 
LONG STORY SHORT

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

Follow The Contrails

Heaven On Earth

A Rush Of Silence

Federal Folkways

The Opening Is Closing

(Photo Books)

A2Z

Magic City

Sand People

Flesh

Dance

Little Fists

Human Condition

High School Rodeo

Table Of Contents:

Chapter 1: Lonestar Madness...Sadness

Chapter 2: Formosa

Chapter 3: Springfield 15

Chapter 4: Drownproof

Chapter 5: If You Knew Susie

Chapter 6: Bombing For Dollars

Chapter 7: Reunion

Chapter 8: The Date

Chapter 9: Saving The Sea Monster

Chapter 10: Loon On The Lake

Chapter 11: Crossing The Pond

Chapter 12: Over The Weekend

Chapter 13: Land Of Milk And Honey

Chapter 14: Dos Cervezas

Chapter 15: Demolition For Dummies

FAMILY BENSON

Chapter 1: Lonestar Madness...Sadness

August. Horn toads hid under the porch desperately trying to escape the harsh noonday sun. A half dozen dogs lay on their sides panting, with pink tongues hanging in the arid dirt. Tar bubbled on the road in front of the house.

"You know it's your nap time," Mrs. Benson called out again. "I'm not going to tell you anymore. I'd better not hear any more noise out of your room. Do you want me to tell Daddy you've been bad when he gets home tonight?"

There was silence from his room. Scott could just hear his two sisters mumbling, then suppressing giggles. "That goes for you two girls too," his mother threatened.

There was sudden quiet in the house. Ice cubes clinked in her glass of ice tea as she took a long, slow sip. A fine patina of sweat formed on her upper lip as she concentrated on her sewing. If I only had a nickel for every button I've had to replace, she thought.

Scott lay there on his bed looking out the window at the china berry tree across the street. He wondered if Ooby-dooby was taking a nap too. Maybe not. His family was different. "Just this side of white trash," was what his mother called them.

There always seemed to be loud noises coming from the Middy's house, usually repetitious hillbilly music or, when Mrs. Middy was in the mood, the vibrating sounds of the new Rock and Roll. Ooby-dooby, Scott's playmate, had gotten his nickname from a new Roy Orbison song Mrs. Middy liked to play. The song was named after one of the strange new dances the kids were doing.

The Middy's only son somehow always had the same reaction when the 45 came on the radio. With little encouragement, the five year old would flinch, jerk, and sway to the beat, while his parents howled their approval. It wasn't long before the entire neighborhood was calling him Ooby-dooby, or just Ooby for short.

Scott raised up on his elbow and stared out the window. Often times he could see Ooby-dooby's sister, Shirley, sitting in the china berry tree. It was a huge tree that dwarfed their house. When it was windy the branches would sway dangerously close to the windows. Shirley liked to climb up as high as she could go and swing her weight on the supple limbs.

She was older, on the brink of her teens. Her blond hair hung way down her back. "There he is, my little boyfriend," Shirley would always call out, reaching for him, grabbing, wanting to smooch his face, then hug him. Scott pretended not to like it, her attention, but secretly he relished being kissed by her, his blond beauty.

The Benson family was one of the few Air Force families living off Base. Caleb's mom hated military bases. "Full of snooty brass types that think their shit doesn't stink," she liked to say. Mrs. Benson wasn't too fond of the hick town they had to live in either, but then again she imagined all of Texas was populated by the same kind of places. She was sure Texas was the hottest, ugliest place on earth, and "deathly flat" as well. Both Mr. and Mrs. Benson were from the Smoky Mountains, a cool, scenic paradise in comparison.

Mr. Benson had found this three bedroom house near the Base right after he was assigned to his new duties. The Benson family was used to the frequent moves the military required. Everyone accepted it now after many transfers to various parts of the country.

The Air Force was their guardian. It brought them a certain nurturance, supplying them with everything necessary to live. In time, the family developed a hardened respect for the USAF; although they did complain about some of the conditions that came with living under the military's care. "Sometimes I wonder if I can even go to the bathroom without them knowing about it," Mrs. Benson like to say. Mr. Benson, on his part, was grateful. He was able to pursue what he loved most in the world.

"How much longer MOM?" Scott called out from his bedroom exile.

"Another half an hour, hon. Now hush. Don't be bothering me or I'll make you stay in there longer," his mother replied, smiling, knowing her peace and quiet for the day was about to be over.

There was a loud whine overhead, then a stuttering and the unmistakable crackling of an airplane's engine. "Damn him," Mrs. Benson uttered, rising to look out the window. There was a stampede of little feet. In chorus: "It's Daddy!" "He's doing it again!" Scott sang out gleefully.

The Piper Cub banked off, turned, dipped its wings sluggishly, and made another pass. "Daddy!" Scott screamed out the window, waving frantically.

"He can't hear you, stupid," Karen, his oldest sister chided.

"If you all don't get back in those beds now, I'll make your nap time longer," Mrs. Benson threatened.

"Mother!" Tina, the other sister, whined. "Let us go outside and wave at him. Just once, please," she pleaded.

"You'll only encourage him. He'll be buzzing the house all day then."

"He'd run out of fuel," Scott said, grinning.

"Alright. Hurry up then. Just wave and get your fannies back in here," she commanded, shaking her head wearily.

The tiny red plane disappeared in the distance for a moment before it climbed then did a lazy roll and headed back. The kids were jumping up and down on the front sidewalk, waving their arms and shouting. Mrs. Benson was sipping her ice tea and muttering about how she was going to have a word with her husband, the daredevil pilot.

She hadn't forgotten five years before, in Florida, how she had agreed to go up with him. It was an old bi-plane. He had bought it for practically nothing, keeping it in a field in the Everglades. The wings still had some of the original fabric covering and there were no instruments. After many times trying, he had gotten down the start routine of a plane without an ignition. Prime the engine, rotate the prop, then run around and jump in the open cockpit and juice up the throttle.

On this fateful flight they had run out of gas over Homestead. He had brought the plane down in a farmer's field. Mr. Benson had said to a surprised farmer: "Fill 'er up, please." After borrowing some fuel, they had taken off, narrowly clearing some telephone lines at the end of the field. "Raise your feet up, honey," he had shouted out to her, as the landing gear wheels rolled over the wires. She had screamed, and screamed, sure they would be electrocuted.

"Can't happen," he had said later when they were safely on the ground. "Telephone wires won't electrocute you. Now the wires might have gotten caught up in the landing gear and we would have flipped over and probably broken our necks," he had explained, smirking. She was sure she wanted to strangle him, but he had that twinkle in his blue eyes that he got when he was being playful so she just laughed, relieved they had made it back.

At treetop level, Mr. Benson tipped his wings right overhead then banked off and was gone. "Did you see? Daddy tipped the wings. That means he saw us!" Scott exclaimed excitedly. "No shock--Sherlock," Karen shot back and the two sisters laughed as they ran back inside. Sometimes Scott thought he hated his two sisters.

"Back to your rooms," Mrs. Benson said, pointing down the hall.

"Aw mom," the kids whined in chorus.

"Nobody said anything about naptime being over," she stated. "Just because your father thought it would be real cute to buzz the house again doesn't mean the rules around here are suddenly changed."

"It's too hot to take a nap," Karen declared from the hallway. "I think I'm going to suffocate. And it'll be your fault, mother."

"I'll be sure to call an ambulance for you, hon."

The others laughed and trooped back to their rooms; while Karen glared at her mother and muttered, "Real funny." Mrs. Benson sighed heavily, returning to her ice tea and sewing.

It hadn't been that long ago. Scott had turned six. He had been promised. Mrs. Benson was dead set against it. The sisters were envious, and angry at being left out.

"Are you scared?" Tina had asked when they were playing in the front yard one day.

"I bet he loses his cookies as soon as they get off the ground," Karen stated, laughing.

"Will not," Scott shot back, knowing quite well there was a good chance of him vomiting. Just last summer he had thrown up on the roller coaster ride at the amusement park.

He had asked his father to take him up in the Piper Cub. His father's reply had surprised him. He never supposed the answer would be yes. "When you turn six I'll take you up for a spin in the wild blue yonder," Mr. Benson had said, mussing his son's hair, smiling; and there was that twinkle in his blue eyes when he was being playful.

Mrs. Benson had looked up from the table, where she was serving up helpings for dinner and said, "Your daddy's just fooling with you, pumpkin. Aren't you, honey?"

Everyone at the table turned to look at Mr. Benson. "Who's fooling? Like father like son, right?" he chortled, smiling.

"That's not fair," Karen exclaimed. "I want to go up too."

"You're a girl," Scott said flatly.

"And you're a little turd," she retorted angrily.

"Karen!" Mrs. Benson said. "That's enough of that."

"Oh sure, take his side. Just because he's a boy. Make me sick," she shouted, dashing out the door.

"Young lady, you had better get back in here right now or I'm going to tan your hide good. You hear me?' Mrs. Benson shouted out. "Don't make me say it again."

It had been a Saturday morning. Mr. Benson called out from the garage: "Looks like a good day to go flying." Mrs. Benson shot him a murderous look. Scott had almost forgotten about it. A steady throbbing of nerves began to pound in his stomach.

They drove to the Base in silence. The guard at the gate waved them through with a salute. A few fighter planes took off in formation, then separated and began to do graceful turns. Mr. Benson eyed them out the window as he drove, muttering.

The car, a black 51 Ford with a dented right front fender, sputtered to a stop. "Carb needs work," Mr. Benson mumbled, then he turned to his son and smiled. "Ready?" "I guess so," Scott said nervously.

They walked across the hot tarmac. Scott could see the Piper sitting off to the side of the hanger. It was the brightest, most beautiful color of red he had ever seen. A few of the ground crew joked with his father for a minute. "I'm taking my son up for a spin," he explained. They said something in return that Scott didn't understand and Mr. Benson laughed. "If he's a Benson he's got 'em alright...big as an elephant's." More laughing.

The cockpit was a two-seater, one behind the other. His father helped him in his seat, adjusting the seatbelts to accommodate his small body. Then he climbed in and a moment later there was a painful whine, before the engine burst to life. The plane inched forward. A few of the ground crew waved, giving Mr. Benson the thumbs up sign.

Scott gripped the sides of the airplane and braced himself back against the seat. Hangers drifted by the cockpit windows. The Piper rocked gently to and fro as they made their way down the runway. Why did I ask my dad to do this? echoed in Scott's mind.

"Ready, son?" Mr. Benson shouted over the engine. "Well, I guess you have better be because here we go!"

The engine roared as the prop became invisible, just a dizzying blur ahead of them. Scott planted his head against the seat and closed his eyes. Wind rustled by the cockpit. The Piper bounced along, each and every bump rattled through the aircraft. He was sure they couldn't possibly go this fast and not crash. "Off we go...into the wild blue yonder!" Mr. Benson sang out as he pulled back on the joy stick.

There was a heavy thud and the piper lifted off. Mr. Benson banked off and started to climb. Scott couldn't open his eyes. Maybe if I don't see outside it'll be better, he told himself. His dad was humming, then began to point out different landmarks below.

"Are you ready for a few maneuvers?' Mr. Benson asked. Scott forced his eyes open. He could barely see over the fuselage. When his dad tipped the wings he could just see the treetops. "This ain't so bad," he mumbled. "Ready or not, here we go," Mr. Benson shouted.

The Piper lurched slightly, then they were diving. Scott felt the seat belt against his body. An acid ping coursed through his stomach. He tried to catch his breath. Just as quickly they were climbing. His head fell back against the seat. "Going down?" Mr. Benson shouted jokingly, as he plunged them into a dive again.

Above him the clouds were rushing away and Scott again closed his eyes, hoping to shield out the inevitable. Waiting, when would he feel the impact? The Piper slowly leveled off and they were flying low over a rancher's pasture. Cattle were scurrying in every direction. "Round up time!" Mr. Benson cried out, laughing. "There's going to be one pee-owed rancher."

The Piper swung to the right and they were climbing again. Scott opened his eyes long enough to see dust flying up from the stampeding cattle. It seemed like they had been flying for hours, days. There was a soft, wonderful feeling to Scott's stomach now. Maybe it's over, he thought hopefully.

The serene sensation was abruptly replaced by a sudden jolt and they were back on the ground. When they finally taxied into the hanger area, and the plane's engine groaned to a stop, Scott was thankful he hadn't thrown up. He was fearful of what reaction his father would have. Was it acceptable for a six year old, and a pilot's son, to get sick while flying?

"How did it go, tiger?" one of the ground crew asked, patting Scott on the head as he helped him out of the plane. "Looks a little green, sir. Might be a candidate for the Army."

Mr. Benson stopped, turned, and looked at his son. "Better not be," he declared.

Scott had been dozing. He woke up suddenly and felt groggy from the heat. There was noise outside. He heard his sisters saying something to his mother. Was naptime over? He looked out his bedroom window and could see a cluster of cars parked at odd angles in front of his house. A police car's light blinked dimly in the bright Texas sun.

"Mom, what's going on outside?" he called out, as he walked into the living room. "Mom, where are you?"

His mother rushed to the front door, holding the screen door shut. He could see his sisters standing behind her, staring out at the street. "Stay in there now, pumpkin, okay. Mommy wants you to stay right there," she ordered gently.

Scott was confused. What was it? He could now see that his sisters were crying. He pushed against the screen door but his mother was holding it closed. "Mom," he said, looking closely at her through the screen, "what's going on out there?"

"Go back to your room, Scott. Please. Just do as I tell you."

"But Karen and Tina are out there...why can't I come outside too?"

"Go back to your room now," his mother said in an angry tone, pointing in the house.

Sulking, he retreated back into the house, stopping at the doorway to his bedroom. From there he could see an ambulance arriving. Then he saw Shirley come running from beside the house. She was screaming. A moment later, he was sneaking out the back door.

He slipped around the side of the house and stood, watching. A policeman was holding Shirley back. She was fighting to get away. A group of neighbors had gathered beside a car that was parked in the middle of the road. He could hear a few of them exchanging angry words with the driver.

Scott cut across their next door neighbor's lawn and walked up the street on the opposite side. He saw Shirley's mother sitting on the ground with her head in her hands. Another policeman was standing over her, mumbling something. A neighbor said something to him as he walked by but Scott ignored him and kept going. "We're gonna have to git this car moved," he heard the ambulance driver say.

Then he saw it. Wedged up underneath the car parked in the middle of the road was a lump of tattered clothing. He heard Shirley scream out again. He walked closer. "You'll have to git back, son," the ambulance driver said. Peering underneath the car, he came face to face with the battered and bloodied face of his playmate. "Ooby," he managed to utter. It felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

"Maybe we should jack up the car so we can git him out of there," he heard one of the policeman whisper.

"Git that boy out of here!" the ambulance driver said angrily.

Scott was led away, where his mother latched onto his arm and dragged him back into the house. "Ooby's dead, mom," he said, dazed. "Run over like a dog."

She hugged him and said, "Ooby's gone to heaven, pumpkin. They'll take good care of him." He was trying to fight back the tears. "Why don't you go back to your room and lie down."

He sat on his bed looking at the ambulance lights flashing. Their parents were always telling them to look both ways before you cross the street. He was beginning to sob. "Ooby," he whispered.

Scott woke up to the sound of percolating coffee, with its seductive aroma wafting in from the kitchen. A fine crust of tears had dried on his cheeks after he cried himself to sleep. He had struggled in his sleep not to recall the horror of seeing his friend's death mask, a gnarled and scraped expression of bloody agony. He could hear his dad talking. Outside, his dogs were barking and Karen was shouting about something.

"He'll be alright," his father said in a hushed tone, trying to reassure Mrs. Benson.

"But he's only six years old," Mrs. Benson muttered.

"Kids get over this stuff," Mr. Benson stated.

"Good-morning, pumpkin," Mrs. Benson exclaimed cheerily, noticing Scott standing in the kitchen doorway. "Ready for some breakfast, sleepyhead?"

"I guess so."

Karen then burst into the kitchen, shouting: "There at it again, mom. I can't shoo them away. They're his stupid dogs anyway," she said, disgusted.

"You leave my dogs alone," Scott threatened.

"I'm going to take a broom and whack 'em good," Karen declared, dashing out the door.

Scott ran after her. "Kids!" Mrs. Benson shouted. "Do something, honey," she begged. Mr. Benson shrugged his shoulders.

Scott's half dozen dogs, several years worth of collecting strays, were circling in the middle of the street. Karen charged them with the broom, momentarily causing the dogs to scatter. "Leave them alone," Scott screamed. "They won't stop sniffing at it," she said, brandishing the broom again. "What?" he asked, looking down at the large discolored spot on the road. "I think I'm going to barf," his sister said, running back in the house.

A few dogs drifted back, hesitantly sniffing the road. A crimson stain had made a mosaic on the hot asphalt. Scott looked down and saw where a button had gotten embedded in the tar. All of the dogs were now sniffing around his feet.

"Scott," his dad called from the front porch, "come on back in here. Your mother's got breakfast on the table." And turning to his wife, he said: "I'll get some bleach and pour it on the spot. That should keep the dogs away."

"My little boy's going to school," Mrs. Benson sang out, smooching him on the cheek, where he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Big deal," Karen stated, pinching his arm.

"Ow! Mom!" Scott screamed out.

"Big baby," she teased, running out the door, laughing.

"Now you have to go to school...have to go to school...have to go to school," Tina chanted. "You're going to hate it, it's awful."

They lived across the street from the elementary school. Scott had seen the adolescent rite of passage twice before when his sisters were led off to school. He had tried not to think about it.

"You'll do just fine," his mother reassured him.

"Wanna bet," Tina challenged, smiling.

"Shush now," his mother ordered, frowning. "Don't listen to your sisters. They were all jittery too when they went off to school."

"Were not," Karen declared through the kitchen screen door. "He's such a dumbhead. Can't we change his last name so nobody will know he's my brother?"

"Karen, where on earth do you get these ideas? Sometimes I think there's something wrong with you. I really do," their mother mumbled, shaking her head.

"Mother! the dogs are acting up again," Karen shouted over the din of echoing barks.

"Pumpkin, go out there and straighten out those dogs of yours, will you. I don't know why your father ever let you take in all those mutts anyway," Mrs. Benson muttered. "Nothing but a bunch of flea bags."

The dogs were in a knot, growling, snarling, and biting in an attempt to wrest a bone away from one of the other dogs. Scott waded right in the middle of them, smacking heads as he went along. They respectfully retreated, standing off to the side, glaring at the half German shepherd half husky who triumphantly chomped on the bone with his nose buried in the dirt.

Scott walked right up to him and grabbed the bone. The mongrel snarled through clenched teeth, not relinquishing the bone. "Let it go, Wolf," he commanded, giving the bone a quick yank. Wolf growled and pulled away. The other dogs began to bark, a whole chorus of different types of barks, some guttural and some high pitched and plaintive.

"I'm going to count to three and if you don't give me that bone...I'm going to..."Scott said, pausing for a moment to think of some suitable punishment, "to hit you over the head with a board or something." Wolf turned his back to him and started to chew on the bone again.

Scott walked over to the dog and, straddling the mongrel, grabbed Wolf by the ears and yanked as hard as he could. The dog howled. Another dog dashed in to steal the bone but Scott was quick to hold him off, while he stepped on the bone. Wolf angrily started chewing on his shoe. "Leave my shoe alone," Scott shouted, smacking him on the head. Wolf retreated a few steps. He bent over and picked up the bone, placed it in his mouth, then walked over to Wolf. Bending down, he offered it to the dog, who hesitantly sniffed at the bone.

Mrs. Benson watched from the kitchen door. My son the dog tamer, she thought, chuckling. On one occasion she had seen her son get down on all fours and challenge one of the new arrivals to the adoptive litter, a large, bony, part Labrador. Scott had charged the dog, snarling and growling. The dog had retreated, confused. She was sure one day he would be mauled by these hungry strays. Yet time after time she had seen him manage the pack, fearlessly ordering them to do what he wanted them to.

Scott stood up and patted Wolf on the head, yelling to the other dogs: "Nobody gets the bone."

"You have Mrs. Tyler, oh no," Karen and Tina exclaimed that night after dinner.

"What's wrong with her?" Scott asked innocently.

Karen rolled her eyes and said, "She's only the worst teacher in the whole school, that's what."

"Yeah, the worst," Tina chimed in.

"She once made a boy in her class stay after school almost all night long doing arithmetic problems. He didn't get any supper and he didn't get to go to sleep either," she said, winking at her sister.

"Mom wouldn't allow that to happen," he said, adding, "would she?"

"There's nothing mom can do about it," Karen replied ominously. "Once you go to school there's nothing parents can do about it. It's the state law of Texas."

"Is not," Scott said hopefully.

"Is too. Ask Tina. Isn't that right, Tina?"

Tina fought off a grin and said, "Texas is one dumb state, Scott. They do everything different down here."

"I asked Shirley and she said school wasn't so bad," he stated, wishing Shirley was here to refute his sisters lies.

"Shirley's just trying to make you feel...uh...less nervous about going to school for the first time," Karen explained. "She didn't want you to be scared or nothing."

"I laid out what you are to wear to school tomorrow, okay pumpkin," Mrs. Benson called out from the kitchen, where she was finishing up the dishes.

"Pumpkin's first day of school-ool," his sisters sang out, laughing.

"Mom, I told you not to call me that anymore," Scott pleaded.

Lying across his bed was a new button up shirt and blue pants, with a belt. Buttons were almost a novelty to him because all he ever wore were t-shirts; and a belt, he hated belts. Then he saw at the foot of the bed a pair of shiny new leather shoes. He stood there and stared at them.

"MOM!" he called out, "I'm not going to wear these stupid shoes."

"Oh yes you are," he heard his mother reply in a sing-song voice.

"Why can't I wear my sneakers?"

"'Cause you are going to school now, little brother," Karen interjected, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, grinning. "Boy are you going to have fun tomorrow. Loads of it," she said, shaking her head.

"Get out of my room."

"I can't wait to tomorrow. How about you?" she taunted.

"If you don't leave me alone I'm going to sic my dogs on you," he threatened.

"You and your stupid dogs. Just like some hick in the woods somewhere. Nothing but an embarrassment to the whole family," she said, as she walked away laughing.

The Mead Elementary School was laid out in a series of ground floor open winged hallways. Although Scott had been on the school grounds on many occasions, it all seemed different now, and vaguely intimidating. He was glad, thankful that Shirley had walked with him to school. His sisters had run on ahead, mortified that the Benson clan was showing up at school with a pack of hounds following them.

"I can't help it," Scott whined. "They want to follow me."

"So what," Shirley exclaimed, smiling. "What's wrong with dogs anyway?'

"Nothing, I guess," he said, turning around to look at his canine entourage.

Some of the kids were stopping to pet the dogs. A woman standing out front frowned disapprovingly. Scott shooed them away, demanding that they return home. A few of the more obedient ones slinked away, tails between their legs, while the others lingered on the school grounds happily accepting the kid's attention.

"Young man," the teacher called out, "are those your dogs?"

"Uh huh," Scott replied in a low voice.

"Don't sass her," Shirley whispered.

"A school is no place for dogs. What is your name?"

"Scott Benson."

"You must be Karen and Tina's little brother. Well, I suggest you return your dogs home and get back here as soon as you can. You don't want to be late for the first day of school."

"Nope," he said, as he dashed away, with the dogs in tow.

The bell was ringing as he made his way down the hall. Stopping, he looked back to see Wolf standing in the driveway to the school. A school bus pulled into the parking lot and the driver blew the horn. Wolf lazily moved out of the road. Scott shook his finger at him as he walked into the classroom.

His life, his world as he knew it, came to a stop. When the teacher closed the door behind him, he knew the freeform style of life was over. Ahead of him were years of regimentation. In just seeing those rows of desks Scott knew everything had changed.

The day passed slowly. Mrs. Tyler, a tall woman with a voice that seemed to reverberate throughout the classroom, bombarded them with new...things: vowels, letters, the entire alphabet and numbers. It was all strange.

At lunch, while a din of voices echoed all around him, Scott gingerly massaged his right hand. He could still see the letters before his eyes, floating, the pencil lead flowing out onto the paper like his own blood. "Too crooked, Scott," he heard over and over again, a sibilant criticism coming just over his right ear. A girl seated next to him had given him a pitying expression, as if to say: It's okay to be stupid.

The lunch room smelled different, almost evil. What were they cooking back in the kitchen? he wondered. He could hear older women talking loudly to each other, as the clatter of metal utensils drowned out their words. He had brought his lunch. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, what else would anybody want to eat? Next to him a chubby boy was busy trying to cut some strange looking meat with his fork. The boy looked up for an instant revealing a white mustache from the milk had just gulped down, then returned to sawing away at the cafeteria food.

Scott knew no one here. He was surprised that there was this many kids out there beyond his neighborhood. Was his neighborhood block so small? Where had all these kids come from?

After an eternity it was over. The last bell rang. Kids flowed out into the open halls. Most of the boys immediately ran to the schoolyard, glad to be free again. Buses churned away from the curb, taking a mobile symphony of chattering voices away. And Scott trudged home.

The dogs met him at the corner, circling around and around him, barking and whining for his attention. He petted each one of them, offering a few affectionate words. He looked up to see his mother standing on the front porch. She waved.

"How was my little boy's first day of school?"

"I hate it," Scott replied as he walked past his mother, through the front door, and on out the back door. He retreated to the back yard where he and Ooby had built a small fort out of packing crates. Sitting there, with his dogs, he wished he could just go away, away from his sisters, the school...Texas. "Why did everything have to change?" he asked the dogs lying at his feet. Then he noticed there were only five dogs. Wolf wasn't with the other dogs. Maybe he was running around the neighborhood, Scott thought.

That night, after dinner, he sat on the back porch and waited. He fed the other dogs. His mother had told him not to worry. He knew. They were strays. They would disappear just as suddenly as they had appeared. Wolf was his favorite though. Wolf had been the first dog he had taken in.

One morning he had walked out the back door and there he was sleeping on the back porch step. Mrs. Benson was afraid of him because he was so big, and he did look like a wolf. Scott had walked right up to him and patted the dog on the head. His sisters had screamed from the window: "Don't touch him!"

"That dog could have bitten your hand right off," Tina had said later, awed by her little brother's foolish courage.

Scott fed him table scraps and convinced his parents to let him keep the dog. They were soon inseparable. After that, strays just seem to arrive at their house. Scott gave them all a home.

The school days passed slowly, marked by the monotony of repetitious learning, made more miserable by the Texas heat, which lingered in the classrooms into September. Scott found himself longing for the weekends. Yet he was adapting. Bits and pieces of knowledge were finding their way into his brain, although he didn't know exactly how. Mrs. Tyler just one day began to make sense, and she was actually smiling sometimes.

"Will Scott Benson please come to the office immediately," a stern voice commanded over the classroom intercom one morning. He froze. It seemed like thousands of voices were murmuring all around him. A girl beside him hissed something but he couldn't understand her. He was suddenly deaf. A loud buzz was echoing in his ears.

"Scott," Mrs. Tyler called from the front of the classroom, "I think you had better get going."

He looked up from his arithmetic book. Everybody's looking at me, he thought, wishing at that very moment in time he could just up and fly away, maybe just vanish into thin air. The girl beside him hissed something again and he turned to see she was rubbing her forefinger against the other to indicate: Shame on you.

He wanted the walk to the office to take forever. What did I do? he wondered. It was strange to be walking in the empty halls, passing by classrooms where he could hear the booming voice of different teachers and occasionally laughter. Laughter? Why don't we laugh in Mrs. Tyler's class? It didn't seem possible that there would be anything funny about school.

He stopped by one classroom and peered in the tiny window in the door. There in the corner was Tina. She was reading aloud from a book. Her clear, precise voice penetrated through the outside noises. I should make a face in the window, maybe she'll notice and start laughing, he thought. Then Mr. Tillis, the janitor, came walking down the hall carrying a broom, so he continued on to the Principal's office.

"Yes?" the secretary said.

"I'm Scott Benson," he said contritely in a low voice, steeling himself for whatever he was about to be punished for.

"Oh, that's right, come with me now," the secretary said, smiling. She's smiling at me, Scott thought.

"Have a seat, young man," the Principal said as the secretary led him into her office. "Scott, we have a problem and were wondering if you could help us out."

"You do," Scott blurted out, relieved that somehow he didn't seem to be in any trouble.

"Yes we do. When they built these schools, with the open halls and all, they didn't count on having to deal with roving dogs." Did she say dogs? he wondered. "Every once in a while we get a stray wandering in here off the street and it's a problem, you know. The dogs find their way into the classrooms and then the children start to fuss over them and all. Well, you know. Anyway, they're a nuisance.

"You seem to have a reputation about handling dogs. Your sister tells me you have six dogs. What I need for you to do is...well...round them up once and a while. Sounds unusual, I know, but Mr. Tillis...he sort of just doesn't like dealing with them--the strays."

"They're just dogs," Scott stated, shocked that he had spoken at all.

"Oh, I know that, young man," the Principal said, standing up and walking around her desk. "It's just that Mr. Tillis has his nerves to worry about and...well you wouldn't understand really, Scott. Over in Korea he...anyway. What I need you to do is just get them out of the classrooms and on off the school grounds. Sound like something you can handle, Scott?"

"Yep. I mean yes ma am," he answered eagerly.

"Good then. What we will do is just call you on the intercom when we need your assistance. You can go on back to class now."

Three days later, as they were rehearsing the alphabet, the intercom crackled and Scott heard his name again. This time he was ordered to classroom 110. Mrs. Tyler stood with her hands on her hips and said with just a hint of disapproval in her voice: "Don't be long now, Scott." He passed by all the envious looks as he walked out of the classroom.

110 is Karen's classroom, he thought. He could hear the commotion when he rounded the corner. The teacher, an older woman with a high pitched voice, was standing in the doorway waving her arms and saying: "Shoo-shoo, go on now." The kids were all standing by their desks and laughing.

Scott walked right in and grabbed the dog by the back of the neck. The mongrel growled. A few girls in the class shrieked. The teacher retreated behind her desk. When the dog bared his teeth Scott smacked him on the nose, then led him out the door into the hallway.

There was a rush to the door to see what would happen next. The teacher was shouting for the kids to return to their desks but they had spilled out into the hallway. Scott gently rubbed the dog's nose and loosened his grip. The mongrel stood and looked up at him.

A boy in the class then yelled out: "Dog boy!" Everyone snickered. The teacher began to lead her students back inside. A few of the kids were chanting: "Dog boy-Dog boy!" Scott grinned as he lead the dog away. Before closing her door, the teacher said, "Thank you."

Later that day, after school, Karen burst into their house and screamed at her mother, "I'm never going back to that school again!"

"What ever is the matter with you," Mrs. Benson wanted to know, amused by her eldest's melodramatics.

"Oh nothing's wrong, mom, just that my little brother embarrassed me to death today. I swear I am never ever going back to that school again. I mean it, mom."

"What did Scott do now?" Mrs. Benson asked, as Tina and Scott walked in the door.

"Ask him, ask dog boy," she spat out, shaking her fists at her brother.

"What went on today at school? Tina. Scott. Somebody tell me what your sister is going on about, please."

"I'm too embarrassed to ever ever go back there again. Mother, you and daddy are going to have to send me to private school. I swear, you are going to have--"

"Oh shut up," Scott exclaimed.

"You shut up, you little weirdo--DOG BOY," Karen shouted at him.

"What is this dog boy stuff all about, Karen?" Mrs. Benson asked, puzzled.

"My little brother is now dog catcher for Mead Elementary School. I just know I am never going to be able to show my face in that school again," she wailed, stomping into her bedroom and slamming the door.

It was a Saturday. Halloween was that night. Scott was going as a skeleton. His mom had bought him the costume at Sears. "What are you going as?" he asked Tina. "A nurse," she replied arrogantly, as if her costume was better than his. "Didn't you go as a nurse last year?" he asked. "So, is that a crime or something?" she shot back. Karen came into the room and looked at them trying on their costumes, then said disdainfully, "Halloween...oh brother, sometimes I forget how immature you two really are."

There was a gunshot--loud, which reverberated through the open windows. Scott ran out the backdoor and stood on the porch. The dogs were circling around nervously. "I wonder where that came from," Mrs. Benson said, walking out onto the porch. Scott jumped off the porch and was gone, running in the direction of the gunshot. "Scott Benson, you get back here this instant," Mrs. Benson called out.

There was another shot. It was coming from the direction of the school. Scott turned and ran hard. He could see two police cars parked at the school. A car blew its horn as he cut across the street in front of it. He ran up and down the halls looking for the policemen, almost tripping on the pant legs of the skeleton costume because they were too long.

A few of the teachers still at the school afterhours were sticking their heads out of the classroom doors. Mr. Tillis had stopped mopping a hallway and was leaning on the mop. Scott stopped for a moment and listened, trying to control his breathing. He heard voices towards the back of the school. He turned and ran.

"Over here, Jim," he heard one of the policeman shout. "I think I winged him."

"Over where?"

"By the garbage cans. See him?"

The policeman was raising his shotgun into position. Scott ran around the corner and stopped. "Hey kid, git back over here," one of the policemen shouted out. Scott was standing between the police and the garbage cans. Then he saw what they were aiming at. Crouching over one of the overturned cans was Wolf. "Wolf!" he cried out.

There was a thunderous boom and Wolf rocked back against the garbage can. His head twitched a few times from side to side and then he was still. "Finally got 'em," one of the policemen shouted.

"No," Scott screamed, running over to where Wolf lay dead. He knelt down and started to stroke his bloody coat.

"Git back now, son. You shouldn't touch 'em."

"It's my dog! That's Wolf. You shot Wolf," Scott cried out, as one of the policemen led him away.

"Sorry son, but the dog's got rabies. We had to shoot 'em."

"No he didn't. Wolf was my friend--my first dog." Scott exclaimed.

"Jim, git 'em out here, will ya," the other policemen ordered sternly.

"Rabies is a sickness, pumpkin. The dogs aren't themselves anymore. They're dangerous," his mother explained later.

"Scott," his father said, placing one hand on his shoulder, "those cops were doing what they had to do. Wolf caught rabies somewhere and he had to be dealt with. It couldn't be helped."

"It's creepy to me," Karen interjected. "Just like Old Yeller or something."

"Karen, why don't you help me in the kitchen," Mrs. Benson said, motioning for her daughter to follow her.

"Aw mom, just when things were getting good you want me to leave," Karen whined.

"Come on. You too, Tina. I've got something for both of you to do."

"Scott, I'm afraid we're gonna have to get rid of those dogs of yours," Mr. Benson stated in a firm voice. "Can't take any chances. Rabies spreads fast. Before you--"

"Why? Daddy, they'll be okay. I'll watch out for them," Scott pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Scott. The Sheriff's Department said we should get rid of them."

"No," he yelled, running out the backdoor.

"I guess it'll be harder than I thought," Mr. Benson said to his wife.

"Maybe he'll run away," Karen joked.

"Karen, shush," Mrs. Benson said. Turning to her husband, she said, "Hon, he'll get over it."

Chapter 2 Formosa

There had been plenty of turbulence during the flight. As the hum of the four jet-props droned, Scott sat looking out the window. He had seen the magical appearance of the Hawaiian islands below. For hours there had been nothing but wispy clouds and cobalt blue ocean, then, like a vision, angry sharp peaked mountains rose up out of the water. He had excitedly called his sisters over to look out the window.

The plane circled as sleepy, tired looking stewardesses clamored up and down the aisle, trying to prepare for the landing. With an ear maiming descent, the pilot banked against the trade winds and brought them into Honolulu. The non-pressurized cabin left its indelible mark on the group of passengers. They labored to walk across the tarmac with hopelessly stopped up ears.

It was warm. The Benson family was use to the heat after living in Texas, but this was a tropical heat--thick and moist. Palm trees rustled in the breeze. You could smell the ocean.

"Stay together now kids. You had better listen to me," Mrs. Benson called out, herding them along with two out stretched hands.

"Look mom," Tina cried out, "there's some of those hula girls over there."

"Don't point," Mrs. Benson said, slapping at her daughter's hand.

Hawaii, pre-statehood, waited for them just beyond the gates. Two Hawaiian girls approached and stopped to put leis around their necks. "Aloha!" they said in chorus. "Thank you," Mrs. Benson said, stammering, surprised.

"Let's stay here," Tina exclaimed.

"Yeah," Karen chimed in. "Who wants to go to some old place called Formosa. Yuk."

"I told you kids before, it's--"

"Daddy's job and we have to go," they said in unison.

A few day layover rejuvenated them from the arduous flight from San Francisco. They stayed in a small hotel on Waikiki Beach. The sand, ocean, and vaguely Polynesian atmosphere worked to seduce them all. The end of their stay came too soon. They all felt they could have gone on living there forever. For the kids it was truly paradise, and no school.

Transpacific travel in the late Fifties consisted of a travel route that hopscotched across the Pacific until you arrived in the Far East. One of the more common routes was from the West Coast to Hawaii, on to Wake island, then to Japan. No one could have described Wake Island. Their next destination was a mystery, just another airport to land at.

It was barely that, an airport. The island had been an important ship depot during World War II because of its strategic location. There were rusting hulks of metal that littered the shoreline, testimony to the naval battles that had been waged to gain control of the speck in the ocean. Scott got a bird's eye glimpse of one of the destroyed ships when the plane passed right over the beach as it landed. He could still make out the insignia of the Land of the Rising Sun, now faded and blistered by years of exposure to the tropical elements.

The Benson family stayed on the island only long enough for the plane to refuel. In the few hours they were there, they stood and stared out at the flat, barren nothingness that was Wake Island, amazed that the pilot could have even found the island much less landed on it.

"Mom, how do they know how to find this place when it's out in all that ocean out there?" Scott wanted to know.

"Navigation, dumbhead," Karen said condescendingly.

"Daddy does it all the time," Tina added, smiling at her mother.

"Yes, he sure does, Tina," Mrs. Benson agreed, secretly wondering how she was going to get her three kids all the way across the world to a place she had never heard of before. She had said to her husband when he brought home the news one day: "Formosa-what? I never even heard of it." Mr. Benson had smiled and assured her she would like the place.

They weren't prepared for Tokyo. The traffic congestion, noise, and sheer foreignness frightened them. As they were walking down the street they were bombarded by wave after wave of Asian faces, some wearing surgical masks. "Look at them, would you," Karen exclaimed, staring. "Keep moving now kids," Mrs. Benson cried out, worried, not quite sure if she knew where the hotel they were staying at was.

A non-descript hotel was their refuge for a few days. From here they ventured into the confusing city. "I'm hungry," Scott whined. "Yeah, me too. Mom, when can we get something to eat?" Tina wanted to know. "Soon, you two, now hush up and let mommy think," Mrs. Benson pleaded, knowing she was the one who had to get them through, all the while silently cursing her husband for getting her into this.

They stumbled on a rice shop near their hotel, a small cubicle size restaurant serving what they were sure was the strangest looking food in the world. "Yuk!" Karen exclaimed, shaking her head, declaring that there was no way on earth she was going to eat anything that looked like that. "Karen, either you eat it or go hungry," her mother stated, as she clumsily tried to work the chop sticks. Cautiously, she took a bite of her food.

"It's all mushy," Tina said, wrinkling up her nose.

"I wouldn't feed this to my dogs," Scott said, pushing the plate away.

"Ooh, it stinks," Karen said, pinching her nose.

"Eat or starve," Mrs. Benson sang out, chuckling. "Better get use to it is all I got to say."

"I don't know how to use this stupid stick-thingies," Tina whined.

Later, back at the hotel, as Scott knelt before the toilet bowl willing away another abdominal heave, the Benson family sat on their beds and fought off their first bout with group depression. One day in the Japanese capital and they were ready to flee, run back to the sanctuary of the States. No one could possibly live like this. Why us? they were all thinking.

"Are you okay in there, pumpkin?" Mrs. Benson called to her son.

"I wish I was dead," he mumbled.

"If I get sick like him I'll neve speak to you again," Karen said, eyeing her mother coldly.

"Is it going to be like this in Formosa, mom?" Tina asked, hoping her mother could somehow change everything. "Couldn't dad get transferred to somewhere in the States, like maybe California?"

"We'll all get use to it. Just you wait. Really. It's going to take time though," she reassured them.

"I hate this family," Karen muttered. "Why couldn't I be born into a normal family, one that has a regular home, with a regular daddy?"

"Karen! If I ever hear you say that again I'm going to slap you silly. Do you hear me, young lady?" Mrs. Benson said angrily.

"I hear you," Karen said sullenly.

"Spoiled, nothing but spoiled, that's what all you kids are. It's down right disgusting to hear you talk that way."

"Karen's the one that said it," Tina said in a whisper, while Scott moaned from the bathroom.

MAG had requested Mr. Benson's transfer. He had flown to Washington. It was all top secret, so said an Air Force Colonel, who led him to an underground garage where a car was waiting. They drove out into the Virginia countryside, where they were met by a man wearing a dark blue suit.

The tentacles of the Cold War reached all parts of the world, so he was told. A tenuous co-existence survived the Korean War in the Asian theater of operations. Red China was a potential menace, a beast, that happened to have a painful thorn in its side: Formosa.

It was to be an interdisciplinary/interagency joint effort. Forget the old rules. Matters will never be what they seem. Tell no one. Not even the wife. Secrecy is of supreme importance. After the esoteric pep talk, Mr. Benson was assigned to training.

"You'll be going in dark," his superior informed him. "Dummy corporation cover. Different passport. You know, the usual."

He didn't know the usual. This was new to him, secretive and exciting. This was an extension of his service to his country, spanning the time frame from World War II to the Korean War to the present. It was ongoing. The Communist menace had to be stopped.

"I don't understand this, honey," Mrs. Benson had said, confused.

"It's a promotion, a good one," he explained, non-committal.

"To what?"

"What do you mean?"

"The promotion. What kind of promotion is it? What rank?" she asked, looking in his face to better judge his answer.

"Not a rank exactly," he replied evasively. "Ranks don't really apply anymore."

"Honey, you got to have ranks in the military," she countered, unable to understand anything having to do with the military devoid of ranks.

"I'm telling you this now, and I'm not going to repeat it. I've been assigned to a special division, which means a good promotion for me. Leave it at that," he said, now irritated by his failure in devising a plausible story for his transfer.

That was three months ago. Mrs. Benson hadn't seen her husband in all that time. Letters arrived periodically, post-marked San Francisco. She knew he wasn't in San Francisco. In the letters he said little. How are the kids? Are your folks okay? I miss you and the kids alot. One handwritten page of nothingness. At night, she would feel the emptiness, the ache of wanting, and try not to cry.

Taipei, another frenetic city full to overflowing with Asians. "Here we go again!" she cried out to her kids, herding them around her for the assault on the Taiwanese capital. "Mrs. Benson? Are you Mrs. Benson?" a young Airman asked politely. The Caucasian face appeared out of the sea of foreignness. "Yes, yes I am," she answered, smiling. "I'm here to take you to where you'll be staying. Got your bags yet?"

A wonderful sense of relief swept over her. Finally, now she felt better, almost safe. The Air force hadn't forgotten them. They followed him out to where a blue sedan with US Air Force stenciled on the front doors was parked. The big American car seemed to dwarf the other cars parked along side the Arrivals area.

"We'll be driving to Yang Mang San," the young Airman said over his shoulder, as he put the car in gear and started out through the chaotic traffic.

