cliques at school. I was a jock and, consequently, most of my friends were as well. We were insufferable. You can bet on that. In fact, the very first thing Paula said to me when we met was: "Can you get anymore stuck-up?" To which I replied: "I can try."

She laughed. Right then I can remember thinking to myself something like, Wow! Where has she been hiding? She was probably about five foot seven, blond, with green eyes. Yeah, green. Sea green. No maybe aquamarine. Whatever they were, they were distinctive. We ended up talking for a few hours that night. We were at a party at some guy's house in Westwood. His parents had gone away for the weekend and left him home. Big mistake. The place got trashed, especially after a few members of the Marshall High School football team showed up. A few untimely remarks about how they had lost to Madison that year and the next thing you know. You know, I'm sure. It's amazing how easy lamps can break.

Nothing happened that night between us. Come Monday though, I was, as they say, hot-to-trot to see her. During breaks between classes I managed to run into her and get in some quick conversation. Fortunately, we had the same lunch hour, so I was able to sustain my pursuit.

However, she was an underclassman (okay woman) and I was expected to maintain my superior senior status. Reputations in High School are almost nuclear in nature. Mine spread before me like shockwaves from an H-bomb. As I approached her that first day at lunch, where she was sitting with several of her female cohorts, silence spread over the table like radioactive fallout.

"Mind if I sit here?" I asked politely, thinking to myself, What if she says yes, then what?

In her own inimitable way, which made me like her all the more, she asked, "Do I know you?"

She had said it with a straight face. Unnerved, I replied in a voice that I hoped sounded ironic, "We've never been formally introduced. I switched the lunch tray to my left hand and stuck out my right.

Her friends were taking in this exchange intently, actually staring. She smiled then shook my hand. I sat in an empty chair across the table from her. Nobody said anything for a minute. The white noise of the cafeteria rang in my ears. I realized for the first time just how nervous I was. It was an odd sensation.

Later on, I realized why I was so nervous. All of my previous "conquests" had been more or less prearranged. That is to say, some girl would tell me something on the order of: "Did you know that Susan likes you? Do you like her?" And I would say, good looks permitting, "Yeah, she's okay." Then by the powers of attraction physics I would be matched with whoever. There would be double dates or agreed on rendezvous points and things would progress. Most times the girl would be a cheerleader and we would have built in compatibility. It made it easier. With Paula, it was different. I was actually having to fend for myself. No support systems.

We made some small talk at the lunch table. Food's bad, second lunch period's too late, the cafeteria's a sticky mess, the usual subject matter was exchanged. Her friends seemed to be enjoying this strained attempt at courtship. They were smiling at me and laughing at my inane witticism, waiting, I suppose, for me to dive across the table and attack Paula or something. I wanted to.

I ended up walking her back to her classroom. At this point I guess we both knew something was happening between us. As her teacher rounded up his students, standing at the door impatiently motioning for Paula to take a seat, she said to me in a whisper: "Thanks for walking me to my classroom. I probably couldn't have found it if not for you." She smiled, then laughed and dashed into the room.

"Think you'll get anything?" Gene asked me later that week, as we were getting dressed for track practice.

"She's not that kind of girl," I said, smirking.

"You mean there's more than one kind of girl," he said sardonically. "You must tell me about this phenomenon, Professor Jerkoffski."

"She is different," I explained. "I like her alot."

"You haven't been out with her yet, numbnuts. Sean, if I didn't know you better I'd be inclined to surmise just a tiny bit of the dreaded curse coming on. Pussywhipped and you haven't been out yet. Now that's got to be some kind of record."

"You're an idiot, Flynn. I've got everything under control. The old reliable charm is doing its thing."

Gene grabbed his testicles and sang out: "Doctor, oh, what can I do about these blue balls I've got?" In a vague Germanic accent, he continued, "Vell, let me see here Herr Dumkoff. Ya, just as I thought. You, mine frund, are suffering from a case of gonadus no useus. Wery bad case, indeed. Perhaps vee may have to amputate."

Just then the track coach walked in and saw Gene standing there holding his balls. He looked around the locker room at the rest of us getting dressed then back at Gene and deadpanned: "Flynn, in the future, do your self-massaging in the privacy of your own home. Now lets get a move on, practice starts in five minutes." We howled. Gene had to endure ribbing for the whole track practice.

Paula and I were slated to go out that Friday. She had agreed to come to my track meet Friday afternoon. Not being into sports particularly, I was surprised when she asked me if I minded if she came to the meet. Sure, why not. I look good in my track togs. Bonus points never hurt.

I don't know if you have ever been to a track meet. You haven't missed much if you haven't. It ain't exactly exciting. Watching guys run around an oval track or throw a discus doesn't make for big drama. Oh sure once in a while there's a tight race to get you excited. Unfortunately those races are usually sprints, which are over in ten seconds. Then what?

My event was running hurdles. With hurdles there is at least the potential for entertainment because one of the runners might trip over one of the hurdles and fall. Like the sprints though it is over very quickly. Don't sneeze or you might miss most of it.

I was an average hurdler. I could have been better but I had a nagging ham string pull that kept holding me back. Sounds like a good an excuse an any. This dual meet was against one of the weakest High Schools in our district. I was pretty confident I could make a good showing.

We had a good track team. We had won Regionals the year before and only lost a few track members through graduation. It was a big yawn really. I mean, who cared? There were some of the teachers and members of the community who thought it was a big deal. Most of them had been track athletes so they shared a bond. All and all though it was definitely a sport for a relatively few.

You did get your letters and pins and we did have a banquet at the end of the year to give awards etc., but it was more like a cult than anything else. I mean when you told a girl you ran track she didn't exactly wet her pants in excitement. Track guys were probably one step above the golf team. This didn't concern me that much because I lettered in three sports so the carry over was there. Showing off can be done in any sport.

The one great thing about running track is that it's an individual's sport. You might run on a team but it's just you in an event that defines it. You against the clock or tape measure. That's the essence of it. There is a certain, almost wondrous simplicity to it. Everyone competing is on a team, working towards a common goal; yet it is the pursuit of the individual that comprises the whole. Real Gestalt type of thing.

Anyway, our coach was a young guy. It was the Sixties influence maybe. His philosophy was that each athlete could train as he wishes as long as he could abide by the dictates of the clock and the tape. That is, if you chose to slack off with your training and when it came time to participate in the trails and you screwed up, then you were excluded. "A man makes his own consequences." was how he put it. Every Thursday you were checked. Run a bad race, see you next week.

Gene and I were notorious for slacking off. Each day we were given our mimeographed workout training sheets. There was no coach there to crack a whip over you. You either did it or didn't compete. Gene ran sprints, the 100 and relay. We would train together for some of the practice. Part of our daily regimen was a warm up mile run. Being in sprint type events, we couldn't ever imagine running more than 200 yards at one time. So everyday we would start out the school gate, turn left, then sneak back through the school and wait for the allotted time to expire and cruise back on the track.

Track was fun. It wasn't like football, where you were expected to shave your head and act stupid for three hours of practice a day; and of course you didn't get pounded. In many ways it was better than basketball too. No suicide runs up and down the court until you puke. No playing man to man defense where the guy you're covering smells worse than you. Also, there was no pressure, or very little. You didn't have to step to the foul line and sink two foul shots to win, while bleachers full of crazed fans screamed at you. At track meets you were lucky if there were a hundred people there.

The only time there was any sort of pressure on me was when I was a Junior and we were competing in the Metro Relays. It was a big deal. We were competing against the city schools. This meant black guys, scary black guys, who looked like they were in their twenties.

You had to travel into DC; which, (although we had been to the city before on beer excursions because the drinking age was eighteen), was disconcerting to say the least. Whenever we would venture into DC we would seldom go beyond Georgetown; unless of course we were going to a Redskin game, but that was along with maybe fifty thousand other suburbanites.

I can't remember what High School the meet was held at but it was in the "hood." Our track team had only two black guys on it. Even they were scared as the bus made its way down streets that looked like they had been bombed. Actually in a way they had. The riots over Martin Luther King's assassination had erupted a short time before, leaving burned out storefronts and boarded up homes.

I don't have to tell you how lilly white we were. When we got off the bus there was a security guard to escort us onto the track. Real confidence inspiring. What we first saw floored me. There were actually people in the stands. Lots. And they were making noise. It sounded like a football game.

Well, the meet went like any other meet, except for the organized cheering. One school would start a cheer then another school would chime in with a competing cheer. What was truly revolutionary was that these cheers weren't your everyday vanilla exhortations for the home team to do better. Oh no. They had an edge to them. More like personal bias--that would describe it.

Back and forth the caustic cheers would go, while our team stood around doing our stretching exercises. Normally track events aren't conducive to an intimidating atmosphere. It's not like in football where you can scream and yell, even pound the hell out of each other to get psyched-up. Usually the competitor reaches down inside and prepares for his event. It's mental. Focus.

Those rules didn't apply here. As I was doing my hurdlers exercises, propping my legs up on the hurdle and bending over to stretch out my hamstrings, a guy from one of the other High Schools walks up to me. He had a neatly coifed afro and one of those lean yet muscular type bodies that made him look like he was running even when he was standing still.

"Hey, white meat," he says in a low, growling voice, "I'm gonna destroy you. Beat you down."

I looked up from my stretching and he was standing about two inches from me. "Nice to meet you too," I said, smiling, hoping that I sounded composed, unconcerned.

"Say what?" he declared right into my face.

"Not so close, I hardly know you," I replied, stepping back, laughing uneasily.

"Mutherfucking punk," he said, then turned and walked away.

"What was that all about?" Gene asked me, pointing in the direction of the black guy, who was now doing practice runs over a few hurdles.

"He wanted to welcome me to the ghetto," I said, shrugging.

My team lost the meet, but we had a pretty good showing. Not that I did much to help. That year I was running on the 400 relay team. One of the other guys pulled a muscle and me being the alternate I had to run. I was having trouble enough dealing with my own event much less the relay. Having not practiced enough with the other runners, I knew there could be a problem.

There was. I was running the second leg. As in all relays, you had to have a good baton pass or the whole team effort suffered. One botched pass and there was a chain reaction effect that slowed everyone. Oddly enough it came between me and Gene. We had practiced together more than I had practiced with the others. I don't know what happened. Gene said it was my fault, which he took pains to point out for about the next year or so. It could have been.

Gene ran the start leg and was pretty good on the curve. We knew we were overmatched. Some of these guys were turning sub-tens on the hundred. (Yards that is; we were running pre-metered races.) My best time was probably about a 10.1 or 2 and that was with a tail wind. Did I tell you I was a white guy, with skinny legs. Anyway, I wanted to make sure I got a good jump on the exchange so I started out in the pass zone too early. This created a problem for Gene because it meant he had to maintain his stride longer to make the baton pass.

There we were, two suburban white guys trying to run fast. What a sight it must have been. The final two members on the relay team were black guys. They were there to hopefully make up for our miscues. Unfortunately they never even got the chance. As Gene came up on me, and I realized that I had gone out too early, I started almost jogging in place, reaching awkwardly behind for the baton. He stuck out the baton. I reached for it. Then it fell on the ground. That was it.

I tried. After bending over to retrieve it, I gallantly headed on around the track, pumping my legs and arms furiously. In the relay, one misstep and you are history. They could have used a calendar on us instead of a stopwatch we came in so far behind. Naturally this didn't go unnoticed by the ever vigilant cheerleaders, who immediately launched into a cheer highlighting our ineptitude.

"Nothing like being embarrassed in front of thousands of people," I said to Gene as we were walking off the track. I was trying to ease the pain.

"Fuck up much?" was all Gene said, as he walked back to the team bus.

My other two teammates didn't talk to me for the rest of the season. Another valuable lesson was learned that day. One is, teenage guys can take High School sports way too seriously, and two, screwing up in front of a bunch of strangers has a way of making you really feel like throwing up. I didn't but I sure wanted to.

This brings me back to Paula being at my track meet. I was excited about her being there. Nobody ever came to my meets. I generally told them not to bother. My sister came once. She said she waited for a long time and when my event hadn't come up she finally got bored and went home. That happened to be one of the few races that I ever won. Too bad nobody saw it.

What Paula got to see was not something that I, if I had my druthers, would want her to. My event was one of the early ones that day. She didn't have time to get bored and leave. Before my race I had spotted her in the stands and waved. She was by herself-- thankfully. It was cool at the time to interact with the crowd. We were a liberated track team. Some of the guys had long hair and budding mustaches. The black guys had Afros, a symbol at the time of their solidarity with the revolution going on out there somewhere. You could personalize your uniform if you wanted and some did. I had a Doors t-shirt that I had gotten from their concert, which I wore instead of my track jersey. Seems silly. It was. Rebellion in the suburbs, what can I say?

Just prior to my event, I strolled over to the stands and talked with Paula. "I like those shorts," she teased, whistling. "That slit up the side is pretty risqué." "Got to be able to move around," I explained in a serious tone, always having been self-conscious about my skinny legs. "Well, I hope you win," she said, putting her hand on my arm. Her touching me was about all I could think about as I walked back over to the blocks to get ready to run.

Blame it on her. That's what I could do. I wasn't focused. The starters voice rang out. I eased into my starting stance. Six runners tensed up, waiting. Then the guy next to me blasted out of the blocks and there were two reports from the starter's pistol. False start, the official said, motioning to lane four.

I always hated false starts because afterwards you were expected to let the pent up adrenaline subside then jack it up again. We mulled around the blocks, avoiding looking at each other. Everyone had their own pre-race ritual to reenact. I did a few knee bends then backed into the blocks.

"Runners to your mark!" rang in my ears. "SET!" Then there was the interminable time period before the gun went off. It was as if you had slipped into another dimension. Poised. Your whole body ached despite the fact that from day one your coach had instilled in you that you had to be relaxed. BANG!

It was a clean start. We all hit the first hurdle in unison. Running hurdles requires more than anything else discipline. You have to maintain equalized steps between each hurdle or you will fall out of sync and the lead foot will be out of step. Extending that lead foot over the hurdle is what makes for a good hurdler. Speed is essential of course, but without a cadence, a method of stepping off distance between the hurdles, the runner will begin to struggle just to keep a steady stride.

My speed was better than average but I relied on solid, well practiced technique to win. It became like a musical note in your head, a metronome for your muscles. A rhythm. Extend, bend at the waist, step-step-step, do it over again until you crossed the finish line.

Going into the last hurdle I was tied for first. One more hurdle then it was the sprint. My finishing sprint was pretty good. The guy I was tied with was one lane over on my inside. We could see each other out of our peripheral vision. I guess I just simply tried too hard. I sensed that my cadence was off. As I extended my lead leg my toe caught the hurdle. Most times the hurdle would just harmlessly collapse. It was unusual for me not to catch one in a race. But this time I caught it good. Over I went, head first.

"Hey, didn't anybody ever tell you they don't give out purple hearts in track?" Gene said, grinning as he pointed out the blood on my knee.

All I could think of was Paula as I sat there on the track wishing I could somehow turn back time and I blurted out: "I bet Paula is real impressed now."

"Paula," Gene said vacantly, "oh, don't worry, she left a few minutes ago with the guy that won. Winners get all the chicks."

"Have I ever told you how much I hate you?" I said, punching him.

"Not lately," he said.

"Is she looking at me?" I asked him, afraid to look for myself.

"Let's see, no, she's kissing the winner's trophy."

"Come on, dickhead."

"What's that?" he said, cupping his hand over his ear. "No, he's okay. He might not ever have sex again though. Old track injury."

"I'm going to kill you, Flynn," I snarled, smacking the side of his head.

She was sympathetic and concerned about the blood that was trickling down my leg from the scrape on my knee. Later on that night, as we were sharing a pizza at Pizza Fair, she did laugh. I threw my napkin at her. "I'm being honest," she explained. "It just happened to look funny when you went sprawling on the track." "I'm sure glad you think so," I said, angry.

I did laugh at myself eventually; especially after Gene and his date showed up and he chose to relive it over and over again, even adding an imitation of Howard Cosell's distinctive voice to the story. My protests went unheeded.

It wasn't long before I began dating Paula exclusively. You never set out to purposely do it. It just happens. Neither one of us said anything about our dating habits. Humans possess this gene that kicks in and you can't do anything about it. Sort of like when a bird just knows how to automatically fly after it's born. No instructions needed. We were an item.

This displeased Gene. It infringed on his time with me. On every given weekend he knew that at least one of the nights was designated for her. As to the other night, well, it wasn't much fun anyway with a guy who wasn't looking for any new...fun.

I had known Gene for four years, meeting that first day at Freshman football practice. We were immediate friends, playing on all the sports teams together through four years of High School. There was a definite bond between us. We were even going off to the same college in September.

"Come on, what gives with you anyway?" Gene would say, shaking his head pityingly. "At the end of the summer you'll be gone and then what? You can't take your High School sweetheart with you."

"I like her, what can I say?" I would reply.

"You're sick, and cruel. I give you the best years of my life and you throw me over for some hot looking babe. It really hurts," Gene would say, pretending like he was crying.

"Life's unfair, Flynn. Get use to it."

We joked about it but it was still a problem. A bigger problem was the use of drugs. Gene and I were out there experimenting. Paula had an intractable mindset against it. This resulted in me living a semi-schzoid lifestyle where I acted one way when I was partying with Gene and another entirely different way when I was with Paula. Back then, there was a separation between "juicers" and "dopers."

Paula didn't care for it too much but she accepted that the guys she went out with drank beer. You couldn't go to a party without it being there. Kind of hard to avoid. With the potheads it was a different scene. The two didn't seem to mix. Smoking pot brought you membership into the order of Hippies. In some circles this was not a good thing.

Gene and me, well, we managed to straddle the two worlds, interacting with both the beer guzzling jocks and the pot smoking hippie types. Being a hippie pretty much meant you were making a political statement. This translated to mean that you were against the Viet Nam war. As to me and Gene, we were mostly apolitical. Although we had been brought up around DC, and our fathers were movers and shakers of the powers that be, we were more concerned with pure unadulterated adolescent pursuits.

Despite the fact that the Viet Nam war was on the evening news every night, in color, we ignored it. Our defining moment had passed a few months before when the lottery numbers were called out on TV. Gene and me sat there with our fingers crossed waiting for our birthdays to be announced. A low number meant you could be drafted, making a college deferment all the more important. Who knew how long the war was going to last.

"Bingo!" Gene shouted out that night as we listened. His number had landed in the high two hundreds. "Free at last," he sang happily. Then my number came out and it was in the three hundreds. "I am a religious man today," I said, as we hugged and high fived. We then went off to Georgetown and got drunk to celebrate. Gameshow Selective Service had been good to us.

Paula was against the war. She had long bitter arguments with her father about it. Being against the war was unpatriotic. Her mother often had to referee their heated discussions. Her mind had been changed about the war when a classmate brought photos into history class one day. The student was giving an oral report about the war and was using polaroids his older brother had sent him to illustrate his point.

There were three photographs. Depicted in them were horrible scenes of war. They had made Paula physically sick. One in particular had stayed in her mind for weeks. In the photo a US Marine was holding up a Viet Namese by the hair. The photograph had been taken right after a skirmish. There was still smoke from the artillery in the air. The Marine was grinning, with a cigarette jutting out of his mouth. When you looked closer you could see that what he was holding up was the upper torso of a man. He had been literally blown in half.

There had been a big debate that day in her history class. Some of the students still bought into the communist domino theory, while some thought it was senseless, this war so far away. Paula had made up her mind.

We were living the times of our lives. So we thought. Eighteen. Just graduated from High School and eager to explore; that was us: me and Gene. A few short weeks before we had walked across that stage in the venerable Constitution Hall and snatched up our diplomas. It had been nice graduating from Constitution Hall. Very prestigious, but of course at the time we didn't appreciate it. In the following years whenever anyone would mention anything about their High School graduation and they would say how they graduated from some school auditorium, or even gym, I appreciated mine all the more. There had been a campaign around school at the time to just have them send us the diplomas in the mail and use the ceremony money to have a big party instead. It's true. So radical. Somebody even wanted to donate the money to charity. Yeah, right.

If I remember correctly, our valedictorian even used that in his speech. That's right. He stood up there, gave this seditious speech about how the whole tradition of High School Graduation amounted to drivel then removed his robe and mortarboard cap and sat down. We cheered while the parents in the audience collectively exclaimed: "What's he talking about?"

At the time it was "with it" to yell out encouragement. Very scandalous. Oh there was talk later on by the school administration about not giving him his diploma or somehow screwing up his matriculation into college. It didn't go anywhere though. What were they going to do? The guy had a scholarship to Dartmouth. He later became a doctor. It was bad though. Crass. Parents live for these kind of things. Little Johnny's graduating. Give them their due.

Of course I didn't say that at the time. I stood up and yelled out, "Right on, Tim!", then threw my mortarboard up on the stage, where it almost decapitated the Principal. That was pretty foolish considering I had rented the gown and I never saw the cap again. Cost me some bucks.

Afterwards there were parties to go to. Gene and I had friends that spanned all the sub-groups, which left us with a good three or four parties to make an appearance at. That night kicked off a summer of almost non-stop partying. By the time I got Paula back to her house it was way beyond mid-night. Her dad was waiting up. As dad's went, her's was okay. He never hassled me much, even though he knew I was trying to bop his daughter every chance I got.

The front door to her house flew open when we drove up and then there he was right at my car door. "Young lady, get your butt in the house right now," he commanded, pointing to the door. She tried to say something and he silenced her with a swift smack to the top of the car, which reverberated throughout the interior.

Now you know this scene is played out all across America every weekend night, or at least they used to be. I wasn't prepared for this. I was hoping to drop her off and slip away, leaving her to do combat with her parents. I had even considered coming in in the "silent running" mode. This meant turning off the lights and the car and coasting up to the house. Back then the cars didn't have locking steering wheels so it wasn't a problem. Believe me, I had done it before.