"Are there more Americans here?" Tina asked hopefully.

The Airman laughed and said, "Sometimes I think there's too many.

"I doubt that," Karen muttered.

They referred to it as the Compound, a neighborhood of military housing, a sub-division built for the families of the military personnel stationed in Formosa. They were beautiful homes built of stone, with fire places and a screened in porch. Each house had a separate servant's quarters in the back by the garage. Mrs. Benson liked them immediately.

The kids were given their own rooms, which went a long way to appease them. Their furniture was being shipped, but Mrs. Benson was soon to learn that in the Far East of 1957 almost anything could be purchased for next to nothing. By year's end, their house would take on the distinct decor of the Orient, with brass tables, straw woven rugs, aboriginal artifacts, and Chinese brush paintings.

Mrs. Benson wanted to settle the kids in as quickly as possible. They couldn't miss anymore school. It was going to be difficult. Changing schools in the middle of the year could be traumatic. She only hoped they could adapt quickly.

Eena then arrived to help in the transition. Mr. Benson had mentioned "living the life of Riley" to her before he left. Now she knew what he was referring to. She appeared one morning at the back door, knocking timidly. "Mom, some Chinese person's at the back door," Karen had yelled out from the kitchen.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Benson asked, puzzled, as she came in from the living room.

"I Eena, Mrs. Ben-shon. Mr. Ben-shon ask me work here. O-kayee?"

"My husband talked to you about working for us?" Mrs. Benson asked skeptically. "When? I mean did he say it was alright for you to work for us?"

"Doing what?" Karen demanded from the kitchen doorway.

"Shush now, Karen. Come in. You can't very well stand out there in the carport," Mrs. Benson said, opening the screen door.

"Thank you, Mrs. Ben-shon. I work good...ding hao...you see. Do ev-vey-thing. House. Food. Clean-clean," Eena said, smiling, trying to avoid eye contact.

A neighbor filled Mrs. Benson in on the living arrangements they would all come to enjoy for the next half decade. Servants did everything. Houseboys, amahs, coolies comprised the workforce, laboring away as butlers, nannies, and groundkeepers. While the Benson family had not suddenly been ordained the idle rich, they were certainly leaning towards being idle.

Mrs. Benson was quick to adapt. The compound afforded them all sorts of diversions, to include tennis courts, a small cinema, and a nearby golf course. Little America didn't travel light.

The kids entered school shortly after arriving on Formosa. A school system had been set up exclusively for them. The children of the Air Force, Navy, Army, CIA, and embassy personnel were to be educated in the closest semblance to a United States system as possible.

Scott's first day of school was an eight hour nightmare. The new school Scott was enrolled in was considerably more advanced than his previous one. He was hopelessly lost. The foreign material had swamped him by the second hour of school. He fought hard to stem the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

When recess came, he dashed outside and stood off by himself on the playground. Confused, Scott pondered what he could do to extricate himself from his predicament. Then a small boy with dark skin approached him. He had noticed the boy earlier sitting next to him in class.

"Pretty hard stuff, huh," the boy said.

"Kind-ah," Scott muttered, kicking the dirt with his toe.

"My first day here was really hard," the boy offered.

Scott eyed him for a minute, staring at his olive complexion, wondering where the boy might be from, then said, "Yeah...how long have you been on Formosa?"

"I've been in Taiwan about a week I guess. Place stinks if you ask me," the boy answered, smiling.

"I guess so," Scott mumbled, staring.

"Whatch you looking at anyway?" the boy asked suddenly.

"How'd you get so dark?"

"Because I'm part negro," the boy said matter-of-factly, then smiled and added, "just kidding." They smiled at each other. "I moved here from Africa, actually an island off of Africa. Back there I was always in the sun and that's why I'm so dark. My mom tells me I'll fade back to white soon enough. Your dad a spy too?" he asked suddenly.

Scott looked at him, surprised. He had never thought about any reasons, real reasons, for them being there. His dad had a job like all other dads. "I guess so," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"My name's Baldwin. I betcha hate it just like me. What a name! My parents are crazy. I already know your name. I heard the teacher call it out this morning. Every morning I have to hear my name being called. Sometimes I wish I could run away and change my name to...to Butch or something."

"Or King," Scott interjected.

"Sounds like a dog," Baldwin spat out, laughing. "Hey but listen, Scott, I have to tell you something. It happened to me my first day and I really got in trouble."

"What's that?" he asked, worried.

"Whatever you do today don't get behind and not finish your work. I mean it. This teacher is the worst one in the whole school. You know what she makes you do if you don't finish your school work? Do you? No. I'll tell you what she does. She makes you stay after school until you finish it. Every bit of it," Baldwin said, shaking his head yes.

Scott thought for a moment, then said, "But hey, don't we have to catch a bus after school. How do you get home if you have to stay after and do your school work?"

"Guess. You have to walk. All the way home!" Baldwin exclaimed. "My legs were killing me. And I got lost too, twice. Right in Chinkytown. All these people were saying things to me, pushing and shoving, you know."

"What time did you finally get home?" Scott asked anxiously.

"It must have been after midnight. My mom put me on restriction," he said forlornly.

The recess bell rang. They looked at each other then trudged back inside. For the rest of the day Baldwin would glance over at Scott and give him a sympathetic look. Things were going okay. He had gotten through the reading and the writing.

When the last hour rolled around his teacher told them to get out their arithmetic books. An acid pain ran through Scott's stomach. Arithmetic was his worst subject.

The problems the class were doing were unfamiliar to him. The teacher was breezing through an explanation. A girl to his right answered one of the teacher's questions then smiled at Scott. They've all done this before, he thought.

Nervously he worked through the problems, slowly going over each one. He tried to resist but he couldn't help but watch the clock. The hands seemed to whirl around the face. How many problems had she asked us to do? Ten? Fifteen? More. He struggled through nine and stalled at ten. After working the problem several times he realized it was wrong. It was as if it were another language, totally incomprehensible.

All around him the kids were scribbling, erasing, moving their lips to the adding and subtracting of numbers. The minute hand sped along. He couldn't bring himself to look at Baldwin. A few rows over the teacher was praising one of the student's good work. How will I ever find my way home? screamed in his mind. I've got to finish this problem.

Then, as if an electrical jolt had run up his spine, the bell rang. He saw that the minute and hour hand had frozen in place. The girl beside him was happily putting her books away. The teacher was saying something over their chatter. Maybe I wasn't the only one who didn't finish their work, he hoped.

Scott forced himself to glance over to see how Baldwin was doing. His desk was empty. A rush of nervousness eddied in his stomach. All the other kids were walking out. An entire page of arithmetic problems lay untouched. Only me, he realized. He knew the teacher was going to at any second call out his name. The others would laugh. He would never make it home.

"Scott, you had better hurry up or you'll miss your bus home," the teacher called from the front of the class. Scott looked up and standing in the doorway was Baldwin, smirking. He was waving for him to come on.

"Admit it, had you scared," Baldwin said later on while the bus inched through the congested traffic of downtown Taipei.

"Did not," Scott shot back, still winding down from the nervousness.

"Did too," Baldwin crowed, punching him on the arm, laughing. Scott didn't say anymore but sat there thinking how he was going to get his new friend back in the future.

"Today school good?" Eena had asked him when he got home. "Boo how!" he replied, adding, "I hate school." Eena chuckled at his pronunciation of her language, thinking she was going to like this guao feng.

She lived in a spartan room attached to the garage. It was suitable. Five years before Eena had left the mainland, making her way to Taiwan by fishing boat, fleeing communism. She wasn't a member of the Kuomintang; although she did admire Chiang Kai-Shek. He had delivered them from Mao. Her ancestors had known nothing but adversity at the hands of barbaric war lords, then civil war between the Nationalists and Communists, soon followed by Japanese subjugation, and finally total control by the demagoguery of Mao ste Tung's totalitarianism. Reaching the shores of Formosa after a perilous crossing of the China Sea had delivered her to a new beginning.

She was a servant to a new master but, to her way of thinking, a benign one. These wei-guo rens or long nosed foreigners were silly, with disrespectful customs, but they were harmless, even childlike in many ways. Eena subdued her pride and did her work, knowing that the family she had left behind on the mainland was only a vague memory now, lost to the dividing chasm of strong willed adversaries locked into a battle of potent geo-politics.

In her servant's role, Eena was required to do many things, from cleaning and cooking to being a nanny for the children. Now in her early twenties, she had no children of her own. The prospects seemed dim that she would have a family but she was optimistic. For now, the three Benson kids were hers.

It was Scott she liked the most. Karen, for the most part, ignored her, choosing to believe she was culturally better than her amah and the Chinese in general. Tina treated her politely but was too involved in her new friends to spend any time with her amah. Scott was different. He was inquisitive. His curiosity led him to want to know everything about her and her culture.

In time, they meshed their pigeon languages and formed a line of communication that allowed them to be friends. She would often times take him to the nearby mountain village when she went shopping. The villagers would stare at them, and even laugh in the way the Asians do while hiding their faces.

Scott was unaffected by this. He would be nosing around the shops wanting to know what everything was. Eena would try to explain as best she could. It was here she would buy her food for the meals she would make over a small kerosene stove in her room. The Benson family had their supply of commissary goods, good old American chow shipped from the States. She had tried to eat the American staple but it didn't agree with her. As a result, there would often times be a pungent aroma wafting out of her room while she prepared her standard Chinese style meals.

Packages in hand, they would trudge home, back to the siheyuan. Inside the compound was a tidy, well planned community, with manicured lawns and porch furniture. Outside, just beyond the cinder block walls with the broken glass embedded in cement on top to keep the unauthorized out, there was the beautiful mountainous region of Taiwan, with the primitive villages of the aborigines and the ancient Buddhist temples perched on the steep hillsides.

As with the other wives, Mrs. Benson soon slipped into the daily, weekly, monthly, even yearly routine. She would have coffee with her neighbors, maybe play tennis or golf a few times a week, and dutifully plan events for the club. With the aid of the more experienced wives, the ones who had lived there for a year or longer, Mrs. Benson soon took shopping excursions to the exotic markets of Taipei, quickly becoming adept at haggling for the price she wanted to pay. An entire slice of drudgery had been lifted from their lives, freeing them for any number of diversions to pursue.

The Benson family brought with them all the subtle bigotry and ignorance of most foreigners. There was the unstated belief that they were better, more advanced. Arrogance came with the fact they were there to protect the Nationalist Chinese, the ruling Kuomintang and the Taiwanese, from Red China. The Formosa Straits were a narrow body of water in which to measure your relative sense of safety. This was the front lines of the Cold War in the East. Many believed, most certainly the entrenched Nationalist--the KMT, that old scores were yet to be settled between the players in this war.

As a kid, it was ideal for Scott. Playing Army took on a whole new significance when you were living in a country at a state of war with another. Situated at various locations near and around their siheyuan were several anti-aircraft batteries, manned by the Nationalist Army. Added to that were the sporadic military alerts, continual reminders that anything could happen.

It wasn't long before Scott had befriended some of the soldiers on duty at the "ak-ak guns." They would let him sit behind one of the guns, while they laughed, amused by the little boy from Meiguo. His little feet would struggle to work the pedals as his skinny arms strained to turn the wheel that raised and lowered the barrel of the gun. The soldiers would let him spin the platform, where he could take aim in any direction. Through the sights, he could zero in on the rooftops of his neighbor's house.

It was all fun. The boys would play Army everyday, never tiring of it. Outside the compound there were endless places to play, vast warrens of towering bamboo in which to scramble through, to hide, to search out the enemy. They had their own battles to fight while the world was embroiled in a Cold War, a war defined by nuclear capability.

Their first year passed slowly. After a few months they had settled into the rhythms of living abroad in a strange, different country. With varying degrees of success they were able to adjust, embracing the American culture they had transported to Formosa. The first few months were spent cultivating the hardened insularity, rarely delving into the foreignness that existed right outside the compound walls. Commissary food, Armed Forces radio, and the Club kept them from suffering too much culture shock.

In time, Mrs. Benson, and a few of the other military wives, would embark on field trips outside the compound. They would make the obligatory trip to Chinankung, the Taoist Monastery, the temple renowned for its thousand steps. And with kids in tow, they would hike up them, every last one.

It was all so mysterious to Scott. The Buddhist temples fascinated him. He loved all the ornamental figurines, especially the dragon like creatures that clung to the temple roofs, their mouths agape revealing sharp teeth and protruding tongues. There was something magical about the places, offset perfectly by the burning incense and chanting monks.

Even more intriguing were the aborigines, the native inhabitants of Taiwan. They were a primitive people, who had just recently been exposed to outsiders; and they were headhunters. For centuries, they had carved out an existence deep in the mountains, untouched by modern civilization. They had battled the Japanese then Chinese in a desperate attempt to maintain their primal stronghold, a culture that evolved without the influence of any external exposure to any other societies.

On a rare visit home, Mr. Benson had taken his son to visit the Paiwan tribe. Scott had not seen his father in over three months. His assignments had begun to stretch, going beyond the original one month intervals. Mrs. Benson learned to be evasive, to invent any number of excuses why their father was not coming home soon.

Mr. Benson had driven up on a motorcycle, a shiny black Indianhead he had purchased from one of his men who had been rotated back to the States. The roar of the engine filled the garage. Karen screamed. Tina and Scott dashed to the kitchen door, shyly peering through the screen door at the visitor on the motorcycle that idled angrily, popping and mechanically gurgling. The reverberations shook the house.

"What on earth now!" Mrs. Benson had cried out when she saw who it was.

"Daddy!" Tina shouted, running out the door, latching onto her father, who swung her around and around.

"How do you like it, hon?" he called out over the noise.

She frowned at him, hands on her hips, and said, "I don't."

"Oh mom," the kids said in unison.

"Let's go for a ride, Scotty," Mr. Benson announced, mussing his son's hair. "How about it?"

"No, no about it," Mrs. Benson said with finality, standing by the kitchen door as if she were going to prohibit either one of them from getting on that noisy machine.

"Just a real quick buzz around, honey," Mr. Benson said, smooching his wife then turning to smile at his kids.

"Take me, daddy," Karen whined. "Please."

"I'll take Scott first then you two, how's that?" They squealed their approval.

"No," Mrs. Benson stated. "I don't want any of my kids on that contraption. It's too dangerous. That's final."

"Mom's mad because I didn't offer to give her a ride," Mr. Benson sang out, smiling, pinching his wife playfully.

"Stop that. I'm serious as hell."

The kids tittered. "Mom said a cuss word," Tina exclaimed, laughing.

"Hey, come on. You know I'll be careful. Sure hate to disappoint the kids," he said, grinning. "I'll only drive around the block."

"Damn you," she muttered, stepping back away from the door.

The engine roared louder as he revved up the engine. The pungent smell of oil and gas filled the garage. He worked the throttle a few more times and the engine gave off a deep, vengeful growl. Eena stood in the doorway of her room and looked on, fearful to say anything around Mr. Benson. Scott waved at her and climbed on the back. "Hold on," he heard his dad shout out and then they were flying down the street.

They seemed to drive forever. Scott hung on, letting the wind whistle around them. Tree branches flew by. Rolling green hills appeared in the distance then were gone. The bike would whine plaintively when his father down shifted, soon to be replaced by the surge of acceleration as they went around another curve.

After a few hours his father slowed the bike and shouted over his shoulder, "It's going to get a little bumpy, hang on tight." He edged the bike off the paved road onto a dirt path. For another half hour they chugged along slowly, carefully negotiating tight turns. "Take a look," his father suddenly said, stopping the bike. "See," he stated, pointing off to the right.

"What's that?" Scott asked, noticing some smoke rising through the trees.

"Aborigines."

"Huh," Scott uttered. He had heard all the stories about them. Even his teacher had mentioned the aborigines.

"Real headhunters," his father intoned, laughing ghoulishly as he put the bike in gear and started down a path that would lead them directly to the village.

A few children greeted them with stares as they rode into the village. There was nothing but a few huts arranged in a circular pattern. The noise of the motorcycle had preceded them. Wary, the aborigines peered out from inside their huts. Mr. Benson switched off the bike. Almost instantly there was a rush of quiet, except for a chorus of murmurs coming from a group of aborigines standing in front of the largest hut.

"Must be the chief," Mr. Benson muttered, sliding off the bike. "Now remember, Scotty, I want you to watch out for your head," he whispered, grinning.

Scott slipped off the bike and stood close to his father. His father said something he didn't understand. It's not Mandarin, Scott thought. There was a meek response from one of the villagers. Mr. Benson walked over to the group. They exchanged a few words. Scott noticed the men wore jewelry, odd ornaments attached to their noses and ears, and they were barefoot.

"Scott, go get that pack off the bike for me would you," his father said, pointing. He walked over to the bike and removed the pack. A curious dog had approached him, sniffing at Scott's feet. He bent over and petted it. "Don't get too friendly with their dinner," his father called out, laughing.

Mr. Benson reached in the bag and brought out some packets of peanuts. He handed them to one of the villagers, who took them and promptly offered them to a man standing off to the side. The others looked on.

"It would be my guess that that is the Chief," Mr. Benson said, looking down at his son, smiling. "I hope my buddy was right about the peanuts, Scotty, because if he wasn't--whew boy look out."

"Can we go now, dad?" Scott asked, then he noticed the twinkle in his dad's eyes and he felt more at ease.

The Chief ate the peanuts, nodding approvingly. The ice was broken. They stayed on a while, looking around the village. The aborigines flocked to the motorcycle, gawking, animatedly debating what it was, what it meant, this thing that belched smoke and roared like an animal.

Before they left, the Chief gave them each a necklace made of small stones, ceremoniously placing it around their necks. There was much discussion concerning Mr. Benson. Gesturing, one of the men spoke, pointing to his eyes, then pointing at Mr. Benson's. "It's a curse, my damn blue eyes," he said to his son. "They either like them or they think they're evil. Better not stick around to find out."

The bike sputtered then came to life. A cloud of blue smoke rose behind them. The villagers retreated a few steps. Some of them looked away in fear of evil spirits. They retraced their way up the path and were soon back on the road and speeding along. It was after dark when they finally returned home.

Six months after they arrived on Taiwan Mrs. Benson purchased a new car, a black four door British Prefect. It was one of the first foreign cars they had ever been in. She would intrepidly take them around the island, boldly driving in the madhouse traffic of Taipei like a local.

"Sure beats the old car," Karen had said that first day they took a ride in the new car.

"Kinda small, mom," Tina chimed in, sniffing at the new interior.

"Yeah, our old Ford was alot bigger," Scott stated, looking critically at the Prefect's box-like shape.

"It's a foreign car, kids, they are all small," she explained. "Listen." She blew the horn a couple of times.

"What was that?" Tina asked, laughing.

"Sounds like some sheep just got run over," Scott exclaimed, laughing along with Tina.

"Isn't it precious?" Mrs. Benson sang out, laughing, blowing the horn again.

"How about the old Ford's horn," Karen said, giggling. "Remember, mom?"

"What a pain that was," she replied, recalling how the car had faulty wiring so that every time she would go to make a right turn the horn would blow.

"Use to embarrass me to death around the neighborhood," Karen declared. "All my friends use to make fun of it."

Their first summer there the car was put to good use traveling to Yehliu Beach north of Taipei. Mrs. Benson would pile all the kids in, with a neighbor or two, and they would be off for a day at the beach. Being at the ocean was always such a novelty for them. All of Mr. Benson's transfers had taken them to landlocked locales. This was different.

Mrs. Benson and a friend would lie in the sun while the kids romped on the beach, enjoying the warm sea water. On one occasion they had taken Eena along, but she seemed to hate the beach, choosing to remain under the umbrella the whole time. At the end of the day they would return back to the mountains tired and sunburned.

Mr. Benson had gone with them once. He drove them to Chilung from the beach, where they were given a tour of a battleship by the ship's Captain, a friend of Mr. Benson's. The girls complained about going on "some lousy boat" but Scott was thrilled to be taken throughout the whole ship, even being allowed to go in the turret of the massive 16 inch guns.

After the tour they were invited to have dinner in the officer's galley. "Real hamburgers," the girls had screamed when they were served at the Captain's table. The Captain smiled and made a wisecrack to Mr. Benson about how his men felt about the chow, adding quickly: "Pardon my French, Mrs. Benson." "Hen haochi," Scott said to his father, who translated to the Captain that his son thought the food tasted good. The Captain replied jokingly: "Want to enlist, son?"

At his father's prompting, Scott gave the Captain a crisp salute when they were leaving the ship. His sisters giggled. A few sailors stood off to the side wondering who the dignitaries were. They thanked the Captain and left, slowly winding their way through the congestion of the crowded port areas, heading back to Yang Ming Shan.

The next morning Mr. Benson was gone, again. "He'll be back before you know it," Mrs. Benson said cheerfully with a forced smile, trying not to look at her three children sitting at the breakfast table, their quizzical faces silently asking the same old question. "Chil-ren, go outside play...okay?" Eena commanded, ushering them out the kitchen door, looking back to see Mrs. Benson fumbling with her pack of cigarettes.

Scott had one steadfast friend he had made since arriving in Formosa. That first day of school turned Baldwin into his buddy, a schoolmate he could endure the hardship of classroom travails with. The unfortunate thing was his friend lived in downtown Taipei, a forty minute drive away.

There were times when arrangements could be made and their parents allowed them to visit, to stay over, at the other's house. These were exciting occasions when they could explore each other's neighborhoods, two kids let loose on an unsuspecting culture.

On one of his visits, Baldwin had been showing Scott around a fish market near his house. They were looking at some eels when the stall owner had insulted them, using the slang word all Chinese used for foreigners, which translated loosely to big noses. Baldwin had used a Mandarin curse word and then they had fled with the man chasing them.

Scott was used to these confrontations, scenes in which Baldwin always managed to get them in trouble. His father was high up in the Diplomatic Corps and had evidently passed on his sense of importance to his son. Baldwin treated all of Taipei as his playground.

"Why did you do that?" Scott asked, after they had lost the irate vendor in the crowd.

"Dabidze," Baldwin retorted, pointing at his nose. "Get it? That slanty-eye called us that. Boy, don't you know nothing?"

"I know more Mandarin than you do," Scott countered angrily. "And you've lived here longer than me."

"One week longer, big deal. You don't know more Mandarin than me anyway," Baldwin scoffed. "Besides, it's not really Mandarin but some kind of slang. These Taiwanese speak a bunch of gobble-d-gook most of the time."

"Eena says--"

"Eena says," Baldwin mimicked. "Is that all your ever say? You and your amah."

"I like my amah," Scott blurted out, instantly feeling foolish for having said it.

Baldwin laughed and sang out: "Amah's boy...Amah's boy!"

"Shut up. What about you and your houseboy? Lin Chu-Lin Chu, he didn't know what to do," Scott chortled, laughing.

"You are so funny, Scott I can't stand it," he said sarcastically.

Scott felt bad immediately for making fun of Lin-Chu. He felt sorry for him. He had seen how Baldwin's family treated him. One morning, over breakfast, he had seen Baldwin chastise Lin-Chu for having cooked their poached eggs too long. Being an only child, there was a sense of a struggle going on in their household, a war in which daily battles between Baldwin and his houseboy were enacted.

As with all the other parents, Baldwin's were gone most of the time, off to the Club to play tennis, golf, or cards. Scott was embarrassed for Lin-Chu, having to put up with commands from a seven year old was an indignity no one should have to endure. Although Lin-Chu resented the way he was treated, he went about his duties with a measure of professional efficiency, managing to maintain his composure while hiding any discontent behind a mask of oriental aplomb.

Baldwin was a strange kid anyway. Scott's first day at his friend's house confirmed that. The house they lived in was a twenty room mansion formally owned by a wealthy businessman from Hong Kong. The house was situated in a siheyuan with towering walls and a heavy iron gate. Lush gardens surrounded the house. The backyard was taken up by a large koi pond that was elaborately laid out with crisscrossing bridges painted the traditional Chinese bright red for good fortune.

Scott hadn't been there five minutes when Baldwin exclaimed: "You gotta see this!" He was told to wait right there by the gate and to make sure the gate was closed. "Ready?" Baldwin called out from beside the house. Then, to Scott's amazement, a dog dashed from around the side of the house, a large boxer with floppy ears. "Run Rex, run boy!" The dog cavorted around the gardens barking furiously, stopping every so often to stretch his neck to turn his head and nip at something on his back.

"Pretty keen, huh?" Baldwin wanted to know.

Scott didn't know what to say. He now saw that it was a monkey riding on the dog's back, desperately holding on out of fear. Rex finally collapsed on his side and was taking vicious nips at the monkey.

"Rex! Stop that right now. You know better than that. Charlie just wanted a little ride, that's all," Baldwin shouted, running over to the dog and smacking him on the nose. The monkey scampered up a nearby tree. "See, look what you've done. Now I'm going to have to climb up there and get Charlie. Bad dog."

The next half hour was spent climbing the tree and forcing the monkey to come down. "Watch it, Scott, he'll bite," Baldwin called out, smiling. "It doesn't hurt that much though." Scott remained on the lower branch and tried to shoo the monkey down to another branch. Baldwin coaxed Charlie close enough to grab him.

With the monkey safely back in his cage, Baldwin turned and said, "I'm trying to talk my parents into getting me a boa constrictor. It'd be great to see who would win a fight between Rex and the snake, wouldn't it?"

"I guess," Scott muttered.

Baldwin then threw a stick of gum into the monkey's cage. Charlie instantly snatched it up and stuck the piece in his mouth. "Loves gum," Baldwin said over his shoulder, tossing another stick into the cage. "Stupid thing will chew as many as you give him. "I've seen him with his cheeks out to here," he explained, demonstrating by puffing his cheeks out. "Aren't animals so dumb?"

On his fourth visit to Baldwin's house, he arrived to find Baldwin standing by the monkey's cage. Scott could see Charlie lying on his side in the cage, motionless. Baldwin was just staring into the cage.

"What's wrong?" Scott asked.

"I guess he's dead, at least that's what Lin-Chu said."

"What happened to him?" Scott wanted to know, stepping closer to look in the cage.

"My dad said the gum clogged up his intestines," Baldwin muttered. "Stupid monkey. He shouldn't have chewed the stuff if it was going to swallow it. I didn't think gum would kill him."

"Come on, let's go walk around the streets," Scott offered, grabbing his arm.

"Yeah, okay," he said quietly.

The city to Scott was a maze of crisscrossing streets. Nothing but confusion. Baldwin seemed to know every shortcut. After living in the quiet confines of the compound, Taipei seemed like a different planet. Wild eyed, he would be led along by Baldwin; who delighted in showing him every detail of urban living.

"Why not?" Baldwin demanded to know.

"Just because," Scott answered defensively.

"That's no reason, dummy," he snapped.

"We might get in trouble, that's why," Scott said firmly, hoping his buddy wasn't going to get him put on restriction for doing something wrong.

"Our parents will never even know. Come on, don't be a sissy," he exclaimed, leading the way down a narrow street, glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure his buddy was following.

They wound their way through some back streets, passing by some men sitting on stools in doorways, who eyed them suspiciously. "Come on," Baldwin hissed up ahead, motioning for him to hurry up. They ducked into an alleyway then climbed over a wooden fence. A dog barked in a window overhead. Scott could smell the pungent aroma of bean curd stewing.

Then a man reached out and latched onto Baldwin's arm. Baldwin cursed. There was a volley of rapid fire Mandarin. "What? What'd the spaz say?" Baldwin asked Scott, trying to shake off the man's grip. "I think he wants to know what we are doing on his property," Scott said, smiling at the man. A woman shouted out something from a second story window. The man released his grip.

"Ni hao," Scott called up to her now that he could see it was a pretty woman in her early twenties. She smiled.

Baldwin stepped back and looked up then said, "Duo shao?"

The woman laughed and replied: "Not much money for you. Ding hao time."

"This is what I wanted to show you," Baldwin whispered.

"Show me what?" Scott asked, puzzled.

"A whore house, stupidhead--what did you think?"

Scott looked up at the woman then back at his friend and said, "You fooling with me, Baldwin."

"This whole area is full of girls like her. All the servicemen come here for you know what. I bet your dad's been here before," Baldwin said.

"You're crazy. My dad would never come down here for...for this kind of stuff. Not my dad," Scott declared angrily.

"Don't get bent out of shape, Scott. It's just," he said, lowering his voice, "pussy."

"I'm leaving." Scott then turned and walked out through a hole in the fence, turning onto a quiet street. The woman giggled and called out good-bye. He was angry at Baldwin for bringing him there. Why do I want to see a bunch of chinky women for, he thought.

"Wait up," Baldwin called out behind him.

"Let's go back to your house."

"What are you all mad about, Benson? Don't spaz out on me now," he teased.

"I didn't like you saying anything about my dad back there. Do it again and I'll smash your face in!" Scott shouted, clenching his fists.

"Okay, I won't do it again. Didn't know you were so touchy about things like that."

"How would you like it if I said your dad goes to places like that, huh? I bet you wouldn't like it one bit," Scott stated, eyeing Baldwin.

"Wouldn't bother me. My dad's probably always down there," Baldwin joked and they looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Scott and Baldwin went through grade school together. Their friendship shared what most other typical friendships did. They played Little League, with Baldwin at short and Scott at second. Cub Scouts; although they were asked to quit because Baldwin put a stink bomb in the hall where they were having the annual jamboree. Bad grades. Playground romances: fighting over Judith Meyers. They were in a foreign country and experiences did take on a different tint.

It was Fifth grade. Last month, last week of school before the summer vacation and it was unbearably hot. The kids were restless. The teacher was struggling to maintain order. There was a shout outside the classroom door. A scream. More screams. Everyone was on their feet scrambling to look out the door. "Children! back in your seats," the teacher commanded unsuccessfully.

A coolie dashed down the hall, shouting. "Oh my Lord!" the teacher exclaimed. The kids who had spilled out of the classroom now tried to push back inside. Panic. The sound of clacking hoofs thundered down the open hallway past the classroom.

"A water buffalo has gone berserk!" one of the other teachers shouted out. "Keep the kids inside."

It was too late. Baldwin and Scott had already joined in on the round up. The kids dashed to the windows and yelled out encouragement. Two coolies and the boys ran after the beast, now crazed by the heat. The coolies were waving their straw hats, shouting, while Scott and Baldwin ran back and forth waving their arms and whistling loudly. The water buffalo finally slipped on the lawn and collapsed, exhausted.

Like two firemen, Scott and Baldwin trained a garden hose on the animal, cooling its thick hide. The coolies stood nearby and cooed soothing words at the water buffalo, who was now snorting contentedly from the fresh water shower.

"You boys are going to have to report to the office," the teacher stated when they returned to the classroom. "That was a very foolish, dangerous thing to do."

"But it was only a water buffalo, ma'am," Baldwin said. "I mean, jeez."

"They don't have pores," Scott explained. "Their skin can't breathe like humans so when it gets real hot they have to be in some kind of water. That's why you always see them in the rivers and ponds, those kinds of places when it's hot. Otherwise they go crazy and tear up things."

It wasn't the first time they were sent to the Principal's office. The Principal shook her head and called their parents, again. It had become almost a ritual. His mother would shout at him, threatening to tell his father. He would be restricted to his room for a while.

Other more unusual occurrences were certain acts of nature. Besides the occasional earthquake, there were the typhoons. To the kids it was good fun. The coolies would come around and close up the shutters on the houses. Candles would be brought out. Scott would sit in his closed up house listening to the wind blow and the rain pelting the shutters.

There was nothing to fear. The lights would go out. His sisters would make spooky noises. They would laugh. It was a family adventure. Mrs. Benson would sit at the kitchen table smoking and playing solitary by candle light. The next day it always seemed to be gone, leaving behind sunny skies and minimal damage that the kids could go inspect. Fallen trees and scattered branches littered the roadway. More work for the coolies.

They had been through several storms, surviving, just another inconvenience. Typhoon Billie came then. It moved in fast off the sea and pounded the island. This storm was different. It lasted longer. The winds and rain seemed to never end.

A few days later it was over. Sections of Taipei were left flooded. Thousands had died. Mud slides had taken whole sections of the mountain away. People were left homeless. Mr. Benson had called from overseas, worried. No, he couldn't say where he was, but that he would be home soon. The kids had all gotten on the line to say a few words. Mrs. Benson wanted to cry out for him to come home, to take them all away from this foreign country and its hostile environment.

School had to be postponed for a week. The roads were flooded. A nearby river had overflowed its banks and submerged the school grounds under three feet of water. After the water receded, the kids were brought back not to attend school but to assist in the clean up.

Gangs of coolies toiled day and night, digging, scraping, doing anything to remove layers of river silt that settled over the school. There was water standing in the classrooms that reached all the way over the desks. Books were damaged. Furniture warped into odd shapes. The Principal took steps to avoid complete disaster.

Teachers were organized and then the kids put to work. Some carried books out to the playground and lay them out to dry, where the faint breeze turned the crumpled pages. Others helped scrape mud off the floor with shovels. Everywhere you walked your feet stepped in slippery mud. By the end of the day they all had fallen so many times no one bothered to laugh any longer.

It took weeks but they finally got the school back to order. They had all pitched in to help. There were still your stray screams from someone finding a snake in a desk or closet, washed in by the rising water, and the lawn was now nothing more than a pock marked surface of bubbling mud, but gradually normalcy returned.

A few years before there had been a bout of hostilities between the two warring neighbors. It was imminent. Red China was going to invade Taiwan. The US wasn't going to allow it. But how effective had America been in Korea? There were doubts. The Chinese weren't easily intimated. The Red Army grew larger everyday.

Political tensions between the two countries soon became ingrained, habitual. Militarily, the two enemies stayed cocked and ready. Taiwan had learned to live at a state of alert.

Mr. Benson, attached to MAG (Military Advisory Group), worked through a half dozen different assignments: Laos, Viet Nam, and Quemoy Island near Sha-mei were theaters he worked. His main mission was to foment insurrection on the mainland, to train and transport agents back as infiltrators. It was elemental CIA procedures.

The CIA's general naivete concerning geo-politics was described by Mr. Benson as nothing more than "pricking an elephant's ass with a pin." A hand full of operatives sent into the vast expanse of communism to redirect the masses was lunacy; but orders were issued to be carried out.

As an "advisor," Mr. Benson was to not in any way engage the mainland Chinese. He was doing phantom work and was to remain invisible: ideally. After three years of flying in and out of countries posing as a businessman, a minister, any number of acceptable occupations for a foreigner, Mr. Benson had taken on a certain degree of nonchalance about his missions. As a flyer he had flirted with danger often. A particular state of mind develops. He was lucky, everyone told him that.

There were only several geographical points where the two hostile countries had exchanged fire. An artillery barrage had occurred more than once on Quemoy Island. Casualties on both sides had been sustained. This then led to a fragile peace, an unofficial truce. Skirmishes happened elsewhere on the islands in the Formosa Straits. These were kept quiet. It had become a deadly game of Chinese checkers in which the two players were trying to hopscotch across the board by overtaking the islands.

Years later Mrs. Benson would often say when asked to relive the memory: "I knew what it was when the phone rang. I just knew." A friend, a neighbor's husband had been chosen to relay the message. The phone connection had been bad. Through the static she heard that her husband was hurt but still alive. The phrasing at the time didn't register with her. A bad motorcycle accident, the garbled voice said. She was given no details.

Mr. Benson had been beaten severely and left to die. A country doctor in the south of Taiwan performed a crude tracheotomy, saving his life. Broken ribs, collapsed lung, and a concussion left him barely alive. No more information was given. "Like I said, bad motorcycle accident, ma'am," the Air Force Captain repeated to Mrs. Benson, who waited, holding her breath, hoping for more information. None.

"I don't understand this," she had said, overwhelmed by the shock.

"Mama, it is just one of those things," the Captain had said, excusing himself as the phone call ended abruptly.

Mr. Benson was transferred to a military hospital in Taipei, where he languished, striving to recover. His wife was a good military wife. She asked no questions. Her husband's work was classified. "He works for the government," was her practiced answer to everything.

"Damn lucky to be alive," a friend's husband told her in hushed tones that managed to imply every detail of her husband's "accident" that she so wanted to know about. "Anybody else would have cashed it in by now," he had said in praise of her husband. "I know, I know," she said in a voice hoarse from crying, knowing and hating her husband's reputation as a daredevil.

The painful convalescence took months. "It's touch and go," one of the doctors would say, smiling, patting her on the shoulder. She didn't want to hear that. She wanted to know what would happen to her husband, to her life. There didn't seem to be any answers.

The kids were shuffled off to a neighbor's house, left there to complain in bewilderment. "Your daddy's been hurt, kids, and that's all I can tell you right now," Mrs. Benson had explained evasively. "You'll be staying with Mrs. Morton for a little while. Don't give me any guff. I don't need that right now."

A week passed. The strangeness of living at a different house in a different household wore off. Their mother phoned daily from Taipei. "At the hospital," she would explain in a tired voice made rough from smoking too many cigarettes. She couldn't fend off all the questions and the complaints. "I'll tell you when the time is right, and when I know more about it all. Now you kids be good for Mrs. Morton--okay?"

There was nothing "okay" about it all. Karen took it upon herself to "boss" the other two. In resentment, Scott and Tina tormented her by being uncooperative. "We might as well be orphans!" Tina would scream out, fighting back the tears. "First we had no father and now we have no mother. I hate this." Mrs. Morton's attempts at consoling them were useless.

Mr. Benson was gradually improving. Mrs. Benson realized she must return and try to get her home back in order. Her husband had been moved out of intensive care. The doctors seemed to think he had a good chance of recovery now; although his total rehabilitation was uncertain. There was talk of possible brain damage.

Eena was sent to bring the kids back home. Mrs. Benson prepared herself for what she knew was going to be a difficult situation. She knew any explanation was going to be inadequate. The confusion and the hurt had built up.

It was two months time before Mr. Benson was permitted to come home. He had spoken to the kids once by phone. It had been hard to understand him because of the trach-hole which produced a whistling noise in his throat. All of the kids had come away from the phone call disillusioned. "That's my daddy?" Karen had declared later on, shaking her head no. Tina cried. Scott had nothing to say.

Mrs. Benson knew she had to prepare the kids for their father's homecoming. He was not the same man. He was not their father as they knew him. Gone was the blond curly hair. There was no robust chime to his voice. He had lost forty pounds. And he couldn't walk. She knew the initial shock was going to be devasting.

She decided to let them in the bedroom one at a time for a short visit. "Me first," Scott had demanded, setting off a chain reaction of whining from the girls. "You are going to go in by ages," Mrs. Benson said firmly, logically. "Karen goes first." Karen, beaming, turned to Scott and stuck her tongue out then walked into the darkened bedroom.

"Why's it so dark?" she asked nervously.

"I told you, sugar, daddy's eyes are still sensitive to the light, now go on," Mrs. Benson whispered, pushing her daughter forward.

A moment later Karen was back in the doorway where she hesitated for an moment then dashed out the front door. "Karen!" her mother called after her.

"My turn," Tina announced eagerly.

"Okay, hon, go on in," Mrs. Benson said, fearing what would happen next.

"Hi daddy, I missed you," Mrs. Benson and Scott heard her say through the door. There was an odd voice which made a reply then Tina too appeared at the bedroom door, crying. She walked into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Scott didn't want to go in now. Fear. He was afraid. What is going to happen? he asked himself. "Scott," Mrs. Benson prompted, "your turn pumpkin, and remember not to rough-house with your father. He's still trying to get well."

She gently pushed him into the darkened bedroom. He stood by the door for a moment, letting his eyes get accustomed to the dark. Someone was sitting down next to the window. The curtains had been drawn almost all the way, leaving a gap where a sliver of sunlight penetrated the room. The man was smiling at him.

"Come on over here, Scott," a voice said, a voice that was gravelly with a hint of a high pitched gurgling.

Scott stood by the door. He could now see the man was sitting in a wheel chair. He wanted to turn around and run out. Run! screamed in his brain. "I don't want to," he muttered, as he reached for the doorknob.

"It's your dad. Aren't you glad to see me, son?" the voice asked.

"Yes," Scott stammered.

"Well come on over here then."

He stepped closer. A beam of sunlight sliced across the man's lap, catching the chrome of the wheel chair wheels. Scott saw him motioning with slow, painful movements. "Closer," the disembodied voice encouraged.

Scott now stood at the foot of the bed. The wheel chair creaked a little as the man labored to move it. The strand of sunlight now cascaded over the man's upper body. Scott almost gasped as he noticed the man, his father, was bald and there was a large scar etched across the knobby white skin. He was staring into the man's vacant eyes made lifeless by near death.

"I thought I might never see you again, Scotty."

"You're...you're not my daddy," Scott cried out, stepping back.

"What?" the strange voice strained to ask. "What has gotten into you kids?"

"My daddy's dead!" Scott shouted out hatefully. "Get out of my house! Get out of my house!"

Mrs. Benson rushed into the room and grabbed Scott, who struggled to get free then run out of the room. Turning to her husband, she said tearfully, "Give them time." And under her breath she uttered: "Oh god."

Chapter 3: Springfield 15

Mr. Benson had been rotated back Stateside. Desk job, assigned to Langley, CIA headquarters; he would have to adjust. There would be no more dark assignments. Damaged goods, he imagined everyone was saying behind his back.

Mrs. Benson had been happy about leaving Taiwan, returning to America and hopefully regaining a family intact. The harrowing experience was behind them now. Her husband's rehabilitation was on course, leaving one peculiar legacy as a reminder of his fortuitous escape from death: premature baldness. She had grown use to it now, but before, in the beginning, it was difficult not to be depressed when she would look at her husband and not see the man she had married.

"Laugh, it's funny," Mr. Benson would say, smiling, wonderfully unaware how hideous he looked as he palmed his knobby skull with the visible scar etched above his right ear.

"No, honey, I think it's sort of distinguished looking," she would offer, lying as artfully as she could.

"Uh huh, tell me another one, dear," he would say, grinning.

The kids had taken longer to accept it. It had been weeks before they could adapt to their new, different father. As his voice slowly returned to normal, and his weight increased, they began to accept him more and more. For his part, he was determined to get out of the wheel chair even if he was forced to use a cane to get around.

Months later, while in route to their new home in the suburbs of Washington, a degree of normalcy had been established. Then again it had been a long often times baffling year for them to learn to live again as Americans. While living overseas the Benson family had not seen TV develop into the influential medium it had become. There had been no television in Taiwan.

There was a great deal of catching up to do for the Benson kids. One of the milestones of their returning indoctrination had been a visit to McDonald's. It had been dark when they pulled up in their new American Ford, another cultural rite of passage they had all negotiated together. Scott would always remember how the Golden Arches glowed in the dark, marking the way to a new, exciting experience. A hamburger in itself was a long lost novelty for them. And french fries! Fountain cokes! This was truly the future.

In the hospitable glare of the neon, the Benson family had settled into a booth and delved into their first fast food experience. Scott ordered a milkshake, strawberry. He had not had a milk shake in over five years. Next to him his sisters worked their straws, gurgling contentedly, enjoying every drop of their icy cold cokes.

"Don't you just love that smell," Tina declared, sniffing.

"Aroma, stupid," Karen corrected.

"There's a pickle on my hamburger," Scott announced excitedly.

"Stop playing with your food and eat it," Mrs. Benson scolded.

"Hey dad, when can we come here again?" Tina wanted to know.

"For crying out loud, honey, you'd think we'd dropped off some planet somewhere," Mr. Benson said, smiling.

"We've been away a long time, a long long time," she said, solemnly. "Somehow all this doesn't seem real to me."

The obligatory visit to the relatives had to be undertaken. The kids could barely remember any of the legions of aunts and uncles that were paraded before them. There was an almost surreal quality to the reunion. After having lived overseas there didn't seem to be any point to anything, Scott thought. There were actually people, nations existing over there, and they didn't seem to have any bearing on anything that happened here, he told himself again and again.

Scott's great grand mother was a 100 years old. She had been a school teacher. Born and raised on a plantation, she had experienced slavery as an owner. Still possessing all her faculties at the century mark, she would regale young Scott with stories of the South. In a voice crackling with age, she would tell of her mother taking her away to the mountain caves when the Union forces swept through.

"There were no men folk around--gone off to fight the war," she explained wistfully, mussing his hair. 'Of course, young man, I was very very young then, younger than you are now I expect," she would say, clenching his hand in hers until he could feel the rough coolness of her skin.

"Oh those Yankees thought they were smart they did," she continued, winking at him, "but momma, well...she knew when they was comin' and off we'd go. Right up them mountains yonder and on into the caves." She chuckled to herself for a moment. "Took the niggras with us too. They came along. 'Fraid of the Yankees as much as we was."

"What'd you do up in the caves?" Scott asked.

"What'd we do? Why we hid. Didn't want the Union soldiers to know where we were," she answered, wagging a finger at him. "Generally the Yanks would come to our farm and steal things, like food and such. Then they'd get on their horses and gallop on off and we'd not see them again for awhile," she said, smiling at him.

"I bet you were scared, huh."

"I was. No shame in that I suppose," she replied, turning her gaze to his face. "I was just a little thing. Everythin' scared me anyhow. Then the war was over and my daddy come home and we lost all the niggras. Oh some of them stayed on, working and all, but most went north I believe. Then the family lost the farm. It was hard on all of us down here after the war." Her voice trailed off as she stared out the window at the distant mountains.

One night during the visit, while they were huddled around the TV watching Bonanza, Mr. Benson walked into the living room carrying a rifle. "I want you to get that gun out of here right now," Mrs. Benson demanded.

"Oh now, honey, it's only a pea shooter, for crying out loud," Mr. Benson stated, holding the rifle up in front of him.

"I don't care. Guns scare the daylights out of me, and you know it. I know this isn't my house but I want you to take it on out of here," she said resolutely. Grandmother Benson nodded in agreement.

"Oh alright. Damn women," Mr. Benson uttered under his breath. "Come on out back, Scott. I got something to show you."

In the dim light of the back porch Mr. Benson revealed Scott's new present. While his grandfather beamed, his father formally bequeathed the rifle to him. Scott stood there dumbfounded. More than half his life had been spent playing Army or Cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood boys. Toy guns and imitation gunfire were an everyday ritual of the playground.

"Scott, it's a Springfield 15 that I gave your father when he was a boy," grandfather Benson intimated in a solemn, almost reverential voice. "Your father spent many a day hunting with this rifle." He took the rifle from Mr. Benson and examined it for a moment.

"My father gave it to me and now I'm giving it to you," Mr. Benson announced. "You're old enough to have a gun of your own."

"A gun all my own," Scott exclaimed as his dad handed the rifle to him.

"Oh yuk," Karen said from the doorway where she had been listening.

"Karen, go on now," Mr. Benson said sternly.

"Little Scott gets a gun...make me sick. Probably shoot himself with it," she said and walked away.

Turning back to his son, Mr. Benson said, "It's a single shot, bolt action 22. No recoil. Lazy sight, but a good gun to learn with."

Scott barely heard his father's words. He gingerly fingered the wooden stock then ran his hand along the barrel. "It has some kinda gunk on it."

Grandfather Benson chuckled and said, "Been oiled so it stays in good condition. Polished the stock myself just yesterday."

"You hear that? You're going to have to keep this gun in good condition too so you can give it to your son. That means you have to clean it and I mean keep it clean. Look inside that barrel, clean as a whistle," Mr. Benson declared proudly.

"Tomorrow we'll show you how to shoot it," grandfather Benson said, smiling.

That next morning they were up early and driving to a relative's farm. The farm was on a large tract of land. Scott's father had hunted there as a kid. Rabbits, deer, birds, even bears roamed through the hills on the property.

"This looks like a good a place as any," Mr. Benson said suddenly as they were hiking through the woods.

"Okay, we can put a few targets on that fence post over there," grandfather Benson said, walking over to a range fence that kept the livestock from roaming into the apple orchard.

They had been hiking for over an hour. Scott felt a strange sense of energy as he walked along side his father and grandfather. The Springfield felt heavy in his hand as they hiked along. He was nervous. He had been awake most of the night thinking about shooting the gun. He knew his dad would be impatient, wanting him to learn quickly.

"Scott, you'll want to line up your sights, then squeeze on the trigger. Remember now, I said squeeze," Mr. Benson instructed, pointing to the sights on the barrel. "Now watch me for a minute."

His father took up his own rifle, aimed, and fired off a few rounds at where grandfather Benson had placed a few pop bottles on the fence posts. A crackling reverberation pierced the quiet and pop bottles shattered, falling to the ground in pieces. There was a loud ringing in Scott's ears.

"Hey, better let me give it a try before you knock them all down," grandfather Benson exclaimed, laughing.

Mr. Benson gave his son a short lecture on gun safety then assisted him in his stance. They loaded the gun together and fixed the bolt into place. "Squeeze," Mr. Benson reminded him.

Scott closed one eye and looked down the barrel, then out towards the fence posts. His finger nudged the trigger. There was an almost faint crack, an instantaneous ballistic bleating that was quickly absorbed by the surrounding hills. Through blurry eyes, Scott could see the pop bottle was still sitting there. Although he couldn't make out the lettering, he knew it was a Pepsi bottle.

"Not bad, just missed," grandfather Benson said.

"Not bad," Mr. Benson spat out. "What was he aiming at that barn over in the next county? You didn't aim and squeeze. All you did was pull the trigger."

"I think we should be a little bit closer," his grandfather suggested.

"Naw, hell I could hit this when I was his age," Mr. Benson declared.

Scott was flustered. He slowly plucked the round from the chamber and slid another one in and locked the bolt into place. He took a firm grip on the stock and raised the gun to his shoulder. He blinked a few times then closed his left eye and looked down the barrel. The forward sight blurred for a moment then came into focus. The pop bottle looked as if it were a mile away.

"You're bobbing," Mr. Benson called out. "Be still. Relax."

There was an ache in his left arm from bracing the rifle up against his shoulder. His breathing was erratic so he held his breath and fired. The bottle was still there when he lowered the rifle.

"Takes practice," grandfather Benson said, patting his grandson on the shoulder.

"It's a good thing that bottle's not an enemy soldier or we'd all be dead," Mr. Benson muttered.

They hiked around for another half hour, stopping to eat some apples from the orchard. Grandfather Benson told Scott of their past hunting stories, of how they had once cornered a bear in the caves and then let it go. The two men had then argued about why they had let it escape, revealing different versions of the story. Scott couldn't remember when he had seen his father and grandfather argue.

On their way back to the farm house Mr. Benson stopped on a ridge and pointed in the distance at some trees. "See it?" They looked. "The squirrel. See? Up about half way on that scrawny looking oak there."

"Too far," grandfather Benson stated.

"We'll take turns. You first," Mr. Benson said, stepping aside for his father to take aim.

Grandfather Benson shrugged then slowly took aim and fired. The shot whistled through the tree harmlessly. "Too far right," he muttered. Mr. Benson laughed. The squirrel was still sitting on the branch munching on an acorn.

"Mr. Squirrel meet Mr. Bullet," Mr. Benson said as he aimed and fired. The branch shattered underneath the squirrel and the animal fell down to the next branch where he clung on in surprise. "Damn, missed. I'll get him this time," he said, dropping to a kneeling position.

"Hold on there. Can't go out of turn," grandfather Benson said, grinning. "It's the boy's turn."

The squirrel was now slowly walking along the branch. Mr. Benson turned to his son and then motioned for him to give it a try. Scott halfheartedly got into position, raised the rifle, then zeroed in on the squirrel. He focused down the barrel. He could barely see the squirrel.

"Don't take long. Instinct," his father whispered.

The gun went off. He had squeezed the trigger with a deliberate and gentle tug. The stock was still boring into his shoulder. His focus had gone back to a blur. There was a whoop from his grandfather.

"I don't believe it," he heard his father say.

The squirrel had tumbled down the backside of the tree. They searched for a few minutes before Scott found it. The bullet had gone through the neck area. Grandfather Benson picked up the dead animal by its tail and held it up. "Clean shot. Would you look at that," grandfather Benson stated. Scott could see the squirrel's surprisingly large and blemished teeth.

When they got back to the farm house, and grandfather Benson had teased Scott about his Davy Crockett like shooting in front of his relatives, Mr. Benson said, "Now it's time." Time for what? Scott wondered.

They took the squirrel around to the barn and grandfather Benson laid the carcass on a wood chopping block. "Get a knife, would you dad," Mr. Benson called out. Grandfather Benson disappeared into a side door of the barn and reappeared with a large knife.

"Scott, I know it's fun to shoot at bottles and cans but when it comes to animals...well you can't just be shooting everything for nothing. Those animals out there are for food if you're going to be shooting them."

Scott looked at his dad and a sudden queasiness took hold of his stomach, as he said, "I didn't think I was going to hit it, honest."

"Here we go," grandfather Benson announced, turning the squirrel on its back. He brought the large knife down in a chopping motion and hacked off the tail, handing it to Scott. "Trophy," he said, smiling. The furry, coarse tail felt strange in his hands. Then the head was decapitated and tossed in a bucket by the chopping block.

"Now dad, let him help," Mr. Benson said.

The large knife was placed in his hand. Grandfather Benson demonstrated where he should cut. The fur and skin were stripped away. Blood seeped out onto the chopping block. Nausea rose up in Scott's throat.

"Gotta clean away those innards," grandfather Benson instructed, taking the knife and scraping away the entrails with one swift swipe.

When it was over and the squirrel had been sectioned and cleaned, Scott devised an excuse and ran off behind the barn where he vomited. He was unsure how he had gone from shooting at pop bottles to killing animals. A squirrel, he thought. Why? Then he had visions of the blood and the matted fur and he was sick again.

That evening, at dinner, while the relatives sat around the table and teased him. Scott was given his dinner on a separate plate. He stared down at the plate where his aunt had stacked several miniature pieces of meat. Everyone at the table was watching him.

"Taste it," his father urged him.

He took a small piece and bit into it. Chewing, he looked up. Inquisitive stares greeted him. "Pass me the mash potatoes, please," he said non-chalantly.

"Gross me out!" his sisters cried out.

"Well, how is it?" his aunt wanted to know.

"Tastes like fried chicken," he replied, grinning.

The others roared with laughter, while Mr. Benson said: "Told you he'd say that."

APPLE CIDER

Chapter 4 Drownproof

They had gone over to Staten Island to go to a beach John knew about. Getting away from the city was important for all of them. It was August and everyone else had gone to Jones Beach.

It had been a difficult summer for Martin. Attending the summer semester of college seemed so foreign to him; but he was determined to graduate as soon as possible. Attaining a degree had become an overriding concern of his, almost an obsession. Why? Validation. He didn't know. So much of his life had been taken up with travel it left him with no sense of himself.

"You've got a warped out death wish, you do," a traveling companion had told him, shaking his head, dismayed by Martin's approach to life. They were arguing over why Martin refused to take the anti-malarial pills. He had survived amoebic dysentery in Afghanistan and hepatitis in India; and the narcotic lure of the Near East hadn't ensnared him. "You're the only bloke I know who can take or leave some good opium," his traveling companion told him, as he again cured a morsel of tar black opium to put in his pipe.

Martin had tried it all: pot, hash, opium, smack, even acid given to him by a pretty french girl in New Delhi. They had spent several hours at India Gate, lying on the lawn watching the thunder clouds build up until a frightening thunderstorm broke, driving them under the cover of a nearby gazebo. She was wearing a sari with nothing underneath. The sheer, wet cloth revealed her dark all over tan she had gotten while living at Goa. As the thunder clapped louder, she began to cry, burying her head in his chest. Their drenched bodies clung together. When it stopped raining, she kissed him and dashed away. He never saw her again.

Smoking the drugs made his lungs ache and the heroin had made him vomit, yet he did like how the drugs removed him from the world around him. It ultimately wasn't for him though, nothing long term was. He wanted to keep moving. "I'm the embodiment of perpetual motion," he told his traveling companion, who laughed and shook his head yes.

He had made so many friends along the way. As quickly as he made them he would abandon them, moving on. Traveling, in its way, had become his nirvana. By changing locales he was, in a sense, reincarnating himself.

"I had a death wish and then I didn't die," he told his current friend. "Now what?"

"You're daft, you are," his friend said, pointing at his head.

"Go back to England," Martin had chortled, and they both laughed.

Yet Martin knew he had to go back. Home. The US seemed like an unreal location. His friends were moving on with their lives. Martin Nash was an anomaly, a strange friend from their past who had been everywhere. No one really cared. It was nice that there was a whole different world out there. They were surviving college graduation and embarking on careers. Martin was out of step.

Nash no longer had any family life. It began to disintegrate after his mother death, and then suddenly it didn't exist any longer. He hadn't spoken with his older sister since his mother's funeral. It had been almost a year since he last contacted Tina. Several years before his father had moved away and, after a few half-hearted attempts, Martin simply stopped trying to contact him. There was times he even found it difficult to dredge up any memories of there ever having been a family.

"I'm moving to New York," he had told Ned, his one steadfast friend from High School. "Going to finish school up there."

"Like we don't have enough colleges in DC," Ned said, disappointed that his friend was again leaving.

They had kept in touch over the time that Nash had been on his personal journey. Ned had been moved by some of the letters Martin sent him from various strange countries. It was a cheap, vicarious experience for him.

"You're my one inalienable friend," Martin stated.

"You're not going to cry are you?" Ned said, laughing, feeling suddenly emotional himself.

"Narziss and Goldmund," Nash said, referring to the two characters in the Hermann Hesse book.

"Oh sure, you get to be Goldmund, who travels all over the place having great adventures and I'm the maladjusted Narziss, who sits at home and broods about life or something."

"Hermann Hesse was a wise man," Martin declared, smiling.

"He was a hack, that only romantically sick coeds could enjoy reading," Ned exclaimed, laughing.

In less than a year Martin would graduate. Then what? He didn't know. He was at his breaking point in New York. At first, he had soaked up all that the city had to offer. It was exciting. He made a few friends from college. Then he started to get the urge again. Like a sickness, he told himself. A virus. It was starting to resurface.

Nash realized if he abandoned his studies now he would never go back. Even though he sat through lectures that all seemed meaningless to him, he wanted to reach that goal. He knew it would bring him nothing. Yet each day he trudged through all kinds of weather and fulfilled his mission.

"We'll take the ferry, grab a bus and we'll be there. What's the problem?" John stated, not wanting an answer.

"Staten Island?" Don questioned. "There's no beaches over there."

"You are a cretin. It's an island, isn't it?" John shot back.

They were classmates, sharing a few of the same classes together. All three were in their last year of college, eagerly waiting to move on. Martin had met them the first day he was on campus. John and Don were standing in front of the classroom arguing about some film they had both seen recently. Don had turned to Martin and said, "This imbecile thinks that Bergman is a genius." Martin smiled and said, "I always liked Ingrid." They both stared at him for a moment then burst into laughter. It wasn't long before they were all friends.

They had taken the IRT down to South Ferry. John and Don were native New Yorkers and more or less detested the city. Yet when it came time to get on the Staten Island Ferry they were like two school kids embarking on a voyage. It had been more than ten years since either one of them had been on the ferry. No one had a reason to go to Staten Island.

New York elicited a great deal of hype but the ferry was one of the few things that was truly a pleasure. They stood on the deck and watched as the Statue of Liberty passed by in the distance. All around them boats and freighters were plying the waters. Tourists clamored around them to take photos of the famous city skyline; while up ahead the imposing blue metal span of the Verrazano Bridge loomed.

"Right near the bridge is where the beach is," John said, pointing in the distance.

"When was the last time you were there?" Martin asked, staring at the blue colossus that spanned the Narrows.

"It's been awhile, I guess," John replied, shooing away some sea gulls that were following the ferry.

"Great. Like I'm sure the beach is still there. You know how nothing ever changes in New York!" Don shouted out over the harbor, laughing. "This will probably be a big bust."

"You must have faith," Martin said, holding up his hand like a priest.

"For once, Don, could you not make me nauseated for a day," John said almost irritably.

"Maybe you're seasick," Don chortled, laughing.

"Maybe your mother should have had that abortion."

"Now John, that is hitting below the belt," Martin said, adding "you know his mother tried to have one."

"You know you guys are my very best friends in the world," Don said, wiping away an imaginary tear. "I just hate it when you talk this way."

There was a blast on the ferry's horn that sent some children squealing towards the stern. The World Trade Towers seemed to dwarf the city that was receding behind them. The summer sun was shining on the aging buildings of Ellis Island.

"Hey Don, tell us how your grandfather came in on Ellis Island. That's such an interesting story," John needled.

"I'm proud of my heritage. Nothing wrong in that. You should be too."

"I'm adopted, moron," John stated.

"Nice going, Don. Now you've opened up some old wounds for John. You know he was left in a toilet stall at the Port Authority Bus Terminal," Martin chided.

"I thought it was Grand Central," Don commented.

"Oh sure, like John had upscale enough parents to leave him at Grand Central," Martin cried out, laughing.

"You guys are crossing the line. My feelings are being hurt and I might remind both of you that I'm bigger than either of you."

"He is kind of big. Maybe his parents were circus performers," Don suggested.

"I don't know why I even socialize with you two guys," Martin said arrogantly.

"Oh no, here it comes. Mr. Pilgrim himself. We know. Your ancestors came over on the Mayflower," John exclaimed.

"The country would have been so much better off if we hadn't allowed riff-raff like your ancestors in the country," Martin announced in a pompous voice.

"Somebody had to do all the menial labor," Don joked.

The ride on the ferry came to an end too soon. They walked down the gang way and were overrun by a troop of Boy Scouts hurrying to make a bus to somewhere on the island. Don got in the middle of them and marched along, until one of the troop leaders told him to "bug off." "Yeah, creep, bug off," John and Martin shouted out, pointing and laughing. "The Boy Scouts are a bunch of sissies," Don yelled out, shaking his fist.

They caught a bus going to the other end of the island, getting off by Fort Wadsworth. After the concrete confines of New York, Staten Island seemed bucolic in comparison.

"Come on, hurry up," John growled ahead of them. "You guys walk like two old women."

"Maybe you should become a troop leader," Don called out to him, snickering.

"Let's go, Nash! If you hang around too long these Army guys will kick our asses out of here," John ordered.

The giant, monstrous blue span of the bridge loomed over them as they scrambled down an embankment. It was truly a marvel of engineering genius, stretching across such a large body of water. Being so close to the massive concrete supports made it all seem somehow surreal.

"How much further, troop leader?" Don asked in a child's plaintive voice.

"This is it," John declared, dropping his bag as if he were staking out some land. "You can actually see the ocean. Check it out."

"All I can see is trash. Where did all this shit come from?" Don wanted to know.

"It's flotsam. It washes up from barges, ships...you know. Forget about that though. Look, you can see all the way to Europe."

"Oh please, that's Brooklyn over there," Don exclaimed. "You aren't this pitiful."

"Hey, if I wanted this kind of experience I could have gone to Coney Island," Martin announced, laughing.

"At least it's cooler here," Don said, as he spread his towel out.

"Beats the crowds at Jones Beach," John stated happily. "We have the whole place to ourselves."

"I wonder why," Don joked.

"Must be the best kept secret in New York," Martin muttered.

In the distance, a large sail boat tacked into the summer breeze, while on either side of it large tankers edged their way into the Narrows, passing under the Verrazano Bridge. A steady stream of cars sped across the dual spans like agitated insects.

""You know what, on windy days they won't let you cross the bridge if you are in a small car," Don said, turning to stare at the massive beams of blue steel bolted together with ridiculously large nuts and bolts. He shielded his eyes from the sun.

"Who told you that?" Martin demanded skeptically.

"It's true," Don replied. "I know because once my aunt was turned away. She had to take the ferry instead."

"What kind of car does she have?" John asked, as he collapsed onto his towel, a large beach towel with It's Better in the Bahamas emblazoned on it.

"She doesn't have it anymore but I think it was a Toyota."

"Serves her right for not buying an American car," Martin said, teasing.

"How do they know if your car is heavy enough to cross or not?" John wanted to know.

"How in the hell am I suppose to know!" Don exclaimed. "Give me one of those beers."

"Hey, you bring up the subject you should know all the answers," Martin taunted.

"Yeah, right," Don mumbled. He tapped on the top of the beer can then popped it open and took a long drink. "I hate beer in the can."

"I wonder if you can take canned beer across the bridge when it's windy. Might blow out of your hand or something," Martin said, snickering.

"No, has to be in the bottle," John said. "I know because my cousin once had to turn around and go across the George Washington Bridge."

"Really. What kind of beer was it?" Martin asked, giggling.

"I think it was one of those foreign beers...Becks...no Kirin.'

"Anybody ever tell you guys you should have been comedians?"

"Okay, no more getting on Don's case today," John announced.

The absurdity of being perched there on a small sliver of beach, under a bridge, nestled among the harbor trash, didn't register with them. They settled down to some relaxation with their beers and junk food they had bought at a deli near the ferry pier. Out on the water, New York's seafaring commerce sailed by.

"I think I feel burned already," Martin whined, pressing a finger into his stomach and watching the redness recede.

"You always think you feel burned," Don grumbled.

"He always does get burned," John said, poking him in the stomach.

"Can I help it if I'm an Anglo? Just because you two have Mediterranean blood in you," Martin countered.

"Oh yeah, weanie, better get a shirt on. You're already pink."

"Remember at the beginning of the summer when he got burned at Jones Beach?" John asked, laughing. "All the way back on the bus he was moaning and groaning."

"That's funny? I thought I was going to die of first degree burns...or is it third degree burns?"

"Oh, speaking of dying, did either of you see the play playing in the Village?" Don asked suddenly.

"Change the subject much?" John said.

"No, really, it's called...oh crap, what is it? Anyway, it's about this morgue. Not really the morgue but it takes place in the morgue. It's really about suicide."

"What's the name of it?" Martin asked, digging into one of the bags of potato chips John had stuffed in his pack.

"I can't remember the name of it. Something with cold in the title, I think."

"Sounds depressing," John said, as he bent over to pick up an old shoe that had washed ashore. He wound up like a pitcher and tossed it back into the sea.

"It was. But the thing about it was this girl commits suicide and the whole play is about the morgue attendant discussing her death. You know...kinda speculating about it."

"About what?' Martin asked, confused.

"About her death. Pay attention much, Nash, or what?"

"Only you would like something like that," John stated, searching for more refuse to toss.

"It was a good play, real pithy."

"Real what?" Martin asked, smirking.

"Pithy," John mimicked.

"You ever notice how you two can't discuss anything remotely intellectual?" Don said irritably.

"I'm offended now," John sang out, smiling.

"What's to discuss? A play about suicide invariably would end up being some showcase for maudlin emotions," Martin explained, as he scared away a few sea gulls that had gathered to beg for some handouts.

"What you know about the theater, Martin...I mean, please, do me a favor," Don exclaimed, shaking his head.

"Oh, and you know so much."

"That's hardly the point," John interjected. "Suicide is the issue here. Is it a viable vehicle to carry any work? I would have to agree with Martin on this one. When you kill off a character, or, in this case, build the whole work around a character that's already dead then your avenues are pretty well restricted."

"Oh thanks, professor," Don said, jerking a thumb in John's direction.

"Mental masturbation," Martin uttered.

"Oh yeah, what's your GPA, Nash?"

"God, not that again," Don muttered. "Mr. I-have-more-than-one-major-because I'm-so-smart, we know your average is the highest in the history of college academics."

"I think they are going to name a dorm after him," Martin said, laughing.

"Jealousy is rampant," John spat out.

"For your information, O Honors Student, the play involves the attitude of the two other actors--for and against suicide," Don explained.

"Still sounds morbid," Martin said.

"Reminds me of that author, the woman writer we studied last semester. You know, where the character commits suicide in the end and--"

"The one about the woman in the nowhere relationship?" Martin asked.

"Yeah, now that's viable. You can discuss the merits of her decision," John exclaimed, waving his hands as he usually did when he got involved in a discussion.

"Then why is that any different than this play?" Don demanded to know.

"It has to do with timing and distribution of the theme," John explained in a condescending tone of voice.

"Now if that isn't a bunch of literary gobbledygook nothing is," Martin said, laughing. "Look, philosophically speaking you either do it or you don't. What is the big deal?"

"Spoken like the true minimalist that he is," Don declared, saluting him with his empty beer can. "If you had your way War and Peace would have been pared down to a hundred pages."

"Less. Would have saved Leo a lot of agony," Martin said, as he blew in an empty paper bag and then popped it. The sea gulls scattered but quickly returned.

"You can't ignore the psychological end of this," John offered. "And the philosophical angle is inherently linked with a retrospective look at a person's life. Psychologically looking at it puts you in a better position to examine the--"

"Distribution of the timing," Don interjected.

"No, distribution of the suicidal theme and the timing thereof," Martin said, grinning.

"How did you two ever get in college?" John asked, irritated.

"Personally, I have a problem with the act of suicide," Don intimated. "There's something so...so perverse about it."

"What's it say in the Old Testament?" Martin joked.

"This has nothing to do with my religion," Don shot back.

"Oh sure," Martin retorted, rolling his eyes. "It has everything to do with religion."

"I'm from a Catholic background and it has a direct bearing on how I feel about it. I may not be a practicing Catholic but it still is ingrained in my psyche," John stated.

"You aren't going to genuflect or anything are you?" Don asked, laughing.

"You know in the East they--"

"Here we go again," John and Don said in unison.

"Well, I--"

"The world traveler strikes again," Don announced, while John put his fingers in his ears pretending not to hear.

"You guys are so provincial," Martin joked. "I think the way they look at suicide makes the most sense. Death can be your prerogative. Sounds simple to me."

"What about the family?" Don asked, close to being exasperated. "There are certain considerations here, you know."

"Guilt, courtesy of the Torah maybe."

"What? Listen, Martin, you don't live in a vacuum. Your actions have repercussions."

"That's true," John agreed.

"I'm not disputing that. Look, a person has inviolable rights and I believe taking one's life is one of them. Hey, it happens to be one of the few choices that you actually do have as a human being. I mean you don't have a choice to be born, do you?"

"You're just saying this crap, Nash. No one could believe that junk," Don said.

"It's the doctrine of Free Will taken to its extreme," John explained.

"Don't bring religious drivel into this. Society should be able to accept the individual's wishes when they don't immediately impact on the standing social contract," Martin lectured.

"And when did you switch your major to Sociology?" John said sarcastically. "The point is somebody is going to be affected by the individual's actions."

"That's their problem."

"I don't believe this act of yours, Nash. I've seen it before. It's some sort of neo-Nietzschean profiling. Don't try to deny it," Don said, as he threw the empty potato chip bag at him.

"Deny it, I don't even understand it."

"What Don is trying to say is: you are fooling yourself with this boulevardier's sang froid act."

"That clears it up for me," Martin said sardonically. "Are you sure you two know what you're talking about?"

"What have we here?" John suddenly sang out, looking down the beach.

Turning to look, Don exclaimed, "`Bout time the scenery changed around here!"

A girl had appeared on the beach, having walked through the underbrush that reached almost down to the water in some spots. She was wearing a powder blue smock. They were close enough to see her smile; then she waved.

"Where in the hell did she come from?" Martin asked, returning her wave.

"I don't know. There aren't any houses around here that I know of," John said.

"Hey, you want a beer?" Don called out to her.

She shook her head no, and smiled. Then she laughed and started skipping down the beach, kicking off her shoes as she went. The water lapped at her bare feet.

"You're not going to hit on her, are you?" John asked Don.

"Who me?" Don exclaimed, pointing to himself.

And then she was walking into the water, slowly, inexorably. She was no longer smiling. The water was up to her waist.

"Doesn't she know that that water is polluted?' Martin asked no one in particular.

"Maybe she's a long distance swimmer and she's going to swim over to Brooklyn," Don said jokingly.

"Something tells me she doesn't have swimming in mind," John declared, standing up and shielding his eyes against the sun.

"You kidding?" Don said, also standing up.

"Hey you, maybe you shouldn't be in the water!" John shouted.

The water crept up to her neck. She had turned to face the ocean. It was as if she was intent on marching across the Narrows.

"What should we do?" Don cried out.

"Do? It's her business," Martin said impassively.

"Yeah, sure, we're just suppose to stand here and do nothing," John yelled.

"Don't yell at me. Yell at your God," Martin stated.

"Damn! She just went under," Don cried out.

John ran and dove in the water. In seconds, he had a grip on her and was pulling her back to shore. She offered no resistance. They stumbled onto the beach. She was smiling again. The girl collapsed to the beach and was sitting there with her knees pulled up to her chest. She had started to rock gently back and forth. John was staring at her.

"What's your problem?" Don asked angrily.

"It's alright, Don." John said, giving him a knowing look. "She's going to be fine, just fine."

"There she is," a voice rang out down the beach as two men in white jackets dashed in their direction.

"Who are you guys?" John demanded to know.

"We work in the facility down the road," one of them explained. "Come along now, Ellen, it's time to go back home."

"What is this?" Don asked.

"Ellen's one of our residents at the treatment center, aren't you Ellen?" the other man in white announced in a childlike voice. "She's been a naughty girl again and gotten out. Hey, by the way, thanks for your assistance. She does this about once a month or so. It's not big deal. She just likes the attention. Don't you Ellen, honey?"

They helped her to her feet and escorted her back through the bushes. They had all interlocked arms, with the men on either side, as they strolled away. Ellen was smiling and laughing.

"And I thought Manhattan was weird," Martin muttered.

"About once a month...did you hear that?" John exclaimed. "Great nut house they have there. The loonies are running off to kill themselves on a regular basis."

"Maybe you could get a lifeguard's job here," Don said, snickering.

"That's funny?" John shot back.

"He kinda looks like a lifeguard," Martin said, smiling.

"Like I need this," John muttered, directing his comment to the heavens. "Can we go now already?"

"Hey, we have to do this more often," Don declared. "Beer, sun, beach...tragicomedy."

"Maybe John brought us out here so he could play Joe Lifeguard. At Jones Beach they have lifeguards," Martin suggested, laughing.

"Do you think he comes out here once a month looking to rescue Ellen? She did act kinda like she knew him."

"Do you think either of you two has a brain?"

"Hey John, what did you get on your LifeSaving course exam?' Martin asked.

"I bet he aced it. Probably already have a course named after him," Don joked.

"Hurry up, cretins, we're going to miss the bus," John urged, jogging on ahead.

"Martin, wait a sec," Don whispered. "Would you have let that girl drown? I mean really."

Martin looked at him and smiled, then said, "I knew John would save her."

"What about me? Like I wouldn't have," Don exclaimed.

"Oh sure, everybody knows Jews can't swim," Martin joked, running to catch up with John.

"Ever hear of a guy named Mark Spitz, moron?" Don shouted after him.

"Come on, Don! Get your slow-ass in gear," John called out from the bus stop, where the bus was just pulling up.

"Hold the bus!" Don shouted.

"Maybe you like it here on Staten Island," Martin called out, laughing.

"Like hell," Don said, as he dashed to catch the bus.

Chapter 5 If You Knew Susie

"You gotta go with me, Nash," John declared in a plaintive tone of voice. "I can't face it myself. Don't abandon me."

"Be a man," Martin said, laughing. "You can't expect me to go to Brooklyn. Get serious."

"Forget Brooklyn. We'll go, we'll have some laughs...it'll be interesting if not anything else," he urged.

"Yeah, right," Nash shot back, rolling his eyes.

"Don't make me beg."

"Ask Don to go with you," Martin offered, grinning, because he knew Don wouldn't want to go along any more than he did.

"Oh sure, you know he's allergic," John explained, throwing up his hands, exasperated.

"Are we talking a medical-type allergic reaction here?" Martin asked, giggling.

"Close to it. The last time he was with Ann's friends I thought he was going to be sick, violently sick--like as in puking," John said while demonstrating by bending over.

"Get out of here. Nothing bothers him. He couldn't care less about--"

"Obviously you didn't see him last time Ann and company were at her place. He was manic about it for at least a week. Talk about anal. I truly don't think he ever considered the other manifestations of sexuality. Really. The guy was bent about it, completely bent."

The D train was slowly screeching over the East River. Martin sat there wondering how he had allowed himself to be talked into going to a party in Brooklyn, especially this kind of party. "It'll be an experience," rang in his ears, sounding as phony now as it did when John said it earlier in the week to bolster their decision to go. Seated next to him was Ann, the instigator. It was her girl friend Susie's party they were going to.

Martin had met her on campus. She had been sitting with John in the library. Embarrassed, John had introduced her to him. She had smiled and said in a squeaky voice, "John talks about you all the time. It's nice to finally meet you. Have you really been everywhere in the world? I'd love to travel all over. Aren't other cultures just so intriguing. Which country did you find the most exciting? You must speak a bunch of languages, huh..."

He had managed to utter one reply to her incessant questions before she rambled on into a conversational whirlwind. Beside her, John was grimly studying his watch. A number of students were looking up from their books and staring disapprovingly.

"I guess she talks a little too much," John said later as they were walking to the train after class.

Martin looked over at him and smiled, then said, "Not bad looking. Ever think of using a gag?"

"Funny," John replied. "To tell you the truth, I don't know what I'm doing with her. I like her and I don't. You know what I mean?"

"Not really."

"Screw you, Nash. You know damn well you've been in relationships that seem to be...sort of like on automatic pilot," John explained, stopping for a moment to face Martin. "Sometimes two people come together and they have a connection that might be tenuous, or whatever, but they kind of have a--"

"Mutual lobotomy," Martin interjected, laughing.

"Talking to you is like talking to...to a twelve year old," John exclaimed, turning abruptly around and continuing on down into the subway.

"Hey, sorry, John," Martin called out after him. "I didn't realize you were serious."

"That's your trouble, Nash," John shouted back, as the arriving train drowned out his other comments.

Ann lived in an apartment on the Westside. A few weeks before the party in Brooklyn Martin had agreed to have dinner with them at her place. He did it for John's sake, to make amends. He didn't know Don had already been to dinner there. John felt it was sensible to invite them at different times. There was a matter of space. Ann's apartment was on the small side. And there was the matter of having two friends there at the same time. John wasn't confident about controlling two of them.

John didn't know why he thought it was necessary for his friends to meet Ann. He had never actually formed any concrete plans about their future together. He had known her for just under six months, having met her at a chess tournament. She had been with his opponent, Susie, a pretty co-ed from Brooklyn College.

After the tournament they had gotten into a conversation. At the time, John was unaware of Ann and Susie's type of relationship. John, buoyed by his chess victory, ever the solicitous winner, had tried to flirt with Susie. She was cordial, and not interested. It was Ann who was responsive, wanting to know all about his chess playing. John had then conveniently switched his attention to Ann; while Susie stood by and eyed them both with quiet contempt.

Matters accelerated when John found out Ann attended his college. He soon saw her more frequently. A few months later he was residing more at her apartment than his own.

It took Ann almost two months to reveal her--what she called--duality. John, cosmopolitan John, cried out: "Is this a joke or what?" He had never given lesbianism much thought. It wasn't likely to affect his life, so he believed. Three semesters of psych did little to prepare him or blunt of his mounting feeling of shock.

"I've been this way since High School," Ann explained, as she stirred the homemade soup she was making. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal, she says," John almost shouted. "I happen to think it is."

"That's because you feel threatened by it," Ann said calmly, reaching over to add more basil.

"Threatened," John shouted. "The girl I'm practically living with tells me she prefers females and I feel threatened. I tell you what: I feel nauseous."

"I don't prefer females, John, I'm bisexual. I like females and males on an equal basis," she explained, tasting the soup. "More pepper."

"That's just not possible. You can't like them on the same level. It's impossible. There's no way you can have built in instincts for both sexes. No way."

"Oh sure," she said in her squeaky voice. "I've been doing it now for almost...what is it? I'd say at least seven years. If I'm attracted to someone, be it male or female, I have no problem with it."

"I swear I'm going to march right across that living room, climb out on the fire escape, and jump. This is just too weird to comprehend. I mean I've always heard of this stuff before but I never thought I'd be intimately exposed to it."

"Just lucky I guess," Ann said flippantly, motioning for him to open the bottle of wine on the counter.

"How long will it last though?" John wanted to know.

"How long will what last?" she asked, puzzled.

"How long will you want to be with a man? A week. Two months. How long? Sooner or later you'll want to be with a woman again. Right?" he asked, fumbling with the corkscrew.

"Who says I haven't been?"

"What?" he exclaimed, almost dropping the bottle of wine on the floor. "You mean to tell me--"

"Calm down, John. Nobody ever said anything about monogamy here. I know we never discussed it or anything but I mean the last time I checked we weren't married."

John hadn't said anymore. The revelation tumbled in his mind for weeks afterward. He would find himself imagining Ann with another woman. There was something equally erotic and repulsive about it. His male ego was offended to a certain degree. Was he not able to satisfy her?

The street buzzer went off. "Must be Martin," he said, walking over to the door. He buzzed Martin in and stood in the doorway waiting for him to walk up the stairs. He hoped it would go better than it had with Don.

On that night, Don had the misfortune of being there when three of Ann's friends showed up. John had taken to calling them "Ann's friends from the other side." Don's first comment had been: "Other side of what?"

After hasty introductions, while John was trying to make it known they were about to eat dinner, two of the girls sat on the couch and held hands. That would have been a mild surprise in itself, but when they openly kissed, John just knew Don didn't have any appetite for dinner.

"Sorry about that," John had whispered at the door when Don was heading home at the end of the night.

"Couldn't they have at least been good looking--yuk," Don had muttered, shuddering.

Like Don, Martin was arriving without any hint of the contrived confession John was going to thrust on him. Although he was almost sure Martin would take the news better than Don had. Martin sat down on the couch with a Molson Golden Ale, while John paced the floor. Nash could hear Ann humming in the kitchen. She was, despite everything, a wonderful cook. John had warned Martin about one thing prior to the visit. Ann was a confirmed, in John's words, "felineophile." As Martin sat there drinking his beer all around him cats stalked.

"Ten," John answered, anticipating Martin's first question.

There were cats of every description. Some were catatonic on the chairs and others were roaming like their cousins in the jungle, snarling, hissing, continually staking out new territory on the wall to wall carpet. A plump tabby promptly appropriated Martin's lap, where it lounged and purred with a dull roar.

"Oh, I see Puddin' has taken to you," Ann called from the kitchen door. "If she gets to be a bother just toss her off to the side."

The cat's weight was beginning to crush his left thigh. Surreptitiously, Martin took his cold beer bottle and placed it against Puddin's ear. The cat angrily got to her feet and jumped to the coffee table, where another cat, a part Siamese, hissed his disapproval.

In between removing cats from the table and Ann trying to silence the occasional caterwauling from a grudge match going on in the living room, they ate dinner while making small talk. After a few beers, John broached the subject. Immediately Martin wondered why his friend found it necessary to inform him of this, especially with the subject of the matter sitting right there staring at him, waiting for his reaction.

"You're kidding," was all Martin managed to say, wishing he had never come. Why are you telling me this? he wondered, forcing a smile. LIKE I CARE, screamed in his brain. I'm going to kill Don for not warning me about this, he thought.

"I know this seems odd, but we just thought it would be better if we told you right out instead of the alternative," John explained, laughing nervously.

What's the alternative, hear it on the Evening News? Martin thought, then said, "Oh yeah, I see."

"It was really John's idea," Ann suddenly said, stroking Puddin' who had taken up residence on her lap. "There's something working there, you know, mentally that he has to resolve."

What's her major again? Martin wondered. Sorcery maybe, he thought, chuckling to himself. "I see," Martin said again, wishing he had never come for dinner even if it was the best meal he had had in months.

"True, it was my idea. Hey, I would be a liar if I said this isn't something that's pretty confusing. There are times when you have to stretch your horizons," John offered, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Did he just say that? Martin asked one of the cats slithering by. No way. John doesn't talk like that. "I guess," he said blandly.

"Dessert anyone?" Ann called out, rising to head into the kitchen. Puddin' hopped, skipped, and landed on John's lap. "I made pie, apple pie."

"Sounds good," Martin said, although he could no longer eat pie now than he could swallow all of the emotional disclosures that were coming his way.

"Tell him about the first time," John said, arching his eyebrows at Martin.

"It's not that erotic really," her voice boomed from the kitchen. "I don't know how it happened. It just did. I was in the tenth grade. It just kind of came over me. I was with this girl that I knew and we found ourselves alone one day. Funny how you think back and some things just seem cosmic. Her name was--"

"No names," Martin joked, "better to protect the innocent."

"Was it like the first time you had sex with a boy? I mean were the two sensations any where near the same sort of thing?"

"Maybe she doesn't feel comfortable retelling it," Martin said, wondering why John was asking these questions. Hadn't he been through this before?

"I suppose," Ann answered matter-of-factly. "They are both times in my life that have a definite resonance in my memory."

Like ringing in your ears, Martin thought and mumbled, "Keep them to yourself."

"Of course with one I didn't have to worry about getting pregnant," Ann stated, standing in the doorway holding a steaming hot apple pie. "You want ice cream too?"

Although Martin had lived in New York for over a year, once he was out of Manhattan he became totally disoriented. "I might as well be in Detroit," Martin uttered. "I don't know one street from the other." They laughed. "We know the way, silly," Ann sang out, latching onto his arm and pulling him along.

Susie lived in a ground floor apartment with a wonderful garden out back, which had been landscaped with care and maintained during the cold winter months. It was a one bedroom place but on the large side, with a huge kitchen. She had furnished the apartment with an assortment of vaguely oriental pieces. A faded second-hand store Persian rug greeted you at the door.

"Oh you're here!" Susie called out, hugging Ann while motioning for John and Martin to come in. "I thought you might not come."

"We're fashionably late," Ann said cheerily. "Oh Susie, I brought a friend of John's. Susie, this is Martin."

"Hi there," Martin said, trying not to stare. To his horror and amazement, Susie was beautiful. He had been expecting that she would be unattractive, probably masculine looking.

"Hello, well, welcome to the party. Most of the people are out back in the garden," she announced, waving an arm in the direction of the back door. "We have plenty of food...and booze."

Susie and Ann moved off in the direction of the garden, leaving John and Martin stranded in their hopeless state of manhood. For now, to their mutual dismay, they realized the party was decidedly on the lesbian side. There were only three males present, and one of them was gay.

"I'm going to kill you for bringing me to this festival of aberration," Martin snarled. "They had better have some good beer to drink."

"We'll stick it out for a little bit then we'll leave," John muttered.

"Yeah, right, like you have any say in the matter."

"What's that suppose to mean?" John asked in too loud a voice. Two girls sitting on a nearby futon turned to look at them.

"What cross street was the train station on?' Martin asked in a hushed tone.

"You're not leaving without me."

"That's what you think," Martin shot back, smiling at the two girls, who turned back to their intimate conversation.