"Mister," her father said superciliously, and I don't use that word lightly, "do you by chance know what time it is?"

Now that was a loaded question. You don't want to err at this juncture in the confrontation. "I didn't wear my watch tonight, sir," I said obsequiously; hoping to defuse the situation.

"Is it safe to say that you might know that it is past mid-night?"

This guy's killing me with these time questions, I said to myself. "It's kinda late, I know. We got to visiting some friends...you know, celebrating the graduation thing and all," I explained, thinking, is this guy going to punch me?

He leaned into the car, with his hands gripping the top of the driver's door. The car was still running and I was thinking that if he started swinging I'm going to floor it and what happens happens. I could hear his unsteady breathing. He was trying to control his temper. A dog started to bark at the house next door. If this keeps up, I thought, the whole neighborhood is going to wake up.

"Maybe it would be a good idea, young man, if you didn't see my daughter anymore," he finally stated, easing back away from the car.

This wouldn't do. Not see her. What? Is he nuts? "Mr. Collins, look, I know we were out late and all but nothing happened," I pleaded.

Naturally he knew what I meant by "nothing happened." He thought for a moment and said in no uncertain terms: "And nothing is ever going to happen, isn't that right?"

"Yes, of course," I agreed, lying like hell because at this juncture it was a little after the fact.

He snorted, and mumbled something that I couldn't hear and wasn't about to ask him to repeat. I assumed he knew we were both talking about the post-hypothetical. That is a neo-philosophical term that I just invented. I want full credit for it.

"I think you had better go on home now. Your parents must be wondering where you are," he said, then turned and walked into the house, where he then beat his daughter with a bull whip that he used to discipline all his children.

No. That didn't happen. She was put on restriction--grounded--for a week and then everything calmed down. Although her mother did then, coincidentally, give her a talk to about sex and men, men and sex. It must have worked, because after that Paula didn't seem to be as guilty about it as before.

BREEZY

It was a week night. We didn't usually go out that much during the week because when you worked at the County mornings came pretty early. Nothing like digging up sod with a hangover. Gene showed up at my door with news of a party out in the sticks. I wasn't into it. It was a long drive. For what?

"Listen, you pussywhipped weanie, it's an all girl's riding academy. Riding? Think about it," Gene said, trying to entice me.

"What the fuck is a riding academy?" I wanted to know, using the word of choice now that Gene and I were working five days a week with laborers. It was a noun. It was a verb. It was an adjective. It even meant sexual intercourse.

"What do you think, dummy? It's a bunch of rich girls learning how to ride the oh so proper way," he explained, prancing around the kitchen like he was on a horse. "You can only imagine how horny they are."

"Where is this place?"

"Near Sterling. The Windsor Riding Academy. Royal pussy," he said in a whisper because my mother was down stairs. "They board there for a month or so...in dorms. Like college, I guess."

"And how do you know about this place? Who told you about the party?" I wanted to know before I committed myself to one of Gene's wild goose chases. He had once talked me into going to a party in Alexandria where all the girls there were Young Republicans. Their idea of a good time was watching Tricia Nixon Cox's wedding ceremony. I made one crack about Tricky Dick and the host asked us to leave.

"I know one of the girls there. I met her at the Westwood Country Club. I ain't lying," he said, crossing his heart when he saw my look of skepticism. "She called me and asked me to come on out. At the very least we can ride some horses."

That was enough inducement. That, and me insisting he drive. Since it didn't get dark until later, we hoped to have the time to get in some riding. It was a long drive, with the usual confusing directions. I made sure we didn't smoke a joint until we got there. I didn't want to get lost. We found it with relatively little difficulty.

It didn't look like much of a riding academy. Of course, I hadn't ever seen a riding academy. There was lots of land all around to go riding though. A large, white farm house and an equally large stable were right at the entrance when you turned off the dirt road that led up to the place. Off to one side was what looked like a bunk house you might see at the Ponderosa or on the South Fork ranch. And it was. Except cowboys didn't bunk there, rich pubescent girls did.

We pulled up and parked by the stables. A man who looked like he had been born on a horse walked up to us and wanted to know what we wanted. He wasn't too polite. This definitely wasn't a co-ed institution. Gene soothed him with talk of being there to see his friend. "Name's Dee Dee," he said, smiling. "And she's expecting you, this Dee Dee?" the Marlboro Man demanded to know. "Certainly is," Gene said, ignoring the guy's hostile attitude.

"Probably hired by the parents to ride roughshod over their precious offspring," I said to Gene after the guy had reluctantly directed us to where Dee Dee was.

"What does roughshod mean?" Gene asked, poking me in the ribs.

Then Gene saw Dee Dee grooming one of the horses behind the stables. I didn't know her. She went to private school. God only knows how Gene got to know her. She was wearing fancy riding jodhpurs, which I didn't know the name of until she told me. She was sixteen, tall, about five nine maybe, with short curly brown hair. Not good looking and not bad looking, if that's possible. Nice body. But she did need work on her attitude.

"Dee Dee, are the hounds ready for the hunt?" Gene greeted her with in a ridiculous mock British accent.

She turned and forced a smile, then said, "I thought you were going to be here earlier."

Oh boy, I thought, this is going to be real fun.

""Got here as soon as I could," Gene answered. "He took so long getting ready it held us up," he explained, jerking his thumb in my direction.

"Oh yeah, don't you know it. I had to dry my hair," I said sarcastically.

"I see," she said, continuing to groom the horse.

I looked at Gene, who gave me a look that managed to say: Be patient, give her a chance. Must be the menial labor that's got her all ragged out, I thought. It wasn't that, I learned later on. The rich girls loved their horses. They'd do anything for them. No, it was just Dee Dee. She was a bitch. Accustomed to getting anything she wanted since she could talk, so Dee Dee treated everyone like her hired help.

Then she told us we couldn't go riding. That was it for me. I pulled Gene aside and told him to give me the keys to his car because I was driving back. For all I cared he could ride one of the horses back, if Dee Dee would let him. "It's the rules. The school won't let anybody ride unless they're registered here," he whined. "That's not what you told me before we came out here," I whined back. Meanwhile, Dee Dee was now combing her horses' mane and talking to it.

Gene convinced me to stay a little longer. That is when Fate stepped in. Small world. Coincidence. Maybe.

We were talking with Dee Dee, and her horse, when a girl rode up at a full gallop and pulled up right next to us. Just like in the movies. Pounding hoofs and straining reigns. Dust rising. She jumped off and led the horse into the stables. "Hey, stupid, I just groomed Roger," Dee Dee spat out angrily. Yes, her horse was named Roger.

"Sorry," the girl apologized, tying her horse off and starting to remove the saddle.

"Some of the girls here don't know how to act," Dee Dee informed us in a voice loud enough for the whole academy to hear.

The girl looked over at us, smiled, then took the hose and sprayed it in our direction. I saw it coming. Gene and Dee Dee (and Roger) got soaked. Had to laugh. Now this girl was fun.

"Breezy! You little shit," Dee Dee screamed out. "You're gonna get it."

"I'm scared," she shouted back, laughing.

Dee Dee stalked off in the direction of the bunk house, cursing as she went. Gene was laughing as he looked for something to dry off with. For me, seeing Dee Dee get doused was worth coming all the way out there.

"You remember me?" Gene suddenly asked the girl, while he dried off with a towel she had thrown to him.

"Should I?" she countered, turning her attention to her horse.

"I'm hurt. Your name is Breezy, right? You don't remember a weird night at a tent in the woods? Near Reston. Strange vibes to say the least," Gene offered, describing the scene at the Jo Jo's tent.

She stopped grooming for a minute and looked at Gene. I was watching her from the side. She was truly gorgeous: long, honey brown hair, slender, with blue eyes that were so pale it seemed like you could look inside. I remember from what Gene had told me about her that she was a senior at Langley High School.

"Oh yeah...it's coming back to me now," she said, smiling. "There was that interesting character there, the Viet Nam vet. We smoked some pretty decent hash. Got wasted."

"That's right," Gene said excitedly, hoping there might be a prospective score in the offing. "Been back out there? To the tent."

"Hand me that brush would you," she suddenly said to me. I hoped she hadn't seen me staring at her. "No, haven't been back. I started at the academy and have been riding for almost a month now. Are you a friend of Dee Dee's?" she asked accusingly.

"They're engaged," I interjected. "Arranged marriage. He can't get out of it."

She laughed and said: "I guess Roger'll be the best man."

Man oh man, I thought, beautiful and a sense of humor. I'm in love.

"Shut-up, shithead," Gene said to me. "Ignore him. He doesn't get out of the house much since he's been going steady for about three years."

Then she said something that put everything in perspective. It put us on notice. She was good looking. She was intelligent. She was educated. She was rich. And she wasn't interested. She stated: "Both of you can relax. Get your hormones under control. Neither one of you is going to get in my pants. Understood?"

Like reprimanded little boys we both said: "Okay."

"Now, either one of you bring any dope out here with you?" she asked, smiling.

Rules didn't apply to Breezy. She pretty much did what she wanted. Non-students can't ride the horses. Doesn't apply. She commandeered two other horses and then the next thing we knew we were in some back pasture sitting under a big dogwood tree smoking a joint. Riding an unfamiliar horse while you were toasted, now that took an adjustment. Besides, I hadn't' been on a horse in over five years, and it was a pony.

We talked. It was peculiar. I don't believe Gene or me had actually ever had a real conversation of any substance with a girl before. You usually talked about the essentials. For instance, should we go to a movie this weekend or to such and such's party. That just about covered it, except for maybe when it came time to discuss going to Homecoming or the Prom.

Breezy was a wayfarer. That's what she called herself. Her father was a bigshot international lawyer. Made the big bucks, so she said, sighing, as if somehow she had to apologize for it. She had lived everywhere. So it seemed. At least all over Europe, that's what we gathered from what she told us.

She wasn't going to college in the Fall. "I'm going to backpack around Europe and then go overland to India," she told us that evening, as she went on to describe various places she wanted to see. "Alone?" Gene wanted to know. "Maybe. If I have to," she replied. I knew at that moment Gene and me were thinking: I'll go with you.

"My parents were pissed off when I told them about my plans," she said, passing the joint to me. "I told them, look, I'm going to take a year off then go to college the year after. What's the problem?"

"My parents didn't really push me in any direction," I said, starting to feel the tendrils of a delicate rush envelope my senses. "It was sort of understood. Go to college. Get a degree. Get a good job. Like commandments."

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do," Gene said, inhaling deeply, then coughing.

"Yeah, right," I said, scoffing. "He's going to VCU with me."

"Are you guys cousins or something?" she asked mockingly.

"We're real, real close, if you know what I mean," I replied, snickering.

"I'm not sure what I'm going to do," Gene reiterated.

I figured he was trying to impress Breezy, so I didn't pursue it at the time. Our mutual plans had been set in stone. We took the SATs together. We had filled out the college applications together. We went to Richmond to visit the campus. We got accepted on the same day. What was he talking about?

We talked so long we had to ride back in the dark. Good thing the horse knew the way. I fell in behind them and let the horse do his thing. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Dee Dee was on the warpath, threatening to tell on Breezy for letting us ride. As she was complaining to us, we put the horses away. Breezy leaned over and whispered in my ear: "Is she his girl friend?" I laughed and told her that he barely knew her.

She then turned to Dee Dee and said in a nasty tone: "Dee Dee, do us all a favor and go fuck yourself."

Dee Dee got all red in the face and spat out: "That's why no one likes you here, Breezy. We can't wait for you to leave."

"You can't imagine how hurt I am by that," Breezy said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Dee Dee seemed to get redder in the face, stomped her foot, then said: "Gene, let's go back to the bunk house. I'm nauseated just being around her."

"Don't think so," was all Gene said.

"I was the one who asked you out here as my guest," she stated, crossing her arms and stamping her foot again. "Are you coming with me or not?"

"Maybe next time," Gene replied, smiling.

"Next time!" she exclaimed, then turned and stomped back to the bunk house.

"And she seemed to have such a nice personality when I first met her," he said, grinning.

Breezy watched her disappear into the bunk house then said in a matter of fact voice: "Poor Dee Dee, I guess she'll have to wait til the weekend to get laid."

"What was that?' Gene asked, stammering.

"Oh, I thought you knew. Dee Dee is the school slut. She does it with everyone that comes out here," Breezy said, winking at me.

Gene almost had a nervous breakdown right then and there. I didn't tell him Breezy was pulling his leg until we were half the way home. The only thing Dee Dee had wrapped her legs around was Roger, so I was told by Breezy, who begged me not to tell Gene, to keep the joke going.

On the way home all we could talk about was Breezy. "I'm going to carry her backpack all the way to India," Gene declared, as we laughed at the image of him doing just that. "Maybe we can both go with her," I said, joining in on the fantasy. "No way, dipshit. She could care less about you," Gene stated, reaching over to punch me in the arm. "Yeah, like she's crazy about you," I countered.

That weekend she called me. It was Saturday morning. "Some girl for you on the phone," my sister had called out. "Is it Paula?" I shouted from the basement, where I was working out with weights. "Doesn't sound like her voice," my sister answered. Then she asked peevishly: "Are you going to get it or not?"

Must be Paula, what other girl would be calling me? I asked myself, settling in at my dad's desk in his study to pick up the extension.

"Hey, Sean," I heard and immediately I knew who it was. Suddenly I was nervous. Why? "Can you hear me?" she asked.

"Breezy?"

"Yeah, hi," she said cheerfully. "I guess you're surprised."

"Sort of," I lied. "How did you get my number?"

"I got Gene's number from Dee Dee, then got yours from him. Simple. So, what are you doing?"

"I was lifting weights," I replied, unsure where this phone call was heading.

"Oh...I could tell you lift weights," she purred. "Listen, I've been thinking about you all week." There was a pause in the conversation. The phone felt sweaty in my hand. I could hear her breathing. "Think we could get together?"

Wait a minute! screamed in my mind. What is she suggesting? Better yet, how am I going to keep this from Paula? And what about Gene? "Let me call Gene and see if he's up for something," I suggested.

"Why don't we leave Gene out of this. I would rather just you and me got together," she cooed.

My pulse was on red alert. "Just you and me," I stammered out. "I guess so."

Then I heard Gene's voice come on the line and say: "In your dreams, peckerhead."

It was the old trick and I had fallen for it. Gene and I were always getting our girl friends to call up and pretend to want to get it on with one or the other. Usually you could see right through it, but not this time. I was instantly deflated and had to fake like I knew all along.

Breezy had just shown up at Gene's door. "Knock knock, can Gene come out and play?" was what she had said. Gene's sister answered the door. She eyed her through the screen door, then yelled for Gene to come to the door.

"So what do you want to do?" I asked, after we had all gotten together.

"I know what we can do," she said excitedly. "Let's go to Great Falls."

We did. She drove her new red Camaro. Much to Gene's delight, she had an eight track in the car, as well as the new Zeppelin album. While we sped down Route 123, with Whole Lotta Love blasting out of the windows, I sat in the back watching Breezy's long hair dance in the wind. "This should have been our class song," Gene yelled to me over his shoulder, "not that wimpy Simon and Garfinkle crap." "Simon and who?" Breezy asked, looking in the rear view mirror at me and laughing.

Great Falls was a park on the upper Potomac River. Pretty place. There were picnic tables. You got a good view of the rapids on the river. For some reason they had a carousel there too. Don't ask me why. It seemed out of place. And there were the cliffs.

The summer before Gene and me on a dare had jumped off one of them. We said it was seventy feet high but it wasn't. It was way up there though. You had to get a good running start and jump out so you wouldn't hit the rocks at the river's edge on the way down. The water was ice cold and the current took you down river for a ways until you could climb out. We were insane. It seemed every year one or two people drowned around there.

"That's so manly of you," was Breezy's response when Gene found it necessary to tell her about our adventure.

"I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't a little bit scared when we jumped," Gene told her in a confessional tone of voice.

Breezy glanced at me, smirked, then said in a fake, adoring voice: "Oh Gene, do you have hair on your chest yet?"

His hand involuntarily reached for his chest then he picked up on her sarcasm and said, "You are making it really hard for me to like you, you know that."

"I like her," I said, laughing. "I like her alot."

"Really," Gene said. "You'd have her baby if you could."

"Can I?"

"You know something, you two guys are really pathetic," she said, laughing.

"Who is more pathetic between us?" Gene asked jokingly.

We rode the carousel. Sat on the horses and made fools of ourselves with all the kids riding next to us. Gene tried to grab the brass ring as we went around then finally fell off reaching too far. He actually rolled right in the dirt; but he did get the ring. Exchanged it for a stuffed animal. Gave it to Breezy. She cried. Made me and Gene kind of uncomfortable. It was touching, I guess.

"Sorry about that," she explained when we got back to her car. "I lost it there for a minute."

"I know you love me," Gene joked.

She smiled, then laughed as she hugged the stuffed animal. "It just reminded me of something, that's all."

"Let me guess, old boy friend," I said gently.

"Jeez, am I that much of a cliche?" she asked. "That's really disgusting."

She had been dating a guy who was in college. A sophomore at American University. Usual story. Guy has younger High School girl friend. Goes off to college. Steps into the forbidden world of no supervision. Meets co-ed. Dumps girl friend back home. It was an old formula, an old plot line.

"The guy must be an idiot," Gene stated after she had told us the story. Of course, we were both thinking: Sure would like to see the girl he dumped her for.

I don't remember who suggested it. We were sitting in her car at the park listening to Joni Mitchell, which I, personally, couldn't stand. Joni's reedy voice was warbling through the speakers and I was fantasizing about ripping the tape out and throwing it out the window, when Breezy started the car and we were off. It took me five miles before I worked up enough nerve to ask: "Got any Doors?" She didn't.

"We can cut through Hell's Hole," I heard Gene say to Breezy. "It'll be faster."

"Sounds like a nice place," she said, shifting the car into fourth as we sped down the twisting country roads.

This was pre-seatbelt days. Oh we had them. Lap belts. Nobody used them though. I was thinking to myself that in car crashes people in the backseat have a much better chance of surviving than the ones in the front. There was one bonus in her going ninety down the road and that was the wind rushing in the open window was sucking Joni's squealing voice right out into the countryside. Poor cows, I thought.

Gene had gotten us off the paved road and onto a dirt road. "It'll save time," he told us. What's the hurry? I was thinking. Besides, I knew where he was heading. It was a narrow gravel road that dipped down through a gully and had a stream that ran across it. When it rained the road was impassable most of the time.

"Nice road," Breezy said, irritated because she just got a glimpse of the stream she would have to take her car across.

"That's why they call it Hell's Hole I guess," Gene said, looking back at me for support.

"I wouldn't bring my car back here," I said unequivocally. Gene shot me a look of disapproval. I couldn't believe he had suggested we go this way. Sure it knocked off maybe five miles, but the chances of getting stuck were pretty high. It had happened to me on several occasions. Not fun. You got to get out of the car in knee deep water and push.

"Guess who's pushing if we get stuck."

"Like you're gonna sit on your ass in the backseat and watch," Gene said angrily.

Fortunately it was summer and the stream had dried up some. Breezy managed to get across without a problem, even with Gene coaching her. Gene sang out: "I knew you could do it, Breezy!" "Glad you did," she said. To which I tacked on: "Must have been your expert advice, Gene." He made a face at me then shouted out: "Jesus! Pump the brakes. Pump the damn brakes!"

We then headed down the next hill almost out of control. Dust and gravel flew up all around us. "You might want to down shift," I cried out. Breezy jammed the car into second and pumped the brakes. When we finally came to a stop, Breezy said as she choked on the dust: "How was I suppose to know about wet brakes?"

"My short young life passed before my eyes," I said, lying down on the backseat.

"Shut-up, dipshit," Gene chided. "She handled it fine."

She then put on the emergency brake, got out of the car, walked around to Gene's side, and ordered him to get out. Smack him, I was urging in my mind. A nice, hard slap would be so entertaining. She disappointed me though. All she did was tell him to drive.

With a gleam in his eye, as it were, Gene got behind the wheel and went in search of some asphalt to lay some rubber. Kid in a candy store comes to mind. Peeling out. Popping the clutch. Revving up that 327 and feeling the power vibrate. It was a teenagers dream come true. The only good thing about the change of drivers was he popped Joni out and put Jimi in.

Gene remembered what Marty had told him about the tent site. There was a way to get there from the opposite side. Seemed like such a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Go visit some strangoid in a tent in the woods.

Reston, Virginia. It was one of those planned cities you might have heard about. Real new age, for its time anyway. Start from scratch and design an exurban village. Way ahead of its time. Put yuppies in the country before there was anything called a yuppie.

It made all the architectural journals. Forward thinking, that's what some people labeled it. It was damn nice. Built around lakes, with a core center to anchor it, the place had a certain discernible charm. Although, and this was nit-picking, the place had no soul. It was--with all its planning--simply artificial.

There were people who complained that the originator had gotten away from his matrix, or that the concept had been co-opted by the big industrial giants who were now clamoring to get in on the action. I don't know about the former but the latter was definitely happening. Gulf and Western had poured plenty of money into the area. Every imaginable domicile was being built: apartment buildings, condos, townhouses, single family homes, ersatz ranches. It was visionary planning gone amuck.

Nothing like a vast area with lots of woods to hide in. It would be several years before they developed all of it. But like an advancing army, the outcome was there to see. The land rush was on.

Jo Jo had picked a good spot, like a modern day homesteader. His tent couldn't be seen from the two dirt roads that were within walking distance. Best of all, there was a lake right there. It was one of the only real lakes in the Reston area, fed by the same stream that crossed Hell's Hole. And it actually had fish in it. Jo Jo and Marty had caught a few. Cooked them. Ate them. It was Lewis and Clark all over again.

The only addition to the indigenous lake was a dock. The developers had put it in prematurely, apparently anticipating developing the area first. Fortunately, their plans had changed and they had moved onto another sector before starting on this one.