"Hey man, this will be interesting. You are the one who is always saying how he likes to experience different things," John pleaded.

"That's true. Do you think you could get all of these lesbos to throw off their clothes and do a daisy chain performance for my benefit?" Martin said, laughing.

"You are sick, aren't you?"

In most respects the party was unfolding like any other in New York on that night. Clusters of people stood around, drinks in hand, and conversed on any number of topics. There was laughter. Here and there someone was tasting the food. A cassette player played too loudly in the corner. Already one neighbor had complained about the noise.

John settled into a backgammon game with the only other resident male, a homosexual from the Village, who worked with one of the invited guests. They all think me and John are together, Martin thought, looking around the apartment. With beer in hand, Martin set out to mingle.

His first encounter came with a woman in the kitchen. She was well over six feet tall. Her hair was cut short, painfully short it seemed. They had a quick conversation about the food. She thought it wasn't very good. He hadn't tried it. "Don't bother," was her parting shot.

That was enlightening, Martin thought, moving on to other adventures in the garden. It was a cold night but the party's atmosphere seemed to be warming the guests, who stood around admiring the Chinese lanterns. He made his way around, stopping here and there to take in a conversation. They all generally ignored him.

"I see you found the beer," someone said to him suddenly.

Turning, he saw it was Susie. "Top priority," he replied, smiling. "You know, you have a great place here."

"Thanks. I was lucky to find it, even if it is in Brooklyn," she said.

Under different circumstances, Martin knew he would be trying desperately to flirt with this girl. She would have to be wearing that low cut blouse and those tight jeans, he thought. They talked for a few minutes, then she moved on to other guests.

Back inside, John was still at his backgammon, obviously attempting to block out the rest of the party. More girls were arriving. Susie, the gracious hostess, was greeting them at the door. Kisses and hugs, before, in a different parallel, conventional universe, would be harmless and commonplace, but now they took on a new significance. Martin watched from across the room, taking in everything while keeping his fantasies at bay.

"Do you go to school with Susie?" a short girl asked, startling him.

"No...I don't," Martin replied, trying not to stammer.

"Oh," she mumbled.

"Do you?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly.

What do we have here? Martin wondered. Maybe she's a hetero friend looking for cheap entertainment. "I'm a friend of a friend," he explained, smiling.

"Oh, that's it," she said, laughing. "I was wondering what you were doing here."

"You mean to say I don't exactly look like I fit in here," Martin said sardonically.

"Sort of," she said in a sing-song voice. "You must feel pretty out of place here."

"Sort of," he said, mimicking her.

They talked for a few minutes, tuning into mutual college complaints. Although Martin wasn't attracted to her physically, he did find her interesting. She smiled at him and easily matched his mild sarcasm phrase for phrase. Then the tall girl from the kitchen walked up and took her away.

"Gotta go now," she said, waving good-bye.

"Boy the food sucks at this party," Martin heard the tall girl say as they walked out hand in hand.

He had been dreading it but the time couldn't be put off any longer. Too many beers equals the necessary trip to the bathroom. For some reason he didn't want to trespass. The very act of raising the toilet seat in this house could be a symbolic act of war.

Martin was hoping he could get in and out fast but when he slipped down the hall to the bathroom he discovered someone using it. Any minute one of Susie's guests was going to come up and then there would be a line, waiting. Before long there would be a dozen anxious women waiting, while, inside, he violated the toilet bowl from above the seat. He imagined them being able to hear his urine tingling into the toilet bowl.

A door was half open next to the bathroom and he peered in. It was Susie's bedroom. He couldn't help himself. Pushing the door open further, he looked in. A large size brass bed dominated the room, flanked by a small chest of drawers. There was a poster on the far wall and he leaned in further to make out what it was.

"Great bed, huh?' someone said behind him.

Startled, he said, "Oh, it's you, Ann."

"Turn the light on. The bed's an antique. Susie got it from her grandmother," Ann explained, flipping on the light and walking in.

"Really," Martin managed to say, trying to control his embarrassment.

"You can get a great night's sleep on this monster," she said, plopping down on the bed and then stretching out. "Or not," she added, giggling. "Come on, check it out."

"I don't think so. Susie probably wouldn't appreciate me lounging on her bed."

"She doesn't care," Ann said, rolling over on her side. "They don't make beds like this anymore."

"Must be hard to keep this brass clean," he said for lack of anything else to say.

"Susie cleans it religiously," she said, sitting up. "Had many a good times on this," she mused, patting the mattress. Then she said suddenly: "Hey, I saw you checking Susie out. Isn't she just so beautiful?"

"Yeah, not bad. What a waste."

"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked, her voice now taking on a belligerent tone.

"Nothing," Martin mumbled, regretting he had ever said it.

"Oh I get it. You're kind of frustrated. Right? Like to get in Susie's pants but you know you can't," she said, smirking. "No salt on the wounds or anything but she happens to be good in bed," Ann cooed, patting the bed for emphasis.

"Totally different standards," he announced, smiling.

"What?" she spat out.

"The array of sex acts are from different ends of the spectrum," he replied. "You know, the anatomical limitations."

"Oh please, like a woman can't get off without a man's thing inside her. Are you for real?" she declared, laughing.

"I guess you don't understand," he said condescendingly.

"Understand what? I know more about it than you do--that's for sure," she almost shouted, jumping up from the bed, with her hands planted on her hips.

Two girls came down the hall, giggling. They disappeared into the bathroom together. The music from the stereo seemed far off now.

"I can't argue with you there," he stated smugly, turning to go.

"Oh sure, walk off now when you know that I'm right," she declared, with her squeaky voice cracking.

He stuck his head back in the bedroom and said, "Who satisfied you more: John or Susie?"

She looked at him for a moment, taken back by the question. The two girls came out of the bathroom, still giggling. One of them winked at Martin and laughed.

"I liked them both, for your information," she answered flatly.

"Sure you did," he said in an ironical tone of voice, as he walked down the hallway. She followed him. John looked up from his backgammon game and sensed that his friend had started something. He called out to Ann but she ignored him.

"You can tell your friend that--"

"Not now, Ann," John said in a low, forceful tone.

"What do you mean not now?"

"I don't think we need to make a scene do we?" John hissed between clinched teeth, grabbing her hand and pulling her down next to him.

"How's everybody doing?" Susie asked, walking up holding a few coats for some people who were leaving.

"Just fine, Susie," Martin sang out, smiling. "We were just admiring your bedroom. Such a bed."

She looked back over her shoulder at him and then at Ann and said, "Oh really, it's an antique."

"So I'm told," Martin said. "They don't make them like that anymore."

Ann attempted to say something but John cut her off. Susie walked her guests out into the hallway where they said their good-byes. Ann was glaring at Martin.

"I think this might be a good time to hit the bathroom. Maybe this time I'll be able to go," Martin said, slipping down the hallway again.

John and Ann were waiting by the door when he came out. Susie was asking them to stay longer. John gave an excuse for them leaving. Ann forced a smile.

"Thanks for the beer and the interesting time," Martin said to Susie, who looked at him blankly.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," she said, smiling.

"We'll have to get in a few chess games sometime," John said, knowing quite well he'd rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than spend time with her.

"That'd be fun and this time maybe I can beat you," she said, the gracious hostess to the end.

"See you," Ann said, leaning over and kissing her.

"Yeah, see you," Martin also said, as he leaned over and kissed Susie on the mouth. She recoiled slightly, then laughed.

"Let's go," Ann muttered.

"I'm not responsible, you moron," Martin said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You should be thanking him," Don said, laughing. "I mean the guy saves your sorry ass from a fate worse than death and here you are criticizing him for it. Nice guy, John. Martin just happens to be a hero."

"He ruined it for me. I'm supposed to be happy about that?" John asked.

They were waiting for the bartender to bring them their beers. It was a slow night at the West End. Two Barnard co-eds were sitting at the next table talking about exams. Don had already alienated them. They had told him to "get lost" when he spoke to them.

"Aren't you over this yet? It's been almost a month now since she dumped you," Martin asked.

"She didn't dump me," John said emphatically. "We came to an understanding, that's all."

"Whatever," Martin uttered. "Where's our beers?" he shouted out and the co-eds looked over and frowned at them.

"Hey, you two girls don't know Susie and Ann do you?" Don called out.

"Who?" one of them asked, then said, "oh brother."

"Real funny, Don," John said dejectedly.

"It's over. It wasn't going to work out anyway. Sooner or later she would have missed Susie or what she has to offer. You know that, John. Be honest with yourself about the whole thing. I saved you some heartache down the road," Martin said, patting him on the shoulder.

"You don't know how much that helps to have you patronize me," John sneered.

"Hey, just think, no more cats," Don said gleefully, laughing. Then he called out to the co-eds again: "Hey, you girls like cats?"

Chapter 6 Bombing For Dollars

"You can't be serious," Martin exclaimed, positive Don was putting him on.

"I'm not kidding, Nash. How much money do you have?" Don pleaded over the phone.

"Not that much, that's for sure," Martin replied. "What do you need it for anyway?'

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then Don said in a weak voice: "Because I'm in jail, that's why. I need it to make bail."

Martin hadn't realized the serious financial problems Don was in. Attending college, juggling several jobs, scraping by in expensive Manhattan, they were all doing it. Some were more successful than others.

Following Don's directions, he took the subway to the NY Corrections Facility and, after an interminable wait, was permitted to see him. Don, the convict, was led into the room by a guard and they were allowed to converse through a plexiglass partition. How many movies have I seen this scene in? Martin wondered.

"What in the hell happened?" Martin demanded to know as soon as Don had sat down.

"Nice seeing you again too," Don said sarcastically, forcing a smile.

"Yeah, right. So?"

"So here I am. Not exactly a great career move but..." Don started to say but then waved the thought away with his hand.

"What'd you do?" Martin asked pointedly.

"You wouldn't believe it," Don answered morosely.

"Jesus, you didn't kill anybody did you?" Martin exclaimed loudly, drawing the attention of one of the guards, who looked over disapprovingly.

"Sure," Don shot back, as he glanced over at the guard and smiled. The guard went back to picking at his fingernails. "I robbed a bank," he said in a whisper.

"Gimme a break. You?' Martin said, laughing.

"No, I'm kidding. That's why I'm sitting here wearing Calvin Klein's latest creation," he said, plucking at his collar to show his prison garb.

Martin looked at his friend, his school mate for a moment then hissed: "Are you crazy?"

"No. I needed the bucks," Don replied, exhaling loudly.

"So you rob a bank. You don't think that is crazy? Wait until John hears about this," Martin said, rolling his eyes.

"Hey, listen, don't tell John," Don stated in a serious tone. "I don't want him to know about this. That's why I called you."

"Why not?" Martin asked, puzzled.

"`Cause I just don't," Don muttered dejectedly.

"He's going to wonder where you are, you know. Like when you don't show up for class," Martin said, shaking his head.

"Spring Break is in a few days. He'll think I'm gone visiting relatives," Don explained. "I think I should be out of here pretty soon."

"You expect me not to tell him. Dream on," Martin chortled, whistling for emphasis.

"Are you my friend or what?" Don hissed, leaning close to the plexiglass to stare at Martin. "I just don't want him to know. It's too humiliating. Maybe someday..."

"What about me? I know," Martin announced, grinning.

"Yeah, but you've seen it all. You can understand why I did it," Don said solemnly. "John would never understand it. I couldn't take his insults. You know how he can be sometimes."

"Whatever you say, Don," Martin said.

"When I tell you how it happened...and why it happened, you will put it all together," Don said. "Believe me, you will."

Don had exhausted all possible student loans. He was in his fifth year of college and driving a cab at night wasn't quite paying the rent. As if to signal a fall from grace, he had even moved to Queens to stay within his budget. It wasn't enough.

He had one financially debilitating problem: gambling debts. OTB was Don's nemesis. There was hardly anywhere in the city you could go and not be near an Off Track Betting outlet. Convenience had come to wagering.

The modern college student had to be informed about Financial Aid. It was vital to maintain an academic standing to most. Don took it one step further. Grants, loans, scholarships, he took advantage of them all. It wasn't enough. Then he met Tony.

Tony was a generous man; and with the generosity came interest, which compounded like an integral calculus equation. Before long, Don became intimately familiar with verbal threats. It was after a meeting with Tony, held in a bathroom on one of the IRT platforms, that Don decided he needed a new source of funding. While Tony informed him of the pending deadline for repayment, a man Don had never seen before quietly and efficiently cracked two of Don's ribs.

Don reasoned: What does New York have plenty of, besides bars? He then planned his assault on the sacred institution of banking. Armed robbery, the pure form of it was out of the question. First of all, he didn't own a gun and couldn't imagine where he'd get one much less pay for it. There had to be coercion of some sort. Then there it was. Every day in the news there were stories about terrorists bombing this and that. A bomb, it was perfect.

An old flashlight would work perfectly as the viscera for the bomb. He easily dismantled the housing, leaving the two C batteries as the charge. The miniature speaker from his broken transistor radio was wired to the insides of the flashlight. It was all then mounted on a small toaster oven baking tray with glue; which was then attached to his body with duct tape.

Don singled out a bank near Madison Square Garden for two reasons. First, there was a subway nearby to make a getaway, and second, he hated the bank's annoying commercials on TV. Now all he had to do was wait until the bank wasn't crowded.

He took up his post outside the bank and waited, and waited. Trying not to be too conspicuous, Don paced in front, occasionally peering inside to survey the lines that snaked out away from the teller windows. There didn't seem to be an end to the people entering the bank. His plan was already beginning to unravel.

"It's now or never," he finally muttered and entered the bank.

He got in line. There were a half dozen impatient people in front of him. The teller, a young girl with enough makeup on for an entire kabuki troupe, meticulously went about her business. Obviously getting paid by the hour hadn't been lost on her. The line inched forward.

Another unexpected, unforeseen glitch suddenly presented itself. The tape Don had used to attach the ersatz bomb was beginning to chafe his chest and stomach area where he had shaved away the hair so the tape would be easy to remove. Hostile itches were forming all over his abdomen. Without realizing it, he was starting to scratch...and scratch.

To his horror, he was next. Behind him the line stretched almost to the door. A quick glance at their faces told him they weren't in the mood for any irritating delays.

"Come on mister, you're next," the teller called out, as she snapped her gum and fluffed her hair.

"This is it," Don uttered, smiling at his immediate benefactress, the one he hoped would deliver him the money, in twenties.

"Can I help you?" the girl asked, frowning.

Up close, the girl was truly frightening. Although she couldn't have been more than twenty, she looked like an aging, embittered woman of forty. This isn't going to be easy.

"Yes," he mumbled. He paused for a moment to look around him. He had never seen so many people in one bank before. "I...I need you to do something for me," he stammered.

"That's what I'm here for," she cracked, then snapped her gum some more.

All the practiced lines had now been forgotten. He was improvising. "Look, I want you to give me all--"

"Could you speak up," the teller demanded.

Don leaned forward and said, "I have a bomb on me and I want you to give me all the money in the drawer." He then raised his shirt up enough for her to see the contraption that was now adhering with sticky strength to his exposed skin.

The teller first looked at him then at the bomb. There was a moment that seemed to stretch into an hour before she got a placid look on her painted face and said: "I'm sure."

Don hadn't planned on this eventuality. The very idea that the teller wouldn't believe him never entered his mind. He had no contingency plans.

"Give me the god-damn money or I'm going to blow you and this fucking bank to hell," Don hissed between his teeth.

The teller took this threat seriously. She stopped chewing her gum and promptly dropped to the floor and started screaming: "He's got a bomb! He's got a bomb!" This wasn't supposed to happen either, Don was thinking as he stood smiling at the other bank customers and shrugging his shoulders. A bank guard was edging his way over through the lines of people. He had only one option left. He ran.

There is an attribute that is almost institutionalized in New York and it is: people just don't get involved. Not my problem. That is a phrase you learn to live by in the city. On this Tuesday of the month things changed. As Don made his way out of the bank, dodging people like he was on a two legged slalom run, several men gave chase.

Down the street and into the subway station Don ran. Behind him three men in business suits pursued. Down the steps Don dashed. A train was just pulling in. The turnstiles were blocked with people lining up to go through. He pushed a few people aside and vaulted over the barrier.

The train's screeching brakes were just dying out. The doors had opened and a mass of passengers was billowing out. Don wedged his way between them. In a moment he would be free. The ridiculous folly would be over.

There was a shout and some commotion around the turnstiles. Don had already started to board the train. It was only a matter of seconds and the doors would be closing.

Then it happened. There was a sharp pain to the back of his head. He was falling--face first into the side of the train. A woman screamed beside him. The posse had tracked him down.

"That's about the weirdest story I've ever heard of," Martin exclaimed. "You mean to tell me New Yorkers actually chased you down?"

"It's the truth," Don replied ruefully. "I can't believe it either. I mean would you chase down a bank robber. I don't think so."

"What did they do tackle you or something?"

"No...well, sort of I guess. What actually happened was one of the business execs...and I know you are not going to believe this, threw his briefcase at me and it hit me in the back of the head. I swear."

"Ninja CEOs," Martin said, laughing.

"The damn thing almost knocked me out," Don explained. "Hurt like hell."

"Maybe you can sue him," Martin joked.

"Right. There was three of them chasing me. They sat on me until the cops got there."

"So what happens now?"

"Now I get my trial and see what happens. My lawyer says they'll probably give me probation because I don't have a record or anything," Don stated, trying to smile.

"When the judge hears this case he'll probably die laughing and then you'll be up for murder one," Martin said, snickering.

"Real funny. The only thing in my favor is it wasn't really armed robbery. I mean a flashlight isn't much of a lethal weapon, is it?"

"Not unless you held the teller's tongue to the C batteries," Martin replied, smiling.

"I should have. My mom hasn't stopped crying since she got the news. She's so worried I'll never be able to be a lawyer now."

Chapter 7: Reunion

He called Don and met him in the Village at a coffee shop. He had told his two friends from college that he had traveled some in Europe and was now looking for work, but was in no hurry. They had laughed at that and urged him to stay in New York.

Don was waiting for him when he got to the coffee shop. They embraced and Don whispered: "They'll think we're two long lost faggots, glad to see each other." A bus boy glanced over and smiled at them. "What'd I tell you," Don said, glaring back at the bus boy.

"Good to see you again," Martin said, noticing that Don was beginning to put on some weight around the waist.

They talked about their lives after college. Don shared gossip about their mutual friends from school. Somehow it felt, to Martin, as if he had been away for years instead of just six months.

"Take her out. Show her the town. I mean, really, the girl doesn't know squat about New York," Don stated, grinning.

"Why are you springing this on me?" Martin asked. "Can't we just sit here and reminisce about old times?"

"Hey, it's not like you've been gone for ten years or anything," Don replied, leaning forward and staring at Martin.

"Why don't you take her out?" Martin wanted to know.

"Me? Because I've got happiness already," Don answered, smiling, referring to the three months old relationship he was having with a waitress who worked in a restaurant on Bleecker Street. "Look, you would be doing me a big favor. She's my woman's roommate and I promised to get her a date."

"Oh now I see what's going on here," Martin exclaimed. "Let me guess, she's fat--right?"

"With her personality you will never notice. Honest," Don said, laughing.

"Call John, he can take her out," Martin suggested.

"Oh sure. John's not into actress types--you know that. Did I tell you she was an actress? John only likes the cerebral ones."

"Oh, this girl has oatmeal for brains."

"Come on, Martin, you're an artsy type, she's an artsy type, you should both be happy together. Probably end up getting married."

"You are going to owe me...big time," Martin said reluctantly.

It had been depressing for him to walk into John's office, to see him at work at his desk, a small time bureaucrat working for the City. He had wanted to say: John, where did you squander your genius? Instead, he said, "How's it going?"

"Survival comes to mind," John replied, standing up to shake Martin's hand, hoping his embarrassment didn't show on his face.

All around them, in this beehive of clerical mayhem, people were shuffling feet and papers in a hopeless attempt to keep New York functioning. An air of desperation was palpable. There were just too many people and too many forms.

Martin knew John envied, and vaguely resented him for getting out, escaping life after college. In college, there had been so much promise. When you transgressed the insularity of college life reality was not kind.

"Talked to Don," Martin said, sitting down after moving a chess set from the chair. "Still at it?"

"What's that?" John asked, peering up from a form he was scribbling on. "Oh yeah. I play in the Village, and the street when I need a few bucks."

"I thought they'd all know you by now," Martin said, smiling, remembering how John used to play the hustlers on the street, who set up chess boards and gambled on a game that sped along piece by piece hoping to stay ahead of the cops. John would invariably beat them at their own game.

"Uh huh," John muttered, as he stamped a few forms with an ink smudged stamper.

"Nice office," Martin offered.

"If you have Orwellian tastes."

"Who's that?" Martin hissed, turning half around to watch a pretty girl walk by.

"I think she read too many of Sappho's poems when she was a kid...figures," John said bitterly.

"Oh, you're kidding. What a waste."

"One of God's lamentable jokes on man," John said, smiling for the first time.

"Looks like I've come at a bad time," Martin said as he stood up.

"I am a little swamped right now. How about getting together tonight? McSorley's?"

The bar was half empty on a weeknight. On the weekend nights the NYU students would fill McSorley's from wall to wall, forcing the regulars to retreat out the door by eight o'clock. Somehow it wasn't like old times, Martin thought, as he looked around at the musty decor of an aging tavern desperately trying to maintain its authenticity by pouring sawdust on the scuffed wooden floor.

"How many times did we stand here and quaff down some brews?" John asked, holding up his beer mug as if he were about to give a toast.

"Too many."

"Do you remember the time that biker was in here with that beautiful girl, the one who looked like she lived on Fifth Avenue? You remember, the guy with the shaved head and tattoo on his face."

"Wrong movie," Martin said, shrugging.

"Come on, Nash. The guy went off to the bathroom and you started hitting on his woman. You remember, come on. The guy came back and you were talking to her. Remember?"

"Maybe it was Don you were with," Martin said in a disinterested voice.

"Nice memory. The guy started hassling you and you told him to go shine his head."

"Oh yeah, I remember now. That wasn't here though, it was over at that Grassroots place," Martin said.

"Maybe you're right," John muttered almost dejectedly.

"Hey, sorry to spoil your recollection," Martin teased.

"It's all in the past now anyway," John said gloomily.

"There's Don," Martin announced, waving to him from the bar.

"Hey John, Martin, I see you got a head start on me," Don said, trying to get the bartender's attention.

"Hey Don, do you remember the time we were here and that biker almost punched Nash's light's out?" John asked.

"Give it up," Nash exclaimed.

"What biker?"

"You know the one, with the good looking girl, who had the expensive clothes and jewelry. Looked like she belonged Uptown. You gotta remember."

"I think John lives for this memory," Martin said sarcastically.

"What happened?" Don asked, motioning to the bartender that he wanted a draft beer.

"I don't believe this. He doesn't remember either. You two buttbrains are lucky if you can remember your way home," John said, exasperated.

"Lighten up, John," Don said. "Had a bad day at the office again or what?"

"No, I didn't have a bad day at the office again or what," John shot back.

"This biker had a bald head and a tatoo on his face or a tatoo on his head and a bald face, whatever," Martin explained.

"Never mind," John grumbled, taking a long drink from his mug of beer.

"Hey Nash, did you get in touch with Sarah?" Don asked, winking at him.

"Yep. Going out tomorrow night," Martin said. "She sounded nice on the phone."

"You're going to like her. I just got a feeling," Don sang out.

"Who are you pimping now?" John asked sourly.

"Friend of my lady's," Don replied.

"Oh and I just bet she's a real scholar, right? If you tell me she's an actress I'm going to break this beer mug over your head. I mean the city certainly needs another airhead actress. We don't have enough running around looking for stardom," John stated, eyeing Don.

"I don't know what she does," Don said evasively.

"You and these trollopes you meet...I don't know about you," John muttered. "I'm going to the bathroom."

Don looked over his shoulder and watched John disappear in the back, then said, "Martin, listen, this guy is on a one way trip to a shrink's couch."

"Come on, get serious, you mean John?"

"Yeah John, who else? The guy's a downer and a half. I think it's his job," Don whispered.

"I guess. Have you seen his office? Looks like something out of...of some bad Russian novel or something."

"Never been there," Don revealed solemnly.

"You're not serious, Don. How come?"

"I don't know why," Don mumbled.

Martin stared at him for a moment and said, "What's the matter."

"Nothing. Well...I dunno, it's just that I couldn't face seeing John like that."

"Like what?"

"You know, like a minor league bureaucrat. It's just that...that John was always a beacon of some kind of hope. I always thought John would be somebody. I don't know what but somebody important. He was always the smartest and all."

"This is weird but I thought the same thing when I went to see him at his office. I saw all those people enduring the everyday drudgery and it hit me. It was actually pathetic," Martin said, shaking his head.

"That's why I never went to his office. I couldn't take that. And you know, Martin he idolizes you. Not really idolizes but envies you. Pretty disgusting, huh?"

"Thanks?"

"It's true though. He's stuck here, with me, and you are off flying around the world. I know it eats away at him."

"No wonder he's depressed being stuck here with you," Martin joked. "It's not like John is a janitor or anything. His job is a pretty good one."

"Yeah, I know, but he wanted to go to med school and when the scholarship fell through and he couldn't swing the loans, that's when he kinda fell apart. See, you weren't here for that fiasco. I was. It wasn't fun, believe me. That was his ticket out of here, out of the city."

"But you know John was always pretty moody all the time," Martin suggested.

"Yeah, I know. I can't say how resilient the guy is. Who knows? I mean look at me. I robbed a bank and I'm surviving," Don announce, chuckling. "Of course my parents will never forgive me for screwing up my life, but, hey, life's not always easy."

Martin looked around and saw John coming back, so he called out, "Hey John, another round?"

"Exactly what do you think my liver is made of?" John answered peevishly.

"I hope it's better than your spleen because you've been positively splenetic tonight," Don declared, eyeing John for his reaction.

"I won't sleep tonight knowing I have upset you," John said with a pained expression.

Chapter 8: The Date

When she opened the door Martin found himself looking at the prettiest blue eyes he had seen in a long time. He was speechless. They stood there staring at each other.

"Martin?" she asked hesitantly. "I sure hope it's you. My roommate told me to never but never open the door to just any old body. Please say you're Martin," she exclaimed.

He took out his wallet and playfully showed her his driver's license. "Please say you're Sarah. Can I come in?"

"Come on in, silly," she said. "This living in New York takes a little getting used to. Back home we open the door and never think twice about it."

He took her to Chinatown, to a small rice shop he knew of just off Mott Street. She was intrigued. "I've never seen so many Chinese people before," she whispered, latching onto his arm as they weaved their way through the crowded streets. It was the perfect introduction to the city she wanted to know all about.

Afterwards, they went to Chumley's in the Village. Going to an ACC college hadn't been lost on her. She drank the pints of beer like she was back at a fraternity kegger. The walk back to her apartment in the East Village was a weaving, stumbling journey. Stopping to catch their breath in Washington Square Park, they wrestled with each other on one of the park benches, before she finally said breathlessly, "Can't we shift this extracurricular activity back to my place?"

The two bedroom apartment in the St. Marks area was one of the walk ups that had been current before the turn of the century; but it was cheap. The neighborhood had a veneer of seediness that the spill over trendiness of the Village couldn't hide.

"Oh Lord, you could grow bananas in here," she announced when they plodded into the apartment. "It's this damn steam heat. We can't seem to regulate the temperature. Please excuse me, Martin, I've just got to use the bathroom or I'm going to bust."

"No problem," Martin said, collapsing on the couch. Waiting, he absentmindedly fingered the remote control and the TV burst to life. He charged through the channels, blinking as images whisked by in splotches of color. "Nice TV," he called out in the direction of the closed bathroom door.

"It's my roommate's," she declared, standing in the doorway straightening her belt. "We've got cable and they have some of the strangest things on there."

"That's New York for you," Martin mumbled, as he continued to flick through the channels.

Martin could hear the refrigerator open. He knew she must be standing there soaking up the coolness. Then she reappeared carrying two glasses of water and they greedily drank them down.

"I had this craving for lemonade but this will do," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The light from the living room illuminated her in silhouette. It all seemed strange to him now, like they were old friends chatting. Maybe the previous intimacy had been an illusion. Who is this girl? he thought. "At home, late at night, I can listen to the crickets, but here all I hear is sirens."

Crickets, sirens, Martin thought, smiling, what is she talking about? "The city that never sleeps," he said, feeling suddenly exhausted, hoping that she was going to go to sleep soon.

"Is that milk okay?" Sarah asked shyly the next morning.

"Fine," Martin replied, glancing at the date on the carton.

They ate their breakfast in silence. Somehow, in daylight and sober, everything seemed to have changed. Sarah and Martin, even the names didn't share a link.

"What time do you have to go to work?" Martin asked hesitantly.

Sarah busied herself for a moment with her red and white scarf and said, "Nine."

"How is it?"

"What?"

"The job," he explained, smiling.

"Oh that, it pays the bills--as they say," she said, grinning.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Us," she replied, laughing. "Why are we so nervous all of a sudden?"

"Good question. It seems so weird to be sitting here having breakfast with you in your cute little Avis outfit."

"Yeah, right. I look ridiculous."

"Red's definitely your color," he said, patting her on the arm. It was the first time they had touched since last night.

"I was thinking how it would look if my momma and daddy walked in. They would have a cow right on the spot," she said, whistling for emphasis. "Lord, they would kill me."

"I bet."

"I hope you don't think that I do this sort of thing all the time, Martin. I mean, Lord, I've only had two boy friends in my entire life. This is just not like me at all," she stated, staring at him. "Must be moving to the city and all."

"I guess I'm just going to have to marry you now," he joked.

"Silly," she said, smacking him playfully.

They made plans to meet later. Martin found that he liked her. She was going to be an actress, she was beautiful, and she still possessed a certain optimism that he thought didn't exist anymore. It was all temporary. He would be leaving soon. Nash understood what his life had become.

Don didn't want Martin to, but he felt obligated. He had called John and told him to meet them at the restaurant where Don's girl friend, Toni, worked. She was a waitress at a place in the Village trying hard to be chic. It wasn't. Toni said the cuisine was impossible to classify and almost as difficult to eat.

"We'd liked to sit in her section," Don called out when the four of them arrived. A few of the patrons stared at them before returning to their meals.

"You guys are lousy tippers, don't sit in my section," Toni joked. "I'm almost done for the night. Have a seat over there. Hi there, Sarah. Come on back to the kitchen for some quick girl talk."

"Not bad, huh?" Don asked, directing his question at Martin.

"Nice," Martin agreed. "Where's she from?"

"You aren't going to believe it. She's from a small town in Iowa."

"What's so unbelievable about that?" John wanted to know. "This city is crawling with people from the hinterlands."

"That's true, John, but Toni is not here to be an actress," Martin said, looking around to make sure Sarah couldn't hear him.

"Must be here for something," John said accusingly.

"She came to New York just to come to New York. She wanted to see the city up close," Don explained.

"Poor girl, she comes to the city and she meets you. Now that somehow doesn't seem fair."

"Nash, when did you say you were leaving?" Don asked sarcastically.

"Okay, if she's not here to be an actress then she must have come here to be an artist," John stated.

"Nope. I'm telling you she just wanted to see what living in New York would be like," Don said almost irritably.

"A musician?"

"Cool it, John. She's a nice, normal girl. Promise me you won't give her any grief," Don said, pleading.

"I know. She came here to be a mime," Martin joked.

"That's it, a mime. New York needs another mime," John said, laughing.

"Make fun all you want, but she just happens to be the woman I love," Don said in a dramatic voice.

"Yeah, right," Martin said, punching him in the arm, "and two weeks from now you'll be taking up with some girl from--"

"Korea, who came here--"

"To be a High Priestess for the Unification Church," Martin interjected, while John and him shared a laugh.

"Why didn't I just go my own way after college?" Don asked the ceiling. "It would have been so easy to not see either of you two ever again."

"I have so much material to work with tonight. I mean I have Martin and his thespian bimbette and Don's farmer's daughter...this is too easy," John sang out, laughing.

"I'm finished for the night," Toni said, sitting down next to Don.

Sarah suddenly burst out laughing, then said, "Tell them."

"I told you not to tell them," Toni whined.

"Tell us what?" Don wanted to know.

"Oh, alright then, but I don't want to hear any obscene stories from you guys," Toni said, suppressing as laugh. "Well, I sort of got flashed."

"How do you sort of get flashed?" John asked, frowning.

"It's so humiliating, really. I can't believe it happened to me," she said, covering her face.

"Where did it happen?" Don asked, concerned.

"I was coming back from uptown and I was in the tunnel, the one that takes you to the Times Square shuttle...well, this man--this derelict looking guy--just up and took out his thing."

"He did what?' Martin asked.

"He took out his thing and sort of wiggled it at me. I was so shocked I didn't know what to do," she exclaimed, as they all laughed.

"It's not funny," Sarah said, trying not to laugh. "This guy could have been crazy or something."

"That's true," Martin said. "But you know what the worst of it is? Tonight the guy's probably going to go back to his hovel and fantasize about the good looking girl he flashed in the subway and then get off on it."

"That's disgusting," Toni almost shouted. "The pervert's going to get his jollies over thinking about me. Yuk!"

"Makes you wonder why anybody would want to come to New York, doesn't it?" John said.

"Well, Sarah has some news too. Good news," Toni announced, pointing at Sarah.

"I got a part today," she said shyly. "It's nothing big, of course, but you have to start somewhere."

"Commercial?' Martin asked.

"No, it's a small part in a European movie being shot in Central Park," she explained. "I only have a few lines."

"Congratulations," Don bellowed out. "This calls for some celebrating."

"Yeah, break out the champagne," John muttered to himself.

Martin could hear the baby crying in the apartment. He was alone in bed. There were muffled voices coming from the next room. A shower was running in the bathroom. Don's voice echoed in the small apartment. They were arguing. The radiator was hissing out too much heat.

"`Bout time you woke up," Sarah called from the doorway. "Ready for breakfast?"

"If I ever wake up," he said groggily. "Whew, too many beers last night."

"You were lit for sure," she said, grinning.

"Oh my head, damn that uniform is way too bright for in the morning," he said, pulling on the red scarf and kissing her lightly.

"I've got to get going. I'm late already."

"I was going to walk you to the bus stop," he protested.

"That's nice," she said, smiling. "Gotta run now."

"Okay, bye," he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

She had sat out the box of Special K next to a bowl. He sat down. The kitchen smelled of just brewed coffee. The baby next door had stopped crying but he could now hear Don shouting at Toni.

"Hey Don, why don't you shut the hell up," he yelled, immediately clutching his head from the pain.

There was no reply for a minute, then Don stuck his head out of the bedroom and replied: "Nash, don't you have a plane to catch--like today?"

ON THE WATER

Chapter 9: Saving The Sea Monster

She was a disappointing mess when we first saw her. A fast moving hurricane had been unkind, as my father said, tossing her around until she ended up against a dock with a piling jutting out of her deck. The storm had sneaked in off the Gulf and swamped most of the low lying areas in the Alabama seaboard. Parts of Mobile were flooded.

It was late summer when I called my father in Florida. He had gone into his self-appointed exile from work a few years before, leaving the DC area behind once and for all. His life now revolved around some investments and his time spent dabbling in several business ventures in South Florida. The peninsular life had taken hold, as he embraced the water, sunshine, and abundant leisure time.

Our relationship was a strained one, and that's an understatement. In my youth, my father had been a father in absentia for most of the time. Large chunks of our bonding years had been spent apart, as he stayed away on business trips that took him half the way around the world. Not that it would have been any better if he were there.

He was a self made man, who worked his way up from the bottom, coming from humble beginnings in the South. Several wars had defined his outlook on life and a penchant for striving to accomplish things on your own had been handed down from a long line of Protestant forbears, who would have thought less of a man who couldn't or wouldn't adhere to an independent mode of living life.

I, on the other hand, had been instilled with a zest for life that was more in line with, say, a drunken Frenchman, who when looking to the horizon sees what occurred yesterday because he realizes in his mind's eye that life is always deja vu all over again. I jest, of course. I never liked France or its people and would find it a horrible thought to be aligned with them in any way. Still, Descartes was French and he was able to sum up life in just one sentence.

Suffice it to say that me and my dad didn't see eye to eye on much of anything, and that included everything from how I wore my hair to my taste in clothes to, (feel free to laugh), me becoming an FBI agent. Sure. I was, basically, artistic by nature, probably deriving most of my genes from my mother, who was creative in a good many ways. The Arts, to my father, were a baffling aberration that, if not shunned, should be ignored completely. He had not read a novel in his entire life. Then, again, his life was a novel; or at the very least a pot boiler adventure story.

It was a part of this storyline in his life that precipitated my parents divorce, and the subsequent early withdrawal of my father from his powerbase in DC to the semi-tropical confines of the Sunshine State. "It's like movie-of-the-week stuff," I would tell my friends when they wanted to know what was going on with my parents, and why they were disrupting the suburban order of things. Just because they were living some 50's TV show plotline didn't mean we all had to. Did it?

At any rate, I had called my dad to touch base with him because I hadn't spoken to him in awhile; of course my ulterior motive was to soften him up for maybe a prospective winter trip down to the warmth of Florida, compliments of his condo on the water. I was being the good son, the one who gladly mooches off his parents in a warped version of the natal give and take of an offspring's genetic responsibility. I took my role as a son seriously.

We chatted about nothing and everything, managing to say just about zero to each other, which was easy to do because we didn't share a whole lot in common. In fact, we didn't even share the inviolable connection of football any longer. I was still a Redskin fan and he had changed his allegiance to that silly team that had been named after a marine mammal.

As the conversation was dwindling, and I was happy that I had fulfilled my dutiful son's phone call chore, my father asked me if I was doing anything for the next few weeks. This sounded ominous, like maybe he wanted me to go through a business seminar, one in which they would extract my current brain and replace it with one that couldn't function unless it read the Wall Street Journal everyday. I was leery.

"I'm not doing anything really. Just hanging around," I answered, immediately thinking I shouldn't have said that exactly but rather told him I was waiting for college to crank up again so I could start in on my continuing education.

"I've got a problem," he said, and I could hear him telling somebody in the background that he would have another drink, it being cocktail hour and all. A female voice told him she would get it in a minute.

"What kind of problem?" I wanted to know, intrigued from the safe distance of over a thousand miles.

"It's my sailboat...damn thing got clobbered up near the Panhandle by the Hurricane last month," he explained, forcing a laugh.

This wasn't news to me. I had heard the story before. My father had purchased a sailboat, a 38 foot catamaran, and was doing his Magellan act by sailing around the Gulf when nature kicked him in the ass, so to speak. He had to make a run for port, just making it ahead of the raging storm. He made it safely but the sailboat had been a sitting duck.

"Yeah, so I heard," I offered, wondering where this was going.

"I can't get up there for awhile to bring it back down here...so, I was wondering if you and maybe some of your buddies might want to sail it down for me," he said. "I would kick in for the expenses and all," he added.

I didn't know what to say. Part of me suddenly wanted to be Bluebeard and take to the high seas and part of me wanted to just, well, laugh. It was a long way across the Gulf, in route back to South Florida, to the Atlantic. Then again, he did say he was going to spring for the cost. What's a few weeks tooling around with my pals, drinking beers, making port of calls, checking out the local scenery, if you know what I mean? Didn't they make movies about this sort of thing?

They do, but they usually involve lots and lots of wind, waves, and stupefying seasickness, along with somebody drowning. Of course. Then, I'm getting ahead of myself.

And so it began. I shanghaied three of my friends and set out to make delivery on a boat. Not that it was a difficult thing to do, convincing them to come along that is. All expenses paid always has such a nice ring to it. They were a disparate bunch of friends, each representing a niche in my adolescent lifestyle. Now they would be joined together as we set out to sea.

PAUL

Of the three, I had known Paul the longest. He lived only a few streets away. As with the others, he had been a High School classmate. We had shared many things in common during school, including untimely acne and broken dreams at the hands of unnecessarily cruel females with IQ's no bigger than their bust size. Well, he suffered more than me, him being the bigger social misfit of us two. Actually, I had low standards, which went a long long way in opening the field for my endeavors of the heart.

Post High School saw a renaissance of sorts with Paul on a physical level. He grew an astounding four inches right after turning 18 and added some muscles to his now larger frame. It was a pituitary marvel.

However, for me, it was a gut wrenching wake up call, telling me that I was in for a life of living like an average person: average height, average build. Not only that but I was now at the receiving end of some ass-whipping wrestling matches, delivered by my former average sized buddy. Whereas before we had been on par physically, I now had to contend with a pal who was taller and almost thirty pounds heavier, with a newfound attitude of sadistic mayhem.

The beatings notwithstanding, we continued to be friends, only now he had become a magnet for the "babes", as the say, and I had to bear witness to his casual philandering. I was beginning to see that life wasn't fair. Before I had only suspected that it wasn't but was too young and, basically, ignorant to understand it was.

Paul attended college down South. He was a good facsimile of a student, choosing his courses wisely, always diligent about not having to tax his brain. In reality, he was quite bright, being fortunate enough to possess one of those minds that can soak of just about any information, store it, then easily retrieve it when the time came to have to use it. He was remarkable that way. He could recall, in totality most times, entire songs from 15 years ago, or recite long passages of a magazine article. Even if the article was about the gridiron exploits of so and so in his rookie season, it was nevertheless still noteworthy.

He was, though, the classic underachiever. The evil call of ambition never rang in his ears for some reason. Paul was content to go his way in life and make what he could to do what he wanted. Naturally that was counterproductive to the American way of doing things. To achieve or not to achieve wasn't a maxim that any responsible parent would want their child to adhere to. Maybe.

Paul's parents were industrious, upper middle class achievers, and very nice people as well. That they hadn't been able to instill in him any working margin for, well, working couldn't be held against them. Inculcation, on a parental level, pretty much ends when the chromosomes sort themselves out, I guess. At least they did in this case.

As an illustration, Paul's short resume, at this tender age, included a couple stints as a lifeguard on the New Jersey shore. I know what you're thinking. Yes, it wasn't like interning with some Fortune 500 company or anything. Sitting in a chair and watching girls in bikinis all day wasn't going to land you employment when the hungry recruiters showed up at your college looking to pass on the key to upward mobility.

Paul had a different take on it though. He saw guarding as a desirable position of respect and prestige. No he didn't. You got little pay, a suntan, and all the access to the opposite gender that you wanted. If Caligula were alive today he would be a lifeguard.

I knew of his hedonism by the sea. I had visited him once and it had taken me several weeks to recuperate after I left. Paul's brother, Randy, had asked me if I wanted to drive up to check out Paul's little domain. I couldn't pass up a chance to see what I had been hearing about for the entire last winter.

Randy was also an underachiever of sorts, only his underachieving fell into a class all its own. After being armed with a brand spanking new degree from a prestigious Ivy League college, he had embarked on a well thought out plan to avoid work for as long as he possibly could. And he was good at it.

He was brilliant, you know, smart in that way a person is when they know everything but don't know how they know everything. From books? TV? Radio? Osmosis? The guy had gotten an academic scholarship, even if he did play a mean game of tennis and played on the college team. Most of the time we were oil and water when it came time to blend our personalities. He could be smug. I could be obnoxious. If we ever had to spend any time together we would have probably needed a counselor.

Randy was older, a full four years my senior. He had always seen me as the little twerp in High School, I suppose. Yet I had gotten my letters in High School from manly sports like football and basketball, not tennis or golf. I was quite willing to kick his ass if need be. Deep down he realized this, because when push came to shove during our plentiful arguments about the state of the world he would always relinquish his steady hold on the hallowed ground of logic.

And he was logical to a fault. He would, if asked, analyze just about anything. In the curious world of post High School, we suddenly found ourselves becoming friends, which was, undoubtedly, facilitated by the weed he always seemed to have on hand. He had discovered the insidious grace of smoking pot relatively late in life, while I had been practically nurtured on it. We would smoke, get high, then let our contrasting egos rest.

It had been his idea to drive up to see his brother. It had also been his idea to lace a pan of brownies with some potent pot too. By the time we were well into Maryland the pan was empty and we were giggling like school girls on a field trip. I was glad he was driving.

The drive was uneventful, while we sang along to awful pop songs on the radio and made small talk about politics. Before long, we entered the shore area and got our first glimpse of this slice of Americana, and smell, as the briny aroma of the Atlantic filled the car. There was some history here, at least dating from the early 19 hundreds, when New Yorkers washed up on the shores of the small townships in search of a beach vacation.

Many of the towns had been settled by monied people from the Metropolis, giving each town a flavor all its own, whether it be the more upscale homes of Sea Girt or the large hotels with the Jewish clientele of Belmar. The famed boardwalks were here. There were honkytonks and beach bars. Amusement parks straddled several of the boardwalks. Further south, there was Atlantic City.

"Wayne! Randy!" Paul called out to us from his perch on the lifeguard chair, "you made it."

"We're here, so where are all the girls?" I exclaimed lightheartedly.

"You're timing is perfect. We're going to a party tonight," he informed us, grinning.

Manasquan Beach was a tandem operation, with two guards working every chair. This made for a fraternal atmosphere. Friends would often team up to watch over the beachgoers, ever vigilant, maintaining a web of impenetrable safety. Not quite.

On any given day most of the guards were so incapacitated by hangovers they would most probably be unable to save themselves much less anyone else. Paul and Justin, his colleague, had perfected the art of sleeping in an erect sitting posture, in which they would disguise their closed eyes behind dark sunglasses. As they had confessed to me, it would have taken a tsunami to awaken them on some mornings in the chair after a night of imbibing.

Not that they hadn't given themselves up for the profession. They had maybe a half dozen saves a season. Drowning prevention was rewarding work. It gave them their sense of importance. Not really. It was a rush, a spark of excitement. "It was a kick rescuing them," Paul would say, smiling, with a lingering trace of giddiness at his accomplishment.

This aspect of their job was definitely a minor consideration. After the bar excursions, and rock concerts, sexual conquests, tennis, basketball, and convivial camaraderie, there wasn't much time left for anything else. Their plate was, generally, full.

Oh the stories Paul would tell, which came out not as so much boasting folderol but comedic fact. He could be like a narrator in a ribald play, a one man chorus offering chants of debauchery and promiscuity. I listened. It was entertaining.

The tales were endless, involving permutations that embarrassed even me. There were blow-jobs in parking lots from forty year old housewives, while the kids and daddy frolicked in the surf not a hundred yards away. Naked late night swims culminating in sandy sex on the beach were commonplace. Also, there was the buddy system taken to its extreme, where sharing took on a new meaning.

Perhaps it was the beach, the atmosphere. Normally moral upstanding people suddenly lost their way when they got to this wasteland of turpitude. Everyone was there for something it seemed. Justin had been coaxed into a beach bungalow by a woman who was to be married the next week. She wanted one last fling before she said: I do. She had whispered in his ear: "That's the best sex I ever had."

Maybe it had been. Being at the beach made you think that sometimes. By coming there you had left behind what was expected of you. In the time you were to be there it would all be different. Better. At least different.

So we arrived safely. We found Paul's apartment without much difficulty. It was right on the beach in the same building as an arcade and a pizza joint. The atmosphere was decidedly pungent with olive oil and peppered with the electronic bells and whistles of quarter games and shouting kids. This was all conducive to a relaxing time of contemplation and meditation. Yeah.

The key ingredient to surviving at "the shore" was stamina. All that partying tended to sap your strength, and with sleep at a premium you had to pace yourself or get left by the wayside. Our first night there we traveled to another township and embarked on discovering whether or not our livers were going to stand up to the onslaught of liquor. As a warm up, Paul and Justin had taken us to a bar where the beers were two for one, a wonderful marketing device for when you want to pickle various internal organs.

Randy and I were lightweights when it came time to quaff down the brew, choosing to stay this side of the Guinness Book of Records territory in relation to number of beers downed. Paul and Justin, on the other hand, were veteran athletes, trained to polish off any tavern's standing inventory. In fact, by way of illustrating just how depraved the entire beach area was, once a summer the municipalities held a bike race that was sponsored by a dozen or so bars in the area. So.

Well this race was unique. Each entrant was expected to finish the course on his bicycle, but only after stopping in designated bars along the way to toss down a beer. Naturally this brought such civic pride, as the residents rooted for their perspective competitor. As can be imagined, by the time the race was in its last lap the boozing bicyclists weren't too steady on the handle bars. This was sanctioned by the civil governments? And the summer went on.

The predominant sport of the beach life, besides surviving without cirrhosis, was chasing chicks, the all American pastime. It was healthy. It was character building. It was relentless.

Paul and Justin were established predators on the scene, having seduced many a unsuspecting female from the surrounding tri-state area. It now came natural to them. They were in the public eye everyday, displaying their fresh tans and rippling muscles. Girls were drawn to them. The lifeguard myth was no, well, myth.

While Randy and I were interlopers on the scene, rank amateurs really. Randy was an intellectual, who wouldn't know how to use a pick up line even if he knew one. Unless the girl was willing to start up a conversation about why James Joyce hated his native Ireland or perhaps give a encapsulated view of geo-politics, then he wasn't going to be making many inroads. As to my proficiency, I was a middle of the batting order type of guy, able to pull off a hit once in awhile, at least enough to merit me being in the lineup.

After our tune up, and while the beers sloshed around in our distended stomachs, Paul drove us over to his friend's house, where there was indeed a party in full swing. The host of the party was a college classmate of Paul's and was, basically, crazy. Add a little bit of liquor and the guy was a raving lunatic, as they say. This was all such a nice introduction to the beachtown we were in.

Apparently he had just gotten married, leaving behind (in his wake) a life of bar room brawls, obligatory police station visits, and at least several appointments with the local Judge. He seemed nice enough when we met him, although he was, at the time, holding one of his friends in a headlock and crooning some song where the lyrics had been conveniently swapped so as to further humiliate the poor guy being manhandled.

He was a bit of a minor legend to some around the town. His newlywed wife was quite beautiful and left me with the unavoidable observation: Why? As in why did you marry this cretin? She was friendly and seemed to be intelligent enough to know when things might be stacked against you when you make certain decisions.

Their party was peopled with their immediate friends. The guests were happily drunk and passing around small talk that reverberated with referential trivia that they had all shared in their lifetimes. It was touching, but boring for us. You can only hear so many times the story about Jimmy beating the crap out of some bartender for not serving him before it becomes kind of stale.

We politely stayed long enough to down some more beer and scarf up some unimaginative finger food that sat withering on plates laid out on the dining room table. These people were all the locals that comprised the population that had to put up with us annoying tourists every year. We were given friendly handshakes and smiles but they still thought we were, in the indigenous vernacular, "bennys," a word I could find no derivation for or from. It was unmistakably derogatory but no one could tell me what it actually meant.

We left the party and went to a bar near where they were staying for the summer. It was a bar of some renown in the township, carrying a reputation for having good bands and lots of action; which translated to plenty of females. At this point I was exhausted and just wanted to find sanctuary in a bed somewhere and simply die. It was after eleven, a time when the body begins to run on adrenaline or, at the very least, the excitement of any prospect at all of scoring.

Paul and Justin were welcomed in the bar as conquering heroes, it being their bar of residence. A few of the females at the bar called out to them, setting off a chain reaction of distrust and good homespun animosity as they realized they were members of a select sorority. The term "bitch" was offered up as a universally functional adjective. I suppose it was inevitable that this would happen, it being such a small town and all.

Rather than play referees, they moved on to the other section of the bar that housed the dance floor and the stage. The house band was cranking out the latest hits, while the dance floor was crowded with couples locked into feverish dance steps, undoubtedly fueled by dollar drink night. We stood off to the side and jostled with each other, doing our male bonding ceremony, as the music washed over us, leaving us momentarily deaf as stumps.

We spent a week there, at the beach, surviving. During the day Randy would beat the crap out of me in tennis and by night, well, we would go on our extended debauchery. It made for a nice, unique vacation of sorts.

Paul and I were the only two of the four man crew who had any sailing experience, even if it was restricted to day sailors and land locked bodies of water. I could remember a time a few years before. We had been at a friend's cabin on a lake. It was an early summer day, not yet hot but warm. The friend had lent us his sailboat, a 17 foot day sailor.

It was conventionally rigged and was surprising easy to sail. For most of the day we had traded places behind the tiller, tracing lazy tacks across the lake. By early afternoon, as we were becoming bored with the sailing, thunderheads began to form in the distance. We had taken little notice of them, believing them to be too far off to worry about.

Then, just as we were tacking near the far shoreline, a gust of wind rocked us unexpectedly, driving the boat into a position they call "caught in irons," or some such nautical nonsense. What it essentially means is the boat is directly into the wind and ain't going one way or the other. It is mostly a nuisance, where you have to rock the tiller and work the boat into a better position to catch the wind.

However, at this juncture, with the wind picking up, the boat was pitching and rocking like a washing machine. We weren't too worried about it, being that we were so close to shore and all. I was working the tiller into a negative position, backing off, attempting to coax the bow around. The jib line had become tangled on the deck, so Paul climbed up on the foredeck and yanked it loose.

Then the bow rocked over and the jib snapped into place and we were suddenly racing across the lake. We both scrambled to the windward side as the boat heeled away from the wind. We were streaking along, riding the centerboard, with us hiking out over the side. Paul screamed out: "God-damn!" I held on to the tiller extension and guided us perilously out into deep water.

This was scary but exhilarating. Unfortunately, we had to turn around. Jibing was out of the question. This amount of wind would toss the boat over without a doubt. I shouted out for Paul to get ready for a power tack, which meant I was going to drive the bow through the eye of the wind and redirect our course. We would have to duck the crossing boom, and take up positions on the other side of the cockpit.

I gave the word, swung the tiller, then scrambled over. The boat pivoted easily, while Paul reeled in the jib line. We hiked out over the opposite side and were on our way, whooping and yelling like madmen. Needless to say, this was insane. A major thunderstorm was descending on the lake, bringing with it booming thunder and dangerous lightning.

Being in a sailboat out on the water during a storm is not, shall we say, wise. The mast just cries out for electrical current, begs for it. A body of water is like a welcome mat. We might as well have just screamed out: Come on down and fry us.

We rode the storm for a good hour, before finally heading back to the tiny cove on the lake where our friend's docked their boat. We were pumped by our mutual stupidity. High fiving each other for escaping death, as sheets of rain began to douse our enthusiasm, we put the gear away and tied the boat up.

EDDIE

I met Eddie my Freshman year of High School, but we didn't really become friends until after we graduated. I don't know why. Although I knew him all those four years, we just never took the time to develop a friendship. Politics soon brought us together, as we were both members of the growing legion of Nixon haters. Hey, the President was easy to dislike.

Eddie was studying Urban Design and Capitalization, or some such perplexing field, one that made you go "huh" when he told you what he was going to spend the next four years immersed in. He was suited for something as arcane as that because he had the patience, an attribute that ran counter to everything the youth of America stood for. Being rash and, basically, idiotic was our birth right.

He was more...calculating, but not in the way Lex Luther might be while he planned the ultimate destruction of Superman. No. Eddie was observant. Cautious perhaps. Even when he partook of the "freak" lifestyle there was an underlining current of control, like just maybe he could turn it on and off at any given moment.

Maybe it was because of his Nordic ancestry, where hundreds of years of the inhospitable cold and the glaring obstruction of the omnipresent midnight sun had left an indelible mark on his psyche. He seemed to even choose his humor carefully, only laughing after the joke had been examined, perhaps even weighed against some internal standards that governed his personality.

It wasn't as bad as all that, of course. I might be exaggerating. Maybe. Yet there was an unmistakably whiff of the salty fjords there. With his blond, Scandinavian good looks, and his penchant for smoking a pipe at his tender age, it didn't take a leap of imagination to picture him piloting some Norwegian trawler against the angry tides of the North Sea.

What am I going on about?

We, along with a few friends, had taken a few train trips to New York. It was sort of a field trip to see some plays and booze it up in whatever interesting bars we could find. His girl friend at the time had accompanied us, tagging along with three guys as we explored the city environs. We had fun. It was an adventure of sorts.

We stayed in the Chelsea Hotel, enduring the bad service and inexorable dilapidation, which would give us the right to say we stayed in the Hotel where so many artists, writers, musicians etc. had resided. "This place has so much character," his girl friend would say, smiling, while we laughed, knowing that it was a dump and not even all that cheap at that.

During the day we would argue over what play to see, adopting attitudes, almost as if we were trying to see who could be more pretentious. Predictably, she wanted to see musicals, which I scoffed at as just so much "fluff." "Let's check out something off-Broadway," I would suggest in a sneer, exerting my hipness.

Eddie had studied up on the theater scene, of course. He knew the directors. He knew the actors. He even knew where the theaters were.

It had been his suggestion that we attend a play, a quasi-musical, which just happened to be an interactive style of drama. I was a purist. There should be no penetration of the viewing public's domain. The drama was to be viewed. It was sacred. Violating this rudimentary rule was sacrilege. Not really.

What it was was embarrassing. Who wanted to have to answer questions put to you by someone in costume, while dozens of people looked on, waiting for your response, ever ready to burst into laughter at your expense. It was insane.

We debated over this pending decision for almost an hour, with me eventually being overruled 3 to 1. I threatened to go to a bar instead. I pouted.

The play was a hodgepodge of political dictums, Age of Enlightenment drivel, and neo-period piece costumes, all held together by some experimental music that was directed by a conductor of worldwide renown. I was, as they say, aghast. Even the "winches" in the play, with their low cut peasant dresses and well propped up bosoms couldn't bring me around.

"And my good man, what say you?" one of the actors asked a man seated in front of us, glancing around the audience, anticipating the coming derision, as it were. The man squirmed in his seat, forced a laugh and muttered something that was unintelligible. The actor bellowed out something witty, that was more or less in line with the plot, and everyone laughed, as expected. The actor smiled and dashed away.

The entire theater had been converted into a kind of trapezoidal concoction, which was all held together by interlocking walkways and catwalks. This made it easier for the actors to interact with us, because there was no stage, no conventional one that is. Sections of seats formed pockets within the ramps, forcing the audience to continually adjust the way they were sitting in order to see what was going on in the play. It was all annoying really.

I don't remember what the damn thing was about, only that it was (purportedly) drawn from the works of some European writer; who, I'm sure, would have vomited a great deal of bile if he ever saw this monstrosity. I know I wanted to.

Fortunately I wasn't accosted by the actors, because I was fully prepared to let them know what I was thinking at the time. Eddie's girl friend was plucked from the audience by a "knave," one who most probably selected good looking girls at every performance. She giggled and followed his lead, advancing the plot along, while the actor squeezed her here and there, leering, doing it all in the name of his lascivious character.

I was watching Eddie, wondering whether or not he was going to get upset by his girl friend being publicly mauled, and on Broadway at that. He didn't seem to be. He laughed. He even clapped a few times. She was such a good sport.

I wasn't sure what I would have done if that had been my girl friend up on stage, being groped, while complete strangers watched. I had a temper. I was capable of anything, I suppose. Besides, I could have given the plot a real boost when I slugged the goofball actor, sending him reeling over the catwalk into the cheap seats below. Now that is good theater. Let the conductor get a fine crescendo out of the orchestra for that.

When the play was over the four of us went directly to a bar and discussed the play. We were so urbane. Very educated. Art will save the world.

I got drunk on some German beer that look for all the world like 30 weight oil and ended up striking out on my own. Well, actually, this wasn't my choice really. I had told them that I thought the play was, in so many words, "pure shit." Not only that, I was going to march back to the theater and demand my money back. This was pure fantasy for two reasons. One, I was so drunk I couldn't have found the theater if I wanted to. And two, we had purchased the tickets from a discount broker for next to nothing. I wonder why. Only rubes from the sticks would go and see such ludicrous entertainment.

At any rate, I wandered around the city, managing not to get mugged, and returned to the hotel by taxi because I hadn't a clue where I was. They had all gone to bed already. It was all forgotten the next morning, while we munched on bagels and boarded the train back home.

ANDREW

I met Andrew also after High School. He was a couple of years younger. We used to play basketball together at a local park. We shared little in common except the fact that we were from the same neighborhood. His parents wanted him to be so much more than what he wanted to be, which was something we did have in common, I guess. His dad was a bigwig in the State Department or Defense Department, some kind of Department or Agency and expected Andrew to maintain a low profile socially so as to not create any source of embarrassment.

For the most part Andrew complied. He was, generally, a social pariah anyway, choosing to hang out and do mostly innocuous things like play ball, watch TV, and maybe go to movies. He had never even had a girl friend to speak of, even though he was tall, reasonably good-looking, and never suffered from any lack of pocket change.

He was one of those type of guys that never quite made it to the established jock level in school, but rather floundered a little and slipped down into a twilight area that was usually populated by guys who got over 700 on the math part of their SAT's, but were still good at sports. Andrew never got to enjoy the spoils of High School fame, which usually included the adulation of any number of nubile ingenues just dying to give it away.

I liked Andrew. I liked him for his sense of humor, or, rather, his appreciation of my jokes. We made each other laugh. Nothing sophisticated. Actually it usually leaned more towards the 3 Stooges genre than anything else.

I can remember an outing we went to one Saturday afternoon. It was the Middleburg Races, an annual event that took place out in the Virginia farm land, in horse country. The festivities dripped of some southern neo-Faulknerian attitude. We fit right in. Sure.

This race was held by the local landed gentry. They were the Old Money in Virginia, the ones who could trace their ancestry back several generations and find plantations and slaves, and were somehow or other proud of the fact. They, without even trying, personified snobbery. It came natural, and they were so good at it.

This part of Virginia was, more or less, a Kentucky retread, complete with rolling hills, venerable stone walls, and, of course, plenty of horses. There was history here as well. Blood had been shed all around during the Civil War, which the people of these parts probably fought in all the while maintaining a perfect sense of decorum and southern good manners.

Generation after generation had passed on, through genetic bloodlines and good old social propriety, an indelible sense of importance and well established arrogance. Like it or not, this was probably as close to English Aristocracy as we Americans were going to get. Needless to say, I didn't like it. Hadn't my ancestors fought a war so we honorable, god fearing citizens wouldn't have to put up with the likes of them?

Although this race took place every year, I had never attended. It seemed that every time it came up I had something else to do. I had even dated a girl in High School who was an equestrian. She had tried to talk me into going. Nope. Got better things to do than watch a bunch of sybarites cheer their million dollar ponies on to victory.

This particular year Andrew, and a few of his friends, asked me if I wanted to go. They had piled into his friend's station wagon, which was well stocked with a cooler of beer and bags of munchee food. I glanced in the car, saw the supplies and said: "Why not?"

Four of us drove on out. It was a beautiful day for a race. Give me one of those beers.

Race might have been a misnomer of sorts. There was indeed a race, but it was more of a cordial competition than an official derby. Think Camptown Races. In fact, you could even sing the song to get you in the mood for slipping back in time, back to where white men were men and black men were something less.

There were races with buggies. There were races with children riders. There were races with spirited horses that looked for all the world like they wanted to either bite or kick the crap out of their rider. I wasn't, as can be guessed, a horse person. Seeing a human ride an animal around a track didn't constitute much entertainment to me. Ed Sullivan wouldn't have found it entertaining either, I like to think.

But it was a nice day and I had put away a few cold ones. What the hell. Find your pleasure where you will.

Now it must be said that this yearly happening was open to all. Every strata of society in this great land of ours was welcome. Well, to be accurate, we were all cordially invited as along as we stayed on our side of the track and I don't mean railroad.

This didn't sit well with me. I was a confirmed egalitarian. Yeah. America was about living without the onus of class structure beating down the, well, underclass. Actually I didn't believe any of this but it made for good conversation after you've had a few. I knew money was the criterion for attainment.

However, as I stood there leaning against the fence and watched the asinine races unfold, I couldn't help but notice that the other side of the track sure did look nicer. I told Andrew this and he wholeheartedly agreed. To us, we amateur social scientist, this was a matter that should be studied, even investigated if need be. So, armed with two cans of Bud, we set out to do some in depth research on the subject.

I do take responsibility for Andrew's actions. After all, it was me who first mentioned the injustice we were suffering under. Weren't we standing on the side of the track with the sun in our eyes? Wasn't it shadier on the other side?

The separation of the track was accomplished by one tiny, almost insignificant rope tied across the roadway, so inconspicuous we stepped right over it and didn't even notice. Gate crashing, as it were, was unheard of. These people were accustomed to having everyone else know their place in the order of things. I mean they certainly knew theirs.

Alarms didn't go off when we trespassed. There were no scrambling security guards hot in pursuit. Nothing really, except for a few raised eyebrows as we set out to mingle. We fit right in for sure.

I was shirtless, hoping to catch a few rays while we watched the races and Andrew was wearing a pair of sweat pants that he had cut off in order to play b-ball in. One pant leg was longer than the other. I had a straw hat on that I had found conveniently sitting atop a fence post. It fit nicely and had a gaping hole in the top to better afford me some ventilation. All we needed was some girl to play Becky and we could have been the Tom Sawyer-Huck Finn traveling minstrel show.

As F. Scott said, rich people are different and in this case it meant they had more food. Lots. They parked their cars along the fence and were having one rather large catered picnic. Mounds and mounds of food for as far as the eye could see greeted us. It was a smorgasbord of genteel southern cooking.

Andrew, beside himself with gluttony, charged the nearest table, coming away with a plate full of chicken, potato salad, baked beans, fruit jello, and (the dissipated lush) a glass of champagne, served in a real champagne glass. No plastic cups for these people.

I quickly followed suit, choosing to remain sociable and only load a few pounds of food onto a plate.

We didn't go unnoticed entirely. I think they heard our burps over the horses thundering hoofs. A man, resplendent in riding attire, including a riding crop, which he tapped nervously against his thigh, approached us and asked: "Are you with the Wellington's group?"

Thinking I'll handle this rich jerk-off, I replied, "No, the Windsor's."

"I see," he said, tapping the riding crop a little harder against his thigh. "Then you will perhaps refrain from eating the Wellington's food."

"Is this the Wellington's?" Andrew exclaimed, spitting out food as he spoke. "I'll be damn. Are you sure? Is there a sign or something?"

"Why don't you two just take the food and go back over to the other side where you belong. We don't need any trouble," the man hissed, pointing his riding crop in the direction that he wished for us to head.

"Are you a Wellington?" I asked, smiling, extending my hand, after wiping the barbecue bean sauce off of it. "I always wanted to meet a Wellington. Isn't there some kind of clothes named after you?"

"Boots," Andrew muttered, as he stuffed another fork full of potato salad into his mouth.

"What?" I asked.

"I think there are some boots named after the Wellington's," he explained, and we both looked down at the man's boots.

"Are those Wellington's you got on?" I asked. "Nice. Real leather right? Did you have to break them in or did you get your servant to wear them around for a few days so the leather would loosen up?"

"Are they hard to get off?" Andrew wanted to know. "Looks like they might be."

"You've had your fun," he said between pressed lips.

"What fun?" I asked, looking around at the others, who were trying not to watch this spectacle.

A couple of girls our age were pointing and laughing. Andrew held up his glass and saluted them. "Nice dresses," he called out, admiring their summer dresses.

How ugly was this going to get? Were any of these people capable of violence in a social setting. I guess the men could have been wife beaters and all, but that would have always been conducted behind closed doors, very discreet. Perhaps the women had slapped their maids on occasion when they neglected to draw the bath in a timely fashion.

"Okay you guys, why don't we just call it a day," a young guy called out, stepping from the other side of the fence. He was about our age and with the exception of being filthy rich probably just like us. Uh huh.

"Are you a Wellington too?" I called out, with a trace of belligerence.

"Wait a minute, are all you people related?" Andrew called out. "Are there a lot of first cousins married to--"

"Very funny," the guy said, walking over in front of us. "Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."

We were young. We were drunk. We didn't mind kicking some rich ass.

I turned to a woman standing next to the table of food and asked: "Did you make this potato salad? It is very very good." She tried not to smile at that remark. "Can I have the recipe?"

"That's enough," the man with the riding crop declared, grabbing my arm.

I brushed his hand off and said, "Don't do it, Mr. Wellington. Mind your manners."

"Dad," the young guy called out, "let me handle this."

"Yeah, dad," Andrew mimicked, laughing.

"I don't want to ask you two to leave again," the young guy stated, holding his finger under Andrew's nose.

Now it must be said that while Andrew was a guy with a nice disposition, he was also six foot four and strong as a mule. Due to my nasty attitude, he had probably been spurned into, shall we say, pugnaciousness. I wasn't proud of this but it was entertaining.

"Do you want to keep that finger?" Andrew asked ominously.

The young guys bravado was suddenly wavering. In the background, the two girls were tittering like two southern belles in heat. Mr. Wellington was smacking his riding crop into the palm of his hand. I fully planned on relieving him of it if need be.

Then the young guy had to go and knock the plate of food out of Andrew's hand. Not good. Andrew stood there for a minute and looked down at the food on the ground and then back at the young guy. He looked at me and smiled; it was a smile I had seen him display on the basketball court when he was going to take his opponent to the hole come hell or high water. I had seen him bloody a guy's lip before with a quick, well placed forearm shiver in route to a race defying, rim rattling jam. The young Wellington was going to get stuffed.

Whoosh, right by me he went, a direct hit: face first into the bottomless pit of barbecue beans. True to my word, I grabbed the riding crop right out of Mr. Wellington's hand and tossed it over the fence. He stood there dumbfounded, while his son emerged from the beans with one large stain on his expensive outfit.

That was it. No fight. Not even anymore heated words. We waved at the girls and returned to our rightful side with the hoi polloi.

They comprised my crew, these three friends who were connected to me via High School, although I knew them separately and our friendships never did intersect. I was bringing them all together in a joint mission on the high seas. We would never (ever) be the same again.

We flew down and met my father in Mobile, who had driven up with a car load of equipment and supplies. It was just before lunch when we arrived. My father knew Paul but had never met Andrew and Eddie. "Ready to see her?" my father asked us, not waiting for our response. We piled into his car and drove to the marina.

There she was. We stood on the dock and immediately wondered just how binding our commitment was. She had been damaged in the storm, leaving the wooden decking weathered and the masts, as Paul so aptly put it, "beat."

Although the boat was built in a modern catamaran design, the materials used were yesteryear's materials of wood. The sailboat was, in a word, a contradiction, 38 feet of odd nautical configuration. There were two sleeping cabins, one in each pontoon area, and a low slung cabin embedded in the housing that held the boat together. The master builder had seen fit to install two masts in a facsimile of a yawl monohull layout. This made for a schizoid feature of contrasting styles of sailing, which was (expectedly) at odds with the reputed reputation of swift moving cats.

It was apparent the marine builder either couldn't decide if he wanted a sleek, fast moving craft or a comfortable tug with nothing but cruising in mind. The rigging and the hull seemed to be competing against each other. As we were to discover, the boat had a mind all its own.

"Needs some work," I offered weakly, shocked by the condition of the boat.

"Got beat up pretty bad," my dad explained, stepping onto the boat. "Come on, take a look around."

We looked. It got worse. All of us I'm sure wanted to get right back on the plane and chalk it up as another goofy experience.

At one time, before the storm, the boat had been in mint condition, one unique vessel complete with varnished teak and lacquered wood in a world of boring fiberglass. Even the wheel was some kind of expensive wood. The only nod to modernity, besides the hull design and instrumentation, was a quiver of state of the art racing sails.

We looked around the boat, stopping to examine things here and there, letting the irrepressible call of the sea to insinuate itself into our blood. Not really. We checked out the radio and the mini-fridge, then laughed at the tiny head, with the pump toilet. My dad busied himself with the motor, making sure the plugs hadn't gotten fouled in all the rain.

Then my dad, the usual task master, ordered us to work; which we did in our customary way, that is in a fair imitation of Jerry Lewis joins the Navy. We joked. Threw each other into the bay. Even managed to actually get some work done.

At the end of the day we were exhausted. My dad treated us to a sumptuous seafood dinner at a local restaurant, where we got good and drunk while we listened to him regale us with tales of his travels. Little did we know he was softening us up, playing on our sense of adventure--or lack thereof. Wasn't it time we did something that we would remember probably our whole lives? Oh yeah. Lay it on thick.

I guess with enough beer on board we would have crewed on the Titanic. We were easily swayed. We hadn't come all this way to not do something. That's what we told ourselves anyway.

The next couple of days we finished repairs and did some shake-down cruises around the bay to get a feel for the boat. As I skippered the beast, with Paul as my reluctant First Mate, I issued orders to my recalcitrant crew, who were just as apt to tell me where to stick it as they were to actually do what I told them to do. We did a great deal of laughing, while my dad shook his head and told me that my crew was a bunch of nincompoops, but likeable.

Our last night in port, over some beers, we went over the charts, plotting our course down to South Florida. Drawing a rhumb line, an obvious A to Z type of thing, would have put us across the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Now this is one big body of water. I discussed it with my crew in a show of democratic spirit for our pending adventure. They told me I was crazy. I concurred. My dad shook his head and said, "Then hug the shoreline and I'll see you around Christmas." Aye-aye, sir.

I like to think my dad doesn't actually harbor any ill will against me. Perhaps he does hate me on some level, like, say, when it comes time to assess my path to success in life. Do all fathers automatically love their sons? Is that built-in to the genetic framework? I don't know. All I know is I didn't take my father's advice and I'm alive to talk about it today.

I did have a rather large insurance policy that he had taken out on me way back when. Nah. Lost at sea. No body. Hard to collect on. Doesn't make sense.

We laid in the supplies the next day, an inventory that was just the least bit heavy on the brewskis. The boat had a small two burner stove, which was to provide us with all the hot canned beans we could stand. Nothing fancy. Good honest grub from the tiny galley, which we had entrusted to Eddie because he seemed to be the only one who could keep up with the provisions. There was going to be plenty of wind on this voyage.

The time had come. I had talked the crew, my crew, into standing on the deck in an ersatz display of Navy colors, an homage to my father's wartime service; of course he was in a seaplane but who's counting. We had purchased matching white trousers at a thrift store in town just for the occasion and were all wearing white t-shirts. The fleet of one was about to set sail.

Paul whistled, we saluted in unison. My dad told us we were "nuts." I gave the order to cast off the lines. The engine sputtered to life. We were about to be underway.

"Hey, Mr. Milton," Andrew yelled out from the bow, "why did you name the boat the Sea Monster?"

My dad smiled, while we eagerly anticipated the answer, having neglected to ask before now. The sailboat eased away from its berth. There was a tepid wind blowing in off the gulf. A few curious seagulls swooped overhead.

"Because the damn thing's butt-ugly," he declared, smiling, waving good-bye.

This time of year, with the exception of hurricanes, is mostly devoid of wind. On this day, it was the usual. While not exactly the doldrums, the breeze wasn't going to propel us right on down the coast anytime soon. It wasn't an auspicious beginning.

Being a sailboat, our motor was nothing more than a "kicker," an outboard that you couldn't even waterski behind if you were under a hundred pounds. We had laid in plenty of fuel but because of the size of the motor it wouldn't have been prudent to run it non-stop until it exploded. No, this was going to be a sailing adventure.

When we had reached the open gulf, I gave the order to raise the sails, main and mizzen. My crew scrambled to...after they told me to stuff it and other jolly things. I laughed. I had yet to be transformed into Captain Bligh. I was more like Captain McHale, only thinner.

The wind was out of the southeast, which, as fate would have it, was the way we were trying to head. Eyeing the compass at the helm, I worked through some long-ass tacks, all the while keeping us within sight of land. Landlubbing phonies.

We now began to discover the boat's true personality. Fickle. Yeah, the damn thing had a mind all its own. In the open water it wanted to stray upwind continually. I didn't want to run on long drawn out reaches and by the same token I didn't want to run close-hauled to the wind.

In another nod to eccentricity, the builder had installed a wheel house and not a tiller system for steering. This left the boat with a maddening hesitation when it came time to initiate turns. If you had well honed instincts for sailing the boat might have been easier to handle, but I certainly didn't. I also had no patience, a cardinal sin when it comes to sailing. I wanted results.

We took turns at the wheel, laughing when one of us would stray off course and lock up the sails directly into the wind. Slowly we left our departure point behind. We were making headway but it seemed as if we were going backwards at times.

My navigational skills, even after a crash course by my impatient father, were negligible. Besides, I had never liked math in school. We called on Andrew for help, putting his sterling SAT's to work. He plotted the course. Not that we needed it really. There were turtles in the water making better time.

First Night

The first day was uneventful. Boring even. Sailing was akin to slow death, so I was thinking as I hung onto the wheel and watched the horizon bob in the distance. Fortunately for us it was a nice day, with a ten knot breeze letting us know that the art of sailing did actually work when it came to transportation.

As dusk was coming on, we decided to make for a port, anchor, then get to the grub and beer. Well, the beer part had come off somewhat earlier, say noonish, as we were choking down some cheese sandwiches on a pitching vessel that suddenly didn't seem all that big out in the deep, deep water. My prohibition against drinking on duty went unheeded, as already discipline was beginning to break down. More and more Paul was starting to sound like Mr. Christian.

Tailor made for four idiots at sea, we found a small harbor embedded in the coastline. We located a quiet spot and weighed anchor. It was tranquil, pristine. We were like explorers of antiquity, laying eyes on newfound land. Sure. Just beyond the sand spit jutting out into the water was a Texaco station and further on a honkytonk bar, where, when the wind changed, we could hear righteous country music warbling in the night air.

Paul had brought his guitar along, proof that we where pseudo adventurers. At least of the four of us I was the only one growing a beard. Big deal. Anyway, he was playing along to the music, while we hooted and laughed, adding suitable lyrics that matched the downhome, southern angst the music elicited.

We passed our first night battling pesky mosquitoes and trying not to breathe too deep of the fragrant sea air, redolent with rotting fish and seaweed. The boat gently swayed at its anchorage, lulling us to sleep. I sat out on deck for awhile, looking at the stars, and thinking that this wasn't all that bad.

The next morning we set out early, almost at first light. The wind had shifted slightly to almost straight out of the south, which was dead on to shore. This was better. We could do an easy beam reach. I raised the genoa in order to grab more wind, hoping to coax as much speed out of the barge as we could.

It was a beautiful day, with only a few puffs of clouds overhead. The Gulf was a shimmering green plateau, with hardly a ripple. We coursed along, maintaining a rigid tack, skirting the coastline in the distance. It was as if we had the entire world to ourselves.

Again we took turns at the helm. I continued to check the sail's trim periodically, as I lay on the foredeck and sunbathed. The water rushed between the twin hulls, gurgling, letting us know that we were actually making headway.

We were beginning to grasp this sailing concept, even if it took us a half an hour to lower the jib and stow it, then raise another sail. There would be no calls from any America's Cup skipper, that's for sure. We continued to ridicule one another's ability as a sailor, laughing, joking, happily enthused by our mutual incompetence.

The beer consumption didn't help. A stack of beer cans had begun to pile up in the main cabin and I (ever the ecologist) wasn't going to permit any overboard dumping. The sailors of yore had their grog and we had several cases of Miller. Yes, it indeed was Miller time most of the time.

Eddie made us some lunchtime cheese sandwiches. We ate some greasy chips as well. Although the boat was pitching most of the time I had yet to come down with any seasickness. The others were holding up as well.

As evening approached, we were tired, numbed by the continual tossing of the boat and parched by the broiling sun. We had a quick conference and decided to keep moving, doing an all nighter, in shifts. This was lunacy, of course. Our running lights were half working, with the port light out altogether. The mast light was minuscule and gave off about as much illumination as a lighted match.

"Let's just keep going," Eddie had suggested eagerly, as if night sailing would be somehow exciting.

"No way," Andrew declared. "Are you insane? It might be just the least bit dark out here when the sun goes down."

"I'm afraid of the dark," I offered half jokingly.

"What's the hurry?" Paul said reasonably.

"No hurry," Eddie replied. "I just thought it would be something different to do--that's all."

"Now you've made him all defensive," Andrew said, laughing.

"All in favor of keelhauling Eddie for suggesting this lamebrain idea say Aye!" I said, giggling.

"I'll get the rope," Andrew sang out. "How do we do this? Tie his ankles or his wrists?"

"Hey, we don't even have a keel," I exclaimed. "We'll have to drag him between the pontoons I guess."

"We can make him walk a plank instead," Paul suggested.

"I think there's some wood downstairs that--"

"You mean below deck," I corrected in a mock haughty tone of voice.

"Hey, I got a better idea. Why don't we let the captain take a little swim," Andrew said, grabbing me by the collar.

"You are bordering on mutiny, sailor," I said, wrestling him to the deck.

Then Eddie jumped in on the fray, soon followed by Paul. Needless to say nobody was steering the boat, which veered upwind, sending the boom swinging wildly across the deck. Such was the shenanigans of the Sea Monster crew.

Fortunately there was a full moon. Moonlight danced on the open water. It was quiet, except for the hulls' musical vibration as they cut through the Gulf. Two hour shifts took us through the night.

The sunrise came in a rush of pink and orange hues. Sleepily we congratulated each other for doing this night sailing thing. Of course now we were totally exhausted.

By early afternoon we had decided to head closer to shore, maybe find a good spot to anchor for the night. We had reached the Florida panhandle area, so I judged by consulting the thousand and one charts my dad had stored at the Captain's nook just inside the cabin. We sailed close in and anchored off a beach, where we could see several waterfront motels and bars. There were people on the beach, which included girls in bikinis. There was a mad scramble for the one pair of binoculars on board.

"Captain's rights," I shouted out, clutching the binoculars against my chest. "Get back you scurvy dogs."

"Let's take a vote on a new Captain," Paul called out to the other two.

"I heard that, Mr. Christian," I said in my best Trevor Howard imitation.

"Hey, how come you never hear anyone named Mr. Jew or Mr. Jewish?" Andrew wanted to know.

"What?" I said, zeroing in on two girls lying on the beach. "I think the natives here are...very friendly."

"I said, How come you never--"

"Let me see!" Paul exclaimed, grabbing the binoculars, which were draped around my neck.

"Can I have my neck back," I protested, as he yanked them out of my hand.

"They're waving at us," he shouted out.

"Oh yeah, this boat is a babe magnet," Andrew stated, walking out on the foredeck to wave back at them.

"How about some shore leave?" Eddie said.

The boat then pitched violently and thudded against something. We looked at each other in surprise. Then I glanced out to the Gulf and noticed for the first time that the tide was changing. In the late afternoon sunlight I could just make out several sandbars just beyond us. We had come in on the high tide and were now in danger of being grounded by the receding low tide.

"Damn!" I exclaimed, running to the aft and peering over the side. "We're going to be stuck on this sandbar if we don't get out of here--like now."

"What about the girls?" Andrew shouted out, waving at them still.

"Get the anchor up!" I commanded, as I ran to start the motor.

"I got the wheel," Eddie declared.

The crew of the Sea Monster jumped into action, all except Andrew, who was still waving frantically at the two girls on the beach. I got the motor going. Paul struggled with the anchor. Eddie swung us around. The twin hulls scraped over the sandbar and then we were free. We high fived each other and admitted unanimously that it was (indeed) Miller time once again.

The Squall

It was our fourth day. We were worn down by the continual pitch and sway of the boat, not to mention the unmerciful sun. Our nerves were beginning to fray a little. The boat was becoming very, very tiny. I was sharing one cabin with Paul and had had just about enough of his snoring. On the starboard side cabin, where the toilet was located, Andrew and Eddie had reached the breaking point with the ripe smells from the head. Added to this was the unthinkable, we were running low on beer.

Although the boat had a primitive shower, it didn't help against the perpetual dousing of salty sea air and seawater on deck. Our skins itched and our eyes hurt from the bright light and salt. Canned beans and stale bread were as unappetizing as can be imagined. To make matters worse, we were making absolutely no time at all. My dad had been right. It would be the new year before we made it anywhere near his latitude.

I didn't say anything. I didn't have to. The white expanse of virgin sand on the Florida shoreline mocked us. It was like a flickering mirage, only it actually existed. We could easily run downwind and there it would be, waiting.

It was around 3 or 4 in the afternoon when the weather suddenly began to change. I was below deck, resting, trying to stay out of the heartless sun. Before, we had had days of post card perfect weather. I felt a wave slap against the hull in my cabin. At first I figured that whoever was at the wheel was coming about on a different tack. Then I heard something different. It was wind. Real wind. Not this feeble breeze we had been laboring under.

I scrambled on deck. Eddie was at the wheel. Paul was trimming the mizzen sail, while Andrew was lowering the genoa. "What's up?" I cried out over the increasing wind. "We're in for a storm," Paul called out.

I orchestrated a sail change, electing to use the storm jib, then told them we might have to reef the main if the wind got any stronger. We were all frightened, but excited to see if the Sea Monster could handle the angry seas. Eddie gave me the wheel and stationed himself by the jib winch.

The waves had grown to over five feet in a hurry. The sky was black; it was sudden darkness. It was a squealing south wind. Sheets of rain washed over us. There was an instantaneous cold in the air. Andrew went below and came back up with rain gear he had found in a locker in the main cabin.

"Lifejackets!" I shouted over the wind.

"What?" Paul bellowed from where he was holding on by the mizzen mast.

"Where are the fucking lifejackets?" I screamed out.

"I'll get 'em," Andrew yelled.

"Put them on," I commanded, struggling to get one on as I held the wheel. "Andrew, get on the foredeck and watch out for me," I yelled, because with the rain visibility had been lowered to only a few feet.

"What am I looking for?" he asked.

"Mermaids," I replied, shaking my head in a motion that I then realized was precisely how my dad did it.

"Hold on everybody!" Eddie declared, whooping.

I was guiding the boat in an attempt to stay close hauled to the raging wind. The sails were snapping in the sudden gale, as I continually yelled to Eddie and Paul to sheet in. Waves were crashing over the deck, as I tried to angle across them and not get hit broadside. We couldn't use the motor because the screw was out of the water for most of the time as the cat coursed through the rolling sea.

"Paul...lower that mizzen," I finally ordered, thinking that we were carrying too much sail area. "Make sure you stow it."

The wind howled in my ears and the rain stung against my face. We crashed on through the surging Gulf. I had no idea just how far off shore we were. Just ride it out, I told myself.

Paul scrambled across the deck and yelled in my ear that he thought we should reef the main sail too. At this stage that was going to be difficult. If we were more experience maybe, but who knew what would happen if they lost control of the main's line and completely lowered the sail. Then we would be at the mercy of the roiling sea. If we kept too much sail though it was going to damage the sail or, (worse case scenario), the mast.