It was rustic around there. Deer, raccoons, snakes, the animal kingdom was well represented. The lake, for Jo Jo, served a vital purpose. It gave him his water, as well as his baths. Ands it was a good place to go swimming.

"Be gentle now," Breezy warned Gene. "Remember, this is my car."

"It's not a damn truck, you know," I said grumpily. "You might want to think about taking it easy with her car."

"Isn't it your nap time or something back there," he said, laughing, as he cradled the shifter in his hand.

Finally the road had smoothed out and we could see the lake. Gene pulled over and stopped. We all got out. "Pretty good size lake," Gene said, walking down to the water's edge. "Wonder how deep it is," I said, kneeling down to feel how cold the water felt. "Cold?" Breezy wanted to know. "Not really," I answered. Then we could hear the music. It was drifting across the lake. "Hear it?" Breezy asked. "Let's see, it's the Beatles...the Revolver album, right?" Gene said. "Wrong!" I corrected. "It's from the White album...My Guitar Gently Weeps." "What do I know? I hate the Beatles," Gene said disdainfully. "Nobody hates the Beatles," I declared. "I do," he replied, picking up a rock and skipping it across the water. "What is this American Bandstand?' Breezy exclaimed mockingly.

We left the car by the lake and followed the sound of the music to the tent. No one was there. There was a pile of beer cans next to the back side of the tent. One of the cots had been neatly made and the other one was stripped bare. You could see US Army stenciled on the top canvas part. A pot of water was boiling on the one burner stove.

"Can't have gone too far," I said.

"You know, you would make a good detective," Breezy said sarcastically, smiling at me.

"Very funny."

"Think he'd get mad if I turned that crap off?' Gene asked. "Oh man, is that Ringo singing?"

"Check it out," I said, pointing to a sign nailed to one of the trees. Somebody had scribbled something in bright red paint on a board. It read: HOOCH BY THE LAKE.

"Nice touch, must be Marty's doing judging by the Chevrolet red color," Gene said.

There was a metallic click behind us and we all turned. "Nothing worse than uninvited guests," Jo Jo stated. He was standing there with a rifle in his hand.

We stood there for what seemed like a long time without saying anything until Gene said jokingly: "I was only kidding, I love Ringo."

Jo Jo laughed. It was a full laugh, where he even grabbed his stomach. Gene's comment had totally amused him. "Paul can play the drums better than Ringo," he said, smiling. Then he took note of Breezy and everything was okay. He lowered the rifle and invited us into the tent.

"How's Marty doing?' I said, trying to ingratiate myself with him.

"He's on a supplies run," he replied succinctly.

The music halted. You could hear the eight track electronically murmuring as it changed tracks, then the music came alive again. "Tea?" Jo Jo asked, holding up tea bags. Tea was a little on the wimpy side for us but Breezy said yes. He seemed happy about this, as he went about preparing two cups of tea. "Sugar? Milk?" Gene and me looked at each other and smirked. "I apologize, my friends, but I don't have any beer." We shrugged.

We sat there, with the Beatles, while they gingerly sipped their tin cups of tea. No one said anything for awhile. John or Paul or one of the mop heads was singing about Sexy Sadie. I was stealing glances at Jo Jo, which was easy to do because he seemed transfixed by Breezy being there. He was wearing fatigue pants and a green long sleeve T-shirt. He had jungle combat boots on. A dirty blue bandanna was tied around his head, holding his shoulder length hair back.

He had propped the rifle up against the book case next to his cot. I noticed it was an illegal M-16. Probably smuggled it home from Nam, I thought. Man, is this guy going to turn out to be one of the crazed Viet Nam vets that go on a shooting spree? Be on the Evening News, with Walter Cronkite announcing how three people were found dead in the woods, shot in the head from a high powered rifle. Post Traumatic Syndrome, so said an Army doctor, as he stared into the TV camera and shook his head dejectedly. Very sad. Tragic.

"Can I see your gun?" Gene suddenly asked.

Are you insane? screamed in my mind, but Jo Jo said: "It's a rifle, not a gun. Be my guest."

Gene picked it up like it was made of radioactive material or something, careful to point it away from everybody. "Pretty light," he said.

"A toy for destruction," Jo Jo said in a solemn voice.

"Is this the one you used in Nam?" Gene asked, reverently fingering the rifle's trigger guard.

"No way. Got it off the battlefield. Smuggled it home in pieces," Jo Jo explained patiently. "The former owner took one from a sapper on a NDP. Right in the forehead. Didn't know what hit 'em. Hick from Alabama. Redneck. Hated the gooks more than niggers. His sentiments and terminology, not mine."

Breezy seemed to recoil from him for a minute. He noticed. I could see his dark eyes shining in the sunlight that seeped into the tent. There was a puzzled look on his face.

"What's a NDP?" I asked, hoping to defuse the tenseness of the moment.

"Night Defense Position," he answered vacantly.

"You talk about it so...I don't know, clinical like," Breezy finally said, returning his gaze.

I think it was about right then that I knew she was lost. She had found someone different from anyone she had ever met before.

"Is the safety on?' Gene asked, breaking the mood perfectly, as he fumbled with a lever on the rifle.

"It's not loaded," Jo Jo said, snickering. "I don't have any rounds for it."

This is good, I thought. You can cancel the massacre scenario, thank you very much. Unless of course he ties us up and forces us to listen to a Beatles marathon until we commit suicide.

"How did you end up over there?" Breezy asked, sweeping her hair back with both hands, a coquettish gesture that drove me wild.

"Born lucky," he said, laughing. "More tea?"

Jo Jo was now on stage. We were all curious, especially her. Who was this guy? He lived in the woods and he had gone to Nam. Although he was only a few years older than us, he seemed wiser, way wiser. He had experienced so much.

From Marty we would learn about his background; that he was an orphan. Brought up in foster homes all around Northern Virginia. His mother had put him up for adoption. Father out of the picture. Unknown. Typical result of teen parents moment of indiscretion. He had been a troubled child. Hard to get along with, so the social agency summarized.

When he was right out of High School it had happened. Jo Jo was caught stealing a car. Some lady had left her car running while she dashed into a 7/11. Tempting. It was a new mustang: convertible, yellow with a black top, three on the floor, six cylinder. He just jumped in and tried to roar away. Stalled the car at first when his foot slipped off the clutch. The lady had come running out, screaming. Jo Jo finally got it into first and burned rubber as he sped away.

Bad luck. The car was on empty. He got about five miles down the road when it ran out of gas; he didn't have any money to buy anymore. Leaving the car by the side of the road, he started walking. Cops nabbed him a few blocks away.

He felt damn stupid. His foster parents at the time, a couple from Woodbridge, had had it with him. Incorrigible. He was brought before a judge and given a choice: jail time or join the Army. In their way, they both represented confinement. He wasn't a juvenile any longer so he knew he would spend time in real jail. Not a good prospect. Jo Jo took the Army.

It could have been different. He was smart, very smart. He told me once that he knew so much because in his loneliness in growing up he had turned to books for friends. He read everything, from science to poetry. There was no thinking of going to college though. Who would take him? He had no money. His grades in High School had been marginal because he never bothered to show up for class. And then there was his record of trouble making.

When he returned from Nam he had gone to college. It was a Viet Nam Veterans program. He took the entrance exam. Passed with a high score and was accepted at Georgetown. He didn't want to go. He could find no relevancy to any of it after what he had experienced in Nam. It became a scam. He used the enrollment to get money from the GI Bill. It wasn't much, but he had pared back his living style, existing on practically nothing.

"It's such a long story," he said to Breezy, smiling. "Why would you want to hear it?" As far as Jo Jo was concerned, Gene and me weren't even there.

"I find it kind of fascinating," she said, holding her cup out for more tea.

"It all started with a train ride south, a long ass train ride. Seemed like the train stopped in every podunk town from Richmond to Columbia, South Carolina," he began, dumping several tea spoons of sugar into his teacup. I was asleep all scrunched up in my seat when I hear: 'Git your goat smellin' asses off this train this god-damn instant!' Woke me right up, you can bet on that.

"All around me guys were scrambling to their feet, knocking over luggage as they tried to get off the train. It was two in the morning. As I stepped off the train, I was simultaneously greeted by the viscous summer night air and a Drill sergeant screaming: 'You little pukes better git movin', now!'"

"Did you have long hair then?" Gene asked excitedly. "I know that had to get the Drill Sergeants pissed."

"Yeah, my hair was long. Not as long as it is now, but long enough," Jo Jo said, remembering how it all happened. "They assembled us into crooked rows next to the train. These half asleep black porters were unloading the baggage around us. They were oblivious to what was going on because they had probably seen it played out a hundred times before.

"I can remember this guy yelled out: 'Hey Sarge, I gotta go to the bathroom.' Big mistake. Three Drills converged on the poor guy. 'What's that little girl?' one of them asked in a high pitched, girlish voice. 'Hey "Sarge," one of the other Drills yelled out, 'this maggot needs to take a bath.' 'Oh no, man, I just have to pee, that's all,' the guy says innocently. Another Drill, a big black guy, got right in the draftee's face and shouted: 'We don't call it a bathroom in this man's army, lady, we call it a latrine. L A T R I N E! Now why don't you get on down there and give me twenty pushups.' He then kicked the guy in the ass as he was bending over to do the push-ups.

"He was pretty out of shape, this guy. Could barely do one push-up. That black Drill was having fun now. He yelled out to the rest of us: 'What ever do we have here? Hey spaghetti arms, you had better be able to do a push-up better than that. Start over, you smelly pussy.'"

"I don't think I could take that kind of abuse without hitting one of them," I said naively.

"It's been done. Saw it once. Second week of BCT. Guy took a swing at one of the Drills. Actually hit him. We never saw him again. They sent him to retraining. That's the place where you do nothing all day but do PT," Jo Jo said.

"Work their asses off, huh," Gene said.

"You got it," he said, laughing. "Anyway, they bused us to the post, divided us into platoons, then stuck us in our barracks. Tank Hill. That's what they called the place. A bunch of clapboard houses was all it was. One match and the whole place would go up. That's why we had to do fire guard all night, in two hour shifts. The one thing you needed was your sleep. I hated the fire guard shift. If you were lucky you got the early shift, then you could sleep the rest of the night. I always got stuck with the two o'clock shift."

"What did you have to do?" Breezy asked.

"Nothing. Just stay awake and make sure there wasn't any fires. The real hard part was waking up the guy who had the shift after you. Nobody wanted to get up after you had been busting your butt all day. Believe me, sleep was like some kind of nirvana, a refuge from all the nonsense.

"That first night we got to bed around four and they had us up at six. First day of Basic Training. Be inconspicuous...my mantra. That was what a friend of mine had advised. Don't draw any attention to yourself.

"Drill Sergeants Mulvey and Jensen dragged our asses out of bed for morning PT. It was like they were in a frenzy. They got in any draftees face who couldn't keep up with the exercises. It was murder. As soon as the sun comes up it got hot as hell. I kept up as best I could.

"The Drill Sergeant came down on me once. All of a sudden there was hot breath on the back of my neck. Sergeant Jensen was yelling: 'Excuse me, ma'am, are we going too fast for you? I just love your hair. Now get your candy-ass movin' or I'm going to stick my boot so far up your faggot ass you'll be smellin' Kiwi for a week!"

"What in the hell does that mean?" I wanted to know.

Jo Jo laughed and said, "Kiwi is the name of the shoe polish for boots."

"Very creative in their abuse," Breezy said, shaking her head.

"Sure you guys want to hear about this?" he asked politely. "Must be boring."

"I know I want to hear it," Gene called out enthusiastically.

"Well...whatever turns you on, I guess," he said, snickering. "That first day we spent getting our uniforms. Delta Company was double-timed marched from distribution point to distribution point. You weren't allowed to walk anywhere for the first few weeks of Basic. They made you run everywhere. Run to the latrine. Run to get in line for chow. Run to class on the military code. Run to get a dozen or so vaccinations, where they fired shots into your arm with these gun like devices. Pow, pow, in each arm. They inoculated you against everything. If you didn't run--bam, give me twenty. It was automatic. Hit the ground and pump them out. Certainly got us in shape.

"From the first day I knew I was out of my element. I was a smart-ass. There ain't no room in the military for fuck-ups. It almost overwhelmed me. Between the stifling heat and the perpetual verbal abuse, I thought about going AWOL. A few guys did. They caught them all and put them in the stockade.

"You got to adapt. I kept a low profile. Did as I was told and got through it. It was especially hard for me because I was mostly isolated. In my platoon there was probably about four or five white guys. The rest were black or Latin. I had nobody to relate to. The white guys were mostly rednecks. The one white guy that I shared something in common with took a whole bottle of aspirin, got sick, then tried to section 8 out of the army.

"Boom, he's gone. They took him away. Don't know what happened to him. He was from New York, I think."

"Did they buzz your hair?" Gene asked.

"Oh yeah. Front to back, just buzzed it all off. The barber shop floor was about ankle deep in hair. The barbers were real comedians. "How would you like it, ma'am?' That kind of shit."

"What exactly did they teach you, if anything," Breezy asked in a serious tone.

"My MOS was 11 Bravo, which translates to rifleman in civilian terms. Grunt. A tried and true tradition of armies throughout history. I was cannon fodder."

"All I can think of is the TV show, with Chuck Connors," I said, laughing.

Jo Jo looked up at me and stared. "Yeah. What they taught me in the Army was how to kill, and hopefully not get killed. I wonder where Marty is," he suddenly said, standing up to look out the back of the tent.

"I'm sure he's on his way," I said cheerfully, noticing for the first time that Jo Jo's T-shirt was stained with sweat. He took off the bandanna, wiped his brow, then put it back on.

"You don't have to talk about this," Breezy said in a hushed tone of voice, adding, "if it's painful and all."

The tape had started to cycle over again so Gene said: "Won't me to put on another tape?"

"No," Jo Jo said sharply. "I'll get it." He took the tape out then turned off the tape player. It was quiet. There was a faint breeze rippling across the water. In the distance, there was a loud booming noise and Jo Jo dropped down into a squatting position.

"What was that?" Breezy cried out.

"They're blasting to sink another lake," Jo Jo said in a lifeless voice. There was another reverberating explosion and Jo Jo flinched.

"Man, do they do that everyday?" I said.

"Thankfully no," Jo Jo replied.

It was quiet again. We looked at each other. None of us knew what to say. I wish Marty would get here, I was thinking. Jo Jo moved to the door of the tent and sat down on the steps. He said over his shoulder, "Where did I leave off?"

"You were telling us about being a rifleman," Gene answered.

"Yeah, right. A grunt. First thing we had to do was zero in our rifles. It was simple really. You took aim at a target and fired off some rounds until they could calibrate where your weapon's sight needed to be set. God I hated that rifle. You had to clean it incessantly. And march with it. At least it wasn't a M-14. Those damn things weighed a ton.

"I was a natural though. So they said. It just came to me. I had never fired a rifle in my life before I went in. By the fourth week, when we were qualifying at the range, man, I had such finesse with the rifle. I don't know how it happened. I would simply aim and fire and those pop up targets would disappear. Easy.

"The Drills took notice. They checked out my firing record. 90 percentile. Not bad for a hippie," he sang out, laughing, turning to look at us. "Those fucking Drills set up some bets on the sly. Put your money on the Third Platoon boy wonder. I was going to make them some easy money.

"The day of qualifying came. It was sunny and hot as hell as usual. The company was marched to the firing range. Drill Sergeant Mulvey pulled me off to the side when we got there. In a whisper he says to me: 'Listen up, I want you to sit here in the shade while you wait for your turn. Don't git all heated up on me, you hear?' I knew what was up but I didn't want to know how much money was riding on this; not to mention the intercompany rivalry and bragging rights that came with it."

"I don't understand exactly," Breezy said. "They had bet on you to shoot down these targets."

"Good, Breezy," I said derisively. She made a face at me.

"That's right. I had to shoot down X number of targets in order for them to win. Or, to be more accurate, I had to shoot down more targets than their guy."

"I guess this wasn't exactly on the up and up. The brass didn't approve of this sort of thing," Gene said.

"They knew about it, I guess. They just turned their heads and looked the other way. So I just sat there waiting, nervously flicking my safety on and off."

"Is this where you get in a fox hole and stuff?' Gene asked.

"Yeah. There were three firing positions to qualify: prone, kneeling, and from the fox hole. I was pretty lousy at the kneeling position but superb at the other two. You had to fire at targets that were maybe twenty yards away on up to about four hundred yards. Maybe not that far but definitely out there a ways.

"There was a method to all of this. The Army taught you it, or at least tried. Some of the guys couldn't get it. They'd be spraying rounds all over the range. B R A S, that was the secret. It was another one of the Army's inane acronyms. It stood for breathe, relax, aim--squeeze. The trigger of course."

"Does it have a big kick when you shoot?" Gene wanted to know.

"No. That's one of the remarkable things about the M-16. It's light, no kick, and it can fire on rock and roll like there's no tomorrow. Empty a clip in no time," Jo Jo explained almost wistfully. "Of course the damn thing jams up alot too. Can't have everything."

"Well, how did it go at the firing range?" I asked eagerly, interested to know the outcome.

"Let's see, my turn finally came. Drill Sergeant Jensen and Mulvey both escorted me to my firing position. Monitors were walking up and down the firing range marking a sheet of paper, tallying scores. 'Okay now son, relax and knock them all down,' Drill Sergeant Jensen says to me, smiling. I just stared back at him, shocked, because it was the first time I had seen him smile.

"Two positions over the other company's boy wonder was just finishing up. I saw Drill Sergeant Mulvey stop one of the monitors and ask him something. Then he hustles over to me and tells me what the other guy scored, but I couldn't hear him because I already had my ear plugs in. It was my turn so I said to myself something about there being no pressure, just screw up and you are dead meat. I tried to laugh it off but I was nervous as hell. The damn rifle was shaking in my hands. The Drills were going to make my life miserable for the rest of Boot Camp if I lost out.

"My first position was in the fox hole. This was good because it was my favorite position. Stretched out before me were mounds of dirt and prefabricated terrain. Behind any one of them a target could pop up and I was expected to zero in and shoot it down before it went back down. It was like training in some deadly arcade.

"My trigger finger was sweaty so I quickly wiped it on my pants. The rifle sight felt cool against my face, but soon the rifle was going to be hot to the touch. I scanned the battlefield. Don't focus, I told myself. Got to keep your eyes moving.

"A target popped up to my right. It was close, ridiculously close. I wanted to laugh. I squeezed off a round and the target died. God I love that sensation, I thought. Nothing like seeing a target drop. Instant gratification. Another one popped up about fifty yards away. Slightly more difficult but easily dispatched, to use one of the firing instructor's words.

"I think there were ten targets in the segment. Six were downed without a problem. The seventh or eighth was the farthest away. At that range, it took technique to get the right trajectory. I paused to zero in. Squeeze. The speck of a target died. Not bad, I thought.

"Then the last of the segment popped up in rapid succession. Left side, boom--gone. Right side, boom--gone," Jo Jo called out, holding up an imaginary rifle and aiming from side to side. "The last one was about a hundred yards away. It was just peeking up behind a bunker. Sighted, boom and that was it for the first ten. Knocked them all down.

"Next came the prone position. It was my second favorite position. I mowed them down, one after the other. Even with my ear plugs in I could hear Drill Sergeant Mulvey shout out: 'Hot damn!' I had been concentrating so hard that I was startled when the monitor tapped me on the shoulder and told me to change positions. As I changed positions, I saw Drill Sergeant Jensen give me the thumbs up sign. The Drills from the other Company were screaming out obscenities.

"I really hated the kneeling position. That was the last one. It made my left knee ache. You had to rest your elbow on that knee so it pretty much supported the rifle. It would take only a few rounds then I would invariably start to feel pain in my knee. It wouldn't take long for my aim to wander."

"They wouldn't let you shoot from any position you wanted?" Breezy said, incredulous. "Seems dumb to me."

"Speaking of dumb," I said, laughing.

"This is the Army he's talking about," Gene stated.

Jo Jo laughed and said, "You don't get to pick and choose. It doesn't exactly work that way. So the monitor motions for me to get ready. I kneeled down. My knee felt stiff. The rifle was damn hot now. It was wobbling in my hands. Brace the elbow up, I told myself. The ground felt hard against my other knee. Stop shaking, I thought. A target sprang up to my right. I rotated slightly and dropped it. Two in succession came next. They were in line, which made it a little easier. My mind calculated the distance. Squeeze. Once. Twice. Targets gone.

"The ache in my knee was now excruciatingly painful. It felt like it was on fire. Should I readjust my position? I asked myself. No time for that. Another target popped up. It was dead center, about a hundred yards. I overcompensated. The round flew out over the target, kicking up dirt about twenty yards beyond. I knew the Drills must be cursing.

"The remaining targets came in a blur. Next thing I know, I'm popping out my clip, clearing my weapon, and struggling to stand up. I could see the Drills talking to the monitor. Then they were slapping each other's hand and smiling. Drill sergeant Mulvey comes over to me and says: 'You turd-bird, you did it! Beat him by one god-damn target.' Drill Sergeant Jensen was yelling at the other Drills: 'You got a stinkin' bolo on your hands over there. Pay up losers!' I heard one of the other Company's Drills saying: 'One mutherfuckin' target, you got to be shittin' me.' 'I don't want to hear your pussy ass whining. Just give me my money,' Drill Sergeant Mulvey taunted."

"I suppose you never saw any of that money," I said, grinning.

"No way. But I did have it easy the rest of Boot Camp. That was reward enough," Jo Jo said, nodding yes.

There was a sudden rustling in the woods then Marty appeared. He was weighed down with a large backpack of supplies. Jo Jo jumped up and ran over to him. They exchanged whispers. "Marty!" Jo Jo yelled out, "what are you doing to me?" Marty was trying to explain or apologize. "You know what our arrangement is. I depend on you." Jo Jo exclaimed, as he stalked off towards the lake.

Marty came over and unloaded a shit load of supplies. He seemed to be kind of dejected. He really did worship Jo Jo and when he yelled at him it hurt his feelings. He barely even said hello to us. He just started putting can goods away and boxes of Frosted Flakes. Jo Jo's favorite, apparently. He ate them right out of the box.

"Is anything the matter?" Breezy asked him.

He looked at her for a minute, then smiled weakly and said: "Naw, I just fucked up a little bit. Jo Jo wanted me to do an errand for him."

"Anything we can do?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"No," he answered, then walked down to the lake to find Jo Jo.

We could see them standing on the dock. They seemed to be arguing. Every once in a while we could hear snatches of words drifting on the water. Jo Jo was clearly agitated. Marty seemed to be explaining what went wrong. "You know I needed that care package," we heard Jo Jo shout out.

"Jo Jo's on the rag today," Gene exclaimed.

"That's disgusting," Breezy said angrily. "I hate that expression."

"Sorry," Gene apologized, looking at me and shrugging.

"Got some bad vibes working here," I said, trying to defuse the situation. "Maybe we should head on out."

We said good-bye to Jo Jo and Marty and took off. Marty followed us to the car and said he was sorry about what happened. "He gets like this sometimes...you know," Marty explained. "He'll be alright soon." "We'll check you later," I said, climbing into the backseat. Marty stood there and waved good-bye.

We didn't go back to the tent for a week. I know we all wanted to. Somehow though we couldn't not go back. There seemed to be something drawing us to it. I'm not trying to sound cosmic or anything. It just became a focal point for our thoughts.

I called Breezy once but she was out. She didn't call me back for a few days. "Do you want to go back to the Hooch?" Breezy asked on the phone. We had now started calling the tent site the Hooch. "I mean I sort of wanted to see Jo Jo again."

"Give me a break," I said, wanting to hang up. "You've got the hots for this weirdo living in the woods. Disgusting."

"The next sound you hear is going to be me slamming the phone down," she said angrily.

"Admit it," I insisted.

"Admit what?"

"Don't play games, Breezy. You like him. No shame in that," I said, snickering.

"I find him interesting, that's all," she allowed. "Sean, are you jealous or something? Is that what this is about?"

"The next sound you hear will be my heart breaking," I joked.

"I can't help it if you love me," she said in earnest.

"Let me ask you something. When you listen on the phone, does your head get in the way? I mean it's so big and all," I said, then laughed.

"Are we friends or not?" she wanted to know. "Let's define what's happening here...between us I mean," she demanded.

"We're like brother and sister," I said spitefully.

"I hate my brother," she spat out, adding, "he voted for Nixon."

"That puts it all into perspective," I said, laughing.

"Do you want to have sex with me? Is that it?"

"I...I don't know how to answer that," I replied, stammering.

"What will that accomplish?" she asked, and I could hear her sigh over the phone.

"Well one of us would be happy," I joked.

We didn't pursue the conversation. She had probably had the same one with Gene. It was such an odd sensation being attracted to someone and wanting to be their buddy too.

At the time, there was probably about a dozen people frequenting the tent, counting Jo Jo and Marty. A couple were Vets, but most were like us: lost, confused teenagers embarking on the next step in our lives. For some of us, the immediate future had specific outlines and for some it was a day at a time sort of thing.

4TH OF JULY

We had no particular plans on July 4th. Gene and me were off work for the holiday and Breezy had suggested it would be a good time to go out to the woods. We made Gene drive, even though she wasn't too confident about his beat up VW Bug making it down the back roads. The car was rusted out in places, like the floor boards in front of the passenger seat, and it needed a new paint job, but the engine ran good. I wasn't too worried. The previous Fall we had driven all the way to West Virginia to go hunting and it hadn't given us any problem.

Hunting is basically a misnomer. All we did was shoot at trees. Neither one of us would know how to track a deer. It rained for the two days we were up there anyway. Most of the time was spent in the tent complaining about who's idea it had been to go hunting in the first place.

Breezy met us at Gene's house. For some reason she would never let us pick her up at her house. We didn't press the issue. We knew her parents were probably big snobs and wouldn't approve of her hanging out with us. She lived in Langley and we didn't. Big difference. Her next door neighbors were relatives of the Kennedy's.

It was about noon time when we got to the tent. You guessed it. We heard the Beatles Abby Road album playing. Jo Jo had it cranked way up and you could hear it all the way across the lake. Had to laugh. Nothing like a hippie picnic.

Marty had set up a grill and was grilling up burgers and hot dogs. A cracked styrofoam cooler was bulging with beer cans next to the tent. A folding card table had been donated by somebody and it was stocked with condiments. Damn thing even had a table cloth on it. Very patriotic, it had little Liberty Bells embossed on it.

"Nice spread," Gene exclaimed as we walked up.

"Gene, hiya-doing!" Marty cried out, smiling, obviously having already sampled the beer. "Want a burger? Dog?"

The whole cast of characters were there it seemed. I saw the two girls from that first night we showed up at the tent, as well as the guy with the tattoos. Everybody was in relax mode around the tent. You could smell the pot smoke a mile away. Jo Jo was sitting crossed legged by the eight track player using two engraved chop sticks he had brought back from Nam as drum sticks to keep time to the music. It might have been 1970 but the Sixties were alive and well.

When Jo Jo saw us, he stopped drumming and smiled, motioning for us to come over. Breezy grabbed my sleeve and pulled me with her. "What's the matter, afraid he'll bite," I hissed at her. She elbowed me in the ribs then called out: "Jo Jo, Happy 4th of July!" "Very original," I muttered.

"I missed you," Jo Jo said, staring at Breezy.

"I missed you too," I said and Breezy glared at me.

Everything was in motion. We spent the afternoon getting high, getting stuffed, and going swimming. Breezy distracted Jo Jo enough that Gene was able to slip on a Steppenwolf tape. All was right with the world as we knew it.

The group had already made plans to go into DC for the fireworks. Naturally we went along. This created a problem for me. I was supposed to go to a party with Paula that night. Breezy and Gene convinced me to blow it off.

There was also an anti-war demonstration going on. Jo Jo wanted to get in on that. Marty, the master of ceremonies, worked at organizing twelve stoned and/or inebriated hippies. There were car seating assignments to draw up. Provisions had to be loaded. The travel route had to be synchronized. The logistics were daunting.

We piled into three cars. Marty's GTO was used to transport the supplies. Taking a picnic on the road wasn't easy. Tattoo guy drove his car and Gene took me, Cinderella and the Prince. We caravanned it all the way down to the Washington Monument Grounds.

For those people who don't know, the fireworks in DC are renowned. If you want 'The rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air,' then I suggest you see them just one time. It'll blow your mind, as we all said back then, shell-shocked from the fireworks bombardment and blinded by the streaking colors in the night sky. Of course, I will admit, we happen to be tripping.

Blame it on Tattoo guy. He had warmed up to us at the picnic. It's amazing what the joy of a national celebration will do for making friends--that and liberal amounts of illegal weed. It turns out he wasn't such a bad guy. Scary as hell looking, and yes he had been in jail; but can you really fault a guy for stabbing another human being in a bar fight?

He laid on us three hits of acid. LSD, Timothy Leary's panacea for all mankind. It was our first time. Sunshine, that was its moniker. Well as any astronomer can tell you, sunshine and nighttime don't mix. Me, well I saw plenty of lights, say a totally different spectrum than this universe produces. Breezy eased into it no problem. Of course Jo Jo had to almost carry her back the car when the fireworks were over because she kept wanting to chase these lights she kept seeing. Gene had the real problem. He kept hearing people growling and barking when they talked. And the fireworks, they sounded like the end of the world was at hand to him.

"Real mellow stuff," Tattoo guy had said, smiling benignly. Thanks to him I had to drive back because Gene was curled up in the front seat afraid to open his eyes. While in the back, I had to play chauffeur to Mr. and Mrs. Weirdlove. The drive back was an exercise in terror, as I wheeled my way down streets where I wasn't at all sure what color the street light was. Not fun.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself. We got to the Monument grounds without a hitch. A very pretty place. All Americans should see it. You have the Washington Monument, all five hundred feet of it. I know. I once walked down it. When you live near DC you have to play tour guide somewhere along the line for relatives who come to visit. Then in the distance, towards the Potomac River, you have the stately Lincoln Memorial. In between is the reflective pool or whatever they call it. You have the White House and the Capitol around too of course. Pretty impressive.

It's a big party, the 4th. People show up there with all their picnic paraphernalia, stake out a spot, then wait for the show that takes place right over their heads. And its free. (Well, not exactly, our taxes have to go somewhere.) Is this a great country or what?

That year there was tension in the air. There were organized demonstrations against the war. Nixon was being vilified openly. Chants of "One...two...three...four, we don't want you fucking war!" filled the air. Hey, when you are passionate about a cause you are allowed to use profanity.

We got down there about five o'clock: fashionably late for the struggle. The demonstrators had already been tear gassed a few times. Near chaos reigned on a few of the side streets. The dreaded mounted police were busting heads. As an off-shoot to the anti-war sentiment being expressed, a splinter group was declaring their disapproval of the capitalist system. Several ice cream vendors had been attacked and all their merchandise 'liberated.' I admit it. I had chocolate stains around my mouth.

I can still remember us walking to the Washington Monument. We were like a miniature platoon of hippies. Jo Jo led the way. He had 'liberated' an American flag from in front of a store and was carrying it like a flag bearer, very Revolutionary War motif with his head band and all. We marched onto the Grounds laughing and joking.

Along the way this guy had come up to us and shouted out: "Hey man, fly the flag upside down why don't you." Jo Jo had given him a dirty look. The guy wouldn't let it go. "Come on, man, trash it," this fool shouts out, meaning the flag of course. Oh this is one of those times again when I wish I had a video camera. Tattoo guy grabs this jerk by the collar, picks him up, and literally throws him in a trash can, head first. No kidding. It was great. Talk about marching to a different drummer. The guy's legs were sticking out of the trash can like in the cartoons.

Jo Jo, and apparently Tattoo guy, were against the war. They'd been there. They knew. They had certainly earned the right to criticize. That didn't mean they had abandoned their country, so to speak. It was a strange contradiction to some. You could be against the war and still love your country. Most Radicals of the time didn't understand the distinction. It was in vogue to tear down the country.

The tear gas had blown away by the time we got to the Grounds. We set up camp and waited for darkness, spending the time warding off the munchies with bags of potato chips and packages of peanut butter and cheese crackers, compliments of a guy who had run by carrying several small boxes of goods he had just liberated from a vendor on the other side of the park.

It was an exhausting day. My trip lasted almost until the next morning, while Gene stayed nearly comatose for about twelve hours. We didn't see Breezy after we got back to the Hooch. She disappeared with Jo Jo. They took a sleeping bag and found a place by the lake to camp out for the remainder of the night.

I had left Gene in his car. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to talk to anybody either. That meant I had to deal with sleeping arrangements at the Hooch. Tattoo guy and his girl friend, some skinny girl from Herndon, appropriated one cot and Marty took Jo Jo's. I ended up 'crashing' on the hard wooden floor with a tattered, scratchy Army surplus blanket that smelled like stale beer; all the while the skinny girl and Tattoo guy made love on a creaky Army cot that I was positive was going to collapse right on top of me.

"And the dawn came hard," I heard somebody say, as I woke up and saw Jo Jo kneeling next to me, fumbling with the stove as he tried to make tea. "Go for a swim. It'll wake you right up." Grabbing a box of frosted flakes, he walked towards the lake carrying two cups of tea.

I looked around the tent. Marty was snoring. The skinny girl was naked, with a blanket just covering her legs. Tattoo guy could have been dead. It was hard to tell. Then I noticed my back was killing me. Talk about stiff. I could hardly stand up.

Apparently everybody else had gone home sometime during the night. Then I thought about Breezy. Was she going to be in trouble with her parents for not going home. Staying out all night, that could be a big problem. Hell, my parents were going to grill me. It didn't matter about Gene. His parents were divorced. He pretty much did anything he wanted, as long as he didn't end up in jail.

As I walked down to the lake, I heard someone dive into the water. There was no way I was going to get in that water. In my state, I was sure I would probably drown. Just as I cleared the woods area I saw Breezy climb out of the water onto the dock. Nice. I never thought of myself as a voyeur but I guess I am. At least I was that day.

I could see her standing on the dock, naked. She was complaining to Jo Jo that the water was too cold, as she bent over and wrung out her long hair, twisting it slowly. Oh boy, this ain't happening, I thought, as I lingered by the foliage so they couldn't see me. Her skin was like alabaster. She hated the sun. It was like looking at one of those old Euro paintings, very sensuous.

They embraced for a moment, while Jo Jo tried to warm her up. She squealed and yelled out: "Don't, I'm ticklish." He laughed and tickled her more. I was kind of frozen there. I didn't want to be a pervert but I definitely wanted to keep watching. Then there was the unmistakable muffled beeping of a VW Bug's horn and I heard Gene yell out: "Shut-up you two! I'm trying to get some sleep over here." He beeped the horn again for emphasis. They laughed, as Breezy scrambled to put her clothes back on. "Come for a swim," Jo Jo called out. "Nothing like it." There was no response from Gene's car.

This gave me an opportunity to walk down to the dock. Breezy walked by me, averting her eyes as she mumbled a greeting. Jo Jo smiled at me then walked back to the tent with her. Happiest man on earth, I thought. "Lucky bastard," I said under my breath.

It was almost eleven before we got it together enough to head home. I drove. Gene just wanted to sleep for another eight hours, after being unable to sleep all night. He scrunched himself up in the backseat and went to sleep.

"You look really beautiful," I finally said to her. We hadn't spoken a word since we got in the car.

She continued to look straight ahead, then said, "He said I was like a rara avis. It means rare bird in Latin." I didn't say anything. A minute later she said, "You don't hate me do you?"

"Yes, I'm jealous," I said flippantly, grinning, as she frowned at me then laughed.

She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, then said in almost a whisper, "I believe I've lost control."

I think about that often times. I wasn't sure what she meant by that. She never elaborated. All I could think about was her kissing me. Oh I know it was more or less a meaningless peck, but it made me realize that I wanted her in ways that I would never have her.

The next day she called me and was crying on the phone. I wasn't sure what to do. It took me a while to calm her down. She had to tell me something. What? It was so difficult to tell. But she had to tell somebody.

"Look," I said in a reserved voice, almost detached, "I'm listening."

"Jo Jo told me something...something that he didn't want anybody to know," she said, stifling a sob. "I've got to tell somebody though. It's stuck in my mind."

"If it'll help, tell me. I'm not going to tell anybody," I assured her.

"It's about Jo Jo and what he did in Viet Nam. He sort of confessed to me," she explained. "He was crying, really crying, in my arms. It was so...so sad."

I didn't like the sound of this. I wasn't good with serious type stuff. This was obviously poignant materiel that I was going to have to deal with. Who needed the grief? "Must have been bad," I offered, immediately smacking my head for being or sounding so banal.

There was silence on the line for a minute. I heard her sigh, then say, "He did something over there, something awful. I think it's going to do something to his mind. He might need help."

"You're talking about psychological help, right?"

"Yeah, maybe," she answered in a hushed tone of voice, as if by just saying it she might condemn him to it.

"Do you want to call the VA about this? Maybe they can help," I suggested, while thinking: Why didn't she call Gene?

"I don't know. I'm so confused about all of it. Him, you, me, it's driving me insane, " she said, then forced a laugh.

I didn't know what to say. This kind of stuff was what friends were for; but I had never had to deal with any of it. I was eighteen. What did I know? I wasn't even sure I cared. "Maybe we should call Gene."

"No," she almost shouted. "No one else can know about this. Marty doesn't even know. He's only told me."

She was sobbing again. My sister walked by and gave me a puzzled look. I put my hand over the phone and told her it was personal. She rolled her eyes and more or less told me: Who cares? "Tell me what he said and we'll go from there," I told Breezy, proud of myself for sounding so rational.

She went on to tell me. It was hard for her to get it out. First of all, the story was hard to take, and second, she thought she was doing something wrong by telling me. She had to struggle with her conscience. Maybe it was wrong to tell me. I didn't judge.

Although the story was second hand, it still got to you. Jo Jo had been 'in country' for about five months. In those five months he had gone from an innocent to a combat veteran. There were a lot of the search and destroy missions behind him. He had been shot at many times. Half his platoon had been killed. He still had over half a year to go to finish his tour of duty.

We couldn't relate back here, Stateside. While we were going to Rock Festivals and anticipating the release of our favorite group's next record, or attending football games, or going to the movies, Jo Jo was slogging through rice paddies trying to kill before being killed. It was a separate universe.

The incident happened near a Michellin rubber plantation. That's right, the ones who make car tires. Business must go on, even in wartime. Jo Jo's Company had been sent there to prevent the bad guy's from overrunning the rubber trees. Sounds ridiculous. It was. That was the Viet Nam war's trademark.

The grunts didn't want to go. The place had been 'hot' for a long time. Jo Jo had even questioned his 1st Lieutenant about the rationale of going in there. The LT, a recent graduate of West Point, had said: "PFC, did I miss a newsflash and now you're running the show? No. Then why don't you just leave the thinking to me." To which Jo Jo had muttered: "Davy Crockett was right." "What's that, soldier?" the LT asked. "I was talking about Davy Crockett, sir." "What about Davy Crockett?" "Oh nothing much, sir; it's just that he was in favor of abolishing West Point, that's all, sir." "Your point being, PFC?" the LT demanded, getting right in Jo Jo's face. "Well," Jo Jo stated, looking right at the Lieutenant, "it probably could have saved the country a lot of money." Jo Jo did have a way with words.

Despite their misgivings, the platoon set up what they called a RON. It was an overnight operation. Because he had mouthed off, Jo Jo got stuck out on LP. In teams of two, they were stationed out beyond the perimeter to keep tabs on any enemy movement through the lines. It was dangerous, and it tended to rattle your nerves.

Jo Jo had built up his battlefield ESP by now. He sensed the 'gooks' were just out there waiting. As soon as night came they would be on the move. Somebody was going to die that night.

It was him and a black guy from Detroit. Loved Motown music and he was always singing it. The Four Tops were his favorite. Jo Jo didn't know him very well. It was an integrated Army but downtime was spent with your own. He had been in Nam only two months.

They set up outside the perimeter, digging a shallow fox hole to lay down in. You didn't want to be above ground or you were just target practice for sappers. The black guy had the field phones and was supposed to report any sightings. He kept muttering: "This here is Charlieville, man. We in it now." Now they just had to wait and watch.

Soon it was dark. Real dark. You had to really listen. Block out the normal night time sounds. It was about one o'clock when Jo Jo heard something. The black guy had been dozing, so he nudged him. Jo Jo was amazed that anybody could fall asleep. He was wide awake, scared.

They listened. Nothing. There was a humid coolness in the air. They strained to hear. Then there was a stray word of Viet Namese. Very close. Jo Jo gripped his M-16 a little tighter. All hell broke loose then. A guard on the perimeter started firing from his position inside the wire. Then a M-60 opened up and was spraying the area with rounds. Jo Jo realized they were in between the 'gooks' and the guards.

The black guy realized it too and tried to call off the firing. An AK started clacking away just beyond them and then suddenly the field phone went dead. It was quiet for a minute. Everybody stopped firing. Jo Jo didn't want to move because he knew they were so close.

Then he heard a low moaning sound. At first, he wasn't sure where it was coming from. Then there was another moan and he knew the black guy had been hit. If he's not quiet, they're going to know our position, he thought. He decided to crawl over to him and see how bad he was.

When he first put his hand out and felt running blood, he knew the guy was hit real bad. Jo Jo then fumbled for the guy's face. There was a hissing sound coming from his upper abdomen so he knew he had taken one in the chest. He placed his hand over the area and pressed hard. The guy moaned again, but louder. He heard some whispered Viet Namese close by. Jesus, they're going to find me, he figured.

He listened, holding the guy tight to him. He could hear rustling only a few feet away. The guy moaned again. Jo Jo then grabbed the guy's throat and before he knew it was squeezing as hard as he could. There was no struggle. It was over before he knew it. For the rest of the night he laid there with the dead black guy on top of him, using the body for cover. In the morning, he made it back to camp.

She told me this then broke down crying. I didn't know what to say. This was a moral avenue I had never even contemplated going down. It was war. Is that an explanation? We weren't there. We didn't know how it was.

It took me a long time to reason with her. She had been close enough to feel his pain, and now it hurt. We talked for over an hour on the phone. Frankly, it wore me out. I was drained when she finally hung up. Now I knew. "Promise me you won't tell anybody," she had said. Yet she had told me. Unburdened herself. Thanks. Who needed the burden? I wanted to tell Gene, but I couldn't.

TAKE CARE

I had a problem, a big problem. I had been neglecting Paula. She wasn't too happy about it. To be truthful, I was contemplating just ending the relationship. It was pretty much a dead end street. In a few months time we would both be immersed in different pursuits.

"Bring her along," Gene had said. "Look, she's a big girl. Sooner or later she has to see what's going on out there."

"What about Breezy?"

"What about her? They'll get along all right," he assured me.

"I doubt that," I said, laughing. "If you hadn't noticed, Breezy is used to being the center of attention."

"Tell her she's my date," he suggested.

"You wish," I exclaimed.

I was nervous about introducing her to Paula, being that she was still in High School and all. Then I had other problems too. What about the drug scene she was about to witness. As far as she knew, I was a 'juicer' exclusively. This had the potential to create a really sticky situation. As I was driving over to Gene's house after having picked her up, I was cursing myself for ever deciding to ask her along.

"Where is this place we're going?" she wanted to know.