"What do you think?" he asked, looking at me. We were standing close together, propping each other up against the pitching deck. I looked at his unshaven face and saw a little smile at the corners of his mouth. It was the same look I had seen before when we were roaring across the lake in the day sailor.

"Eddie...Andrew, do you think you can reef the main--just a little bit?" I called out.

They helped each other lower the sail, then tied it off. I continued to guide us through the storm. The cat was trying to fly, launching off water ramps and crashing down on the other side. How long can this storm last? I was asking the gods.

We all heard it. It came from somewhere on the starboard side. I didn't want to admit that I heard it. It was a loud cracking sound.

"What in the fuck was that?" Andrew cried out.

"I don't want to know," I yelled. "Eddie, can you go below and check it out?"

A moment later he appeared at the hatchway to the main cabin. His face was ashen. Through tight, thin lips he said, "We're taking on water."

"What is it?" Paul wanted to know.

"I think one of the pontoons is breaking up," I explained over my shoulder, as I worked the wheel against another line of waves.

The waves broke over us and there was another loud sound, only this time is was more of a crunching noise. I knew that a few more blows like that one and we were going down and probably in a hurry. Our life raft was a two man rubber, dollar ninety-nine special. It wouldn't pass a safety rating for any bath tube in America, much less the open Gulf.

"Paul, go below and see just how fucked we are," I ordered. "Check and see if it can be pumped. There's a pump in the stow box in the main cabin, I hope."

The Sea Monster was now definitely wallowing, as the forward section of the pontoon was beginning to fill with seawater. I was having difficulty keeping her on line. If it took on much more water we were in danger of turning turtle, in the catamaran world parlance, which translated to something just the least bit undesirable.

We tried to pump her out and still remain afloat. The clouds were beginning to clear, as the storm moved off to the north. I could now see land in the distance but it was now coming up on dusk. I hadn't a clue where we were.

"Crank the motor," I called out. "I think it's almost calm enough to use it."

Andrew got the motor going and I turned for shore, hoping to make it before we went down. We had gone maybe a hundred yards when the engine sputtered to a halt. What now? I was thinking.

"You aren't going to believe this but the prop is caught up on the anchor line," Andrew told me sheepishly.

In all the confusion, the anchor line had blown overboard and drifted back until it wound around the propeller. Paul then appeared and told me that it was useless using the pump. The bulkhead had given way and it was only a matter of time before the whole starboard side filled up.

"Let's make a run for it," I said, telling them to raise the mizzen and the main, as I took us wing to wing straight downwind for the beach.

With the dying wind at our backs, I guided us towards shore. The Sea Monster surfed down the cresting waves, limping in route to shallow water. I was hoping we would make it before nightfall.

"Hold on everybody!" I yelled out. "I'm going to run her straight to shore."

With the booms stretched out on either side, the boat, pushed by the waves, headed towards the beach in the distance. We were in a race to beat the dying sunlight and the seawater that was rushing in below deck. The boat had begun to list to starboard. I just hoped the sinking pontoon wouldn't pearl in a wave and pitchpole us over.

There was a scraping sound underneath as we scraped over a sandbar. At least we are in shallow water, I thought, hoping the boat would hold together just a little bit longer. Then with a scraping thud we came to a stop.

"Talk about grounded," Andrew called out, looking over the edge of the bow.

"Get the sails down!" I shouted out, not wanted the wind to drive us any further onto the reef.

They scrambled to lower the sails and then stow them and secure the mast lines. The wind died away to a light breeze. Darkness swept in.

"What do we do now?" Paul asked, laughing.

"Get the flashlights so we can take an assessment of the situation," I stated solemnly.

"What did he say?" Andrew asked, giggling.

I went below and checked out the starboard pontoon. It was half full of water. We had just made it.

We were stuck on a reef some two hundred yards off shore. Our options were minimal. I looked at the charts and discovered that we were in a restricted zone, one used by the Air Force for (How shall I put this?) training missions. We were going to have to wait until morning to do anything about our predicament.

"We need to make some decisions," I stated authoritatively, after I had gathered everyone in the main cabin.

The Coleman lantern barely gave off enough light to see their faces. We weren't really scared to speak of. At this point it was more an inconvenience than anything else.

"I guess we can just crash out tonight then tackle the problem in the morning," Paul suggested.

"And do what exactly?" Andrew asked pointedly. "Maybe we could swim back to the nearest town."

"We'll radio the Coast Guard in the morning and they will help us get the boat pumped out," Eddie said matter-of-factly, shrugging.

"Like I'm going to go anywhere else in this deathtrap," Andrew exclaimed, tossing a beer can against the far cabin wall.

"Hey, watch it, you might put another hole in her," Paul said, laughing.

"Very funny," I said, as we all laughed together.

"Everybody had enough adventure?" Paul asked, smiling.

We discussed our options, electing to sleep on shore because of the way the boat was rocking on the reef we weren't at all certain that it wouldn't begin to break up overnight. I had other concerns. The restricted zone was a firing range for Air Force jets. What if the Sea Monster was mistaken for a decoy? I thought. It wasn't totally implausible. One air to surface missile and there would be nothing left but balsa wood.

The debate lasted a half hour then we all agreed. We were going to get our shore leave after all. We began to collect everything we thought we would need for our overnight excursion.

The raft was used to transport the goods, including the beer. At Paul's suggestion, we tied off a line and took it with us in case the changing tide floated the boat off the reef. Then we all stood on the deck and looked down at the pitch black water.

"Looks kind of eerie," Andrew said, shining a flashlight down at the water.

"Aren't there a lot of sharks in the Gulf?" Eddie asked nervously.

Suddenly the shadowy image of the shore looked a long way off in the distance, where with the minimal moonlight we could just make out the fine, powdery white sand beach. The water was a good five feet deep beyond the reef. We could hear the water lapping against the hulls, a strange staccato sound that was unnerving.

"As your Captain, I order my first mate to go first," I said half jokingly.

"Screw you," Paul said, looking over the side. "Hey, I've got a small cut on my knee. It wouldn't be good to have that exposed in the water. It might draw you know whats. I'll ride in the dingy thing."

Oh yeah, right," Andrew said.

"Well, I guess we could shuttle back and forth in the raft," Eddie offered hopefully.

"That would take all night," I spat out, laughing.

"I'm in no hurry," Paul said, snickering.

"Weanies," I said, mentally urging myself to take the plunge.

Finally, I lowered myself over the side, slipping into the surprisingly warm water. On the reef the water was only a couple of feet deep. I grabbed the raft line and started out, pulling it behind me. My second step took me off the reef, as I sunk down and the water crept up to almost my chin. With steely concentration, I began to lumber along towards shore, pushing any thoughts of sea creatures out of my mind.

"And that is why he's the Captain," Andrew sang out, "because he's an idiot."

We made it all to shore after a harrowing ten or fifteen minute jaunt through the surf in the dark of night. Once on shore, we set up a small camp site, complete with a fire. We had some sandwiches. Beer. Sang some songs. Can't forget to take along the guitar. Then mostly talked of how we were going to, come daybreak, strap on our backpacks and walk right the hell out of there, even if it took us a week to find civilization. We were all quite willing to leave the Sea Monster right there to rot as a memorial to all the sea faring folks out there who just happen to be foolish enough to take to the sea in a...well, you know what I mean.

During the night, as we were being serenaded to sleep by the dulcet tones of a mellow shore break, there were disconcerting rumblings somewhere out in the dark sky.

It wasn't thunder. It wasn't hard rock coming from the transistor radio. No, it wasn't Paul snoring.

It was the flyboys of the US Air Force, keeping us safe from invading commies, who just might one day see fit to stage an attack on the Panhandle of Florida, a strategic point to launch an offensive in order to take, say, Atlanta. Got to start somewhere. In they came, streaking in low, screeching the heavens with their F-16's or whatever number they were up to at the time. Night flights, got to have that training. Who knows when it is going to come in handy?

"What the fuck is that?" Andrew wanted to know, raising up from his sleeping bag.

I could see him in the dying fire light, as well as the others, who were grumpily rousing themselves at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. "Do you guys mind dying for your country?" I asked, snickering.

Just then a jet screamed over us, then banked away. The crushing sound reverberated harshly before dissipating in the humid night air. Off in the distance, out over the dark Gulf, there was another throbbing echo.

"What's going on here?" Paul cried out, sitting up.

"I just hope they don't think the Sea Monster is easy pickings," I exclaimed, curling up in my sleeping bag.

Morning came in a rush of pungent sea breeze with pastel colors slipping across the horizon. We munched on dry cereal and stale cookies, as we got our first daylight glimpse of our predicament. It was time to face it.

Paul and Andrew took the snorkeling gear and slipped underwater to examine the prop. It took them a good hour to dislodge the anchor line. At the very least, we now had the use of the motor. The radio was a different story.

We hoisted Eddie up the mast and got the bad news that the radio antenna had been damaged in the squall. Radioing the Coast Guard was no longer an option. We were now officially stranded.

The next option was to pump out the pontoon hull, which we did but discovered that the superstructure must have been damaged in the hurricane because it had completely buckled. There was no way to repair it and pumping out the standing water was useless because it would only came crashing back in once we got underway. The hike across land was beginning to look more and more likely.

It was a few hours later when a fishing trawler appeared. He laughed at our boat, laughed at us on the boat, then dutifully radioed the Coast Guard. We thanked him and he went on his way, laughing.

It was after twelve when the Coast Guard arrived in a new mini-cutter. The three man crew were all our age, and they too laughed. When they stopped laughing, they set out to get us off the reef. It was not easy. Because the starboard hull was full of water, it wouldn't budge. We had even pulled a davit off the transom trying to dislodge the Sea Monster.

The Coast Guard skipper decided that the hull would have to be pumped first, then floated, before latching the boat along side the cutter for the trip back to Panama City. Fortunately they had a fast operating gas pump which did the trick. We managed it after some hard work and were headed back to port at a rapid one knot pace. We were saved.

We shared some beers with the Coast Guard crew, which was decidedly against the regulations, but they looked out at the open Gulf and essentially said: What the heck. They told us we were lucky to have made it back to shore at all. We limped along, hoping the hull wouldn't fill up with water faster than the pump could drain the seawater.

When we got to the outskirts of Panama City, one of the Coast Guard crew asked us if we wanted to see a demonstration of their deck mounted fire fighting gun. Oh yeah. He cranked it up and we took turns spraying passing boats with the fire gun, which spewed out a stream maybe 50 yards or so. Talk about squirt gun fights.

The Sea Monster was towed right to the city dock, where an angry dock master refused to allow us to dock until we paid an exorbitant fee. We didn't have that kind of money so I negotiated a deal, using the instrumentations on board and the expensive sails as collateral. The Coast Guardsmen told us good-bye and good luck, rolling their eyes as if to say: What a bunch of fools.

It wasn't ten minutes later before some border patrol people showed up, demanding to see what we had on board. I told them that if beer was illegal then arrest us. They bullied their way on board and went through everything. I guess four guys coming in from parts unknown did fit the profile of some such drug runners. They found nothing and left disappointed.

The dock master stored all the agreed on paraphernalia in his office, until which time we returned with the cash. No problem. It wasn't, because we weren't coming back. Oh no. Right to a motel we went, where I called my dad, told him where his tub was and thanks but no thanks, then hung up. It would be a good year before I talked to him again.

The Sea Monster sunk ingloriously right in the harbor, at the city dock, with just the masts jutting out of the water. Made for a good snorkeling site. Lots to see. Rusting beer cans and all. It's now an underwater monument to all doomed sailors of the Gulf of Mexico. There's even a pendant that Catholic sailors wear around their necks to spare them the awful fate of the Sea Monster crew.

We suffered greatly. Especially after we got back on land and went to a local greasy spoon and stuffed ourselves with unhealthy food, then headed for a bar. Panama City was never the same after the crew of the Sea Monster came ashore. Mothers hide your daughters.

That night, in our motel room, back on mother earth, we laughed about the ordeal, chalking it up to a moment in time on the stage of the Theater of the Absurd. It was comical. A good time was had by all.

The crew of the Sea Monster split up the next day, with Andrew and Eddie deciding to hitchhike back home, wanting more adventures, while Paul and I hopped a plane to Atlanta to see an old girl friend of his living there. We said our tearful good-byes, tears of joy that we hadn't gone down to a watery grave. Not really. Hey, Paul was a lifeguard, he could have saved us--right?

The crew of the Sea Monster never got together again. As was the temporary nature of the assembled friendship, we all went our separate ways afterwards. Eddie, our unofficial historian, sent all of us photos of the disastrous trip, including one photo of the crew, on deck, minus our pants. It seemed fitting.

Mr. Milton, my dad, well he came out okay after all. The boat was insured to the hilt. The insurance company paid off handsomely. He in turn bought a new boat, a cabin cruiser this time, leaving the art of sailing to the other guys foolish enough to think they have the time to waste on something that costs so much and goes so slow. I was glad to do him the favor. He is, after all, my father. I still owe him for plenty of things.

Chapter 10: Loon On The Lake

I needed a summer job. Mike had one. He told me he could get me a job where he was working for the summer. We were juniors in college. Mike said on the phone: "I'll talk to the director and see if they need anybody else for the season."

A few days later an application arrived in the mail. I didn't want to be a camp counselor--I hated kids. Mike had heard they needed another tennis instructor. I filled out the application, lying as much as my conscience would allow, and sent it off.

Mike had worked at the camp the previous two summers. He was now a veteran. It didn't pay much but you got to stay on a lake in Vermont. And there was a bonus. In the nearby town there was a college where plenty of girls spent the summer studying foreign languages or some such thing. So I was told by Mike, who gave me a knowing smile.

Vermont sounded good. What could be bad about spending the summer in the mountains playing tennis and chasing college girls? The director called me a few weeks later for a phone interview. Due to Mike's recommendation, he was offering me employment and wanted to know if I could teach wrestling because they were short a wrestling coach. "Sure," I lied, because I didn't know the difference between a fireman's carry and a half-nelson. I was hired on.

This was good. Mike and I loaded up his car and drove north to the beautiful Green Mountains, where it rained for the first two weeks we were there. Dreary rain, which made the cool, dampness of Spring linger on longer. The inclement weather was made worse by the living arrangements, as in camping out in tents. This was truly not what I had in mind when I agreed to work there. I came close to telling Mike I was going to hitch back home and I had only been there for a day or so. He reassured me that he had the same reaction his first year there.

Part of the job entailed setting up the camp for the summer season. For most of the harsh New England winter the camp had been sitting there dormant, boarded up in the off-season. All I kept telling myself was: they ain't paying me enough for this. Each counselor was expected to pitch in and get the work done. The kids would be arriving soon.

This camp was a venerable one, having been around for a long, long time. It showed. Most camps had moved on past, say, the 1920's. Not this camp. It prided itself on being traditional; which actually translated to mean old, and antiquated. Quaint. Not really.

The director was a guy who had created an entire legend for himself, even taking on a ridiculous Indian moniker which was a play on his last name. This would have been charming maybe in some altered, parallel universe, but calling a grown man some ridiculous native American name was a little over the top. He played the role to the hilt. It was for the kid's benefit, don't you know. Of course the kids thought he was just the least bit corny or, as one of my campers put it, "stupido."

This camp was bucolic personified. There was another camp across the lake that had the sense to at least bring the idea of a Camp into the 20th century. Horror of horrors, it was actually a co-ed camp and pushed the concept of camping way into the background by having everyone bunk down in modernized cabins. Not us. We were purists.

Every counselor had at least four campers under his supervision. Mine were at that age, 11 and 12, that you just want to gag them for 24 hours a day. We shared a tent erected on a wooden platform. I think the tents were used in the Spanish-American War. It was safe to say they were pretty aromatic and leaked like the hundred year old tents that they were. These conditions were supposed to build character.

This camping experience these bratty campers were experiencing didn't come cheap. These kids came from wealthy parents, who had been sold the myth of real old time camping by the pseudo Indian director. He must have been good at it because there never seemed to be a shortage of eager parents willing to get rid of their offspring for a couple of months, even if it did cost them a few thousand to do it.

Some of the campers were second generation campers. This was astounding to me. After thinking about that for a while I could only surmise that the father wanted his son to go through what he had to go through. Now that is child abuse plain and simple. Nostalgia is one strong emotion, because I just knew when those fathers came back through that wooden gate and saw that nothing had changed in a quarter century or longer they must have had an epiphany of sorts.

We counselors secretly laughed at this phenomenon. I pitied most of the campers. Some of them, however, deserved what they got at the camp. They were just little rich kids with attitudes, who went to Choate and St. Andrews in the winter and this "esteemed" camp in the summer. My campers all had attitudes, and rich parents that dropped them off with a hug and a kiss and went away probably glad that they wouldn't have to see them for the rest of the summer. Hell, two of the four of my campers went away to boarding school in the winter so they saw their parents about a total of maybe a month a year.

There is a brat quotient when you get any number of kids together. It is inevitable, and, unfortunately, unavoidable. All of my kids were brats. To make it worse, they were brats with rich parents. Bad combination. They were used to getting what they wanted--and now.

We were all polite that first day of camp. I introduced myself to the parents, smiling, shaking hands, unsuspecting. I had had very little contact with kids. I was the youngest in my family. I was the brat, as it were. Little did I know what lay ahead for me when the parents got back in their Mercedes and Jags and drove away, grinning all the way back home to Boston...New York...Philly.

The first inkling I got of what was in store for me for the remainder of the summer was when it came time to allot each camper a bunk in our musty, sour smelling tent. Two of my campers were returnees. The other two were temporarily bewildered by their new surroundings; although they were veterans of other camps. In fact, as I would learn belatedly, one of my campers had the honor of being kicked out of several camps for starting fires. Oh yeah, this was going to be a fun summer.

Well the squabbling started almost immediately. Tony, who had been at the camp since he was nine years old, told the others, in no uncertain terms, that he was taking the bunk nearest the front of the tent. Better ventilation? He didn't specify why he preferred that particular bunk. Let me correct myself here. They weren't actually bunks. No, to be more accurate, they were cots, army style cots. Not that these prodigies were every going to see the inside of an Army barracks, but after summering here Boot Camp would be nothing to them.

Tony was tall for his age, and smart. He had an almost pathological hatred for the camp and everyone in it. His father hadn't bothered to chauffeur him to the camp, leaving that chore to his wife. She had shaken my hand and blinded me with all the jewelry. In a Fifth avenue doyen's voice she had told me to take good care of her son. I told her I would. Then she was gone. I didn't check my watch exactly but I was pretty sure she stayed all of maybe fifteen minutes. Tony hadn't said two words to her.

"I hope she enjoys fucking Europe," I heard Tony mutter as he walked away, leaving his mother to hand over to me a large card board box containing what she thought Tony might need to enjoy his stay. This turned out to be good for me because I didn't have to converse with the parents, some of which could be damn annoying.

So Tony got his cot. There were a few objections at first. The other three settled on the other cots without killing each other and we were set. Then it got dark. Bedtime, which came early there at the camp. One of the necessities of the camp was a flashlight because there were no outside lights to speak of. "Better to see all the stars," so said the director to the inquiring parents. He had an answer for every question.

These kids weren't accustomed to going to bed when it got dark. No TV?! They were restless. The counselors were supposed to stay put until they settled in then we could migrate to the lodge and play cards and shoot the breeze. On a rotational basis at least one counselor was assigned to be on watch.

My kids weren't about to go to sleep. They went through a giggling period. Then there was a name calling session. Finally, after I told them all to shut up, two of them got into a fight. Kenny told Eric that his mother did uncustomary things to barnyard animals, or some such insult. Very creative. Tony and Dalton thought it was hilarious. Then Eric got up off his cot and tackled Kenny, sending both of them out the side of the tent, where they landed in the woods. You didn't have to go far to be mired in vegetation.

It was a good thing they went out the side of the tent they did because on the other side was the lake. I would have preferred to let them beat the crap out of each other, but some nosy other counselor arrived on the scene shining his industrial strength flashlight at the wrestling match going on outside the tent. "Cool it you two," he shouted, grabbing them by the neck and holding them apart. "Yeah, what's the matter with you two?" I declared ineffectually.

There was definitely some sort of punishment that needed to be meted out. I wasn't at all sure about what being disciplined amounted to at the camp. I mean could we actually ruin a paying client's good time? "Your counselor is going to have to punish you two for this," the other counselor stated firmly, shining the flashlight in their faces. I am, I thought. Kenny muttered something uncharitable under his breath. The counselor put his flashlight right under his nose and asked, "What was that? Do you have something to say?" No response. "Get your butts back in that tent and I don't want to hear another peep out of any of you." He strafed the tent with the beam of his flashlight.

It did the trick. They shut up. I spent the rest of the night dreaming up some suitable disciplinary action to level on them the next day.

I don't have any experience to judge, having only been a camp counselor one summer, but what I gleaned from talking to the other counselors who had spent many summers at it, there are good years and there are bad years. Weather has a definite role in this. We had our bad weather the first two weeks then it settled into a perfect New England summer, with cool nights and warm sunny days. The other factor is the makeup of the kids.

There are bad kids and there are good kids. This is from an adults perspective of course. That summer we had an inordinately large amount of bad kids. What constitutes a bad kid is one who, simply, doesn't listen to you. Translated: he doesn't do what you tell him to do. None of my kids did anything I told them to do. In that they were consistent.

I hated them. They, more or less, hated me; that is when they found the time to even care. As counselors we were expected to write staff letters to the parents. I couldn't imagine any of these parents actually reading these missives about their monsters. For the most part the letters were propaganda about the camp. Goebbels had nothing on us. We were encouraged (read ordered) to write glowing reports about the kids enjoying themselves at the illustrious camp, diligently upholding the esteemed rep of the place.

Not me. I wasn't going to pass on any of that manure. Oh no. All of my first staff letters were returned to me by our immediate wigwam director, a guy just trying to get by for the summer. I liked him. He was an okay guy. He knew it was all tripe. Yet he had a job to do.

"Just rewrite them and get them back to me," he said, handing over the offending letters.

"What do you mean?" I asked innocently, knowing full well when I wrote them they would never see the inside of a mail box.

"Come on, just do like everybody else does. You know, write the BS and we can all get on with our lives. Okay?" he explained, almost pleading.

What had I written that was so offensive? Well, for starters, I had written Tony's mother and told her he should be sent to Switzerland for the summer next year because he was bored at the camp. Tony had mentioned his family had a villa there or something. I thought it was a nice touch. The pseudo native American director almost had a stroke when he read it, that is censored it. Oh yes, I had a word or two about the breach of privacy etc. Reading other people's mail didn't sit too well with me.

In the other letters I had mentioned unflattering tidbits about their respective sons' habits and how I think they should be corrected. Very bold. Now I was the Dr. Spock of camp counselors. I hadn't a clue what to do about their little brats, except maybe some long term corporeal punishment. Solitary confinement maybe.

After they pressured me, even going as far as threatening to terminate my summer employment, I rewrote the letters and toed the line, so to speak. That made them happy, although after that the chances of me ever working there again were remote. Like I was coming back anyway. I couldn't believe my friend had been there for three years.

Life at the camp went on. We adhered to a rigid routine, a routine that had been worked out since before the war. Don't ask me which war.

Each morning we would have our daily campfire meeting. There was some bogus Indian artifact in the middle, with a set of circular benches surrounding it. Our wigwam director would tell the kids what events would be offered that day: Tennis, sailing, arts and crafts etc. The kids could decide which one they wanted to attend. Very liberal. Then again they were paying through the nose for the pleasure of our company, so I guess they could do what they wanted.

Most days I would teach a few tennis lessons or take a couple kids out in one of the day sailors and cruise the lake. Teaching, that is instructing, in its purest form didn't really take place per se. Most of the kids could play tennis better than me anyway. Some were probably born with a racket in their hand. I was called on to teach a wrestling class only once. Two kids showed interest. Then after I got through throwing them around the mats they never wanted to wrestle again. Too bad. That was a real tension reducer.

Since Mike was in with our wigwam director he could sometimes wrangle a little field trip out of him. Almost directly across the lake from our camp was a public beach. There was nothing like a lazy sail over to the beach, catch some rays, and scope out the local girls in their bathing suits. Of course we had to put up with the kids for the day.

This particular camp was renowned for one thing in particular. It had a sterling reputation as a camp that actually reflected the word camp. Each counselor was expected to take two trips a summer for five days or longer. These were excursions into the wilderness. You were actually expected to camp out.

Two counselors and a dozen kids--god help me. Nobody told me about this aspect of the counselor experience before I signed on. Mike came to me one day and said, "Guess what? I got them to put you and me together on a trip. We're going to do the Conn. River."

On the surface this sounded okay. Me and my bud doing our Lewis and Clark thing. Of course L & C didn't have a dozen rich brats to supervise.

These camping trips revolved around what was the focal point of the camp's hard earned mystique, a certain narrow, unstable craft that those incorrigible practical jokers the native Americans foisted on the unsuspecting settlers. Naturally I'm referring to the damn canoe. Every counselor was issued his own canoe and paddle and was expected to be able to handle it expertly. I had, in fact, never even been in a canoe before I got to the camp. That wouldn't do.

Mike gave me a crash course on canoe handling my first two weeks at the camp. Before long I soon discovered that the long, odd shaped crafts could actually be made to do what you wanted them to do. I was J stroking all over that lake.

White water canoeing scared me. My idea of canoeing was gliding over the placid surface of our lake, lazily paddling and enjoying the scenery. The Conn. River wasn't exactly like shooting the rapids of the Colorado River but it was still moving water. The whole thing sounded like an insane idea.

Logistics for this type of trip had been ordained before after year after year of doing the same thing. A truck would take us up river and drop us off, then pick us up down river five days later. FIVE days! We were supposed to shoot the river a little at a time, camping along the way down. To me, this seemed like they were taking this outdoors business too seriously.

Mike was coordinating everything. We went to the supply room and drew out our supplies: freeze dried everything. We would have to be cooking out over an open fire for almost a week. I just knew we would starve. Just in case, I brought along several boxes of crackers and cookies.

In order to undertake the rapids each camper had to pass a test, a canoe exam. They were expected to be able to handle every aspect of all the paddling techniques. I was hoping they knew what they were doing because I wasn't at all sure I did.

One morning, early, we set out, piling into the back of a military style truck for the ride to the river. The canoes had been loaded on a trailer behind the truck. The kids were excited. First, they were getting away from the camp, and second they were all going to die in the rapids.

We were lucky, or, at least, I was lucky. That year the river was running low and slow, with only a few spots that might make you regret ever picking up a paddle in the first place. It turned out to be an easy paddle, because the current pretty much escorted you to your destination. We made camp at peaceful spots by the river, pitching our smelly tents and relaxing while we communed with mother nature.

The meals were good. Mike had a knack, after several years doing this, of acquiring all the necessary ingredients for delicious meals. We had brought along a reflector oven and even made cookies. What were we...Campfire Girls?

There was one incident, towards the end of the trip, that did give us a scare. Most of the rapids we had encountered had been fairly tame. With the exception of getting wet once or twice from the spray, we had negotiated every turn the river had to offer. The kids had turned out to be a good collection of campers, skilled at canoeing, and able to act fairly human for most of the time. Then we saw it.

We had rounded a bend in the river and there it was. Actually we had heard it first, that unmistakable roar of rushing white water. It was a short stretch with one alarmingly large hydraulic stuck in the middle of the river. You could have surfed on the eddying water.

Mike gathered us together off to the side and discussed our game plan, our mode of attack. He would go first, picking his way through the best route through the boulders jutting out of the river. I was to go last, bring up the rear in case there was any trouble. We were on our last day of the trip so by now I had gotten used to the camper riding bow in my canoe. This was a good thing because timing, coordination, and communication were vital when it came time to pit yourself against the elements.

Mike shouted out: "Let's do it!" He paddled out to the middle then angled his way through the raging water. Their canoe skirted the roughest part and popped out the other side. We were all whooping, trying not to think about how scared shitless we were. The level of danger was there but not critical. We were wearing our life vests and the water wasn't frigid cold. Still, anything could happen.

The other canoes lined up in a staggered line and carefully maneuvered through. Just past the rapids the ones that had completed the run were shouting, charged with adrenaline. There was just one canoe left in front of us. I motioned for them to go for it.

With practiced Indian whoops, they started paddling as hard as they could. I knew something was wrong immediately. The camper in the stern had gotten them too far to the right and was struggling to correct their approach, leaving the camper in the bow to try to overcompensate on his strokes. In an instant the canoe was going sideways.

Mike was screaming out instructions, waving his paddle. It was no use. The canoe hit the boulder broadside and threw the campers out into the water. My immediate thought was: What in the hell am I supposed to do now?

One of the campers shot through the hydraulic and popped out the other side, where he swam like hell until he was picked up by Mike in his canoe. The other camper was hanging onto an outcropping of rock lodged on the side of the river. There was no way I was going to be able to stop the canoe in the rapids and pick him up.

Mike was shouting out things to me that I couldn't make out. We were getting tired of back paddling the current in order to hold our position on the river. Then the camper decided it for us by climbing up the riverbank and hiking down river so we could pick him up. Good thing.

Now we had to shoot the rapids. I would have preferred to just paddle the canoe over to the side of the river and get out and walk back to camp. My camper was looking a little scared, although he had done white water before. "Ready?" I asked and he nodded.

This was it. We paddled like there was no tomorrow. As soon as we hit the roughest stretch our canoe got swamped, leaving us like a drowning turtle. Still we stroked like crazy, even though at this point we were at the mercy of the river. The canoe wallowed and pitched then we popped out the other side, minus half our supplies.

Everyone cheered. Except we had one little problem. The other canoe had literally been bent around the boulder. The aluminum just seemed to adhere right to the rock. Oh great, I was thinking, they'll probably take it out of our pay. Hey, that's what recycling is for.

We had an adventure to tell everybody back at the camp. For probably the only time that summer I had a bond with the kids. Of course by the time we got back to the camp the story had been embellished. How big were the rapids?

For the most part my time at the camp that summer would have been a waste. Everyday I faced aggravation four fold. My campers were sociopath's for the most part. Kenny had been caught peeing in public, twice. Tony refused to participate in any of the events, demanding that he be allowed to stay in the tent all day. Eric had pulled a knife on one of the other counselors. His parents insisted that the camp take care of it. While Dalton had been caught punching holes in the canoes with a hatchet. I wonder why I felt like a warden.

Then along came my salvation. She was 21 years old, sexy, and just happened to be the camp director's daughter. This was undoubtedly an unexpected turn of events.

She was living in LA, pursuing a life with the stars or a life of the stars; I didn't take time to analyze the distinction between the two. Her ex was a rock singer with one hit to his name. She had sung backup on his album. It had been her habit for most of her young life to strive to be different.

She accomplished this by being different. As a teenager she had been rebellious. Now, as an adult, she went west to put her stodgy East coast rearing behind her. This, as can be imagined, had caused her parents some degree of consternation. Although most of the friction was between her and her father. Her mother was a nice woman who just happened to appear, shall we say, addled a great deal of the time. In fact, when I first met her I thought she had just polished off a bottle of something or other. It could have been something organic, some mental disorder. Living with the pseudo Indian chief for fifty years might do that to you.

The daughter had a history at the camp. She had been coming there since she was a baby--every year. She had logged over twenty years at the lake. I didn't know anything of her past. All I knew the first time I saw her was: Who is that babe?

We had been sitting in the lodge griping about the camp, as usual, when in walks this woman wearing tight jeans and a tight t-shirt with no bra on. She was tall, with long shoulder length brown hair; and she was wearing sunglasses after dark. I was in love.

Everyone knew her. She made the rounds, kissing and hugging the staff. Mike introduced us. She smiled at me briefly then went on into the kitchen where I could hear her talking to the woman who did the baking for the camp.

"That's the camp director's daughter," Mike informed me vacantly, returning to his conversation about the camp with another counselor.

"It is," I said breathlessly. "What's she doing here?"

"She comes up every summer for a stay," he replied, apparently uninterested.

"Do you know her very well?"

"Everybody does," he answered.

That should have been a tip off. It wasn't. Not to me. As I would learn, the daughter took a "friend" every summer to spend her time with. "A lover" is how she would put it. She had been doing this summer rite every since she was 16. Well, at least now she was legal. She had known a good many counselors.

If this unpublicized tradition vexed the director he didn't seem to show it in public. Then again at this point in time he couldn't do much about it. She was of age. I suppose he had more than one conversation with her about it though. It didn't reflect well on the camp image and all.

I didn't see her for a few days after that. She had no duties at the camp, official duties that is. The camp director had a two bedroom cabin right on the lake. Which reminds me, why didn't he sleep in those stinking tents? Anyway. She had her own bedroom and apparently slept in every morning.

On Friday nights the camp put on stage shows or, to be more accurate, skits. These were your usual follies type of thing, which was generally atrocious entertainment. The kids were starving for any kind of diversion however. The stultifying atmosphere of the camp could totally deaden your senses and simultaneously lower your standards.

That particular summer Mike had brought along his Sony reel to reel. One of the tapes he had gotten along the way was of remastered 50's hits: Book Of Love, Duke Of Earl, that type of music. Our wigwam had a game room, with electricity, and Mike had taken to playing the tape frequently to get the kids going. The 50's music was a big hit. We had all the kids singing it.

Every wigwam was responsible for coming up with skits for the Friday night entertainment. Our entire wigwam was totally devoid of any shred of creativity. Nothing. We had brainstormed over it on more than one occasion and come up with some real bombs. We had become the joke of the camp. Now that was an accomplishment.

One day, as I was sprawled on our dock soaking up the rays and was supposed to be watching the kids at swim hour, I had an idea. Eureka! Why don't we dress up like a 50's group and lip sync to cuts off the tape? When I passed it by some of the other counselors they thought it was a great idea.

Four of us got together and practiced to two songs off the tape. There was one song off the tape that my older sister had listened to on a 45 non-stop when I was a kid. I knew the lyrics by heart. I then became the lead singer and the rest is history.

We practiced our dance moves in secrecy, which wasn't easy at a camp where everyone knew your business before you even did. Mike had gotten permission to use the workshop where they taught the kids to tie fishing fly's. Talk about a sanctum sanctorum area. The Vatican was less holy. Once a week the camp had some old guy come in from the neighboring town to teach the little farts how to tie fishing fly's. It was a noble art form and the old guy was just the least bit temperamental. He insisted no one but no one touch his shop.

None of us knew what to expect when Friday rolled around. The idea, at first, had seemed like a good one. Then we all got a little nervous about it. Were we setting ourselves to look like total fools? These kids could be pretty unforgiving. And we had to live with them for another month.

We had given ourselves the ridiculous name of Billy Blow and the Hurricanes. Don't ask? Gathering up suitable clothing from various sources at the camp, we costumed ourselves as 50's...what? Beatniks? The Sharks? Greasers? Who knew?

The Friday night festivities were held in a log cabin structure with no side walls. There was a crude stage at one end and rows of benches for the audience. The bow to conventionality was the use of a stage curtain. This was fortunate because if we flopped I sure wanted to hide behind something. Mike had set up his sound system, which we hoped would be loud enough to at the very least drown out the booing.

We waited back stage for our turn. We joked with each other, trying to ward off our nervousness. Mind you, this took absolutely no talent but we nevertheless did have to stand up there and perform something. In a fit of enthusiasm Mike had told the director that we would do two numbers. Our repertoire included Last Kiss and Book Of Love.

The other wigwams were doing the usual skits about the camp doctor, the food at camp, the usual. Some of it was clever, even funny. The audience seemed to be warmed up for us. Then our time came. We got in position behind the curtain. One of the other counselors cued up the music and the curtain was pulling away. There we were staring at a crowd of curious, gawking brats.

The song kicked in and we went into our routine. I was standing slightly to the front because, after all, I was the lead singer. Behind me the three of them were doing a dance routine, pantomiming what was going on in the song. The song was a bittersweet love story about a girl dying in a car wreck. Very poignant. Oh yes. I gave it everything I had, remembering all the times I had heard my sister's portable turntable and 45 grind out the lyrics over and over, while she cried for the dead girl by the side of the road.

At first the kids didn't know what to make of it. They had seen our costumes and thought they were, well, funny looking. A tittering had swept across the theater. Of course our ace in the hole was the fact that two of the counselors in the group happen to be two of the most popular at the camp. That certainly helped.

This particular night happened to be parents night as well. They were seated in the back of the theater on a set of raised bleacher seats. The parents weren't permitted to visit their kids for at least the first two weeks of camp. This was to enable the campers to better get acclimated without the meddling of some overbearing parents. Naturally most of the parents would have just as soon not see their kids ever again anyway. Naw, that's not true. Maybe 25 percent of them loved their kids and just wanted to give them all the experiences life has to offer. Yeah.

With the parents there we had a built in audience base. They unanimously loved it. After all, this was their music. They could identify with it. We had won them over when the first chord sounded. All the women had probably wept to the very same song.

By the time the song was half over the audience was abuzz with excitement. At the time, I was too busy doing my thing to really notice. I was just hoping I wasn't going to be hit with something, a flying hatchet maybe. When the song ended the place went, as they say, nuts. All the kids were on their feet screaming and cheering, while the parents in the background, the mother's that is, were getting a serious groupie jones working. We were a hit.

"More...more!" the kids were screaming. For dramatic effect we had the curtain closed. Back stage we were back slapping and glad handing each other. The other counselors were eyeing us scornfully, jealous of our popularity. We had won over the little monsters with only the barest of preparation and creativity. Life just wasn't fair.

Then we went into an encore mode. The director, happy that the parents got to see just how we entertained their offspring, announced us again with a flourish worthy of Ed Sullivan. The curtain opened again and we launched into the other song that we knew. Again the kids were ecstatic. The cheers echoed around the camp.

After this song the audience wanted more. But there just wasn't anymore. We had only practiced two songs. The director told everyone the night's entertainment was over. The kids moaned, going away disappointed. We were stars.

For the remainder of the summer everywhere I went around camp people were singing that stupid, inane song. We were all treated like pop stars after that night. On the last Friday night of the summer we did a return performance and brought down the house again. Boy, it sure is easy to amuse a bunch of kids incarcerated at a camp stuck in the mountains.

What came of that night of more importance than my future singing career was an encounter with the camp director's daughter. Later that evening we had gone into town to imbibe some beer and celebrate. We were at a bar in town when she came in with some of the other counselors. We all shared a table and got drunk.

At one point during the evening she had come over to me and struck up a conversation. Hey, I was a star now and women were drawn to me like moths to a flame. Uh huh. Actually I had the enviable position of being new at camp. She already knew everybody else, if you know what I mean. We chatted, while she smoked brown colored cigarettes that made her more sexy or alluring.

She talked of LA. I listened. I wasn't terribly impressed. I hated the West coast. I fancied myself part of the East coast intelligentsia, which was ludicrous because I was born in Ohio. All of this was of little consequence because all I really wanted to do was bunk down with her just one time. On this we were on the same wave length.

When we got back to the camp she asked me if I had ever seen the such and such room. No, I hadn't. Off we went. She took me to a loft over where they repaired the canoes. There was an old, musty mattress up there that we utilized. The whole time we were exercising our libidos I kept thinking: I'm bopping the camp director's daughter.

I was now the current "summer lover." This revelation was met with a giant yawn by everyone at the camp, except for Mike, who thought that I was weak willed and just the least bit crass for betraying the camp director. Of course I saw through him. He was just mad because she had never chosen him to be the recipient of some damn good sex for the summer.

If the director didn't care for me before he really didn't now. I steered clear of him. His wife still engaged me in zany, oddball conversations that were so tortuously convoluted that I was often times reduced to nods and frowns. The weeks went by. I enjoyed trysts with the daughter all over the camp, even in a canoe, which believe me is not easy. Who said camp life stinks?

The crowning moment came one morning. We had gotten bolder with our assignations as the summer progressed. I had begun to sneak into her bedroom at night, careful to leave early in the morning, absconding back to my stinky tent. Truthfully the sex was fine but she had a bed, a real bed. Now this was sleeping. The cool New England nighttime, the call of a loon on the lake, the smell of a summer breeze coming through the open cabin windows, it was truly sleep inducing.

I overslept. Another Green Mountain dawn had already dawned. The sound of splashing water awoke me. It was the director's habit to take a morning swim everyday. I bolted out of bed, tripping over my tennis shoes and bumping into the wall. She groggily asked me what was the matter. Oh nothing, just your stupid father coming back from his refreshing swim, that's all, I thought.

I scrambled for my clothes and tried to sneak out of the cabin, where I ran right into her father. There he was dripping wet, naked except for a towel. The old chief took his dips au naturel. Embarrassing doesn't even begin to cover it. He muttered something and I muttered something. We stood there facing each other on the cabin porch. It would have been a showdown but we were both so mortified we just excused ourselves and went our separate ways. He never said one word to me about it. I returned the favor.

The summer was over in no time. Counselors were leaving for parts unknown, on to college or careers. Mike and I were sticking around for a little while to dissemble the camp, a reverse process from when we had first arrived.

The camp director's daughter had agreed to drive me to Montreal, where I was catching a flight to Europe. The next year I would be studying at a college over there. Mike was going along to keep her company on the drive back.

At the airport, with Mike urging us to hurry up because he wanted to get back through the border formalities, we exchanged our good-byes, sealing it with some mushy and embarrassing kisses. My flight was called. There was a quick group hug. I was on my way, dreading the long flight across the Atlantic.

After that summer I never saw either of them again. She wrote me one long letter, in which she enclosed a poem she had written. The poem was over five pages long. I hate poetry. I wrote back once and managed to say absolutely zero. That was it.

Over the years, wherever I might be, I sometimes think about that summer. Some of my memories aren't even X-rated. I wonder what happened to my four campers, the miscreants. I'm sure they went on to be part of the ruling class, the movers and shakers of America. They would all be afforded the best life has to offer, I'm sure: Ivy League, cushy jobs on Wall Street, and maybe even participants in national politics. I often times imagined what I would have to say to them if I ever were to encounter them somewhere. Then again, well, they probably would never remember me anyway.

Chapter 11: Crossing The Pond

It had been my idea. Of course I was drunk at the time, having spent the better part of two hours downing pitchers of foamy beer at a local bar on the outskirts of Georgetown. We all thought it would be great. Adventurous. Different. We were in college and easily bored.

It took Sam to put it all into motion. I, after all, was the idea man. On Hank's part, well, he just kind of went along. My spun tales of adventure on the high seas had easily influenced him; although he did continue to posit the notion that taking an airplane made a lot more sense.

"Here it is," Sam told me, holding up a large envelope and shaking it under my nose. "It finally got here."

"What's it say?" I wanted to know, matching his sense of excitement with my own.

Sam had seen fit to send away for some shipping information, having researched it for several weeks before hand. It had taken another two weeks or so to finally receive a reply. Now before us, spread out on his parent's kitchen table, were timetables and shipping line schedules. As I looked down at the mostly inscrutable numbers and painfully small print, I thought to myself that we just might actually do what I had suggested.

Of the three of us I was the only one who had been to Europe before. I was the veteran traveler, having spent a month with my girl friend lugging backpacks around while she took snap shots of all the tourist spots. It had been...different, I guess. Even though we argued most of time and we managed to get on each other's nerves on an almost daily basis, I had liked seeing the Old Country. Historical. Educational. Good beer, complete with an alcohol content that meant business when it came time to maintain any degree of sobriety. It had lots to offer a young mind eager to experience something new.