"It's out near Reston," I replied, smiling, noticing that she looked particularly pretty that day. She was wearing some cut off shorts that showed off her summer tan, hard earned results after sunbathing at the Country Club pool all summer.

"Has Gene been dating this girl for very long?" she asked, as I cursed myself again for having told her a lie about Breezy.

"Not long," I replied, adding, "they're more like good friends at this stage."

"That'll be the day," she said, incredulous, knowing full well Gene's reputation.

Technically it wasn't really a lie. Breezy and Gene were friends. I would probably suffer for that little prevarication.

"How's the missus?" Gene asked, as he climbed into the backseat.

Now it can be said that Paula liked Gene. She did. Maybe. Truthfully speaking though, she really just tolerated him. He was a bad influence, so she thought, and had told me so on more than one occasion. He corrupted me. Pretty laughable, I guess. Like I needed somebody to lead me astray. When I had told her about Gene working with me at the County for the summer, she had said, "You two aren't brothers, you know." No. We weren't.

There had been times when Gene and me had gotten into some (shall we say) adventures. While not exactly legendary around the school, they were still widely known, and talked about. Paula's girl friends were often asking her: "Why do you keep going with him if he does all those things?" I knew this little bit of info because every time we would have a fight she would invariably state: "My girl friends are right about you!"

We didn't have a whole lot of fights. No more than usual. Every romance has its squabbles. We weren't very much different. Of course, we did have Gene.

Those infamous adventures. Branded. It was Gene's fault. Harmless pranks. So what if he talked me into taking Yancy's father's tractor and pulling down the visitor's bleachers right before the Homecoming game. True story.

Yancy's father was an old Virginia cracker, who just happened to own half of Virginia. They had one big farm: horses, cows, chickens, the works. His place wasn't that far from the High School. Almost all the land around the school had at one time been owned by the Yancy's. The father had slowly sold off property as the prices sky rocketed.

Being so close to the school meant we were always skipping classes and heading to the farm. It was good, clean fun. Tractor races. Chasing chickens. Shooting pellet guns at a frying pan hanging from a tree. Mrs. Yancy had donated the pan without knowing it. She didn't know much about anything anyway. She was a little out of it. To be kind, she was an alcoholic.

We all liked her. She was a good drunk, always happy. She pretty much let us do anything we wanted. Despite the fact that we were there on the farm in the middle of the day while school was going on, it didn't matter. She loved her son and liked to see him have a good time. We tried. I never knew where Mr. Yancy was. He never seemed to be around. Mr. and Mrs. Yancy didn't get along too well. He must have been tending to the back forty thousand. Farmers like to grow things, you know.

Ever try to ride a bull? Gene did. Of course the bull was about a hundred years old and as gentle as a lamb. He looked scary though. Hereford, I think. What do I know about bulls? It was comical, you can bet on that. Gene riding (and I'm not kidding here) George around the farm was a sight to behold. Took the damn bull right up to the house and almost scared Mrs. Yancy to death. Turns out she hated animals, barnyard or otherwise. Which was a bit of an irony and all, being married to a farmer.

Gene talked us into taking George to the High School one time. It was kind of like show and tell, except this turned out to be show and run. We took poor old George and placed him in the gym. Timing is essential. In less than two hours time there was going to be an assembly about god knows what. Surprise! What's that big-ass bull doing in my gym? the Principal must have been asking.

Hey, nobody wanted to shoo the bull out of the gym. They weren't getting anywhere near it. There was general chaos. All the classes had been let out and were waiting to get into the gym. The hallways were packed with antsy teenagers. The Principal tried to talk one of the gym teachers into going in and rounding up George. Nothing doing. Talk to my union. Nothing in my contract says anything about rodeo work.

This was Gene's genius at work. He pushed his way through the crowd of students, making a big show as he went. When he got to the door of the gym and was looking through the window in the door, he called out: "I can't believe it! Somebody put a bull in the gym!" One of the gym teachers manning the door gave Gene a sour look for stating the obvious. "What are we going to do now?" Gene shouted out, suppressing a laugh. "I got basketball practice this afternoon." The gym teacher pushed him back and said, "Okay, Flynn, move it back now."

The Principal had gotten on the intercom and was trying to restore order, but nobody was listening to him. Word had gotten out why they were stranded in the hallways and there was a general sense of: Way to go! Then Gene made his move. "I can handle that bull," he shouted out and slipped by the gym teacher and walked into the gym. There was a rush for the windows. Everybody wanted to see Gene get stomped.

He made a big show of it, waving his arms and playing the brave cowboy. I'm sure George was thinking: What in the hell is this dufus human doing? Gene finally sidled up to George and grabbed him by the rope we had conveniently left around his neck. He then jumped on and rode the bull out the back doors by the locker rooms. The administration knew Gene was responsible for it all, but they couldn't prove it. Half the student body thought it was his gag, so he was a hero, and the other half thought he was brave to go in there. Can't lose.

I think one of the worse things Gene ever did was at a pep rally. It was during football season. The gym was full of cheering students and teachers happy to get out of teaching for a little while. Gene and me were co-Captains for the upcoming game with our archrival Marshall High School. Don't ask me why we were archrivals. We played the same damn schools in our district every year. Why were they so special?

Anyway, in the course of this pep rally we were expected to give a speech. It was suppose to be a rah rah type of speech. Get the students fired up for the game. Come out and support the home team. Well, to be accurate, it was an away game. That's why we needed the support more. The game was a pivotal game. Win and you go on to the Regionals. Lose and you can eat crow for another year.

I hated speaking in public. Most people do, as I understand it. It is one of the biggest phobias out there. I figured Gene was going to stick me with it as a joke, so I preempted him when we got up to the microphone. The coach had introduced us to the cheering crowd. We walked across the gym floor waving to the stands like two politicians. When we got up to the microphone, I immediately said: "Thanks. Thanks alot. I'm not too good speaking in front of a crowd so I'm going to let my co-Captain speak for me." I then stepped back and motioned for Gene to step forward.

Smooth. I was right. I could see by the look on his face that he had planned on doing the same thing to me. He stepped forward, still waving. He whispered to me: "Get ready to run." Oh no, I thought.

"Thanks. Quiet down. Enough," he said in a bland tone of voice. "I'll make this short so you can all get back to class." There was a chorus of boos. "Now that proves the point I was about to make. Why are we here? I tell you why, we're here to learn. That's pretty valuable in life. You can't get by without it. There will be a day in the future when you look back and want to thank all your teachers for teaching you something. Let's give them a hand why don't we."

There was a smattering of hand clapping and a few catcalls for Gene to take a leap. He quieted them down with a stare then went on. "How many of you out there would rather go to a football game than stay home and do homework? Raise you hands," he said, looking around the gym where almost everybody had their hands raised. "Shame on all of you. These teachers work hard everyday to teach you something...anything. You are making a mockery of their profession," he stated in a stern voice.

At this juncture, the football coach was squirming and undoubtedly wondering how he could wrest the microphone away from Gene, who was now standing there ala Mick Jagger style, fondling the microphone stand. The teachers weren't quite sure how to take this speech. On the one hand it sounded like he was on their side and then there seemed to be a tone of ridicule there too. The students thought Gene was either nuts or putting them on.

"Who of you out there can go on in life without knowledge? You won't get very far. Will a few hours at a football game improve your life? Very doubtful. For that matter, do you really care if we beat Marshall? Admit it. You don't care. All you care about is having a good time, right?" More catcalls rained down on him but he kept going. "By half time most of you will be too drunk to even know what the score of the game is."

Now this caused a stir with the administration. Talking about drinking didn't sit too well. Naturally the students ate it up and started cheering. I could see Paula sitting in the front row. The look on her face--not too happy. You would have thought Gene was her boy friend. And the cheerleaders, whoa, don't think Gene will be getting any action there. I mean quashing school spirit is a big no no.

"So just let me say this: if you get all your school work done and are not doing anything on Friday night, well, come on out and see us put it to the Marshall...whatever they call themselves. Thank you. And thank your teachers."

There was a smattering of boos and maybe even less cheers. Nobody knew what to make of it. It was the speech from hell. "You're dead. Coach is going to kill you," I said to him as we walked back to our seats. "I thought it went okay," he said, smiling. As a matter of record, we lost the game. Gene was on the coach's shit-list for the rest of the season. He blamed him for the loss. By the end of the season Gene had taken to wearing an X in black tape on his helmet to signify he had been branded.

There was a popular TV show back then starring Chuck Connors, again, where he played a man branded by a superior in the Army and thrown out. It was a period show, wild west. The show was marginal. It was the theme song that was important. Gene went around after the speech incident singing it at practice. Coach never watched TV so he didn't know what was going on. We all did.

Back to the bleacher caper. I just had to let Gene goad me into it. It's amazing what a tractor can pull. Just hook up a chain and give it the gas. Damn thing came down like a pack of cards. They didn't have time to put the bleachers back up for the visitors at that homecoming game. Most of the visitors tried to squeeze into the home side's stands. There were a few fights. Even the cheerleaders got into it. Since most of the crowd was on one side, the visiting cheerleaders didn't see any point in cheering to an empty side. Good point. Protocol rules though. Get you fat asses over to the other side, or sentiments to that effect were recommended.

Paula thought it was so juvenile. It was. That was kind of the point. It wasn't too funny when I got caught though. I had to help put them back up. Took all day. My parents weren't too happy either. Luckily nothing was damaged. Guess who fixed the bleachers back up? Oh yes, Big John and crew. See how life has its interconnected karma.

Gene didn't get caught. I still don't know how I got caught and he didn't. Yancy didn't get caught either. Maybe they turned me in. I was pretty pissed when Gene didn't offer to help out with putting the bleachers back up. It wasn't like he was going to get in trouble or anything.

I have to tell you, Gene was a special case. Different. He was the only guy I knew who could stay out all night, have girls over whenever he felt like it, even drink beer at home, and not get in trouble for it. His parents were divorced. He lived with his dad. His mother was what you might call a free spirit. She just told her husband it was his turn to take care of the kids, then moved to a cabin in the mountains. Gene's dad was gone most of the time on business trips, so it was pretty much just Gene and his sister running the show.

They had a system where he did what he wanted and she did what she wanted. No hassles. Just don't burn down the house. Naturally what this created was a frat house environment. The doors were never locked. All Gene's friends simply walked in whenever they felt like it. There were plenty of carnal scenes acted out. You can bet on that.

On more than one occasion, Mr. Flynn had returned home late from a business trip to find his son 'entertaining.' The reel to reel would be playing music, the bedroom door would be locked, and the house would smell of cheap perfume. Fathers and sons, that special bond, being happy for the success of another conquest. Mr. Flynn never admonished him, just passed on advice: protection.

I use to love to go to Gene's house. It gave you that certain sense of freedom. I only took Paula there once. That was enough. As usual, we came in without knocking. Quite the surprise for Paula girl. The music was blaring. The TV was on, with the sound turned down. The smell of pot almost knocked you down. And there Gene was, in the bathtub, with a girl. A real Hallmark moment.

Paula wasn't exactly a prude but this was over the edge. She didn't say anything. Gene called out: "Damn, I have to remember to start locking that backdoor." His date giggled. And we excused ourselves.

It was the usual hot summer day. We drove out to the Hooch in my beat up Buick Skylark, with the matching dented rear fenders. Gene snoozed in the backseat. I had to get out of the car and go in the house to get him out of bed. He said he had just gotten in a few hours before. Said he had been in Richmond. What for? I thought, then figured he had gone down there to check on something to do with college.

As we got near the lake, I wished I had prepared Paula more for what she was about to encounter. It might have been better if Breezy met us at Gene's house, but she wanted to drive herself so she wouldn't be dependent on us to get a ride back home. It was obvious she planned on staying the night.

I saw her car parked in the unofficial spot by the lake that we used as a parking lot. "Nice car," Paula said, as I pulled up next to it and parked. "Breezy's here already," Gene said groggily, rubbing his eyes. "That's her car," Paula said, surprised. "Now I know why you like her." "I like her for her mind," Gene said, laughing.

Okay, this is going all right so far, I thought. Just ease into it. I wish. Jo Jo and crew were lounging on the dock and right as we walked up we hear: "Don't you ever bring that camel piss here again!" Then a six pack of beer flew out over the water and splashed. It bobbed there for a moment before disappearing. Tattoo guy was calming Jo Jo down and the offender, the guy who so thoughtlessly brought a six pack of Black Label to the Hooch, was trying to apologize for something he had done. Unfortunately Marty wasn't there to keep things under control. "It's okay, no problem," Jo Jo told the guy, then walked back up to the tent.

"What was that all about?" Gene asked Breezy, who was standing there bewildered as the rest of us.

"It's Nam, man," Tattoo guy explained. "They had that shit over there and Jo Jo said he never wanted to ever see it again, much less drink it."

"I'll be back in a minute," Breezy said, and dashed off to the Hooch.

Fixating on beer was a new one on me, but I hadn't gotten my ass shot at in some jungle either. Everything kind of calmed down then. This is a good introduction to the place, I was thinking, as I checked out Paula to see how she was reacting. She seemed to have a forced smile plastered on her face.

It was probably then that I noticed Paula was way out of place here. She had that well scrubbed look, the I just got back from my tennis lesson look. This group looked like refugees from who knows what. Tattoo guy's girl was wearing bell bottoms that she had just jumped in the water in. No bra, which was obvious because she had on a now sopping wet t-shirt. A few of the others could have been extras in the Helter Skelter movie. Then, of course, there was Tattoo guy.

We exchanged hellos, gave the brother hand shake--showing we were united against the establishment--and sat down on the dock. When Breezy finally came back, I introduced her to Paula. Very polite. Two well bred young girls of privilege. They didn't like each other. It was immediate, like visceral combustion.

"I told you," I whispered to Gene when we had walked to the end of the dock to confer.

"Give it time," he said. "They just met."

"What a mistake this was," I whined.

"You got to gear down, man," Gene said, laughing. "Life's way too short for this kind of shit."

"Okay, Mr. Philosopher, do you have any words to live by that you can tell me today?" I said sarcastically.

"Just one. Relax."

Breezy and Paula were sitting there exchanging icy small talk. Tattoo guy was trying to play the host. Paula kept trying to avert her eyes, afraid she might stare at his tattoos. Then a real weird and funny thing happened. Breezy stood up, stripped down to her bra and underwear and dove in the lake. This is good, I thought. Nothing like swimming. Great exercise. A bathing suit might have been more appropriate, but you can't have everything.

"Doesn't she have a bathing suit?" Paula hissed at me. "I mean, really."

"The dress code here is pretty much optional," I said, laughing nervously.

"So I guess if I sit here and get some sun in my bathing suit that would be considered bourgeois," she stated sarcastically.

"I would say it would be more...novel," I replied jokingly.

She wasn't amused. I was distracted anyway, because Breezy had taken off across the lake, using a rusty but determined free style stroke. Where was she going? She angled right and went around the corner.

"Hey, do you think Breezy is okay or what?' Gene asked me, concerned.

"Are you the life guard here?' Paula asked nastily.

"She's tripping," Tattoo guy said matter-of-factly. "Just got off."

This is good news, I thought. She's high on acid, might drown, Paula's gonna kill me, what next?

"What's he talking about?' Paula wanted to know.

We heard the roar of the high powered engine coming down the dirt road. Finally Marty had arrived. Reinforcements. Maybe he can help make sense of it all, I thought, smiling at the absurd thought of him being a savior. Marty got out of his car and ran down to the dock, shouting as he ran: "Where's Jo Jo?" We pointed to the Hooch and he ran on by the dock up to the tent.

"Let's check out the Hooch," Gene suggested.

"Cute name," Paula said.

Marty met us at the path to the Hooch and said, "Give Jo Jo his time for a minute," he said, smiling at Paula. "You're new. Welcome to the Hooch."

"Thank you," Paula said, taken back by Marty's infectious congeniality.

What was going on here? I thought. Why was Marty playing sentry? This had never happened before. Gene shot me a glance as to say: What's happening?

"Where's Breezy. Didn't see her down at the dock," Marty asked, still holding out his arms to prevent us from walking by.

"Could be trouble," Gene exclaimed. "She's tripping out. Jumped in the lake and swam out of sight."

"Again," Marty said, chuckling. "She's all right. Great swimmer. She swims around the point and stops and sits on these big boulders. It helps her think."

How does he know that? I thought. Then of course I realized there was only one way he could know and that was if Breezy had been coming out there on her own. I don't know why but it never occurred to me that she would do that. Naive. Stupid. Whatever.

Then we heard it. The Beatles were singing something about the taxman. Revolver album, I believe. "Come on," Marty said, motioning for us to follow him. This should be interesting, I was thinking, as we approached the tent. Paula's getting a real education today.

"My friends from the other side," Jo Jo said in a listless voice. "And you brought a visitor. Oh, Marty, are we conducting tours today?"

"Naw, not today," Marty said jovially.

Jo Jo was lying down on the cot, propped up on his elbow. He was wearing a fatigue shirt unbuttoned all the way down. He hadn't shaved in a few days. I introduced him to Paula and he staggered to his feet to shake her hand. "Like the Beatles?" he asked. "Yeah, sure," she answered hesitantly, unsure what to do or say. "Splendid," he sang out, then asked: "Tea?"

I could only imagine what was going through her head. This was way off the weird scale. Every middle-class fiber in her body was on red alert. Jo Jo went about making his beloved tea, singing: "We all live in a yellow submarine." I had always hated that song, but Jo Jo had explained that you had to give Ringo a break because he was a mortal among immortals. Sure thing.

"Hey Jo Jo, I've got something to tell you later on," Gene said suddenly. I gave him a 'You do' look and he looked away.

Jo Jo nodded his acknowledgment then handed Paula her tea. She took the offered packets of sugar and smiled at him. I noticed the packets were from Lums. Jo Jo loved their hot dogs cooked in beer. He made Marty take him there at least once a week.

"Marty, I have something to talk to you about. These Nubians you've been conducting these transactions with are not playing fair," Jo Jo said, wagging his finger.

"I went to DC like you said," Marty explained.

Jo Jo held up his hand and said, "We'll discuss it later."

Poor Marty, I was thinking, he has to take all the crap. We sat there listening to the music. Paula was stealing glances around the tent, taking it all in. She kept looking at Marty's gigantic bong that was on the floor by the cot she was sitting on. I was just hoping Marty wasn't going to pull out a joint and offer it around.

So there we were: Jo Jo on his cot, Marty standing there chattering, Gene wishing he could change the music, me wondering if we could leave now, and Paula thinking how she was going to tell me she didn't want to see me again. It made sense. The tape was finally over and Jo Jo says: "Flashback time anyone?" He then slipped in the Hard Days Night tape.

"You have some interesting books here," Paula said suddenly, pointing at the bookcase. "Do you like Camus?"

Now this was unexpected. Nice intellectual discussion, should be no harm in that, I thought. Paula was brainy. Got good grades, so she always reminded me.

"Camus...some people say he was a genius," Jo Jo stated, scratching at his unshaven chin, "but I'm not so sure. Wasn't he just a product of his time? Everyone has to react to what goes on around them, don't they?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. I looked at Gene, who grinned back at me. We weren't touching that question because A--we didn't have a clue what they were talking about, and B--we didn't care. Marty was fumbling with a box of crackers. He really didn't have a clue, nor did he care. This was the kind of stuff the English Club back in school like to talk about.

"You could say that about any writer and his times. What I think is different is how each writer examines their environment and makes intelligent evaluations of it," Paula said, as I almost fell off the cot. What in the hell is she talking about? I thought.

Jo Jo pulled himself up to a sitting position and stared at her with those dark almost black eyes, then said, "So you have pondered matters; and you just happen to be very beautiful as well."

I was thinking how Paula wasn't going to fall for that line, then she replied in a flirtatious voice: "You're embarrassing me but thank you anyway."

What is this? screamed in my brain. Hey man, you got Breezy, isn't that enough for you? Now you have to hit on my chick too. Instead, I stood up and declared: "I think I'm going to head back down to the lake, see what's up down there." Very smooth. So smooth that no one even noticed what I said.

"I got to tell you something," Gene suddenly blurted out. We all looked at him. "I did it."

"Did what?" I demanded.

"I enlisted."

"When you say enlisted, are we talking like in the Army here?" I asked, shocked.

Gene looked up at me and said in almost a whisper, "Yeah."

This may sound odd but somehow my world seemed to come crashing down on me at that moment. My best friend had gone and done something that was going to separate us, possibly for good. What was surprising was Jo Jo's reaction. He seemed to turn to stone. Marty stood there with his hand stuck down in a cracker box.

"Gene, they'll send you to die," Paula cried out, horrified.

"Why? You wouldn't even go to military school when your parents tried to send you. Are you insane?" I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

"When and where?" Jo Jo asked solemnly.

Gene looked at him for a moment then replied, "A few days. Your old Post, Fort Jackson."

"The Army: In loco parentis. You are doomed," Jo Jo uttered, closing his eyes, trying to will away the revelation.

"How did this happen? We're suppose to be going to VCU next month. What are you doing? Oh, I get it," I said, laughing, "this is another Flynn practical joke--right? Damn it, you got me going there for a minute. You in the Service, that's ridiculous."

It was quiet for a minute, stone silence. The tape changed channels and then the Beatles were singing And I Love Her. The sweet melody drifted out into the woods.

Gene sat there drumming his fingers on the edge of the cot. "I just did it, that's all," Gene explained, staring at the wooden floor.

"You didn't tell me anything about it. Nothing. I can't believe it," I almost shouted.

"Calm down," Paula said, standing up and reaching out to grab my arm.

"Calm down!" I cried out. "Sure, okay, my best friend goes and signs up for the Army without telling me and I'm suppose to be happy about it. This is crazy."

The scene played out like that for a little while. I let off steam, eventually getting over the initial shock. While I thought Gene had been down in Richmond checking on college stuff, he had been enlisting. It just didn't seem like Gene could deceive me like that.

Then Jo Jo took over. He had never told us much about his time over there, that had been reserved for Breezy. I don't even think Marty knew a whole lot.

"You'll be beaten down," Jo Jo said ominously, almost as if he was in a trance. "They will suck everything out of you, then put back what they want for you to have. You will have to leave the concept of self behind. Leave it, and hope you can find it when you return.

"There are days I remember things with such clarity. It is frightening. That first day, landing in Nam, arriving by a commercial type plane. That is when you first sense that you have traversed the norm and are about to interact with sheer lunacy. Before we touched down at Bien Hoa, I tried to get a glimpse of the landscape as the plane banked around but I couldn't. We got off the plane and the humidity smacked us in the face. I had been sitting next to a NCO. He was coming back for a second tour of duty. Truly insane. He told me: 'Son, welcome to Viet Nam, now forget all the rules, they just don't apply here.' And he was gone.

"You know, I did my homework. I had read about Viet Nam. It's history, that sort of thing," Jo Jo said, looking at us one by one, drawing us into his story. "This is true. In 1820, a Captain John White sailed into Saigon Harbor. He was the very first American to have any contact with the Viet Namese. They had never seen an American before. Guess what the first thing they asked him. Damn gooks wanted him to give them guns. Weapons, they wanted arms! Nothing changes. Over a hundred years later and they are still asking for the same thing. There have been thousands of John Whites show up there in that hateful land."

"Jo Jo, you okay?" Marty asked, walking over and putting his hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should take it easy. Want me to go and find Breezy?"

"No," Jo Jo said sternly. "I am going to educate my friend Gene. He must know."

"Jo Jo, I'll find out for myself soon enough," Gene said.

"You don't know shit, my friend. Chances are you will probably either come home in a box or come home in broken pieces. There will be times when you are there when you will want to kill them and not be killed yourself, and there are times when you will wish that death be visited upon thee," he exclaimed, raising his hand like some sort of Preacher. "Since you have so foolishly gone and sold your life to the devil, leaving everybody here who cares about you in sorrow, then you will have to hear about your future. Marty, turn off that fucking tape," he ordered angrily.

A sermon, now that was different. I didn't know what to do. Should I interrupt Jo Jo and tell him we had to get going or just sit there and take it? Marty was pretty flustered. He hated it when Jo Jo would get like this. His usual advice was just to ride it out. Soon Jo Jo would calm down and go back to normal. As to Paula, I think she was mostly fascinated by it. She was against the war, so it just reinforced her convictions.

"Were you wounded over there?" Paula asked, letting her morbid curiosity take control.

Jo Jo turned to her and pulled up his right pant leg. There was an ugly scar running from the knee down to his ankle. "Shrapnel," he explained, pointing. "Gooks blasted the shit out of my hooch. Laikhe, they called it Rocket City. A war within a war. Safety was a mirage. The enemy was everyone.

"The mighty Big Red One!" he shouted. "So much glorious history. Totally out of its element. Got our asses kicked all over Nam. Poor Orwin C., just a General doing his job," he said, laughing.

He was referring to General Talbott. Gene asked later who Orwin, C. was. Had to know. Plenty of Generals in Nam. Lots of Brass to go around. All of them there to make their mark. Get that advancement. On the fast track. War will do that to a man's career.

"Gene, let me tell you what you will be doing first off. You, the cherry, nubee, will get stuck on death detail. Oh yes. Not exactly Hollywood's vision of war. The smell will get you right from the beginning, then it will be the sight of twisted, torn, and disemboweled humans. It won't make a difference what side they are on. They all stink. The stench will stay with you for weeks."

"I don't think I want to hear this," Paula said.

"I'm not going to sanitize it," Jo Jo spat out, as she sat there unable to tell herself to stand up and walk away. "The slicks will be coming into the LZ and their rotor blades will be kicking up the dust, blowing that stench up your nose, right into your brain. You'll see Tommy and Timmy or whoever crumpled in a heap, with his insides hanging out; and you'll think about how it was just yesterday that you two were playing cards in your hooch, drinking beer, blowing a joint, trying not to think about the next twenty-four hours ahead.

"Then an officer will walk up and want to know about the body count. He'll be leaving soon, heading back to HQ to tell them the count. Keep score, right on a bulletin board, the only barometer that this 'armed conflict' has. You'll look at him in disgust, because you know he won't be doing any of the fighting...just counting it.

"He'll round off the numbers, even count the dead chickens if it'll improve the score. Numerals for bodies, bodies for numerals, and you will try not to place the faces to the tally. Try not to think about that ten year old girl with her face blown off or the mamasan missing her legs but still clinging to life as you wait to add her to the list.

"This will go on until the platoon leader decides you've done your apprenticeship in hell; and then another new arrival will take your place smelling death. As you try to get some sleep that night your mind will race along, trying to avoid thinking about it. But you know. You know. War is a private anthology of horror."

"Listen Jo Jo, I probably won't even be sent over to Nam. They're cutting back on the troops now," Gene suggested.

Jo Jo ignored him and said, "DEROS, that acronym will be the most important thing in you life, more than your mother, your girl friend, your friends. Because what that means is you are going back to the World. Back home. Away from the madness. Short-timer. Being short," he said in a vacant voice.

"You know what really hurt?" he suddenly asked. "Mail call. I never had any mail. There was nobody to write to me."

"What about your parents?" Paula asked before I could stop her.

"My foster parents were glad to get rid of me. Can't blame them. I was a fuck-up. You could answer those weird pen pals type thing, but that seemed so strange, artificial. Having some stranger write to you. Bizarre. Most of the time it was school kids anyway doing some kind of school project thing. No, that was painful. Watching the guys get their letters or write home to their family, or to their girls. At least I never got a Dear John letter," he said, forcing a laugh.

"You'll write to me, want you?" Gene asked, trying to lighten the moment, as he grinned at me.

I just stared at him and he looked away. Paula had tears in her eyes. We sat there in awkward silence.

"Listen Gene," Jo Jo said, "you must promise me that you won't let them stick you in one of those Shake n Bake non-com Sergeants school. Don't do it. They'll try to entice you with leave and all but I am telling you to pass on it. It's like a ticket to hell."

"Is that one of those ninety day wonder jobs, where they get you in then get you out and stick you on the line?" Gene asked.

"Exactly. If the gooks don't get you, the GI's will frag your ass. It's the classic no win situation. Promise me you won't do it?"

Gene assured him he wouldn't and that made Jo Jo happy. The mood was starting to lift. In honor of the military, Gene suggested they play the Sergeant Pepper's tape. We laughed. Marty stuck in the tape and we sang along to All You Need Is Love, or something like that. It wasn't as corny as it sounds. Maybe it was. It was the moment.

Jo Jo stretched out on his cot and seemed to go to sleep. We took the cue and walked down to the dock. Breezy was there. She was sitting on the end of the dock wearing a funny looking straw hat to keep the sun off her face. Everybody else was gone.

"Nice hat," I said sarcastically, as we walked down the dock.

She turned her head and glanced at us, then looked back at the water without saying anything. Wonderful, I was thinking, another memorable moment at the lake. "You okay, Breezy?" Gene asked. "I guess," she answered over her shoulder. We all exchanged looks. "In case you haven't heard the news, I'm going in the Army," Gene announced. Here we go again, I thought; but Breezy just shrugged her shoulders.

Time to go. No doubt about it. Let's get back in the car and speed away. Pretend like it never happened. Don't remember a thing. We did get back in my car and drive off, but unfortunately we remembered everything.

"You didn't tell me Breezy was a druggie," Paula said as soon as we started back home. "Is she spacey or what?"

"She's into experimenting," I said in her defense.

Paula laughed and said, "Then she belongs in a science laboratory somewhere. And what's with that name...Breezy?"

"I don't think you understand any of this," Gene said from the backseat. "Plenty of things are going on out there that you don't know anything about."

"I know drugged out weirdos when I see them," she shot back. "But I do feel sorry for that poor Jo Jo guy. He's suffered so much."

"The only weirdo of the group is sitting in the backseat," I said angrily. "Anybody know any nutcases out there who want to go to Viet Nam? I do, and he's my best friend. Oh yeah, he's such a friend that he didn't tell me shit about what he was planning."

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry? Would that make it any better for you?" Gene asked, irritated.

"I want you to tell me you know of a way you can get out of it. Maybe your dad has some connections with the military that could help," I said hopefully.

"You want to know something, you're both crazy," Paula shouted tearfully.

I looked at Gene in the rearview mirror and he looked away. What's she crying about? I asked myself. I'm the one with the friend who betrayed me. I'm the one with the friend whacked out on acid. I'm the one who visits some social deviant living in the woods.

"Take it easy, Paula," Gene said, trying to console her.

"Paula, I don't see why you're getting all upset for. You don't even like Gene," I said nastily.

"You're a bastard!" she screamed at me, crying.

"So I've been told," I replied, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Hey," Gene said in almost a whisper, "we got some feelings working here."

A comment like that coming from Gene seemed way out of place. Since when was he Mr. Understanding? I guess everything was hitting me at the same time because I didn't pick up on what Paula was attuned to. Feelings. Emotions. Expectations. They were all meshing to cause trouble.

We sat in bitter silence for the rest of the way home. I probably sensed it then. It was all starting to unravel. Jo Jo said something to me once that made so much sense at the time. Still does. He said that a person can be like a serpent that sheds its skin. You must pass on to another stage, leaving behind a part of you.

Paula called me a few days later. It was the official kiss off. Such good manners, she apologized for doing it over the phone. She told me that we were going in different directions or something like that. We were. There was some hurt there. I admit it. Although I sensed the inevitable, I never quite made that final, you know, conclusion. In a way, I was happy she did it, initiated the break up. I probably would have just gone off to college and let the relationship die on the vine.

That very next day Gene left for the Army. It was a double wammy for me: lose a girl friend, lose a friend. I was three weeks away from going off to college. This was suppose to be one of the happiest times of my life. Of course, I still had my job at the County; which had become almost unbearable without Gene for comic relief.

WHITE STONES ON THE HILL

I stayed away from the Hooch for over a week. Breezy didn't call me. I couldn't bring myself to call her. Gene's sister had taken to locking the doors to their house for the first time because people were still dropping in and making themselves at home. Gene hadn't told anybody he had enlisted. It took a while before the word got out, then gradually nobody showed up at her house anymore.

The college sent me a letter telling me about my new dorm assignment, that is my new roommate. I almost cried. It didn't seem possible that I could face college without Gene, that I was going to have to share a room with a stranger. Probably some hick from southern Virginia, I imagined, who chewed tobacco and listened to Johnny Cash. Now that would be cruel.

I had to go out to the Hooch at least one more time. I knew I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Jo Jo, and to Breezy. So I went. When I got to the lake, I saw Breezy and Marty's car parked there. Good, I thought, now I can say goodbye to everybody at once. Makes it easier.

As soon as I got out of the car I could hear the music. I listened for a minute. It was the Let It Be album. I was dreading this, so I walked slowly up the path. When I got within eyesight of the tent, I stopped. Something seemed out of place. What was it?

I was standing there by a tree so they couldn't see me. With the music playing, they hadn't heard me come up. Breezy was sitting on one of the cots listening intently to the music. Marty was standing over Jo Jo, who was sitting on his cot. What were they doing? I thought.

Jo Jo said something that I couldn't make out and Marty nodded yes, then pulled out his cigarette lighter, flicked it, then held the flame under something. I stepped closer so I could see better. Jo Jo was holding out a spoon. Then it all came into focus.

There was an acid feeling in my stomach. I wanted to scream out: NO! But I stood there, in silence, watching. Jo Jo had a grim look of determination on his face. Marty was waving the lighter under the spoon. I heard Jo Jo sing out: "Get back Jo Jo." Breezy smiled and sang along to the song too.

I then noticed the belt around Jo Jo's arm. It was pulled tight. "Hold it steady" I heard Jo Jo say to Marty. A syringe sucked up the burning liquid. It was like I was transfixed. I had to watch. Jo Jo mumbled something, then the needle pierced his vein. Marty took the syringe and placed it in an ammo box; while Jo Jo lay back on his cot.

Could I have been this stupid? I wondered. Those times that Jo Jo had seemed so jumpy should have tipped me off. He would break out in sweats all the time. Marty bringing him his so called care packages: talk about being dense. What did I need a neon sign?

Now what was I going to do? Mainlining heroin. That crossed the line. We did our drugs, that was undeniable, but smack was way over the edge. Hell, I didn't like doing any chemicals even. That one acid trip had been my only time. Speed was out. Mescaline didn't interest me. Pot was heavy enough.

I thought about just getting in my car and leaving--don't even look back. That would have probably been the smart thing to do. I didn't. I sat on the dock listening to I've Got A Feeling run through my brain, as I hummed along like an idiot. Breezy then appeared. As soon as she walked out on the dock I could see she was spaced out. On what? I wondered.

"I was going to call you," she said, sitting down next to me.

"Liar," I said with more anger than I intended.

She looked at me and smiled, while all I could think about was how she could still be so gorgeous and drugged out at the same time. Grabbing my hand, she said in almost a whisper, "The lake is so beautiful today."

"Breezy," I said, waving my hand in front of her eyes, "are you gone or what?"

"Stop that," she said, smacking my hand.

"I just saw what you and Jo Jo were doing up at the tent," I blurted out. "You need to get away from here."

"Were you spying on us?" she asked, smirking.

"No, I was just walking up the path when I saw what you were doing. You guys didn't hear me," I explained, suddenly feeling the need to justify myself.

"And what were we doing? Tell me," she said, taunting.

"Stop playing games, Breezy. This is some pretty serious shit going on here," I said angrily. "Are you hooked or what? Did Jo Jo get you hooked?"

"Quiet now,listen," she whispered, staring out over the water. "What do you hear? Listen close."

"All I can hear is the fucking Beatles," I said, trying to laugh. I was uncomfortable with all of this.

"If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of your dilettantism mocking you," she said, smiling.

I knew what this was. It was Jo Jo talking. It sounded exactly like something he would say. She's zonked and I'm having a cosmic discussion with her--pretty hopeless. I was thinking, How did it ever get to this? All the while this was going on I was looking at her arms for track marks. There was none that I could see.

"Okay, whatever you say," I replied in a phony serene voice.

"I haven't done any H yet," she said in a flat voice, as if all the fun had gone out of the conversation. "That's Jo Jo's thing. He needs it. There are so many demons for him to fight."

"Thank god," I said and was truly relieved. "Maybe we should get him some help. Have you talked to Marty about this?"

She looked at me for a moment and then said, "You don't get it. Jo Jo is doing what he has to do."

"Excuse me, Miss Spaced Out, but that isn't an answer to anything. I'm going to talk to Marty about it. At least he cares about Jo Jo," I said in a nasty tone.

Next thing I know she's punching me. A dainty, feminine type slap would have gotten her point across, but no, she was pounding me. "Breezy!" I shouted, as I warded off her blows. I had to finally grab her and hold her down. She was all red in the face. She even tried to bite me.

"Let me up, you bastard," she snarled.

"Not till you calm down," I said, trying not to laugh.

"I hate you. I hate everything you stand for," she spat out.

She wouldn't stop trying to hit me so I picked her up and threw her in the water. Like a wet cat comes to mind, as I think back about it. "I hear you like to swim so much, I thought I'd give you a hand getting in the water," I shouted to her.

"I don't want you to ever come out here again. You hear me? Never! Ever!" she screamed.

I cupped my hand over my ear and said, "What's that? I can't hear you. Could you repeat that?"

It was mean. I admit it. But I was so pissed off about everything. Nothing seemed to be working out the way I wanted it to. "I'm going up to the Hooch now. Let me know when you've cooled off," I said, as I walked back to the tent. She called me a few more choice names. I ignored her. I didn't know why I was going up to the tent. Morbid curiosity. Probably.

I never saw Breezy again. She must have swam out to her spot on the boulders because she never came up to the tent for the rest of the time I was there that day. I sat there for over an hour talking to Marty, while Jo Jo was pretty much comatose on his cot.

As Marty and me were talking, you could hear a bulldozer close by chewing up the woods. When the wind was right, you could smell the diesel exhaust. Marty had this sad look on his face, as he jerked his finger in the direction of the noise and said, "Pretty soon, I guess, huh." He was talking about the, in Jo Jo's words, "advancing legions for civilization." It was only a matter of time before the Hooch would be leveled and a townhouse put up. Lakeside. Great property value. I could hear the spiel now.

Marty talked of them moving the Hooch to the other side of the lake. It didn't matter. Soon enough they would be knocking all those trees down too. It was inevitable. Unstoppable. DC's suburbs would soon stretch all the way to Richmond. Where was Jo Jo going to go? Could he even survive a winter out in the woods anyway?

"I can remember coming out here that first day," Marty said, smiling. "It was pretty cool. A guy living in the woods and all. You know Jo Jo got most this stuff at Sonny's Surplus. The tent...cots, blankets, almost all of it," he said, motioning all around him.

Marty had never really told me the whole story about how Jo Jo ended up out here. I hadn't bothered to ask Jo Jo. If he didn't volunteer the information, I figured I didn't need to know about it. "A buddy of his from Nam brought most of the stuff out here in a pick-up truck," Marty explained. Jo Jo had found the place one day when he was hitching down Route 7. He couldn't get a ride for a long time so he just hiked through the woods and found the lake. Just thought he would stay for a while."

"He didn't have much then," Marty said. "I brought in the stove and fixed up the sound system so he could have some tunes. He was cooking over an open fire. Trying to, that is," Marty said, laughing. "I think he had one pan. Had to make his tea."

We laughed together. "Change the tape," Jo Jo said sleepily. I went over to his extensive library of tapes and picked out Crosby, Stills, and Nash. "Going to take some work to move all this stuff now," I stated, as I put the tape on. "You got that right," Marty agreed.

We walked down to the lake, leaving Jo Jo to his (again in Jo Jo's words) "journey." Marty was talkative that day, more than usual. I think the way things were going was starting to get to him. Down at the dock he told me what Jo Jo had done a few days before. They had been driving near Seven Corners when all of a sudden Jo Jo yelled out for him to stop at this Catholic church. Okay.

Marty wheeled his car into the parking lot and Jo Jo jumps out and almost runs in the church. Marty was curious about what was going on, so he follows Jo Jo inside. "There goes Jo Jo, right into one of those funny little booths," Marty said, shrugging. Confession time. About a second later, Jo Jo dashes back out and he's shouting: "You can't help me! You're a fraud." They go back outside, get in the car and head on back to the Hooch.

Maybe they should have drive through confessionals. Not to make light of it, but I had to laugh. It seemed kind of comical, at least the way Marty told it. The bad thing was that Marty was troubled by it. He said to me in a serious tone: "Jo Jo kept saying, 'Pecca-vi, Pec-ca-vi,' over and over again. Almost flipped me out." Being the Latin scholar that I am, and having looked it up, that means: I have sinned, I have sinned.

I didn't know what to say to Marty. He was reaching out to me, I know, but I was the wrong person. What could I tell him? Go get help somewhere, that's what you should do. Where? Take Jo Jo to the VA, I suggested. Won't go, came back the reply. He wouldn't listen to anything Marty told him to do. "Breezy, she's only making it worse," Marty said in a sad voice.

All I could think of when I left the lake that day was Marty standing there by my car almost crying. His southern accent rang in my ears. I couldn't help but think that I didn't belong there. None of this was connected to me. I was leaving in a couple weeks. I drove off and tried not to look in the rearview mirror as I went.

It was over a week before I went back out to the Hooch. It was going to be my last time before going off to college. I had tried to call Breezy but couldn't. I just wanted to see her again. I didn't like the way we had left it between us.

When I drove up to the lake, I could see nothing but barren land on one side. A mud splattered bull dozer sat there idle. It was a Sunday and the workers were off. There was no Hooch. The bull dozer had leveled it completely. I ran up the path. There were the deep tread patterns of the heavy machine marking the ground. Here and there bits and pieces of what was once the tent lay strewn over the freshly upturned earth.

I bent over and picked up a tape that had been smashed to pieces. Through the smudged dirt on the label I could read: Magical Mystery. Off to the side, there was a tin cup sitting there unscathed by the iron plow. Civilization had caught up with Jo Jo, I thought. Where did he go?

I remembered I had Marty's address written down on a piece of paper in my glove compartment. I jumped back in my car and raced over to his apartment. I was happy to see his car in the parking lot when I drove up. I wanted to know what happened. I had to know.

When I knocked on his door there was no answer. Then I banged on the door. I could hear the TV on inside. I yelled out his name a few times. It took me a good ten minutes before he came to the door. He was a sight. Like maybe he hadn't slept in a week or something. And the smell in his apartment was pretty rank too. There were greasy engine parts sitting all over the living room. Empty pizza boxes. Beer cans. Real pretty picture.

"What happened, man?" I asked, pushing my way inside.

"Huh?" he said, scratching his head. He had just gotten out of bed and was wearing nothing but a pair of gray underwear that used to be white.

"Ever hear of bleach?" I asked, pointing at his underwear, laughing, trying to ease the situation.

"I need a cigarette, man," he said, walking around the apartment, fumbling through all the junk. He found a pack under one of the pizza boxes and then went looking for some matches.

"The Hooch is gone, what happened? Or I know what happened, when did it happen?" I asked, eager to know all the details.

Marty sat down in a chair by the TV and looked at the baseball game that was on. The unlit cigarette was hanging out of his mouth. He couldn't find any matches.

"You don't know," he finally said, looking up at me. "Nobody told you."

"Told me what?" I almost screamed out.

"They're dead," he said in a low voice.

"Who's dead? What are you talking about?"

"Both of them," he replied.

It took me a minute. I wasn't sure if he was fully awake and knew what he was saying. Dead. Who? It slowly started to register. I felt sick. A chair, I needed to sit down.