I don't know where the idea came from really. It just popped into my head. Hell, I didn't even like ships or boats. Yet there it was. I had offered up a vision of crossing the Atlantic on a freighter that leaned heavily on romanticism and derring-do. I may have even invoked Jack London's name. Did I say we had been drinking?

That wasn't all. No. I had gone on to propose we bike around Europe. Boats. Bikes. Was I insane?

My two buddies ran with it. This wasn't going to be any beery discourse to be promptly forgotten the next day. I had planted the seed.

"Most of the ships leave out of New York harbor," Sam informed me, pointing to a brochure from some shipping line. "There's a couple that leave from Baltimore, but infrequently."

I glanced at him then down at the schedules on the table and said, "Really."

"It can take two weeks to cross," Sam said, leaning over to examine one of the routes on a small map he had fetched from his room. "One line stops in Tangiers. That would be interesting to see."

"Yeah," I mumbled, staring at the map and all of the water between the two continents. I tried not to gulp.

We quickly learned that shipping out on a freighter was frustrating at best. The shipping lines were there to move cargo first and people last. If you were scheduled to leave on the tenth you might find yourself waiting until the twenty-fifth to actually depart. Goods on the manifest took precedence. Always. Anyone on a tight schedule would do best to rethink their travel plans.

It did have one thing in its favor, this shipping out on a freighter business, and that was price. For the most part, it was damn cheap, with housing and food thrown in with your adventure. I was beginning to think that just maybe I had come up with a brilliant idea after all.

For the next few weeks, that soon stretched into months, we convened at Sam's house to plan our trip, not unlike military officers mapping out a strategy for the coming battle. I had studied so many shipping schedules my vision was failing. Someone was going to have to make a decision though. We could meet at the local bar from now until next Christmas but sooner or later one of us was going to have to point to a shipping line and choose. That, of course, was going to have to be me. Oh yeah. Me. I was the idiot who had come up with the idea to begin with, so naturally I was the one to make it all final, if you know what I mean.

I picked. It wasn't like I had that much of a choice. There were only a few companies with ships departing within our window of opportunity to travel. It turned out to be a Yugoslavian ship; which, as you undoubtedly know, doesn't even exist as a country at the present time. Back then, however, it was an intact nation solidified under the umbrella of hardened Communism and ruled by a despot who made Stalin look good on some days.

In a way this was a sort of bonus. Not only did we get to sail the high seas but we also got to experience a little bit of totalitarian hospitality along the way. Wonderful, an inexpensive cruise with some Cold War intrigue thrown in for good measure, something to keep all of us entertained.

As expected, the ship was to depart out of New York. Final stop: Spain, with a port of call in Morocco. Just a touch of the exotic. Also, Sam would be able to practice his High School Spanish. It was all falling into place.

The decision had been made. My friends offered up absolutely no resistance. We were going to be bold. Take on the Atlantic and then see all of Europe, that was the expectation.

Off went our money to the address on the shipping line brochure. Sign us up. Book passage.

In a week's time we got a reply in return confirming that we had been added to the passenger list. Sam had called me up and announced the news. We were given a tentative departure date. The confirmation had added that the departure date was subject to change. This part had been underlined several times.

Now we had to wait. We spent the next several weeks getting prepared. The plan was to purchase bikes when we got to Europe. Hank and I scoured the local area for suitable packs to take with us, along with specific gear for riding. Since I was the unofficial treasurer of the group, it fell on me to work out a budget. It goes without saying that we were going to be traveling on the cheap. Camping. Bread and cheese. Beer. I devised a daily spending allotment that would take us through the expected three month sojourn. If all went well we wouldn't have to be repatriated by one of our embassies, or so I jokingly informed them.

In what seemed like a very, very long time the departure date finally came into focus. It was only a few days away. Sam phoned the shipping line and was told everything was on schedule.

We bought our train tickets to New York City. Each one of us had packed and repacked dozens of times, continually discarding this and that in an attempt to get our packs down to an acceptable carrying weight. As it was, we were traveling with a backpack and a day pack, both of which were totally stuffed. It would take us a full month of traveling until we final reduced our load to something any where near light enough to travel, leaving articles of clothing strewn in our wake as we crossed the Continent.

In the interim, as we had waited for the departure date, the three of us had all grown beards. If I wanted to be honest, I would have to say that we looked like a trio of traveling hermits, banded together to make the holy journey somewhere. There we were sitting on the train with our matching backpacks, all scratching at our new beards and trying to appear reserved while we set out to destinations unknown.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Hank whispered to me as we boarded the train.

I turned and gave him what I hoped was a serious look of detached cool, because, after all, I was the one who had been across the pond before. I said in a disinterested tone of voice, "Believe it."

"This pack is killing my back," Sam whined in front of me, as we made our way into the compartment.

We found some seats and plopped our packs down. When did we put rocks in our backpacks? I was wondering, already thinking what I could jettison as soon as we got to the ship. Next to us, across the aisle, two Elementary School girls pointed at us and giggled until their mother told them to stop being impolite, then the mother stared at us too.

"Got a camera?" Hank finally asked them in a nasty tone.

"I guess they've never seen mountain men before," I joked, snarling at one of the girls, who squealed in fear.

It took us some doing but we finally found the ship. It was docked in, I think, Brooklyn. The wharf area was less than--shall we say--charming, being set back among a warren of dilapidated warehouses and seedy looking neighborhoods. It wasn't exactly an auspicious beginning to our long planned and anticipated trip.

"That must be it," Hank declared, pointing off in the distance at a ship that, from this vantage point, didn't appear to be capable of transatlantic travel.

"Doesn't look that big," I muttered, glancing around, scanning, hoping to see another ship, our ship, that approximated the size of at least the Queen Mary...the Bismarck.

"It has to be the one," Sam exclaimed excitedly, tugging at his backpack strap and shifting the weight to the other shoulder.

We had taken the subway from Penn Station and only gotten lost twice. Each one of us had made attempts to get directions and received a dizzying array of conflicting answers. A few people hadn't bothered to even acknowledge our pleas for guidance in the Big City. Once we had indeed made it over the East River, we were immediately disoriented and confused as we stumbled along the back streets of another New York boroughs. Each one of us had taken a turn at whining.

Then we were saved by an elderly gentleman who pointed us towards the river. Soon we were able to see the water and knew we had to be heading in at least the right direction. With our backpacks in place, we trudged along on a suburban hike. I hadn't gone two blocks before a debilitating ache had started in both of my shoulders.

There she was, our home for the next couple of weeks. If you overlooked the patches of rust here and there on her hull, she was a fine ship. What did we know? Nothing, that's what. As freighters went, she wasn't all that large. My mind quickly imagined just how much smaller it was going to get when it got in the middle of the Atlantic. Are we insane? floated through my mind.

Freighters, as I mentioned, carry passengers as a sideline to the real business at hand. Cargo pays the bills. We were going to be sharing the voyage with the crew and nine other passengers, with two to a cabin. All along it hadn't occurred to me that the three of us wouldn't be bunking down together. Not that I thought it was going to be summer camp on the high seas or anything. Still, sleeping arrangements hadn't registered.

So, as we made our way up the gangway, giving ourselves over to the whims of Poseidon, as it were, a short man with a thorny accent capriciously doled out cabins. Being that I was the third one of our group, and it was two to a cabin, I was relegated to staying with a total stranger for the next two weeks. What could I say? Hank and Sam just grinned at me, as they scurried to their cabin to investigate and get settled in.

Okay. I had been dealt a sticky bit of fate. So what. How bad could it be?

Then in walks Percy A. Greenway. He was about five feet tall and in his 70's. Percy was wearing a fedora and a cape. Need I say more?

"Hello, young man," he said in a voice that had been steeled by years of oratory on the stage. "It would seem that we are to be companions on this crossing."

Oh boy. I told him my name and shook his hand. His sole luggage was a medium sized suitcase made of leather and reminded me of some old, very old British movie I had seen as a kid. If we were boarding a train, in London, and in black and white, I would have sworn the Battle of Britain had just begun.

Percy, as I was to find out in the coming days, had been an actor and was now retired and living in Spain. He had been in New York visiting his son, who lived in Flushing, so I was told. He had actually done some stage work on Broadway in years past. Mr. Greenway wasn't English but, apparently, he had played so many acting parts requiring an Imperial accent it had stuck. His vowels came out like tangy orange marmalade and his choice of phrases leaned towards Oxfordian correctness.

I liked him, sort of. I mean he was an interesting character and all, but he was strange and certainly old. I was a college student. What did I want with an old geezer, especially if I had to share a room with one?

Hank and Sam, my good buddies, took the time to tease me about my roomie, while I told them they were destined to wretch their guts out as soon as we got underway and the big, giant waves hit. Chuckle. Chuckle. Of course I wasn't at all sure just how I was going to take the diabolical swaying of a ship mid-ocean. Just in case, I had stashed a supply of Dramamine in my pack, unbeknownst to my two pals. None of us wanted to admit to being weenies and having to resort to pills to combat seasickness.

Twelve passengers. One small ship. One big-ass ocean. You are going to get to know your fellow travelers. It is inevitable. This wasn't any cruise ship. The one form of entertainment, besides sneaking below deck to watch the crew work the engines, was the ship's bar. It wasn't well stocked either. They had beer and they had wine, both of them from Yugoslavia. One dollar, if memory serves me right, for a bottle of red wine or a liter sized beer. Very cheap. Either one did the trick. You got drunk.

The bar had a view of the deck and the ocean out beyond the stern. The deck was strewn with cargo, all secured by huge chains that even Hercules couldn't break. You hoped. If not, then a few shiny new John Deer tractors were going over the side to a watery demise.

There were a few tables and a long, impressive bar. Nice wood. Polished. A surly bartender manned his station behind it and took it upon himself not to be an ambassador of good will to the paying customers. He grunted a lot and tended to leer at any of the females on board. One night, deep into the crossing, he somehow got into an arm wrestling match with Hank. Such is the boredom level when you book passage on a freighter. By the way, Hank won. His choice, beer or wine.

Yes there were girls on board. You knew that. What would this story be without them?

Actually, the passenger list was equally divided between sexes, which went a long way towards an entertainment quotient when times got weary. Pairing off went hand in hand with the struggle to combat the rising tide of loneliness being at sea can illicit. And that is how I am going to explain it. The "it" being, of course, romance.

There was one couple on board, John and Susan, retirees from somewhere in New Jersey; they brought their happiness with them. Then there were ten. Mr. Greenway was solo and, apparently, not looking. That's nine. The three of us makes it six. There was a oddball guy from, and I'm not kidding, Transylvania. Fangs notwithstanding, he was content to while away the hours in his cabin studying astrological charts. More on that later. Five. There was a woman, American, fortyish, attractive, but, basically, brainless. Her name was Nan. Four. There was also a fat Canadian guy, early twenties, who talked about nothing but Morocco. Three. That left the trio from DC.

They were recent High School graduates, taking their post studies to Europe, so they told us, with wide smiles. Very young. Impressionable. Easy pickings.

Three of us. Three of them. It was as if there was a ship's social director pulling the strings. What was this, the Love Boat?

Lisa, Susan, and Hanna, so they told us, giggling. We told them our names and then they launched into questions about where we were going in Europe. We were sitting around the table in the galley, which is nautical talk for kitchen. It was that post-meal time when we would sit there and wonder just what we had just eaten. Food behind the Iron Curtain was, generally, unrecognizable, regardless of your culinary expertise. You can imagine how it tasted. I tended to eat a lot of bread, smeared with butter, two things that I was at least familiar with. Our saving grace was corn flakes for breakfast, even if the milk was a nice shade of gray.

It didn't take us long to begin congregating in Hank and Sam's cabin. A stroke of luck had given them one of the largest cabins, so it made sense to hang out there. There were plenty of card games and discussions. We were all bright and annoyingly opinionated, which made for some incisive debates about politics, religion, even sports. It was a charged atmosphere alive with hormonal activity.

To be accurate, I was to come late to the party, so to speak. Let me digress for a moment. Our first night out, I, in the spirit of bon voyage and all, got stinkin' drunk in the bar. By the time we passed under the Verrazano Bridge I was babbling.

Then it came. Oh yes. That little boat hit the big ocean and it became a 24 hour carnival ride. We unfortunately left port just when a storm was stirring up the Atlantic. We had left late in the day, so with the lights of the Big Apple receding behind us we sailed on into the deep water in the dark of night.

Those cold, Yugo beers that I deemed not bad just a few hours before suddenly didn't sit so well with me. I don't think I have ever felt that nauseated before. Stop the ride, I want to get off, bounced around in my brain. I didn't want to think about another two weeks of this, as I scrambled to the top deck to pay homage to the cresting seas.

Some Naval wag had told me to get your ass out on deck when you feel seasick. Breathe in the sea air. Get your bearings with the horizon. What horizon? It was solid blackness. And there was a whole lot of metal clattering and groaning going on as the ship sliced through the waves.

Helpless, I leaned over the rail and baptized the lower deck with a nice spray of vomit. Then again. Again. And again. At this rate I was sure I was going to go into some sort of dehydration shock. A tiny voice in my head cried out: Just jump in the ocean and end it. Surprisingly, this didn't sound like such a bad idea.

I held onto the cold, wet railing, while the ship bucked along. Then I heard a girlish voice say, "Do you want me to get the ship's doctor?"

It was Hanna, one of the trio from DC. Just that evening, at dinner, we had sat next to each other and talked about Senator so and so and his new bill before the Senate. I had spent most of the time simultaneously holding up my end of the conversation and appraising her looks. We had laughed when she couldn't cut the mysterious meat on her plate and I had offered her my Swiss Army knife.

"You're kidding, right?" I said peevishly, because the last time I had seen the ship's doctor he had been in the bar drunkenly arguing about the merits of Communism versus Capitalism.

"You sounded like you were dying," she offered in a almost a whisper.

"Too much beer," I explained, trying desperately to ward off another vomiting attack. "Can you die from being seasick?" I said, trying to be flippant.

"I never get seasick," she declared, sitting down on a container clearly marked life preservers.

"Good for you," I muttered, wishing I could throw her overboard.

Damn if she didn't sit right there and conduct a conversation with me, while I relieved myself of just about all of my stomach contents from the last six months. She talked about her High School. She told me about her parents. The college she was going to attend: G.W. She even told me about her pet dog. Finally, I told her I had to go to my cabin. Talk to you later.

Did my cabin shrink or something? I wondered, as I threw myself onto my bunk, certain the walls were closing in on me. If you haven't been at sea, (and I'm not talking about your cruise ships the size of Rhode Island either), then I must tell you that they tend to, well, groan. Call it metal fatigue, or whatever, but when you get a vessel put together by bolts and skillful welding and place it in a violently pitching medium like the Atlantic then those fitted parts begin to sing when under stress. I was sure we were all going to die a watery death.

So as the storm raged right outside my port hole, I clung to my bunk and prayed, making sure that I included all of my apologies to God for not really believing in him since I was, say, maybe seven years old. Oh yeah, I would go to church for the rest of my days if only He would deliver me from this hellish nightmare, or, at the very least, stop me from vomiting continually. If my groveling before God didn't work I was fully prepared to go the other way, if you will. A Faustian pledge to Lucifer was beginning to sound more and more appealing. Take my soul, just stop this roller coaster madness!

No such luck. The storm continued on. At one point I was actually tossed right out of my bunk. I rolled across the floor, stopping at my cabin mate's bunk, who, incidentally, wasn't there because he was on the bridge chatting with the officer on duty. You could do that on a freighter. Formalities were mostly ignored. We were just one big family, all destined to drown in the middle of the Atlantic.

By morning, when the steward rang the large bell, calling all of us passengers to the next meal, the storm had passed, leaving a placid sea and sunshine. Of course the ship was still rolling along but at a more subdued pace. You could actually walk down the passageways and not become a human ping pong ball and bounce off the walls. We had survived.

I didn't make it to breakfast. To be accurate, not many did. Mostly because they were all hung over and slept in. The retired couple made it though. They had gone to bed early and awoke refreshed. As he told me later on, "That storm was nothing. You should have seen the one we went through last winter." I mumbled something in reply and kept moving. After all, we had plenty of time to chat in the next couple weeks. He had already invited me to play chess with him, twice.

It doesn't take long to settle into a routine when on board. You kind of have to. There are no bad cabaret shows to go to. No pool to lounge around. No shuffle board. No skeet shooting. No gambling. You can read. You can talk. You can walk the deck. What we did was play a lot of cards and Password. Very stimulating for the mind.

The numbers game placed us with the girls. We were a trio. They were a trio. This shared trinity business aligned us like nothing else could.

Lisa had been assigned a cabin with Nan, leaving Terri and Hanna to share. They had simply flipped a coin and Lisa had lost. Fortunately Lisa had a sunny disposition and was well equipped to deal with sharing a cabin for two weeks with a forty year old woman who just happened to be an alcoholic. Every night Nan would slip into a ten hour coma, ushered to sleep by a bottle of vodka, her drink of choice. Nan had brought her own stash. She drank it "neat," with nary a drop of anything else to thwart the jolt. She drank like a Cossack after a hearty pillaging.

What was her story? we were all asking ourselves. Apparently she was going to Spain to meet a man who lived in a small town on a small island, or something like that. The story (explanation) seemed to change daily. We all had stories of course. It took all of us a good four or five days before we stopped asking each other what exactly we were doing on a marginally sized freighter bound for Europe.

I think it was maybe the third or fourth night of the voyage before Nan all but disappeared from her cabin for the rest of the trip. She was seen being squired around by one of the officers, who had opened his heart and allowed her to more or less shack up with him for the crossing. He was a good ten years her junior, small in stature, with a bushy mustache, that made him look like a mad Turk. His English was quite good and he smiled a great deal. It would seem the Captain turned a blind eye to this sort of fraternizing with the passengers in the interest of propping up shipboard morale, or something.

So as it turned out Lisa got a cabin to herself.

As I said, we played a whole lot of Password. It had been one of the girls ideas. We would sit in Hank and Sam's cabin and devise words to play the game with. It was intellectually stimulating and allowed us to get to know one another better. We joked. We laughed. A natural selection took place, allowing for the mysteries of attraction to unfold. Sam liked Lisa. Hank and Susan. Leaving me with Hanna, my talkative tormentor that first night of uncontrollable upchucking.

Hanna was blond, and tall, perhaps an inch taller than me. She had a page boy type haircut that framed her lovely face, a face that announced to the world all her cheerful innocence. And she had sensuous lips. As vague as that might sound, not to mention silly, her lips were full and, well, inviting. It is not easily explained, I suppose. Sure, I may have fallen victim to my specialized surroundings, locked up on a ship in the middle of the ocean with a bunch of sweaty and swarthy Yugoslavian sailors, unable to focus on anything else but the flesh at hand. I jest. Hanna was, simply, a gem.

And she was a virgin.

Oh yes. Being slightly older, I was, naturally, an experienced hand at the carnality game. Very studly. Okay. I had had maybe two girl friends as priors on my record, both of which would probably testify that I couldn't find my way around the female anatomy even with a flashlight. Nevertheless, I had been there, if you know what I mean.

It didn't take us long to have trysts around the ship. There were many hiding places to consummate some rapid petting. However, for the real thing, the defining moment, as it were, we needed a bunk. My cabin was out of the question because Mr. Greenway was unpredictable in his habits and I never knew when he might appear. I was too embarrassed to work out a solution with him, lest I have to reveal my intentions. So this left us with Hanna's cabin. Susan was cooperative, being that she was thinking along the same lines with Hank.

I will skim over the details here because--let's face it--it is just not all that unique. Boy. Girl. Part A. Part B. Biology hopefully thwarted. Happens everyday.

Let me just mention here that I was informed of Hanna's delicate position in the womanhood department as I was preparing to mount an attack. Of my standing score with the female species only one of the two had been deflowered and we had discussed the pending act for weeks before it came to fruition. In fact, we had analyzed it so much anatomy lectures in medical school have to be more titillating.

So I was caught off guard to say the least. I looked down at her. She looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. Surprisingly, I hadn't even given it much thought. The sexual revolution was thundering along out there. Virginity, as a concept, had been obscured by, well, lots and lots of sex going on.

"You are?" I muttered questioningly, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, hoping to preserve the momentum I had established.

"I guess I should have told you before," she explained in a low, almost contrite voice.

"I guess," I mumbled, wondering what to do.

I found myself easing off of her and into a position beside her. She clutched my hand and kissed me. The ship gently rocked us in the bunk.

"Is it a problem?" she wanted to know.

Problem? I thought, glancing at her for an instant, trying to regain my bearings. All of a sudden there was a great deal of importance placed in my path. First time. How was your first time? I heard feminine voices echoing in my brain, as countless female friends asked the question of Hanna in the future. Who was it with? How was he? Etc.

"No, no problem," I lied.

I can only hope that Hanna took pity on me when she answers the questions. You know, like she might want to say: "Oh, it was very romantic. We were on a ship crossing the Atlantic. He was very gentle. It was just a wonderful experience. I will never forget him." Dreams die hard.

As crass, read vulgar, young men, we of course swapped tales and compared notes. I like to think the girls were doing the same thing. It all made for a very pleasant crossing indeed.

Now about the man from Transylvania, Fang as we called him. His name was too difficult to pronounce, trust me. He shared a cabin with the fat Canadian. They, generally, didn't like one another. Fang had the habit of talking in his sleep and the Canadian had, you know, a gaseous expulsion problem. Yugo food will do that to you.

Anyway, Fang some where along the line had offered his astrological talents to us passengers. He only took donations, so he said with a solemn expression. The girls were quick to take him up on his offer. For our part, we thought he was a charlatan, and he had bad breath too.

"Come on, chicken," Hanna chided me one day, as we were sitting on deck looking out at the ocean that we were totally sick of seeing by now. "He did all of our horoscopes. He has charts and everything. I think he is a very interesting man.'

"You do?" I said with mock excitement.

"I can't believe you want at least see what he has to say about you," she protested, squeezing my arm. "You might find out something important that going to happen in your life. Wouldn't that be worth hearing?"

"You're not going to stop nagging me until I go and see him are you?" I asked her, grinning.

"How many more days do we have on board?" she asked, frowning at me.

I broke down and agreed to go see him. Sam and Hank made me pay for this decision. They ridiculed me non-stop.

"It'll be fun," Hanna assured me as we walked to Fang's cabin.

"I'm sure it will," I muttered, stopping short of his door.

"Come on, you can't turn back now," she commanded, pulling on my arm.

"I will never forgive you for this," I joked, knocking on the door.

"Let me know how it goes," she said, turning to go.

"Wait a minute, aren't you going in with me?" I whined.

"No," she declared, adding, "he has to see you alone. Nobody else can be there with you."

"You didn't tell me that," I called out to her as she disappeared down the passageway.

Then the door opened. It was dark in the cabin. There was a peculiar smell coming from inside, something that I would later decide was a cross between really cheap aftershave and fried spam.

"Yes," Fang asked quizzically, keeping the door mostly closed.

"You were supposed to do my horoscope," I said hesitantly, as I noticed he was wearing what appeared to be a nightshirt from, say, the late 19th century. "Hanna supposedly spoke to you about doing it."

"Hanna, yes," he said, stroking his unshaven chin. "Today? Now?"

"I can come back later," I immediately suggested, taking a step back.

"No, come, come," he said, opening the door.

Do I go in? flashed through my mind. I stood there for a moment and peered inside. Wonder where the fat Canadian is? I thought. Wish he was here.

Fang turned on a small light over the desk. This only created more shadows in the room. I stepped just inside the door, fully expecting the damn thing to slam behind just like in the movies.

"Kind of dark in here," I offered in an alarmingly squeaky voice. All of those years of my youth spent watching horror films and I had always wondered what I would do in the event I had an encounter with someone or something from the dark side. As it turns out, my reaction was to sound like Pee Wee Herman.

Fang motioned me over to the desk and ordered, "Sit."

I sat. My right foot was doing a frenetic flamenco routine on the floor as nervous energy flowed right down my leg. Alarmingly, I had my back to most of the cabin. Surely there was something lurking in those shadows behind me.

"What are those...charts?" I asked, trying to sound congenial, you know, receptive to all the diversity that comes with a society that tolerates the supernatural weirdoes out there.

He didn't answer me, as he took out a pen and began to draw on a piece of paper. It looked like he was some mad draftsman, bent on maiming the human race with geometry. I sat there obediently quiet. Fang labored over his charts for a short while, snorting occasionally as he shuffled his instruments over the desk top.

"You will need to tell me your birthdate," Fang suddenly announced, looking up at me for a moment before plunging his eyes back to the charts spread out before him.

It was nothing but an astrological reading in the end. Very anti-climatic, really. Yes, it was spooky--and stinky. Fang went on to tell me about this moon rising and that something or other being in this or that house. It was mostly gibberish, made all the more entertaining by a man who talked like an incredibly bad actor in a B movie.

I listened and kept my laughter at bay. Now and then I had to respond to his businesslike enjoinders about my vital statistics. He knitted his brow and poured over the charts some more, seeing in the stars my destiny. Emboldened by my new found knowledge, I went on to help mankind in all the ways Fang enumerated in his stellar prophesy.

For this I paid him his donation. I think, if I remember correctly, it was a few dollars, which I placed on the corner of the desk top as I was leaving. Oh, by the way, Fang told me I was going to be a famous poet. There was a hitch though. He said that my fame would come posthumously. Oh, also, I famously hate poetry.

Time on a freighter moves slowly. It gives you time to think, to contemplate the order of the universe, among other things. Suddenly you have time for conversation. Out there all around you is the ocean. Progress appears minimal, if at all. There are no mile markers for your mind to grasp. The horizon bobs. In a word, it can be down right maddening.

Being a sailor takes either a great deal of inner reflection or a simple mind. Plop yourself out in a vast body of water, toss in stultifying boredom, with little prospect of relief, and a person can go insane. It can happen. As far as I was concerned most or all of the crew were borderline nuts.

Hank, in his moments of gregariousness, took it upon himself to establish contact with some of the crew; it was all in the interest of probing the other side, of the Iron Curtain that is. What made these people tick? Did they really believe in that despot Tito? Was communism actually viable?

One day, as Sam and I were lounging in their cabin, debating the merits and demerits of the French school of naturalist writers--oh okay, we were really talking about getting some real food as soon as we got off that damn boat--Hank burst in announcing that he had had a new adventure. Sam snickered. I scoffed.

"I went down to the engine room," he boasted, waiting for our reaction.

"Did they make you shovel coal?" I quipped.

"It was pretty damn interesting," he exclaimed, not even attempting to buffer his excitement.

"They let you in there?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Hank shot back, sensing we didn't believe him. "I was talking to this guy on deck and he took me down there. You should see the engines on this ship! Huge! And noisy as hell."

We were, as can be imagined, boys at heart. Snooping around the engine room seemed like real adolescent adventure to me. Oily. Dark. Thumping, loud machinery. Men laboring mightily to keep the ship moving. Joseph Conrad never had it so good.

So we went. With Hank leading the way, we slipped down, down into the belly of the ship, passing by a multiple of gang ways and narrowing passageways. Several sailors passed us and let out grunts of recognition. Still, we carried on. Downward.

"Sounds like some kind of medieval beast or something," Sam declared, as we stood outside a hatch, the final barrier before we took the plunge into the nether world of heat and grinding engines.

"Come on," Hank instructed, opening the hatch.

"We're not going to get keel hauled for this?" I asked, apparently the only voice of reason in the group.

"Don't weenie out on me now," Hank chided, laughing.

"I read a story about a guy who was shanghaied into the Russian Navy and was never heard from again," I hissed, trying to sound serious.

"Yeah, me too," Sam interjected. "They made him cook in the galley. Not only did he have to eat the awful food, he had to make it too."

"You two guys are so full of it," Hank said over his shoulder, as he stepped inside the engine room.

All I can say is a Rolling Stones' concerts give off less decibels. We could see several men standing in a semi-circle at the end of the room. They seemed to be debating something, or, at the very least, trying to hear each other. Hank took us on a brief tour while the men generally ignored us. Hey, we paid our money. If we want to ruin our hearing who's to stop us?

For the highlight of the tour, Hank led us back along several cat walks, stopping to peer down at the guts of the engine that directly put the muscle to the props and propelled the ship. Then, with a grin, he climbed up and up like some deranged fireman bent on scaling the longest ladder in the world. We had no other choice but to follow.

Finally we came to a landing and what felt like relative safety and Hank motioned for us to follow. I took a quick glance down at the engine below, happy that I didn't have a fear of heights. Sam kept his eyes straight ahead, while his cursing was drowned out by the deafening noise.

Then there was welcome daylight as Hank pushed open a hatch. We scampered out onto the stern of the ship. I sucked in the clean ocean air, as my ears continued to ring.

"Nice tour," Sam said sarcastically.

"Pretty weird, huh?" Hank declared, grinning at us.

"You or the engine room?" I asked, drinking in the sight of the omnipresent ocean.

"You guys don't know what's interesting," he scoffed, walking over to the railing and then turning to look back down the length of the ship.

"Must be an acquired taste," Sam said in almost a shout. He rubbed his ears and shook his head. "Tell me this ringing goes away...sometime."

You make your fun where you may, or so it would seem. After a week at sea, and I am going to use that as an excuse, the three of us upped the ante just a little bit. Like having the company of three nice girls wasn't good enough for us.

Hank and Sam will probably go to their grave saying it had been my idea. I will say nothing so as not to incriminate myself. Being foolish, it would seem, came easily to me. If Hank wanted adventure, he was about to get it.

As I said before, this freighter wasn't all that big as ocean going vessels went. When the seas got rough the damn thing rode in the water like a Destroyer under full steam. That is to say, if you haven't seen any good World War II movies that include naval battles, the bow and stern acted like one big gigantic rocking chair, leaving the front of the ship partially submerged before popping back up to take on another wave.

In fact, the ship seemed to defy any laws of watery physics that apply, as it continued on through the water, bouncing along in apparent ignorance of its own shortcomings. That first night at sea, while we stood in the bar enjoying the vanishing daylight playing out on the ocean in full view of the large windows lining the length of the room, it was obvious to all that anyone and anything remaining on deck was going to get doused with sea water. You had a bird eye's view down the watery deck. Several beers couldn't alleviate in my mind the impression that this hunk of steel wasn't much of a match for nature's forces we were running directly into.

So there we were one night in the very same bar when one of us happen to mention something totally beyond the boundaries of logic. Reason? Common sense?

"Yeah sure," was what Sam said, if I'm not mistaken.

"Just how are you going to do that anyway?" Hank wanted to know, leaning forward in his seat to get the specifics, showing just how much of an Engineering major he was.

"I don't know," I muttered, being, as usual, the catalyst, not the planner.

"Why don't we just take turns doing dives over the side and see if the ship stops to pick us up or not," Sam said, laughing.

"We would need a rope," Hank mumbled, with a far away stare in his eye. "Yeah, something to anchor us. That would work."

"Okay," I said hesitantly, giving Sam a quick glance.

"You could tie it around your neck maybe," Sam joked, "because if you are going to commit suicide you might as well make sure--right?"

"No, no, listen, it can work," Hank insisted. "There are plenty of places to tie off on up there. The ship is constructed like that, so you can anchor all kinds of things. We can do it, I'm telling you."

"We?" Sam echoed, shaking his head no.

"Come on," Hank urged, grinning at me, and then Sam.

"Now?" I asked timidly.

"Why not? Look, the sea is rough. We have to do it now or what's the point. You don't want to just stand there without having the risk," Hank stated, slapping my shoulder. "You and me."

"What about Sam?" I whined.

"He can watch," Hank said, giggling.

"First, you guys have to sign all your traveler's checks over to me," Sam said, wagging his finger at the both of us. "And for the record, you two are insane."

Dusk was giving way to night. The seas had been picking up for most of the afternoon. Earlier that day we had had another lifeboat drill, a mandatory procedure in case of disaster. We all got to put on our lifepreservers and parade around on deck while the crew took up their positions by the boats. In the background, an annoying bell resounded until it was time to go back inside. For once, the crew was all business as they herded us to what life boat we were assigned to. As a confidence builder, it was met with a lukewarm response from the passengers, who were mostly angry about having to follow orders of any kind.

Hank, ever resourceful, had acquired a length of rope, say about twenty feet long. To me, it didn't seem nearly strong enough, but of course at this point titanium wouldn't have been sufficient. The two of us went over the details in their cabin, taking the time to work out knots and tying procedures. We had managed to tie us off together with enough slack to leave a lead for the anchoring. Sam sat there lobbing not so subtle reminders that we had lost our minds.

Stealth was important. Although we enjoyed a certain degree of carte blanche when it came to wandering the ship, it didn't include pulling a stunt that we were about to attempt. So, with Sam acting as lookout, we absconded on deck.

First off, it was wet, and cold. A persistent cloud of sea spray hung in the air. At night, away from the cabins, it was dark. Overhead, a million stars loomed. We scampered forward as best we could, the three of us.

When we reached halfway to the bow Sam stopped and told us good luck but he wasn't going any further. Under foot, the deck was slippery and just standing had become difficult. Sam steadied himself on a bulkhead and shouted something we couldn't make out. I gave him a short salute and we proceeded to the bow area.

We hadn't gone ten feet before Hank slipped and slid along the deck. The rope yanked me down and the both of us slid into a small cargo container secured on deck. There was a sharp pain in my right hip where I had landed on it. Together, we lay there actually laughing.

"How crazy is this?" Hank asked rhetorically.

"Want to go back?" I asked expectantly.

He shook his head no and we struggled to our feet. Not unlike two climbers scaling a particularly steep section of mountain, the two of us sought out hand and foot holds in our quest to make the bow. Again we fell, this time coming to a halt next to a large deck cleat. We clung to it for a moment to catch our breath.

"I'm going to tie it off on that thing," Hank yelled in my ear, pointing into the darkness.

"What thing?" I asked reasonably, straining my eyes to see where he was pointing.

"Look, we are going to have to crawl over to that other cleat and then reach out for the thing-a-ma-jig," he explained.

I laughed and replied, "Could you be more specific." Then we both laughed, letting the pent up adrenaline dissipate.

"Next time you have a bright idea, keep it to yourself," Hank yelled out, laughing.

At that moment the bow dove down into the next wave and we were covered with cold sea water. I lost my grip and was held tight by the rope as Hank held on to the cleat. Seconds later the bow rose up again, letting the water drain off.

"We are going to have to time it right," I shouted out. "Wait until the next time the bow rises up again."

"Okay," Hank said, clenching the other end of the rope in his hand.

Again the bow dipped below the water and we were buffeted by sea water. I held on this time as the boat rocked forward into the waves. Hank tapped my shoulder and we scurried over the slick deck to the next holding spot.

"Made it!" I shouted out, clutching at the cold, wet metal.

"Let's do it," Hank said over his shoulder and we hurriedly began tying off the anchor end of the rope.

It was just in time, as the ship rolled and pitched, and another wave crashed over the bow. Sea water cascaded over us again. I was beginning to shiver, from fear and the cold water. Slowly we stood up as the deck cleared of water again. Hank slipped down but the rope held. I helped him back up.

"Ride 'em cowboy!" I exclaimed, as the ship once again slammed into another wave.

Hank gave out a whoop and we held on, even managing to keep our feet as the water swirled around us. We were now literally riding the ship. It took us a few tumbles before we began to sense the cadence of the lunging ship and the coursing ocean.

As usual, my idea was, shall we say, half-baked. I had made the preposterous suggestion of getting to the bow and defying Neptune's wrath, but I hadn't ever thought of getting back to safety. We couldn't very well ride out there on the bow until the storm subsided.

It didn't take long before we were exhausted. Hypothermia was a real concern as well. As any mountaineer knows, getting down can be as dangerous as getting up.

In the lulls between getting pounded we held a quick conference. The only avenue back was to retrace our steps and time it with the actions of the ship. Logical.

Thus we headed back, back to the safety of our cabins. When we had been scrambling forward we had been going upwards, which made for a certain degree of displaced energy, if you follow physics and have an engineering degree. However, on the way back, well, we were going down hill and the laws of energy change dramatically, as in a falling body picking up speed like real fast. I'm sure Sir Isaac could have explained it better but he wasn't stupid enough to do what we did.

It would have been easier to rappel down the damn deck I'm sure. What we did was do a lot of sliding and with that mode of retreat there comes just the least bit of friction. Metal. Levi jeans. My skinny ass. At least the deck was slick.

The next day we did take inventory. I had at least six bruises, fortunately all concealed underneath my clothing. Hank, though, had one nice bruise on his forehead from, of all things, my knee crashing into him on one of our descents. He was lucky not be knocked out.

Needless to say we weren't exactly treated as returning heroes. The girls, at a loss to do anything else, scolded us soundly, telling us that we had to be the stupidest guys on earth. Sam seconded their motion.

Another week stretched before us, seven more days at sea. At times a pervasive dreariness took hold of my mind, an uncomfortable feeling of being trapped, imprisoned on a vessel in the vast ocean. I couldn't imagine how sailors stayed at sea for months on end without going crazy. The constant motion of the ship and the close quarters made it all psychologically arduous some of the time.

Then again, we had company. Hanna and I embarked on our shipboard romance, as did the others. We got stinking drunk plenty of times in the bar. We played cards until the deck was well broken in. And we had pithy discussions about the world, our world, arguing skillfully with the assurance of a person who knows that there were plenty of hours to fill.

Week two of the voyage saw the food worsen, if possible. For the first few days we had fresh bread at least to eat, smothered in creamy butter and too sweet jam. Now, our teeth had to gnaw through crusty bread hardened and stale. Even the corn flakes for breakfast seemed to have withered.

"What's on the agenda today?" Hank asked, using his usual ironical tone when he wanted to illicit a response from me.

"I don't know," I mused, grinning at him, "how about some cards, then maybe a few beers in the bar."

"That'd be different," he deadpanned.

"I'm going to go out on deck and look at the ocean," Sam announced with mock excitement. "Maybe I will see something different, like a whale or something."

"How about a giant octopus?" I offered, snickering.

Not unlike I imagine Columbus' crew, we longed for the sight of land, any land. Surely we would sight the shores of Europe soon. So we hoped. After days and days at sea though it did seem like we might never get off that damn boat.

In time, we came to the Straits of Gibraltar. I can't over emphasize just how wonderful a sight it was for all of us. We clamored on deck and drank in the vista, while below, just in front of the bow, dolphins frolicked merrily, a delightful escort into the Mediterranean Sea. Everyone on board seemed to have their spirits lifted, even the saltwater crusted sailors, who were certainly used to being away on the high seas for days on end.

"Take another picture!" Lisa squealed at Susan. "Get one of Africa in the background."

"Give me a second, will you," Lisa shouted back, fumbling with her expensive camera her father had given her, trying to get the focus set.

"Let's get a group shot," Hanna suggested, cradling my arm, then yanking me towards the bulkhead. "Get somebody to take the picture of all of us."

It would be almost a year before I ever saw the photograph, as Hanna showed it to me, along with what appeared to be hundreds of her and the others visiting every tourist sight in all of Europe. That would come later though, after we had parted ways in Spain.

Espana. It wouldn't be long. We would all disembark and go our own way. Well, to be accurate, the three of us were going one way and the three of them were going another.

This had been a delicate subject amongst the six of us. I guess some of us wanted to continue what we had begun on the ship, extend it into the Old Country, if you will. Stretch the romance for as long as possible. I wasn't in that camp. As expected, I wanted to move on and didn't want to have to decide on our next moves by committee; at least not a committee that included a half dozen people. Talk about cumbersome, I thought, shuddering at thought of tramping around Europe with a gang.

On a few occasions one or the other of the girls had broached the subject, but it had died swiftly after a lack of interest. For my part, I successfully stonewalled it. Hanna had once mentioned something about Italy and when I didn't respond she let it drop. Sam did ask me for my opinion one night after too many beers but nothing came of it. Hank was, for the most part, non-committal.

We did have a built in excuse though. The girls had been apprised of our plans, the ones that included seeing Europe from a bike. Susan had once suggested that it wouldn't be a problem to rendezvous in various parts of the Continent. This idea hadn't been fully explored because the logistics were too exhausting.

However, the day was drawing near. As the ship skirted up the Spanish coast, we knew we would be setting foot on the continent and something had to be decided. Since I was, more or less, handling the rudder duties for our trip I took it upon myself to lay down the guidelines. The port of Valencia would be the sight of our farewells. Plan for it. Rehearse it. Get it done.

Oh okay, it wasn't like that exactly. The girls had made it known they were going south first, before heading to France. Something about a small village on the coast or something, if I remember correctly. Fine. We were heading to the south of France because we wanted to see where Van Gogh cut off his ear. Just kidding. Although we were going in the that direction, it was to purchase bicycles for our trip. We were going, eventually, to Greece.

I can still recall the moment they turned off the ship's engines after we docked. For two weeks we had been, well vibrating. There seemed to be a rush of calm that overtook the decks, leaving us without that subtle tingling in our feet. That sensation was nothing when compared to the feeling of stepping on dry land. Oh yeah. Now that was something.

"My legs are all...wobbly," Sam exclaimed, as he stomped his feet several times on the dock.

"God, this is weird," Hank stated, shuffling his feet.

We had been the first passengers to disembark. A bright, sunny Castilian day greeted us, and then there was a mad rush down the gangway as half the crew dashed out onto an open field and promptly launched into a spirited game of soccer. Dust flew up as they scrambled here and there, shouting, cursing, trying to work their unsteady legs to kick the ball. We were in Europe.

That evening we found a place in the city, a small pensione. It was near a city plaza, one that told you immediately that you were in Europe. The six of us sat at an outdoor table at one of the cafes and participated in what the atmosphere had to offer. We drank a few toasts, ate some fine Spanish food, and plowed through some fresh reminisces of our recent voyage.

Even Percy Greenway joined us for a time, sitting there for awhile to pass on some vital information about Spain, whispering that we must remember that we are now in a country run by Fascists. Like we didn't know. At customs just that morning they had confiscated a copy of Hemingway's Farewell To Arms from one of the girls, threatening her in the process. There had even been a debate among some of the more disagreeable members of the authorities whether or not the three of us should be made to have our hair cut and our beards shaved off. Hippies, or any facsimile, were persona non grata in Franco's Spain.

Sam, in his best High School Espanol, had told them we were only going to be in the country for as long as it took to get to France. The head official had snorted at that revelation and then waved us through, making sure that we were well aware of his disdain for us. We scraped and bowed and acted about as obsequious as we could while we eased our way outside. It was all we could do not to break into a run once we got outside and were walking down the street.

"I still feel like my body is...swaying," Hanna said to me, smiling. "How long does it take for the sensation to go away?"

"For some people it never does," I said in a serious tone. "It's true, some people have this type of inner ear, with these microscopic channels running through them, that prevents them from ever readjusting. That's why NASA always checks out the astronauts in the program so thoroughly. They have to go through all of these tests that--"

"I'm sure going to miss you," she interrupted, squeezing my hand and laughing.

"Did he say some people never get over this weird feeling?" Lisa asked, concerned.

"He was joking," Hanna said, making a face at Lisa. "What are we going to do without his sense of humor around?" she asked the group at the table.

No one said anything. I didn't take the bait but just let the subject fade away. Percy excused himself and wished us all a good stay. He said good-bye and we all watched him walk away wearing his cape and tapping his fancy cane on the sidewalk as he went.

"I just love eccentric people," Susan said, smiling.