"Are you talking about--"

"Both of them...dead," he repeated, looking at the TV, where somebody had just hit a home run and the sound of the crowd was filling the apartment with cheers.

"What happened?" I asked, but Marty was busy again looking for a match to light his cigarette. "Damn it Marty! tell me what happened."

He stopped looking for a minute and turned back to me and said, "Now you care. Is that it?"

His reaction surprised me. At first, I didn't know what to say. Was he mad at me? "Marty, what's wrong? Take it easy."

"They're dead...dead, get it?" he shouted at me. He found a book of matches and with shaking hands lit his cigarette. Sobbing, he muttered, "I left my lighter out at the Hooch."

It took me about fifteen minutes to calm him down. He didn't really blame me. There was a great deal of pain for him to endure. Jo Jo was everything to him.

Slowly the story came out. It had been an overdose. Classic case. Jo Jo had shot up some smack smuggled back from Nam. That had done it. He had been used to the cut stuff on the streets back here. When he fired up that pure stuff from Southeast Asia, it had boiled his heart.

"It went as usual," Marty said, fighting back tears. "Jo Jo did his thing like he done so many times before. I didn't think much about it. Then all of sudden he slumped over and fell off the cot. I couldn't help him." He was crying. The helplessness of not being able to help Jo Jo was eating away at him.

"What about Breezy?" I asked. I had to know.

"She drowned. After she saw what happened to Jo Jo, she ran down to the lake and jumped in and started swimming. She never came back."

"How do you know she drowned?"

"They found her body a couple days later. It washed up on the other side somewhere," he explained.

We didn't say anything for a few minutes. The sports announcer's voice droned on about baseball statistics. My mind tried to take all of this in. They died.

"Are you okay?" I finally asked.

He nodded yes, then said as he fought back a sob, "The funeral's tomorrow. At Arlington Cemetery. The Army came through for Jo Jo. Give him a proper burial and all. You coming?"

" Of course, I want to be there," I replied, not knowing if I really wanted to go or not. "What about Breezy's funeral? Know anything about that?"

"Nah, didn't know her phone number," he explained, adding, "or her last name even."

"Her family's a bunch of snobs anyway. They wouldn't want us there," I said, shaking my head no.

I did call Breezy's house later that week but hung up when her mother answered the phone. I couldn't do it. I was just afraid to talk to her family. In some way I was partially responsible for their daughter's death. It might sound absurd, but that was how I felt. She was gone and I was going to have to cope with that.

That next day I drove out to the funeral with Marty. It wasn't much of a ceremony really. More like a formality than anything else. Arlington Cemetery is kind of a weird place, with all the white tombstones and all. You stand there and all you can see in every direction are these little white headstones and it makes you think about all the people who have died fighting for our country. Kind of puts it in perspective about freedom and all.

Right across the Potomac River is DC. You can see some of the monuments in the distance; it looks real, well, unreal. Like a city for the dead and gone is what it seems to be.

About seven or eight people showed up. Tattoo guy and his girl friend were there. It got cloudy right after we got there and a thunder storm blew in. The grave workers were impatient. They kept looking up at the sky at the dark clouds rolling in; while we held an impromptu service. Marty and Tattoo guy said a few words.

Then there was a loud thunder clap and the grave workers ran for their truck. It started to pour. We all just stood there looking down at the grave. Some fat girl who I couldn't remember ever seeing at the Hooch started to sing the Beatles With A Little Help From My Friends. We all joined in. We managed to sing the whole damn song. Jo Jo would have been pleased.

I never had much contact with any of the cast of characters from that fateful summer after that. A week before I went away to college I told the County I was quitting. Big John actually put his arm around me and told me he wished me luck with whatever I did, and to always believe in the Lord. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to miss Mel and Tyrone's Monday morning bragfests. Good, cheap entertainment.

Gene Flynn, my best friend, did his tour of duty. I only saw him when he would pass through town after that, which was infrequently. He always seemed to be traveling. I had told him about Jo Jo and Breezy but he didn't seem surprised.

My twenty year reunion was held recently. I was hoping to see him there. He didn't show. Some people said they had heard he was dead, from drugs, from AIDS. Theories. I knew. When he left those many years ago, he never really returned.

Paula eventually settled in Springfield. She's married to a lawyer, a lobbyist to be exact. They have two kids, two boys. I ran into her at a function at the Kennedy Center. Still beautiful. She practically told me her whole life story. "Remember that crazy day at that lake?" she had asked me. I said yeah, as I debated on whether or not to tell her what happened to Jo Jo and Breezy. I decided not to.

Marty ended up marrying one of the girls from the lake. Then divorced her a few years later. No kids. He has his own body shop somewhere in Falls Church.

Tattoo guy went back to prison for a while. Robbed a gas station, I think. When he got out again, he moved to Florida.

About Yancy, his old man died and left him a bunch of money. He ended up selling the rest of the farm and moved to I believe Lynchburg or maybe Lexington. Started with an L I'm pretty sure. He actually bought another farm.

As to me, I married a southern belle, from the Richmond area. And I divorced a southern belle from the Richmond area. Lasted about five years. She wanted to live in Richmond. I didn't. Got married again, this time to a Yankee, from New York. Still married to her. One kid. That's enough. A girl. Pretty soon I'll be the father terrorizing her dates.

I now live in Reston. My work is in Tyson Corners. Some times when I drive home from work I detour around to the lake. It's unrecognizable now, with all the townhouses around it; but the dock is still there. The dock is like a beacon though. When I see it I can tell where the Hooch was. Every so often I'll stop and walk out on the dock and sit. If I listen hard I can hear the Beatles playing.

Chapter 4: Fall Being Marooned

DULLES

The airport seemed larger than I remembered; and I had forgotten that you had to take a shuttle from the satellite concourses to the main terminal. How could I forget about these monsters, I wondered, as I climbed aboard the giant vehicle that slowly transported me and the other passengers across the busy tarmac. A small girl squealed with delight when they started to move, pointing out the window at the airport work vehicles buzzing here and there in every direction, rotating lights announcing their approach.

"I wonder what brilliant bureaucrat came up with this idea to use million dollar shuttle vehicles to move people a few hundred yards," a businessman said next to him. "Million, hell the tires alone cost that much. Did you see the size of those babies," his traveling companion exclaimed. "What do you bet these things were made in some senator's home state?" another man sitting across from us said in a disgusted voice. Minutes later we were easing into a berth at the main terminal, impatiently waiting as the driver maneuvered the mechanical beast into place. There was an exhalation of air, as the pneumatic doors locked into place. The driver's bored spiel echoed in my ears as I walked down the short gangway.

Dulles was now over twenty years old but it still possessed that certain sense of style, of modernity. The Oriental motif lent the architecture a visual change from the ordinary. When I had first come out there as an adolescent I could see that it wasn't your every day government building. My father had brought me and my sister out to the new airport just to see the radically new design. With the sweeping pillars and the eccentric control tower, there was an almost mystical quality that pleased the eye.

But, in the end, it was still an airport; and, as with all airports, there was no soul to the building. The strange use of symmetry dazzled your eyes and left you somehow pleased to have seen it, however the one aspect that was immutable was the building's function. Form couldn't disguise utility.

I hated airports. The noise in itself disturbed me. Where was everybody going? would ring in my mind, as I stood there watching the human race in transit to somewhere. This airline, that airline, a disembodied voice over the airport PA system would be informing everyone. Time to proceed to your gate. "It's like organized mass hysteria," I had once told a friend, who laughed but couldn't relate because the last time he had flown was years ago.

That was odd, his friend not flying. America was commuting by plane. The vast expanse, the very breadth of the US had been reduced, shrunk by cheap, inexpensive fares. Gone were the days when only the well heeled type of traveler populated the passenger manifest. It had become bus travel with wings.

Fare wars were common place. New upstart airlines materialized overnight, offering ridiculously low prices, enticing people who before would never have dreamed of traveling by air. It was democracy in practice, so proclaimed one airline in their ads, blithely confusing democracy with the age-old institution of social class structure as defined by the depth of your pockets. It was simple economic social engineering.

Now, every huckster with some financial backers and an entrepreneurial vision could jump into the fray. Airlines seemed to disappear overnight, replaced by another one, often times using the very same aircraft as the one that had folded. The FAA began to act as a clearinghouse for defunct airlines.

"Put asses in seats," one of the CEOs of the new airline on the block declared in a business quarterly. Elementary. The commandments of business were the same for every company striving to turn a profit. X number of seats equals X number of dollars. Keep the labor cost down. Numbers don't lie.

I had flown in on one of the old airlines, one with a history that dated back more than six months. It was actually a venerable airline, as airlines went. Good reputation, which used to translate to good service. The irony was I had paid very little for my flight ticket because the airline was now being threatened by a new airline that had moved into its turf. Using the usual MO of offering dramatically reduced introductory fares, the renegade airline had saturated the market with advertisements, then sat back and waited for the market base to abandon an old friend.

This scenario was played out all over the country, driving VP's mad as they tried to stanch the mounting red ink. It was like a war, where one combatant is fighting by the Geneva Convention and his foe is fighting by his own set of rules of engagement. The new airlines came to the battlefield with a totally different concept of combat.

These guerrilla airlines were the first ones to realize that service was negotiable. Eliminate it, give me a cheap fare, and we got a deal; that was the traveling public's idea of the way things should be. While the old line carriers struggled to embrace this notion, laboring to dump old methods and practices, the neophyte airlines snapped up the dollars.

I was actually served a meal on my flight. This surprised me. Dumping the food service was one of the first things the small airlines did. Too costly. The food was bad anyway. I was always amused by the concept that being served inedible food on plastic trays at thirty thousand feet by surly flight attendants passed as service. It was ludicrous.

I hated flying as much as I hated airports. Since I was a young boy I had flown all over the world. My first flight had been on the civilian version of the military DC-3. The plane had hop scotched across the US, from the East Coast to San Francisco. There was no pressurized cabin. "Low and slow," my father had said, laughing, pointing out the window at landmarks on the ground. It was a twin prop plane. The engines' drone filled the cabin with noise, making it almost impossible to hear.

One of the more peculiar aspects of the aircraft was the way it sat on the tarmac. It had no nose wheel. The third wheel was very small and mounted in the tail section, leaving the plane at a steep angle when you boarded. When you sat down it felt like a rocket ship preparing to take off.

Although I was only in my late thirties, I had experienced almost every stage of flight aviation, going from the laborious travel of the prop plane era, to the more advanced jet-prop planes, and on to the jet travel of today. With the exception of the advent of pressurized cabins, I still thought air travel hadn't progressed a great deal. It was a necessary evil, nothing more than several hours out of your life spent crammed together with infectious people. True you arrived at your destination quicker, but it was still onerous.

There was no one meeting me. No one knew I was coming. I wasn't even sure what I was doing there. As I stood waiting for the rental car company's bus to pick me up and take me to their lot, I counted on my fingers and said aloud: "Seven." It's been almost ten years since I was last here, I thought. I hadn't realized it had been that long.

I was given a mid-sized Ford and a map. A young guy behind the counter encouraged me to take the insurance, telling me the Metro area had the worst drivers in the world. "I've got my own insurance," I assured the rental agent, who scoffed and reluctantly pushed the button that started the printer. "Sign and initial the circled areas. Hope you don't regret it," the young guy said, peeved.

The Dulles Access Road was at one time a high speed corridor that sliced through the slumbering Virginia countryside. In fact, they used to joke about hitting a cow on the road if you didn't watch out. Now, the creeping tide of commercialism had swamped the area. The fallow pastures had been replaced by what appeared to be prefab warehouses, lending credence to the belief that the Washington DC area was evolving from a government payroll supported economy to a diversified entity.

I thought I hadn't needed a map. After all, I had spent a good chunk of my adolescence here. I learned to drive on these back streets. We had even drag raced on the road to the airport. Home turf. There were many summer days that me and a friend had taken enduro motorcycles out cruising the country roads, cutting through farm land, doing donuts in the mud and chasing cattle until their eyes bulged out, while their tongues hung down.

It all looked different. I couldn't recognize any landmarks. More exits had been added. In the distance, I could just make out evidence of subdivisions, rooftops glistening in the early autumn sun. And there was traffic. Cars sped in either direction. Before, the road was all but abandoned. My parents had joked about breaking down on the way to Dulles, saying that you would never be rescued because nobody ever used the road. The planners had the last laugh. What they had envisioned had come true. The population had eventually come to the airport, the aviation folly that the bureaucrats had mistakenly placed so far away from the city.

I sped past an exit and thought it might be the one we used to take for the back way to my town. "Damn it," I said, smacking the steering wheel. A taxi honked its horn so I changed lanes, letting the car speed by. I could see three men in suits in the backseat, apparently arguing about something. They were passing papers back and forth between them. Mobile meeting, I thought, laughing.

I was coming home again. I had missed my twenty year High School reunion. The reunion committee couldn't locate me. The reunion had come off a few weeks before I returned. By coincidence, I had decided to plan a trip back. I didn't know why. For the last few months I had been thinking about my past, a past at this stage in my life long since obscured by time. Maybe it was for nostalgic reasons, I told myself.

Yet there was no connection there to my past. I hadn't kept in touch with any of my old friends. My sister lived there; but we had an estranged relationship. Our mother had died prematurely. Cancer. Our parents were divorced. I had just turned eighteen when she died. After the funeral we drifted apart and never seemed to connect in the following years. I hadn't spoken to her in two years.

Closing in on forty and I was still drifting through life. "It's a psychological thing," my sister had said once several years after I had gotten out of the Service. "What do you mean by that?" I had replied angrily. She had looked at me with a pained expression. In a voice that had just a hint of fear in it, she had said, "Maybe you need some help, you know, about what happened to you over there and all." I had walked away. We didn't speak for almost six months.

Years later the line of communication between us simply deteriorated until we did nothing more than exchange Christmas cards. I knew literally nothing of her life. Although I was an uncle, I didn't know the names of my three nieces. Was my brother-in-law's name Tim or Tom? Not sure. I wasn't proud of this, yet I couldn't overcome my indifference.

"Is that the Beltway exit?" I shouted out, checking my rear view mirror to see if anyone was behind me. I had driven too far. My plan had been to cut down a back road to see what the countryside looked like now. Distracted, I had driven too far on the airport road. I took the exit and got on 495, hoping I would go the right direction and not end up driving to Maryland.

The Beltway brought back so many memories. Countless times I had driven it in the past. I still remembered the incident that happened my first year of college. I had been coming back from a concert. A girl I knew was driving. There were three of us. I was sitting in the backseat. We were talking about the concert, still wired up by the music and drugs we had taken.

"Look out!" I suddenly screamed, as my friend swerved around a guy walking in the middle of the road. I had been leaning forward and talking when I noticed the outline of a shape in the headlights. "Did I hit him? Did I hit him?" she screamed out. "Stop! Pull over," I cried out. She had quickly pulled off the road.

I got out of the car and ran back to where we had seen the man walking in the road. Nothing. There was no one there. "Is he okay?" she called from the car, afraid to look. I had looked along the roadside and found no one. There was no body. "What happened to him?" my other friend asked as he walked up to me.

"Get back in the car," I had said.

"We got to help him," she cried out.

"Can't find him," my other friend stated.

"He vanished," I explained.

"Maybe he ran up the embankment. He might be hurt...bleeding. Shouldn't we look more?" she said frantically.

"Why don't you let me drive," I offered, climbing in behind the wheel.

We hadn't told anyone after that. For days afterwards I scoured the paper looking for any reports of an accident, a victim of a hit and run. There was never any stories. The was no mention of it the next day on the six o'clock news. Maybe it didn't happen, I told myself. "Pretty good pot," his friend had said later on, smiling. She had been rattled by it, refusing to drive on 495 after dark.

I saw the Route 123 exit and knew I was going the right way. Tyson's Corner came into view. I had driven into the thick of exuburbia, a modern day nightmare of mall mania. This juncture of Routes 7 and 123 was the site of one of the first mega-malls experiment. The plan had been self-evident. Build a gigantic mall at an intersection accessible to a large percentage of the local population and rake in the money.

It was American genius at work. Distill the ingredients that makes Americans tick into a working formula, then wait. Convenience, accessibility, and a buying experience worked. A few years after the first mall was constructed, Tyson's Corner II was built. A retailer's sequel.

The legacy of this consumer husbandry was density. Crowds. Traffic. Anxiety inducing congestion. I could remember when Tyson's Corner was nothing more that just that, a corner between the two intersecting roads. There had been a farmer's market there and a honky-tonk bar, where you were just as likely to get in a fist-fight as you were to get a beer. Later on, just prior to the mall opening, there had been a fortune teller who took up residence next to the bar. It was widely believed her place of business was a front for a whore house.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the mall came car dealers. Like a plague of locusts, they sprung up westward down Route 7. While the mall could offer convenient shopping at a multitude of different type stores, this new gasoline alley could offer the same when shopping for an automobile.

Tyson's Corner had gone from a bucolic stretch of real estate to an ugly manifestation of businesses. What then happened to the surrounding area the planners hadn't anticipated. In a rush of construction frenzy, a pseudo community of hi-rise buildings had mushroomed along Route 7. Companies found the area inviting. It became a city without residents, totally devoid of dwellers: office space and nothing more.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing as I drove down the new Route 123. It was as if someone had taken a LA matrix and duplicated it in the Virginia suburbs. He didn't recognize any of it.

Years before, in High School, I had worked at the mall. Summer job. Washing dishes. It had been fun. I worked with several schoolmates at a coffee shop. The girls waited tables, while I worked with two of my pals running the automated dish washer. The manager was a bored guy who spent most of his time out in the mall, doing anything to avoid being where he was suppose to be.

The pay had been minimal, but we were given free meals, which often times meant we could eat whatever we wanted. I didn't think it was possible but after a few weeks working there I had gotten tired of slurping down ultra thick milk shakes and wolfing down gigantic hamburgers. What made it all tolerable was the camaraderie I experienced with his friends.

We were teenagers. Except for the three black women who were the short order cooks and the absentee manager, the place was run by High Schoolers. The coffee shop was attached to a department store. Every store in the mall had a basement, which had a door that led to the underground road that ran beneath the entire mall. The mall planners had wisely allowed for movement of goods into and out of the tenants leased areas. No interruption of business.

I would use the freight elevator to take out the coffee shop's garbage, depositing it by the underground road to be picked up. The department store basement was a labyrinth of shelves stocked with goods. There was seldom anyone down there. It wasn't long before my made this space my refuge.

Work romances were inevitable. After spending a few shifts with each other, it was difficult not to be attracted to one another. I met Nora my first day on the job. She had been working there part time for a month during the school year, and now full time for the summer. She was a year younger. I didn't know her; although I had seen her around school.

"Do you think you could bring me some clean plates sometime today?" she had shouted out to me, sticking her head in the door to the dish washing room. It was my first day on the job. I couldn't tell if she was being serious or not. "What station are you in?" I yelled back but she was gone. I had cranked up the machine, hoping I remembered everything the manager had told me about how to operate it.

At times we would get busy. The girls worked for tips. There were three of them, all pretty. There was a small window in the dish washing room door. I could watch them while they worked. They wore ugly turquoise wash and dry uniforms, with fresh, new name tags that read: Nora, Becky, and Joanie. Each one of them learned quickly how to professionally flirt, which translated into larger tips. The mall had an endless supply of horny older men, who never missed the opportunity to see their waitress bend over to pick up something.

It was hot in the dish washing room. Steam rose off the machine as a conveyor belt slowly moved racks of dishes around. That wasn't an insurmountable problem though because you didn't have to stay there. The machine was automatic. Run a cycle and leave, that was our method.

I often times would sit in the store room next to the giant freezer where most of the food was stored. It was cool there and quiet. Part of my job was supplying the cooks with supplies so I had business in there. It had shocked me my first few days on the job to see how restaurant food was prepared. Huge cans of vegetables. Massive blocks of cheese. Ice covered boxes stuffed with meat patties. It was all somehow unappetizing, almost dehumanizing.

I got along with the cooks immediately. They all liked me. I would joke with them, imitating their cook's jargon using their diction. They would howl their approval, pointing at each other accusingly, as if they weren't the ones I was doing an impression of. "Lord, my face be hurtin' this mornin'," I would say, bending at the waist and swaying like one of them always did on Monday mornings after a weekend of revelry. "I dranks too much Colts. And my legs, I be dancin' with so many mens I can't hardly walk." They would giggle and say: "Don't you know that be true."

They would tease him too. With little or no inhibition, they would shout out into the dining area, "Nora, honey, that boy be lookin' at you again." This embarrassed me. She laughed. At seventeen, she knew she was good looking, and sexy.

"Where you going?" she asked me one day when he was heading down to the basement. "Downstairs, to the stockroom." "What's down there?" "A bunch of stuff."

She invited herself along. On the freight elevator he could smell her perfume. She was wearing small plastic berets that held her strawberry blond hair out of her face. She had a faint sprinkling of freckles around her nose. I wanted to touch them.

She followed me as I walked around the rows of shelves. It was always eerily quiet in the basement. You didn't realize how noisy the mall was until you got away from it. She didn't say much, just poked around the merchandise, stopping to examine some of the boxes. I was nervous but I didn't know why. Hey, I'm a senior and she's only a junior, I told myself.

"Lots of junk, huh?" she said, smiling.

"Yeah, lots," I replied.

"Want to take me out?" she suddenly asked, stopping and turning to look at me.

"I...what did you say?" I stammered.

"You heard me."

"Yeah, sure," I said.

"Friday night, take me to dinner," she stated, with her hands on her hips. "Ninos."

"In DC?"

"That's the only one I know of," she said, smiling. "We better get back or they might think we're screwing around down here." I giggled nervously. "Don't get any ideas."

For the rest of the summer we went "steady." Nora was bright, beautiful, and direct. I had never known a girl with that combination before. She knew what she wanted to do. "Go to UVA, get my degree in psychology, then my masters, and after that do research," she had said on their first date. I hadn't a clue what lay ahead of me. I might go to college. There had been thoughts of the Service. Travel.

They went to the Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Georgetown. It was a charming place, small and romantic. They were served wine. She ordered for him. He hadn't any idea what it was, as he struggled to eat the noodles and prayed that he had enough money in his pocket to pay the bill.

Afterwards, they drove to an overlook on the GW Parkway and made out, laughing at how they both smelled of garlic. There had been no wrestling match. She complied by undoing her bra, removing it, then tossing it in the backseat. Matters progressed rapidly until they were interrupted by a flashing light and the stern voice of a Park policeman over his car's intercom telling them to move on.

She laughed, seemingly unconcerned, as she quickly gathered her clothes up and I started the car. I drove away with my pants down around my ankles. I found her bra the next day in the backseat of my car. Her perfume lingered on it. When I mentioned it to her that she had forgotten it, she laughed and said, "I left it there on purpose. Like a memento." It seemed somehow perverse but exciting to me. I hid it in my closet at home.

THE VISIT

Wonder what happened to Nora? I thought as I drove on into the small town that had been my hometown throughout my High School years. I had the address but I didn't know where the street was. My only option was to check the fire house after I called and no one was home.

There was a kid's soccer game going on at the field across from the station. It seemed odd, even foreign to see soccer being played in his hometown. So much had changed. No kids played Pop Warner football anymore it seemed. The feminization of America, I thought, remembering what someone had said on a radio show I heard. Mothers wouldn't let their little boys get hurt playing football. Soccer was safe.

A helpful fireman showed me on a large map hanging on the wall where the address was. It wasn't far from where his family house had been. Another new development had displaced more trees. I drove by my old house. The trees my mother had planted were now monsters, almost dwarfing the house. The house looked pretty much the same. I wondered how many of the original neighbors still lived there.

I drove by where an old friend used to live, slowing down to look at the house where I had so many adventures in my youth. Mrs. Bronson had let us practice there, in the basement, hour after hour. We were called the Creatures. Five guys with absolutely no talent. I played bass, knowing all of two chords. My friend played drums. We knew maybe five songs. There had been only one gig. Twenty dollars. Melissa somebody's party. The band broke up a short while later.

I turned onto Park and drove over the rolling hills. The town had grown but it still had a certain country charm to it. "What am I doing here?" I asked aloud. I didn't know. For some reason I had felt the need to return.

There was the address. It was a large house, much bigger than I had anticipated. There were no cars parked outside. Nobody home, I thought, as I walked to the door and knocked. No answer. Next door a neighbor watched me from her porch. I smiled and she turned away.

I knocked again. I could hear a radio playing. It sounded like it was coming from upstairs. God, I hate that song, I thought. This generation has moved on to music that requires no talent, I was thinking. "There should be somebody home," a man called out from the yard on the other side. "I saw Christie get home a little while ago." I smiled and knocked again.

There were footsteps coming down the stairs. I heard someone fumbling with the door. "Yes?" a girl asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "Hey there," I said awkwardly. "Uncle Gene. What are you doing here?" she said, finally realizing who I was. "Just passing through."

It had been too long. I couldn't remember my niece's name. This is kind of embarrassing, I told himself. "Come on in," she exclaimed, reaching to hug him. She smelled of baby powder. "Mom's not home. She's at work. Wanta call her?" "No, maybe I'll just surprise her," I said, smiling.

We conducted a conversation in generalized small talk, while I surmised that she must be Christie; but what were the other two nieces names? Soon they would be home and I would have to face a trio of them. This was alarming. I had never once thought of myself as an uncle.

She talked of college. I hadn't thought she was old enough. Did I know anything about Madison? Did I think it was a good school? Did I intend on staying around for a while? I had no answers. She smiled at me politely. Good manners. My sister had done a good job in raising her.

I heard the garage door open. "Must be mom," she exclaimed, jumping up, happy that she wouldn't have to entertain an uncle she knew nothing about. "Whose car is that out front?" my sister asked, stopping in the doorway when she saw me standing there. "Hey sis," I said. "I don't believe it!" she called out, coming over to hug me. "We were just talking about you the other day. I ran into one of your old girl friends at a function." "Which one?" She laughed and replied, "You had so many."

We were almost the same age. As children people thought we were twins. I looked at her and saw that I was getting older. She showed him her home, the big house with the superfluous swimming pool. It all spoke of acquisition, large with some attempts at not appearing ostentatious. I was shocked by most of it. The last time I had visited my sister she was living in an unassuming house in a neighboring town. This was one of the outlets for success.

Then I had nothing. No job. Very little money left. An education that afforded me access to nowhere. Yet I wasn't really envious, just astonished.

The other nieces came home together, arguing. "I can't wait to get my license so I don't have to ride with you ever again," one of them shouted, running up the stairs. "I can't wait to you get it either, so I don't have to drive you and your stupid friends around," the other one yelled up the stairs.

"Look who is here, JoAnn," his sister said sweetly. JoAnn, I thought, hoping I wouldn't forget it. "Hi," she said, puzzled. "It's your Uncle," "Oh yeah," JoAnn said, smiling. "I remember you." Then she walked upstairs. I was relieved. She's my kind of niece, I said to myself.

"Nancy!" his sister called out, "come down here and say hello to your uncle." There was a scampering of feet on the landing then down the stairs. "Uncle Jimmy's here!" she said excitedly, stopping at the bottom step when she saw who it was. "Hi," I said, waving. She stared at me for a minute. "You're that uncle that always travels around." "That's me." There was a painful silence for a moment.

Then my sister said, "Come on in the kitchen so we can catch up on what's going on around this town." I was grateful to my sister for rescuing me. Somehow this was all becoming a burden.

She filled me in on all the gossip. I heard names mentioned that I hadn't thought of in over a decade. In fact, in order to please her, I pretended to remember people that I really didn't. It kept the flow of the conversation going. We had little else to talk about. We were brother and sister but we knew nothing of each other.

The phone rang. "Mom, it's for you," one of the nieces called down from upstairs. "Oh no, that's probably Donna. I'm supposed to play tennis now." She got on the phone and apologized. "Go on and play," I said. "My brother's in town...you don't mind?" I shook my head no. I didn't.

And she was gone. What do I do now? I wondered. I watched TV, hoping none of the nieces would come downstairs and dreading if my brother-in-law should come home from work. I wasn't sure what to say to any of them. The phone rang a few more times. One niece told another that it was her "dorky" boy friend calling. The radio was back on upstairs. Another song that I hated was playing.

"Time to go," I said, pausing at the front door, deciding whether or not to tell them I was leaving. I shut the door behind me. I had one more mandatory visit to make.

Franny, that's what we called her. It had been funny. Calling each other's mom by their first names always made us laugh. Sean had started it. One day we were getting ready to go home from basketball practice and he had said: "I gotta hurry up because Franny will have a cow if I don't get home in time for dinner." "Who's Franny?" I had asked, puzzled. "My mom, stupid," Sean had replied, smiling.

From then on we all referred to our mothers by their first name. "I'll bet Lucy will throw a hissy fit if I get home late tonight," one guy would say and everyone would chuckle. "Gloria's on me about taking my SAT's," another would say. Then, after the novelty of using first names wore off, one of us upped the ante and declared: "Franny's looking mighty good lately...wonder if her old man is satisfying her." This started a whole new dimension of ribald name referencing.

Franny became my de facto foster mother by default. After my mother died, I started spending more and more time at Franny's house. I became her unofficial son. I called Sean's father Uncle Ron, but Franny was always Franny. She was the mother. Three men in the house. Nothing worked without her. Now there was one more son.

The summer before I went off to the Service I spent the entire time at their house, sharing a room with Sean. The transition was painless, even unnoticeable. I was given chores. I walked the dog. It was summer camp with a family.

In the years that followed, I came and went, always keeping in touch. Whenever I was in town I would stay at their house. Franny would always welcome me, asking about my travels, my plans. As memories of my own mother faded, they were replaced by what I experienced with Franny.

Eventually I left it behind. Jettisoned. When I began to minimalize my life I no longer stayed in contact with anyone from my past. It was never a conscious act. As the months stretched into years, I changed. Time and distance, it was something as innocuous at that. I was moving on.

Five years, seven years, it was closer to a decade. I was out there existing, spending time here and there. "I think it's called avoiding," a female friend had told him once a few years back. I didn't like to discuss it. "You know what I'm talking about." The words stung. I didn't want to look at her, at her knowing eyes.

I was almost forty now. No family. No wife. "By society's definition I have nothing," I told a friend who was more of an acquaintance because as usual I knew I would be moving on soon and was probably never going to see the guy again. "I wish I had nothing. Who needs hassles?" the guy had said, smiling. I knew he didn't mean it, that he wouldn't trade his married life for anything else.

Seeing the house affected me. Remembering. Except for the fresh coat of paint, it looked the same. When I got out of the car, I walked over to the side where the dog house used to be. Pepper would come running, wagging her tail, whining, wanting to be petted. She was such a good dog, gentle and affectionate. I stood by the fence for a moment. After Pepper died they had decided to not get another dog. The worn path by the fence where Pepper would run back and forth was now grown in.

A pile of firewood, neatly stacked by Sean, was still there. He had gotten a chain saw as a Christmas gift one year: a gift from Franny; she was tired of seeing him struggle with the old ax, stubbornly hacking away at the wet wood. I could see Sean that first day, revving up the chair saw and cutting away. In no time, he had a cord of firewood ready to be burned.

As I stood there, I suddenly wanted to leave. It wasn't too late. No one had seen me. I could simply walk to my car and drive away. Maybe it would be better if I didn't drop in unannounced, I thought; but I knew if I got back in the car and drove away I would never come back.

I knocked on the door and called out, "Hello, anybody home?" There was no answer at first. I knocked again. A moment later I heard someone call out: "I'm coming." Uncle Ron opened the door. "Yes," he said. I didn't know what to say. A cat meowed at my feet, then lazily slinked out the door and sat on the front porch steps. "Hey, Uncle Ron," I finally uttered. "Gene?" Uncle Ron said, stepping back. "Is that you?"

I shook his hand. I didn't feel comfortable doing anything more demonstrative. Uncle Ron had aged so much it almost took my breath away when I first saw him. Then it was a minor miracle that he was still around. There had been several heart attacks, matched by several operations. Bad diet, and an angry disposition had landed him on the ambulance gurney more than once. On one occasion, when I was dropping off Sean after practice, the paramedics were just coming out of the house wheeling Uncle Ron away. Another heart attack.

The family lived with the uncertainty. Even though Uncle Ron began to adhere to a strict diet and made attempts to alter his temperament, there was always that possibility that something could go wrong. Sean didn't talk about it, choosing to ignore the ramifications of living with a health time bomb.

"Franny, look who's here to see you," Uncle Ron called out. Turning to me, he said, "She's in the bedroom...lying down."

It would take me almost six months to get over the horror. I wasn't prepared. I knew nothing of what had transpired in the previous few months. With a resolve I didn't think I had, I had fought back the tears.

"My goodness...look who it is," she exclaimed, taking off her reading glasses and setting them next to her on the bed.

She was lying there waiting to die. Cancer. I had never had any hesitation before about hugging her. Now. I stood there and said, "How you doing, Franny?"

"You had better get over here and hug me," she said, stretching her arms out.

All her robust congeniality hadn't been dulled by the disease. Her skin felt cold. Uncle Ron lingered in the doorway. "Sit down," she said, patting the bed next to her. I sat down on the bed like I had done so many times before. Sunday mornings, before she would get up and make them all a big breakfast of eggs and pancakes, I would come in and read the newspaper. The bed would be warm, just vacated by Uncle Ron, who would go out for his morning walk. It was like a tradition. We would read articles and then make comments to each other about them. I loved and cherished those memories.

We talked. Uncle Ron left and I could hear him on the phone in the kitchen. I didn't want to look at her, to take away the memory of her that I had. I thought about the time I came over and she was playing a Jimmy Buffet album. I had been surprised that she liked him. "Oh yes," she had said, smiling. "I just love the atmosphere of his songs." We had then sung along with Miss You So Badly, laughing when the song was over at our bad voices. "Sean will be over today...I think this afternoon," Franny said. "I can't wait to see him," I told her, wishing that I could just get up and walk away. It was as if I was watching my mother die all over again.

"Jim can't go," Uncle Ron announced from the doorway. "Something's come up with his family or..." he said not finishing his thought.

"Call the Pickneys, maybe one of them will go with you," Franny suggested.

"Gene, feel like seeing a Redskin game? I got an extra ticket."

In High School, I had been a huge Redskin fan. It seemed strange but I hadn't thought about the team in I couldn't remember when. "I'm not sure. I was supposed to look up some people. You see, I'm only going to be here for a few days."

"Oh, okay," Uncle Ron said, deflated.

This is getting way too emotional for me, I thought, as I began to think of ways to extricate myself from the situation. I was hoping Sean would show up, then I could ease my way out. "You know, I got to make a phone call," I said sheepishly.

"Here, use this phone," Franny said, pointing to the phone on the nightstand.

She answered after the first ring. I didn't know what to say. "Hello?" she repeated. "Nora?" "Yes." "It's Gene." There was silence on the line. Then she said, "I guess I don't have to ask Gene who, do I?" "I guess not," I replied, glancing at Franny, who was reading a paperback book.

It had been so easy. My sister, who knew everyone, had given me her number. She was divorced. No kids. "Sure I'd like to see you, silly. We have a history, you know." Same voice. Same attitude. This borders on being bizarre, I thought.

It took him awhile but I managed to devise a parting excuse. "I'll come by tomorrow," I said from the bedroom doorway, knowing I wouldn't. She smiled. Uncle Ron was sitting on the couch in the living room, mumbling, petting the cat. "I guess I'll see you later, Uncle Ron." He stood up and walked me to the door. "I'll tell Sean you were here. He'll want to see you." "Okay," I said and was gone.

When I got back to my sister's house there was a message on the kitchen counter to call Leslie. Christie came downstairs and told me, "Oh yeah, some woman called you...said to call her back at that number after five." "Thanks," I said, looking at the number. "Old girl friend?" she asked, grinning. I looked up and said, "Something like that."

First Nora, now Leslie, this was becoming a nostalgic creep show. I hadn't thought of seeing her. Somehow I figured she moved away. She came after Nora. They had a complicated relationship. In one of her letters she wrote him she had written about how their romance was "simultaneously too cerebral and too carnal." They were a contradiction, drawn to one another for unexplained reasons. One moment they would be arguing, intellectually debating, then they would be locked in the throes of unbridle passion. "We're like some bad European movie," she had written. I never tried to analyze any of it.

I felt nervous as I dialed her number, hoping my nieces were out of earshot. A young boy answered the phone. He was taken back for a moment before asking for Leslie. "Oh, you want my mom," the boy said, and I heard the phone clunk against the table. Then her voice came on, sounding out of breath.

"I got your message," I said, adding, "this is Gene."

"I just got home from work. I...I don't know what to say all of a sudden. Isn't that strange?" she stated, laughing.

It was all strange, I thought. We had a strained conversation, with both of us desperately trying to establish a footing, something we could feel comfortable with, as we avoided what was in our shared past. Small talk blossomed into brief histories, then I asked: "Want to get together tonight? Get something to eat maybe?" It was done. Now I had a date with an old girl friend who was married.

It's not really a date anyway, I told myself, as I hung up the phone. Two old friends from High School getting together, that's all. Then I called Sean, hoping to include him. His wife told me Sean wouldn't be home until later. He was in Richmond and wouldn't get home until after eight. Logistics: dinner then go over to Sean's house.

"Guess who I ran into?' my sister announced as she came in the back door. "I stopped at the store after my tennis game and there she was. She says you just have to call her."

"Who?"

"Arlene."

Another name from the past, I thought. Didn't anybody leave this place? I wondered. Now I had to make another phone call. "She's dying to talk to you," my sister called out in the background, as I dialed the number.

I was happy to make it a threesome. We met at a Greek restaurant, arriving simultaneously. "Hey, remember when this was a burger joint," Arlene declared, after greeting me with a kiss. She was still beautiful. "This used to be Johnny's" I offered, remembering that it had been a drive-in.

"Hello Arlene," Leslie said, surprised to see her there. "I haven't seen you since the reunion."

Arlene laughed and said, "Do you think the three of us should be seen in public together?"

"I'm not afraid of a little scandal," I joked.

"You don't live here," Leslie said.

We were soon reminiscing, laughing, enjoying old memories we hadn't thought about in years. Good-natured arguments arose when we couldn't agree on some details of the past. For my part, I steered the conversation along, trying to avoid any prolonged recollections that excluded one or the other. With gentle prodding, I got Arlene off the subject about the time we spent a month traveling around Europe together. Leslie was encouraged to tell him about her husband and children.

Going to see Sean was met with enthusiasm. We piled into Leslie's van, while Arlene and I made fun of her for being the consummate housewife with commuter vehicle and all. We got lost a few times trying to find Sean's townhouse. "I can't believe you people live here and can't find your way around," I said, needling them in a friendly tone. Finally, we called Sean and got directions. He was waiting for us in the parking lot.

He hugged me like a brother. A large retriever met us at the door, jumping up, barking, glad to have company to play with. Sean's commands to calm down went mostly unheeded. He introduced his wife, someone he had met out of state. She was younger. She was pretty, and gamely trying to be polite while three of her husband's boisterous friends dropped by.

We sat in the living room and talked. His wife, after a decent interval, excused herself and went off to bed. After an hour's time we seemed to have exhausted all our past connections. The finality of memories hurt.

I sat there in my friend's living room, a witness to three of my past friend's present lives. Sean was a small businessman with a wife and a kid on the way. Arlene was working on another relationship and a dwindling time span to have kids. Leslie had three children and two marriages, with a challenging career.

This was it. They would never have times as happy as they were back then, I thought, as I looked over at Leslie. She looked tired, drained. The last vestiges of her beauty were disappearing. Modern woman, with a job and family, and she was exhausted. It showed. And Arlene, still so beautiful, but there was almost an aura of desperation about her. A failed marriage had left her debilitated. The recovery was taking much longer than expected, as she battled alcoholism. She had changed jobs twice. Her current relationship seemed empty. Yet she still smiled like a beauty queen.

"Another beer?' Sean asked me. I said yes and watched him disappear into the kitchen. He was almost like a brother to me; or he had been at one time. That was before. Years ago. I wished now that I had kept in touch with him. There was a good bond there. Sean seemed the same. He had simply shifted priorities as he went through life, maintaining a sense of himself. But Franny was dying and he knew it would shake his foundation.

At my suggestion, we called it a night. "Stay here," Sean urged. "You don't want to stay with your sister." "No-no, I've already got a place lined up," I lied. "Okay, suit yourself," he said, walking us out to Leslie's van. I said good-bye. "Call me tomorrow and we'll get together before you leave." I said I would.

We drove back to the restaurant to pick up the other two cars. "Don't you just hate good-byes," Arlene said tearfully. She hugged me and clumsily kissed me on the lips. I laughed. "Call me again sometime," she said and got in her car. Leslie and I watched her drive away.

"I guess it's my turn," she stated, hugging me. We kissed. I couldn't help but think of the times we spent together on her parent's couch late at night stealing kisses while her parents slept. "Do you ever think of what it would of been like if we got married?" she asked suddenly, smiling at me.

"A disaster," I answered and she smacked me playfully.

"It was so good to see you," she said, kissing me again.

"I'm glad we got together," I said, hugging her, hoping I wouldn't start crying.

"You've got my number...and my address so call me or write. I'd like that. Next time you come through town maybe you can meet my family." I smiled at that. "Maybe not," she then said, laughing.

I watched her van pull out of the parking lot then turned to get in my rental car. There was only one motel in town. I drove there hoping they had a room. It was half empty. I sat in my room and stared at a late night TV show, trying not to think about any of it, holding off the emotional onslaught. I finally fell asleep with the TV on.

The next morning I went to my old High School to run on the track. I had taken up jogging recently, which surprised me because I hated the very idea of running. Soon I found that I liked it. It gave me time to think as I was exercising. Running was something I could do anywhere. Before long I was doing 10K runs.

There were two other men running on the track when I got there. I started out slow at first, fighting off nausea from the beers I had the night before. Then I got into a groove and pounded out a steady pace, going round and round the track. The other two men stopped after awhile and sat on the bleachers and watched me go around. I ran until I couldn't go any longer.

"Training for a marathon?" one of the men asked me as I was walking by. I shook my head no and got in my car and drove away. My whole body was aching, while my legs felt so weak I could hardly push the gas pedal. I stopped in a 7/11 and bought two large bottles of water and some packaged cookies. I drove to a nearby park and drank almost all the water until I thought I was going to be sick.

I showered back at the motel. Then I called Nora. My flight was leaving that evening. I didn't want to change it. She had to work but she would meet me for a drink at the airport. This seemed somehow ridiculous to me but I agreed.

That day I drove around town. There were so many new buildings and businesses. There didn't seem to be any connection to the past, my past. This pleased me. Change. It was the order of things.

Finally, the famous control tower of Dulles airport came into view. I turned in my rental car and took the shuttle bus over to the terminal. As usual, the airport was busy. I found the bar Nora had mentioned. It was smoky inside so I stood out front and waited. One more encounter, I thought, almost laughing.

I checked my watch again. We wouldn't have much time to visit if she didn't get there soon. It was a stupid idea anyway, I said to myself. A few flight attendants stopped next to me and discussed their next flight. "God I hate this run," one of them said and they scurried off, pulling their little wheeled luggage. I could hear a group of businessmen inside the bar arguing about the Redskin game. "No way they should have lost that game," one of them declared.

My flight was being called. I was glad. "No more walks down memory lane," I said under my breath, handing my boarding pass to the flight attendant, who muttered something I didn't hear. I stopped a moment for one last look then got on the plane.

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