It grew quiet at the table. In the morning, early, we were boarding trains going in opposite directions. We had exchanged addresses from home. I had told them about using the American Express offices for mail drops. They promised to write to us in Rome or Athens.

The train station was mostly quiet at such an early hour. We sat in the waiting room munching on some rolls Sam had bought at a bakery on the way to the station. The girl's train was to leave an hour before ours. Hank had already taking to calling this the longest goodbye, hissing it to me several times and rolling his eyes.

"Did you taste that leche?" Lisa asked no one in particular. "It almost gagged me."

"It's not homogenized," I told her.

"Or pasteurized--probably," Susan added, laughing.

"Great, I'll probably come down with Typhoid or something," Lisa muttered.

There train was called and we all slowly headed to the track. The girls struggled with their backpacks. Hanna was wearing a straw hat she had purchased the night before. It pressed her bangs down into her eyes. Lisa was holding her stomach and grumbling.

"Didn't I see this scene in a really bad movie once?" Susan asked Hank, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"It had to have been in black and white," I offered, smiling at Hanna, as I grabbed her hand. "Be careful."

"You too," she replied, stepping up onto the platform on the train.

No tears. Very clean. We stood on the platform and they waved at us from their compartment. Terri took one final picture of us through the window. An announcement rattled over the overhead speakers. The train lurched forward. Then they were gone.

Hank never saw Susan again. Sam never saw Lisa again. I, as mentioned, saw Hanna one more time. Sam had moved into an apartment in the city which happened to be a few blocks from Hanna's home. They had run into each other in the grocery store. She had suggested he drop by sometime to see the photos Susan had taken on their trip. Sam, ever polite, had agreed to come over. I was then recruited to go along.

Hanna and I treated each other like we had barely been acquaintances. She was now, so we were told, more experienced, after having had an affair with some older man in Europe. She briefed us on this turn of events without a trace of boasting. The maturation process had been accelerated considerably. She had gotten her European education, as they say.

We got to see plenty of castles and cathedrals, and a few blurry pastoral scenes taken from trains. There were more than a few photos taken in pubs and cafes, dark, and, most of the time, out of focus. A good time had been had by all, apparently.

On our part, we had nothing. None of the three of us had any predilection for capturing our trip for posterity. It would be forever lodged in our memories, dying away more and more with the advancing years.

"Looks like you guys had a lot of fun," I suggested, grinning at her.

"That we did," she replied, smiling. "We are thinking about planning another trip soon."

"You think Europe is ready for that?" Sam joked.

"Probably not," she said, glancing at me.

"I guess we should have taken a camera along with us too," I stated, shrugging.

"Next time," she told me, putting the photographs away.

There was an awkward moment, one in which I immediately thought that I would like to smack Sam for talking me into coming along. Sam filled the gap by asking about Susan and Lisa. Hanna told him they were doing fine, that they were both attending college out of state.

"I guess we should get going," I suggested, edging my way towards the door.

"Since we are kind of like neighbors you don't have to be a stranger," Hanna announced, directing her comment to Sam.

"No, I guess not," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets, a sign I knew now after being his friend for years meant he was uncomfortable.

"Nice seeing you again," I said, giving her a little ridiculous wave.

"Yeah, it was wasn't it," she said in a tone that I wasn't sure about.

"Take care," Sam said, using his signature salutation, one that he used when he wanted to beat a swift retreat.

We backed out the door and into the hallway. I could hear a small dog yapping in the next room. Hanna stood in the doorway and, well, kind of watched us. Like it was some kind of sport, or something. You can close the door now, I told her in my mind. Go back inside. Show's over. We're just two hapless males walking upright.

"I'll be sure to tell Susan and Lisa I saw you two guys," she called out to us.

"Say Hi for me," I said in a sing-song voice, regretting it immediately.

"I will," she told me.

Our footsteps echoed down the hall and then down the stairs because I didn't want to

wait for the elevator to arrive. The two of us hurried out into the night air. We walked a few

blocks without saying anything. Then Sam finally said, "I'm going to have to move." I nodded

in agreement and we continued on.

LOVE DISPLACED

Chapter 12: Over The Weekend

We met in High School. It was our senior year. She was a cheerleader. I was on the football team. We were a cliché.

I had known of her since we were Freshman in High School, but our paths never crossed. She was brainy, and good looking, a combination that provided potential suitors with a certain amount of trepidation. Not that she was one to wield her intellect like a club or anything. Oh I suppose there were times that she could be pretentious and intellectually overbearing, (she was fluent in French after all). It was mostly lost on me because any referencing she might do to some revered writer, poet, or just all around thinker easily skirted past my comprehension. Clif notes, it might be said, were my constant companion as I trudged through my studies.

Her name was Bonnie. I think it was the second or third week of school when I struck up a conversation with her. She was manning a table in the hallway outside the cafeteria, collecting signatures for some cause or other, I think. She was wearing her cheerleader's uniform because it was a Friday and we had a football game that night.

"Would you like to sign the petition?" she asked me, launching into her spiel for whatever it was she was laboring to correct in society. "It will only take a second."

I stopped and returned her smile, then glanced around me for a moment, checking to see whether or not I, as a senior football player and denizen of the "cool crowd," should deign to recognize and thereby legitimize this girl's silly efforts. A few underclassmen were standing in the wings, watching. Two junior girls giggled and smiled at me as they passed by. I watched their twitching rear ends fade from view down the hallway.

"What kind of petition is it?" I asked, trying to keep a smirk from showing on my face.

Bonnie then bombarded me with the facts. As she spoke, in earnest, I suddenly found myself thinking: She's not bad. Her head bobbed to the rhythm of her speech and I noticed she liked to use her hands to punctuate her points.

"So, that's what it all about," she finished, smiling up at me.

"Okay," I uttered, signing.

"Thanks," she said cheerfully, then she immediately turned her attention to another potential victim.

It was a simple and meaningless exchange in a crowded hallway but I found myself thinking about her for the rest of the day. After school, as I was getting prepared for my pre-game ritual, I floated the idea with a friend. We were sitting in the locker room applying tape to various parts of our bodies in the hope that it would ward off any unforeseen injuries. The locker room was empty except for an equipment manager in the far corner who was griping about "smelly" towels left in a heap by the back door.

"You're kidding, right?" my buddy said, snorting, as he ripped off another piece of athletic tape. "She's flat as a board."

I guess if you wanted to criticize a girl the number one insult would have to do with the dimensions of her mammaries. It was cruel, but usually an accurate observation. Bonnie did indeed have a small bustline. However, she had also done some modeling and so had the requisite body needed to pose before a camera. She was tall. She was blond. She wasn't going to suffer from having A cups.

"Like she's not good looking," I countered, bending over to check my ankles to see if I needed to shave the area again so the tape wouldn't stick.

"She's okay," he mumbled, ripping the tape with his teeth. "Cold though."

"What do you mean by that?" I wanted to know.

"Look, you ain't going to be getting any action. Forget about it," he said, grinning.

"Who says?" I said boastfully. "I don't mind giving it a try."

"Good luck," he snorted, shaking his head. "She won't give you the time of day anyway, jerkoff. She's into those Einstein types. Not somebody like you."

"Since when am I the village idiot?" I shot back, throwing a roll of tape at him.

"You'll have to get a tutor just to go out with her," he declared, laughing. "I hope you can pass her pop quizzes."

"I know what I liked to pop," I said, demonstrating my well developed sense of the vulgar.

"Oh yeah, that's going to happen," he mocked, throwing a "smelly" towel at me.

The passage, the flow, between classes at a High School are breeding grounds for developments. I, personally, had begun and ended several relationships in the ten minute intervals between English class and History, Gym and Chemistry, etc. That very next week I started something.

As Bonnie was passing me in the hallway I made an obvious attempt to say hello to her. She smiled back at me and said, "Nice game!" She was a cheerleader and it was her duty to pass on a good word to one of the players; after all, we had won the game. At any rate, it began for us an elementary friendship. I would see her and say my hello and she would see me and pass on a greeting. It was a start.

"So when are you going to ask her out?" my buddy asked me one day as we were standing around at football practice, waiting our turn in one of the drills.

"Haven't decided yet," I replied, looking around to make sure one of the coaches didn't overhear us. Players who didn't concentrate on the practice field were often pointed out and ridiculed by the coach and then made to do excruciating running in place exercises until your legs ached.

"Chickenshit," he hissed, chuckling. "You're afraid of her. Admit it. You are scared that she might shut you down. Pretty embarrassing. You ask her out and she tells you to forget about it. Let me know when you are going to do it so I can watch."

"Fuck off," I sneered, elbowing him in the side.

"You two girls have something to chat about today?" the coach's voice suddenly boomed out. "Trading makeup secrets or something? Come on up here and let's see if you can show us how to do a few new exercises."

Undeterred, I set out to make a move, so to speak. We had been having this hallway romance going for a couple of weeks. I had taken to changing course and walking her to her next class, and then scrambling to my next class before the bell rung. She seemed, as far as I could tell, receptive.

My love life was aided the following weekend by a party thrown by a friend. His parents were out of town. He had a big empty house to himself, except for a cantankerous and aging mutt that growled from behind the laundry room door, his exile for the evening.

I didn't think that she would be there. She arrived with a few other cheerleaders. We gravitated to one another amidst the noise.

"Let me take you home," I offered, hoping that I wasn't being too bold, or presumptuous.

She looked back at me and smiled for a moment. We had been talking for over an hour. The hubbub of the party droned in our ears. One of her other suitors, a particularly unctuous character who excelled on the tennis team, had stopped by to make a bid half way through our conversation. She had rebuffed him kindly, sending him on his way with a coquettish smile.

"It's a long drive," she explained, pointing off in an unknown direction.

"That's okay," I assured her.

She went off to tell her girl friends she was leaving with me. I caught the eye of my buddy as we were leaving together and grinned. He rolled his eyes.

What can I say about my car? It was blue, and it cost me about two hundred dollars. That's in 1960's money. Don't ask me what it is today but I suspect it's not much more. It worked, even if it didn't have air conditioning and the radio only got one station, and that was AM.

I didn't suffer from car envy for the most part. The car culture hadn't really affected me all that much. True, my sister had a new car, as did my parents. My interests leaned more towards motorcycles, (but more on that later). This particular vehicle had served me well for over a year and the backseat had been the scene of some memorable carnal pursuits; which is, after all, a tried and true American tradition.

Bonnie had been given a new sports car for a combination birthday/graduation gift. I had seen her several times zooming into the school parking lot, with her blond hair blowing in the breeze. I knew of a few guys who would have dated her just to drive the car.

"Nice color," she said to me as we got to my car, grinning at me like we were sharing an inside joke or something.

"It works," I mumbled, getting in the car and hoping that it did indeed start.

She lived outside the immediate school district. Her family had moved just prior to Bonnie's senior year and so she was given permission to continue attending the same High School. As we drove out to where she lived it was uncomfortably quiet in the car. It was perhaps the very first time either of us had lapsed into silence. Before our conversations had never encountered any dry patches whatsoever.

"Turn right at the next road," she informed me.

"Okay," I muttered, glancing over at her form in the dark, just visible in the passing streets lights.

At that time it didn't take long to cross over into what would be considered the legitimate country side or the "sticks." Suburban sprawl was in its infancy. We had made the transition some five miles back. There were long stretches of open land, dotted by an occasional home. To sum it up, you could smell cows.

"It was my dad's idea to move out here," she explained, sighing.

"It's nice and quiet," I told her, wishing I could see her face.

The house came into view, appearing like an apparition out of nowhere. The house was dark except for a porch light that her mother had left on. I pulled into the driveway and turned off the lights but left the car running.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked me.

"I don't think your parents would like that too much," I answered.

"We can talk in the car if you like," she said.

Off went the car. It sputtered to a stop. The sound of crickets filled the night air. And then we talked until past two in the morning. Just talked. Okay, all right, we made-out too; but it wasn't your usual grappling match either. It was more dignified, or as dignified as you can be smooching in the front seat of a dented and rusted Ford Falcon.

Thus it began.

Next stop on the young romance was Homecoming and the dance. She was voted on the court and like some frog prince I was accepted into the fold as any commoner would be. It was small town America so she got to ride in a convertible in the parade as one of the princesses, while I labored on the field getting my brains beat out by our opponents. We went to the dance. I drove her car to and from. She didn't make Homecoming Queen but didn't seem to be perturbed by it. I certainly wasn't. We danced and delighted in the fact that we were seniors and looked up to by all the underclassmen. As an idyll goes, I guess we were living a nice one.

Our senior year spun on, as did our relationship. She was attuned to the future. I wasn't. Sometime in the Spring she began to badger me about my college plans. I said little about any of it. I hadn't decided what to do. She had already been accepted at a prestigious women's college in New England, one of the Seven Sisters lineup, which included celebs and filthy rich girls as their alumni.

In no time at all we were graduating. It just seemed to sneak up on me. The graduation ceremony marked the beginning of the end for us. In the weeks preceding the event we had been quarreling more and more. Then at a post-graduation party it happened. We got in a fight that escalated into a breakup. We exchanged angry words and then she stomped away.

We didn't speak for almost a week. Then I called her. We managed to patch it up.

The summer was spent avoiding the topics that got us into conversational trouble. My future had yet to be decided and it angered her somewhat. Unbeknownst to her, I was edging towards enlisting in the military. College seemed like a waste of time. I wanted adventure. As ambitions went, she certainly had hers mapped out. A blueprint would have been less structured, or so it seemed to me at the time.

In the background, playing like some ominous soundtrack to a horror film, was the reality that September would bring. We both knew that after she went off to college things would probably change. At least I sensed as much. I had seen it happen before to friends. The heady days of college life brings a transformation. You meet new people. Horizons look different after awhile. Each day I tried to prepare myself for that eventuality.

Summer was over in no time. I had yet to decide what to do. There had been tentative plans to travel to Europe. My procrastination had cost me enrollment in college for the Fall semester. Then, also, there was the matter of me signing my life away for OCS and becoming a pilot, an option my father had been trumpeting.

There was the obligatory teary farewell in late August. Bonnie was heading to college a little early to get acclimated to her new surroundings. "I'll call you as soon as I get settled in," she whispered in my ear, hugging me tightly. I kissed her, while her father frowned at the both of us and muttered, "It's not like she's going away forever."

Her phone call came a few days later. We talked for what seemed like a very long time, with her excitedly telling me all about her life and how it was changing. I heard about the quaint town, her roommate, and the famous (or is it infamous?) college. Somehow it was all disconcerting for me to hear the sheer joy in her voice. Right then and there I knew, or at least suspected, the divide had started between us.

"Sorry, I know I must sound like a kid at Christmas time...but it's all so...so new to me!" she chirped over the phone.

"Sounds like it," I offered, trying to sound upbeat, and, of course, happy for her. "Do you want me to come up for a visit?" I had to ask.

"Okay," she breathed into the phone, catching her breath, "do you think you would want to come up for a visit?"

This seemed like an odd question to ask so I said, "I guess so."

"Yeah, like at the end of the month or something," she continued, hesitantly.

"Sure," I agreed.

We then made plans for my visit, the visit from the hometown boyfriend.

My mode of transportation had taken a turn towards two wheels. I had purchased a used Harley, taking a cue from the movie Easy Rider. It was chopped and candy apple red. I'm sure I thought I was "cool" when I cruised around, with the rumble of the mechanical beast preceding me by a good two blocks. I had bought it from a surly member of the Outlaws, a local motorcycle gang, who told me with a snarl that he needed the "bread" so he had to sell the bike. As I handed over the cash, I was sure he would pay me a visit in the not to distant future and promptly steal the bike back. Every morning I fully expected to go outside and see the damn thing gone.

Off I went, chugging up north, to New England. Although it was early Autumn, a deadly coolness had set in and it wasn't long before I was frozen stiff and wishing I had taken my Ford Falcon, even if the heater had broken down that past winter. As I roared up the Interstate, convincing myself that I was indeed expressing my individuality by freezing to death on a custom bike, I wondered what I was doing traveling hundreds of miles for something that had all the markings of being a very bad idea.

Her college was in a town that was like some replicated village from a past era. I found her dorm and pulled to a stop, attracting my share of stares from the passing coeds. I could hardly move my hands and my whole body seemed to be vibrating. I said hello to a coed who had stopped to look at my bike and she giggled and practically ran away.

Bonnie had heard me coming thanks to my highly illegal cut off pipes and was waiting for me on the front steps to her dorm. We embraced. Her roommate appeared at the door and pleaded with me to take her for a ride on my motorcycle.

"I can't believe you drove all the way up here on that," Bonnie said, pointing in the direction of the bike. "You're crazy, you know that don't you?"

"I'm frozen like a popsicle," I told her and she hugged me again.

We sat in her dorm room and talked, gravitating to "old times" before we realized it. Her roommate smirked at me and peppered the conversation with wisecracks for my benefit, while sneaking knowing smiles my way. There seemed to be an undercurrent of uneasiness that I couldn't quite decipher.

"So you two were Barbie and Ken in High School," the roommate announced, snickering.

"Very funny," Bonnie chided her, sticking her tongue out.

"Young love," I said, smiling at the roommate.

"I can't see you two together. Sorry. It doesn't fit," she stated, exchanging glances with Bonnie.

"What do you know about anything?" Bonnie said, frowning at her.

"Just how perceptive is she?" I asked, detecting a parallel conversation going on.

"Not very," Bonnie said, laughing.

"You, on a Harley, with a beard, and Miss Congeniality--who doesn't even smoke pot--with her perfect face. Nice couple," the roommate exclaimed, laughing. "Opposites attract, I guess."

"Hey, what's wrong with my face?" I joked, trying to diffuse the conversational timebomb that seemed to be playing out.

The signs were all there for me to see, I suppose. Was I just blind to them? Did I even want to see them?

Bonnie played the courteous hostess. I was taken around the town and the campus, while I made the obligatory jokes about feminists and rich girls etc. The roommate, after the initial meeting, had made herself scarce, completely disappearing until Sunday morning.

Saturday night we walked into town and had dinner at a small Italian restaurant. Bonnie had neglected to ask me about any of my future plans, which I attributed to her not wanting to be contentious. She talked about her classes and the professors and how it was all very interesting as well as exciting for her. I listened.

I could see the happiness in her face in the glow of the candle light. Her eyes seemed to sparkle. Half way through the dinner I knew I didn't want to be there.

"I'll get a hotel room somewhere," I told her when we had gotten back to her dorm.

"Don't be silly," she said, leading me upstairs.

We sat on her bed and talked into the night. No words were spoken, but I knew there would be no intimacy. Our previous affection for each other had evaporated, leaving behind an undefined void. I spent the night in her roommate's bed across the room.

"Now isn't this so very chaste and all," her roommate declared the next morning, appearing at the door with a box of donuts.

Groggily, I said, "Sorry about appropriating your bed last night."

"Ice queen got the chilies," she mocked, laughing.

"I heard that," Bonnie mumbled from under the covers.

"The man looks positively frustrated," the roommate said, sitting down on the bed. "Are these donuts going to be safe around you?"

"Probably not," I said, grinning at her.

She then climbed in bed with me and snuggled up against my chest and said, "He's much too cute to let sleep alone, Bonnie. If I let you do me will you give me a ride on your bike?"

"What kind of donuts did you buy?" I asked, trying to sound serious.

She climbed out of bed and said, "He's as sexless as you, Bonnie."

Jocularity hides many things, so they say. We munched on the donuts and discussed the day's activities. I had been thinking of ways to simply tell Bonnie that I had to go. I suspect she was laboring with the identical problem.

Finally around noon I broached the subject. Bonnie asked me to stay longer. The roommate told me to go home, pointing south.

I kicked started my bike, letting the full roar of the engine disturb the entire neighborhood. A dog started barking in the distance. The roommate climbed on the back and sat there, determined to get her ride. I told her I only had one helmet and she slid off and stood there pouting. She then kissed me lightly on the cheek and whispered, "You'll get over it." I watched her walk back inside the dorm.

"I still can't believe you bought this...this thing," Bonnie said, motioning with her hands.

"I can't either," I joked.

She stepped forward and hugged me. I brushed the hair out of her face. She smiled at me. I kissed her quickly on the lips.

"I knew I would start crying," she muttered, wiping at her eyes and pulling away.

"It's sad," I said, trying to smile at her.

"All weekend I've been trying to tell you," she then blurted out, dabbing at her eyes. "I never--"

"Don't worry about it," I assured her, reaching out to grip her hand. "Of course it would have been nice if I didn't have to ride all the way up here and--"

"I know, I know," she said, squeezing my hand. "I don't know how to explain it. Really."

"Go, already!" the roommate shouted from the front door to the dorm. "I'm going to need a whole box of Kleenex if you don't."

"I'm going," I shouted back at her and laughed then waved good-bye and climbed on my bike.

"Be careful," Bonnie told me, stepping back.

"I'll try," I said, giving her a weak smile, as I eased off on the clutch and roared away.

It was a long trip back home. As I rode along I had plenty of time to brood. I was angry, and, yes, hurt. Then, again, part of me reached out for the fatalistic aspect of it all. We were 18 years old, for heaven's sake. As a friend told me about my pending life in the military: "You're future is dangling." Maybe it was but Life had really just begun.

A few weeks later I received a letter from Bonnie. She had taken the time to write out an explanation and couch it in a letter. She told me, essentially, she was discovering so many new things and that her life was changing, which all translated to mean she had met another guy. She couldn't quite bring herself to actually declare the obvious. In closing, she told me how much she hoped that I would find what I wanted out of life. Sure, I thought, as I angrily tossed the letter in the trash.

Sometime later, while on leave from Boot Camp, I ran into a mutual friend of Bonnie's and mine. She was eager to pass on some gossip. I didn't dissuade her.

"And that's the god's truth," the mutual friend concluded, shaking her head yes. "Can you believe it?"

Another person's misfortune can be medicinal. Hearing that Bonnie had had a "partial" nervous breakdown didn't make me exactly happy. My vindictiveness had never actually taken any shape or form. Yet I admit to a certain passing satisfaction when I heard that Bonnie had invested her love in a "Yalie" and subsequently been rejected. That she had left the woman's college and transferred to a college in the Metro area, retreating to the homestead to lick her wounds, did engender a degree of...of what? Being unlucky in love does merit some sympathy.

Many years later, while walking through a local mall, I happened to run into Bonnie. She looked frazzled and was carrying a large box. I quickly noticed her beauty was intact, as she stood there staring at me.

"I don't believe it," she exclaimed, struggling with the box. "I'm returning this damn thing," she said, shifting the package to the other hand.

"How have you been?" I asked, not being able to think what to say. "How long has it been?"

"God, I really don't know," she said, placing the box on the ground. "I guess I should ask you what you've been up to...or something?"

We had a quick chat, while a herd of shoppers passed around us. Bonnie told me she was married and had children. She also told me she never got to pursue her goal that she set out to do so very long ago. I couldn't recall what is was she actually wanted to do with her life, what the ambition had been of a young girl fresh out of High School. She asked me how my life had developed and I told her an abbreviated version.

The conversation quickly stalled amidst the clamor of the mall. We smiled awkwardly at one another then she bent over to grapple with the box again, refusing my help. She said it was nice running into me and then said good-bye. I watched her disappear into a department store. Then for some reason I found myself wondering what happened to her roommate so long ago. It brought a smile to my face.

Chapter 13: Land Of Milk And Honey

Time repeats itself. So they say. I was beginning to retrace my steps.

Israel. The Holy Land, with a capital H. I had returned.

When I left the kibbutz some two years before I hadn't expected to come back. I had my fun, done my time. True I had made some friends and experienced a few good moments. All and all, to date, they would be included as special events in my life.

Then again, at five in the morning, when the aches and pains of the previous day's labor are lingering, the wisdom of my decision to once again help the chosen people seemed foolhardy at best. This session had me harvesting almonds--by the truck load. It didn't take long before I grew to hate the elliptical shaped little bastards.

I don't know whether or not you are aware that you can actually eat almonds raw. Remove the husk and chew away. The taste is an acquired one. On the kibbutz, at almond harvest time, we had almonds roasted, almonds on top of cakes, almonds sliced into slivers and stuffed into just about every recipe you could think of. It was almond madness.

The harvest part was primitive if not down right simplistic. You had trees laden with the tiny morsels and you had dozens of people with sticks. Attached to the end of the stick was a short length of hose, so as to not damaged the trees when you reached up and whacked the crap out of the branches. This delivered blow, when done correctly, rained down almonds. Spread out on the ground was a plastic tarp to catch the nuts. Then you gathered up the load and carried it to large bins and dumped it. Periodically a kibbutznik would arrive on a tractor to cart the bins away.

It was labor intensive. Needless to say there were no migrants just waiting to sneak across the border into Israel to do the backbreaking work. Only us "volunteers" were moronic enough to do it.

Farmers, in my estimation, are perhaps the most deserving people on earth. They work long difficult hours. They are underappreciated. And they grow all the food we stuff in our guts.

"Have you seen the new bird?" one of my fellow laborers asked me as we were unloading another ton of almonds into one of the bins. "Right nice she is."

He was from England. His mid-lands accent made it all but impossible to understand him most of the time. I grew weary of asking him to repeat himself.

"Oh yeah," I said, curious. "Fresh blood on the kibbutz. Where's she from?"

"South Africa, I believe," he replied, grinning at me.

This was a good thing. There were just under twenty volunteers on the kibbutz. As a group we soon discovered that being around each other all the time made it trying on our sense of, shall we say, good will. You worked together, ate together, and shared the same bathroom facilities. Every imaginable personality quirk was only magnified, making for frequent friction between us. Someone new might alleviate the staleness.

Andrea Swain, that was her name. She had elected to work in the children's house instead of in the fields. For the most part the much ballyhooed socialistic concept of the kibbutz movement still didn't trickle down to the division of the sexes. Women were still the weaker sex. They worked in the kitchen and with the children and the men worked in the fields.

Some of the female volunteers chose to work outdoors, thereby breaking the sex barrier. Then again, some of the female volunteers also worked a few days in the broiling sun and decided that liberation of the sexes was a nice theory but impractical. I would watch them on our long ride back from the fields, with their faces streaked with dirt and their hands red from blisters, and wonder just how long they would last before they called it quits.

The kibbutznik men didn't want them in the fields because they generally disrupted things. There had been a few times when some of the girls had taken to wearing bathing suit tops in order to perfect their tans while we worked. Work production was almost guaranteed to be reduced on those days, as we males ogled and flirted until our eyes and egos hurt.

I had worked with a girl from New Zealand in the vineyards for awhile. Unlike the other girls, she had stuck with the program. Every morning she was back at it, bending over the damn gnarly vines. She had unsightly scrapes and cuts all over her hands and forearms but didn't mind at all. We worked side by side and I would delight in listening to her mellifluous accent as she told me countless stories about back home. We treated her like one of the guys.

Yet that changed one night when we got drunk in the local town. We literally tumbled back into my cabin on the kibbutz and made clumsy love on my tiny bunk. The next morning we were picking grapes along side each other like nothing had ever happened. I couldn't help but remember her silky, white body, adorned with an uneven tan from always wearing her work shirt. We never spoke of our "coming together." And I was never with her again.

Love on the kibbutz and making love on the kibbutz occurred under different circumstances than you might find in the outside world. It was sort of like having a fling at a summer camp. Every interaction was charged with a hyper element. When you are more or less confined together with a static set of people then the dynamics are instilled with a different set of rules.

Cross pollination, as it were, wasn't encouraged but it also wasn't discouraged. Social intercourse between the volunteers was an absolute. Our mindset wasn't totally unlike that of inmates in a prison. Us against them was a quiet mantra we all utilized. Inevitably though one of us would venture out of bounds and make contact with a kibbutznik. In fact, there had been the unlikely union of a volunteer and a kibbutznik in the past. On my last stay on the kibbutz a volunteer had married a daughter of a kibbutznik.

We volunteers were a manifestation of an ideal. That's what I said. The official line was we were there to add some variety to the kibbutzim lifestyle. We were there to help combat the inherent insularity of kibbutz life. Because they more or less were a society unto their own, it made for almost a fortress way of life. We could--so they hoped--instill some different viewpoints.

In reality we were workers filling a definite need. Menial labor came with the ideal because all the proclaimed theorem relied on an agrarian model. Bringing in the crops was the underlining credo.

This current cast of volunteers brought to the table a diverse array of cultures. We represented Australia, New Zealand, Holland, India, Germany, France, England, Argentina, and, of course, America. Andrea Swain, the South African, being a volunteer was not unexpected. The kibbutz had been settled by South African Jews back in the 50's. That the Diaspora had reached the bottom of Africa had been a surprise to me. White Africans alone was a concept I had trouble with. Toss in Jewish and it became weird.

The pipeline between the two countries was well established. Relatives still living in the cauldron of racial hostility traveled to Israel frequently. The trip in reverse was less frequent. The kibbutzniks who had abandoned their homeland to set up shop in the Holy Land didn't care to look back. They had been hated by the Africans because they were white and hated by the Afrikaners because they were Jewish. This double whammy sent many of them packing and for good reason. Some conveniently wrapped their reasons for leaving with the Jewish Homeland theme, and some didn't even bother to rationalize it.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked me in a pleasant voice.

"No, not at all," I replied, returning her smile.

"I don't believe we've met," she offered, holding out her hand.

We were in the dining room. The hustle and bustle seemed to intensify around us. It was dinner time. Numerous children were running around making a ruckus at the next table. As usual, discipline of children on the kibbutz was non-existent. The kibbutznik off-spring were generally treated like royalty. They had sprung from the loins of righteous freedom, don't you know.

"Andrea, right?" I interjected, shaking her hand.

"Oh, my reputation precedes me," she said smirking. "Nothing on this kibbutz escapes anyone."

By now I had grown tired of the South African accent, finding it grating to the ear. It had a vague British quality too it but somewhere along the centuries it had been flattened and passed through a strainer. Andrea's was a little different. The overall diction was similar but hers was somehow lighter, more agreeable.

"Just what we need around here--another Souf E-frakin," I joked, emphasizing the way they pronounced their country.

"Are you mocking me?" she asked, staring at me.

I tried to judge her attitude. It was true some of the South Africans were short on a sense of humor. I didn't want to start out on the wrong foot. Besides, she was good-looking.

"No," I said, laughing, then added, "Yeah, I guess I am."

She laughed and said, "I've heard about you."

"So my rep has preceded me," I chortled, smiling. "I deny everything you've heard."

Andrea Swain was from Cape Town; and she wasn't Jewish. Not yet. We talked for almost a half an hour that first time. She was a fountain of questions about America and Europe. I supplied the answers as best I could and didn't mind the friendly interrogation.

In the coming weeks I didn't see all that much of her. Although it wasn't that large of a kibbutz, it was easy to remain aloof. Anyway, with the work you found time evaporating rapidly as you collapsed in your cabin and prayed for the strength to continue on.

Shabbat was a day of rest, a time to contemplate and recuperate. A quiescence usually fell over the kibbutz like a Holy calm. People retreated to their homes. Well, it did seem that way. When in Israel the proverbial became commonplace.

I was sitting on the porch of my cabin minding my own business. There had been talk of going to the TV room to check out what might be on. This usually resulted in seeing ten year old American sit-coms, with Hebrew subtitles. It goes without saying that I was uninspired by this suggestion.

Then Andrea Swain walked right by my cabin. This, in itself, was unusual. We volunteers were housed in several shabby cabin blocks at one end of the kibbutz. Sort of like a ghetto, which was, humorously enough, ironic. Andrea had been fortunate to land better facilities at the other end of the property. She was sharing with an Israeli girl who was serving her Army hitch working on the kibbutz. I doubted she had ever even been to our little compound before.

"Hey, Andrea," I called out to her as she was walking by. "What, are you slumming today or what?"

"Excuse me?" she asked, stopping.

"I've never seen you at this end of the kibbutz before," I explained.

We talked for a few minutes, with her casually examining the interior of my ramshackle living quarters. She told me she was going on a hike to the monastery. I looked off in the distance where you could just make out the spire to the monastery church.

"I asked one of the other girls but they didn't fancy such a long walk," she said, squinting against the morning sun.

"Long way," I warned.

"So you've been there then," she stated, cupping a hand over her eyes. "How long do you think it will take me?"

There was no way I was going to let her walk all the way there alone. I was being chivalrous. I was.

"You shouldn't go alone," I said portentously. "There's all kinds of Arabs around, you know. It's probably not safe for a girl to be walking by her herself out there. Anything can happen."

Her eyes got big for an instant then she said, "You are having me on, aren't you?"

I laughed and said, "Sort of."

"Sort of," she repeated. "I just love how you Americans use the English language. Really. I do."

"Now you are 'having me on,'" I shot back, laughing.

We hiked it. It was a good two hour walk. I had done it two years before and forgotten just how long it was.

The monastery was run by Italian monks. They were perched on prime Biblical real estate. Scenes in the Old Testament had played out all around it.

The draw of the monastery, besides the obvious religious attainment goals, was its wine. They made good, uncomplicated table wine. White and Red. Nice and dry. It was unlike the Jewish wine used for Shabbat meals, the kind that made diabetes an all but forgone conclusion for anyone who drank it.

We hadn't gone very far before she informed me that she was betrothed to a man back in South Africa. This isn't good, I told myself. It was too late to bail out of the hike. It would seem, well, unseemly.

"You are," I said, mustering up all of the congeniality I could, even though I was thinking: What a colossal waste of time. "That's nice."

She looked over at me for a moment, then said, "He's Jewish."

So? I immediately thought. Why was she telling me this? Is there some hidden agenda I didn't know about? Is this a test?

"Are you going to get married here...in Israel?" I finally asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes," she replied, smiling at me. "After I convert."

Okay. Information was trickling in. She was a gentile. He was a Jew. They were going to get married in Israel. Maseltov to ya.

I couldn't let this morsel of info pass though. Not me. I had to know all the details. Of course I was disappointed about her being spoken for and all. My hopes of coital adventures were dashed. Now it was time to probe the inner workings and motivations of modern day matrimony South African style.

"You have to convert to get married?" I posited, showing just how ignorant I was.

"Of course," she answered as if were the most natural thing in the world. "Simon and I are going to live here in Israel."

"You are," I said, shaking my head. "I guess it's better than living in South Africa."

Immigrating to Israel was their answer to fleeing their homeland. To me, it was like going from the frying pan into the fire. Sure South Africa was an international pariah, but Israel was hardly a Garden of Eden, the Bible not with-standing. It didn't make a lot of sense.

"I am learning Hebrew," she announced, then rattled off a few garbled phrases. "I'm doing quite well at it, although the written part is trying."

"I bet," I offered, smiling at her. "Are your parents okay with this? I mean they don't mind that you are leaving South Africa and all?"

"They realize that the future there is uncertain. The religious part is...is a problem," she admitted, smiling weakly. "However, they like Simon, and his family. It will all work out fine, I'm sure."

I didn't know her well enough to know if she really believed what she was saying or not. There did seem to be a contrived enthusiasm there. Being upbeat about changing virtually your entire life had to be unnerving.

We were tired when we finally reached the monastery. I was always amused when I came across Christian edifices in the Holy Land. They all somehow seemed fraudulent just being there, like they had been literally grafted right onto the landscape as an afterthought. They were there to usurp the spirit of the land, hoping to glom onto the whole religious experience thing. What would Christ have to say about the whole charade in his name? I often wondered whether or not he would approve. And what about that crucifix icon business? Wouldn't that make old Jesus a little bit squeamish?

"So you are Protestant," I stated, launching into a tentative discussion about religion.

"For now," she corrected, forcing a laugh.

We were sitting under a tree outside the monastery. In the distance Arab laborers were working in the vineyards. One of the monks had lent us two glasses when we bought two bottles of wine, one red and one white. We were drinking the red.

"Do you think you will like living here?" I wanted to know.

"I think so," she said quickly, taking another sip of her wine. "Why wouldn't I? It's quite lovely here really. Don't you think so?"

"No," I replied, frowning. "I mean I wouldn't want to live here full time. I was never that fond of the Bible," I joked.

"You are so very droll. You know that don't you?" she declared, smiling.

No one had ever called me droll before. Oh, okay, I had never known anyone who even felt comfortable using the word in a sentence. I liked her now. Andrea Swain, the name alone make me ache for her.

That day we embarked on a relationship like no other I had ever been involved in. It was platonic but looming just under the surface was a libidinal monster that threatened to attack the both of us at any time. We talked. We walked. I listened. She listened. It was all very frustrating on so many levels.

Gossip on the kibbutz was ingrained, and sophisticated. We became topic number one. Every day I awoke in my little pathetic bunk I wished I could live up to the scuttlebutt. Sure I wanted to be doing everything they said we were doing. And more.

I was the perfect gentleman. Although we spent long hours together there had been no physical interplay. We had torturous polemics about politics and philosophy, Literature and Science. All the while I kept my lust at bay.

She was a great conversationalist. We usually went to her room because it was more commodious; and that is a word she used and I pass along unashamedly. Andrea would make a pot of tea and always have "biscuits" on hand. It was all very civilized. We were catalogue models for the Victorian Weekly.

Her conversion schooling was continuing. Progress was good, as was her grasp of Hebrew. Each day she became more and more Jewish. To help her along, I took her to nearby Jerusalem often, taking the time to show her the Old City. Soon this degree of Jewishness would be hers to claim.

I mocked her too, of course. How could I not? Religion. Converting. It was all unadulterated hogwash. Andrea took it cheerfully. We were comfortable enough with each other that she wasn't offended.

One of the benefits of being a volunteer on the kibbutz was the periodic field trips to various parts of Israel at the kibbutz's expense. I had already been to Jericho and Galilee. The next planned trip was to Masada.

Andrea was excited to go. It would be her first trip. Going to Masada was a bonus, Judaically speaking. It was the site of a mass massacre way back when and had become a symbol of Israeli defiance against the world. The short history is some Jews killed themselves rather than be butchered by the Romans. There's more to it but who has the time?

The symbolism was lost on me, it goes without saying. I wanted to see the place. It was located near the Dead Sea and was on top of a plateau overlooking the desert. We were going to camp out over night then hike to the top.

We weren't going to be exactly roughing it. A kibbutz truck loaded with enough food for the Roman Legionnaires was going to be accompanying us. Kibbutzniks never but never went hungry.

I had no ulterior plans. It was one of those things that happen. Well not usually to me but maybe to really lucky guys in really bad movies.

We camped next to the place and had a cook out. Everyone was in good spirits. I had brought my own, stashing it in my backpack. White wine, chilled by the cool night time desert air.

Sleeping arrangements hadn't been discussed. Some of us had brought along tents, but being that it was the desert and it hadn't rained since Moses passed through you could easily sleep under the stars without worry. Towards the end of the evening a few of the volunteers had already paired off and were heading to some blissful Biblical coupling in various spots along the trail. A trio of female volunteers were initiating a facsimile of a slumber party in a tent that threatened to collapse at any moment. I could hear them giggling a hundred yards away. Several buddies of mine had encamped on the truck bed and were sharing a bottle of Arak. Their ribald comments followed me as I walked in search of a campsite far away from the "maddening crowd," as it were.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Andrea asked me.

It was an innocent question.

"I saw a place down in that direction before that looked okay," I replied, grabbing up my sleeping bag. "It was sandy so it should be soft enough to sleep on."

She looked around for a moment then said, "Do you mind if I sleep with you?" We both laughed. "You know what I mean," she said, giggling.

In my defense, what was I going to say? "No, you are engaged to be married and I don't think it would be proper for you to be bedding down with me under all these beautiful stars and this delightfully chilled bottle of wine," I didn't say. I didn't even think it. I said, "Sure. Come on."

We set up camp. Our sleeping bags were aligned next to each other. I opened the wine. We toasted the stars, among other things.

The next morning we awoke to the sound of some Israeli version of the Eagle Scouts tromping through our campsite in route to the top of Masada. We were ensconced in my sleeping bag, protected from prying eyes by nylon and goose down. There was a round of snickering as they marched on.

The deed had been done. Months of pent up libido had burst. God help us.

"I feel so despicable," she whispered to me, as I pushed the hair out of her face.

"That's weird, I don't," I said facetiously. "I feel great."

"You're not helping the situation," she chided, quickly getting dressed.

The situation was over. It was a one night stand that lasted two months, culminating in carnal pursuits in one of nature's better amphitheaters. Yet we were marked. Damned as fornicators. I'm being melodramatic.

"Talk to me," I hissed at her, as we struggled up the interminably long trail that snaked up the mountain side.

"What have I done?" she asked the heavens.

"Did any lightning bolts strike us down last night?" I asked, suppressing a laugh. "You are making too much of this."

She glanced over at me and back down the trail. By now she was sure the entire group knew of her transgression, putting truth to rumor. Cursing, she walked on ahead of me.

Having sex, as a one time event, passes it over into mythical proportions. Like Adam, I had had a taste of the bad bad thing. I wanted more. It wasn't forthcoming.

Andrea immediately went into a damage control mode. She was going to rehabilitate herself. That Hell business instilled in her by Protestant Canon wasn't going away easily. I wasn't sure the Ten Commandments had a subclause about coveting your neighbors fiancée; but I guess that would be nit-picking.

After that fateful night she refused to talk to me again. No contact. Off limits. It was over.

Ever polite, she wrote me a letter and slipped it under my cabin door. Nice touch. In it she spoke of her commitment, of her love for Simon, of her...you know. I thought about walking across the damn kibbutz and barging into her room and demanding something. What? Her? Sex? Very dramatic. Like a bad Romance Novel: Forbidden Love In The Desert. I could envision the paperback cover. Andrea would be dressed in a Queen of Sheba outfit, with eye popping décolleté, and I would be in a toga accessorized with one of those gold bicep armbands and the biceps to match.

I jest now but then I was pissed off. I wanted more of the same. I deserved it.

Actually I liked Andrea. I wanted her. It was simple.

I followed her wishes and dictates in the letter. We exchanged greetings when we encountered one another on the kibbutz and that was all. I no longer spoke with her. I made myself scarce, which wasn't that easy to do on such a small kibbutz.

Through the ever reliable grapevine I learned she was returning to South Africa. It had been almost a month since we last saw each other. Her studies were over. She could converse enough in Hebrew to ask where the Wailing Wall was.

In the past few weeks I had greedily stole looks at her in the dining room or through the window of the children's house where she worked. It was like a High School crush gone atomic. How could she do this to me?

One day right after I had returned from work there was a knock on my cabin door. I was in no mood for entertaining. My back ached from planting avocado trees and I was sure I had permanently bent my spine. A two inch layer of dirt was plastered on my clothes. I was too tired to take off my boots.

"What do you want?" I called out peevishly.

"I need to speak with you for a moment," I heard her say.

Her voice reached into the room and grabbed me. I stood there dazed. At first I was certain I was hearing things. I opened the door. She smiled at me.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to not let my anger seep into my voice.

"I'm leaving. I'm going back to South Africa," she explained. "I couldn't go without saying something to you."

"Oh yeah," I said, trying to sound uninterested. "What?"

"I know you are cross with me," she stated, wringing her hands. "I had to do what I thought was best, didn't I? I mean we were dangerously close to...to doing something that might have been harmful."

"Harmful?" I questioned. "In what way exactly? Can you tell me that?"

"You don't understand," she mumbled, looking away.

We talked for a little while longer. She performed her explanation. My bitterness was unabated for the most part.

Andrea walked to the door and stopped with her back to me. I didn't have the energy to pursue her. A few cabins over I could hear two volunteers arguing about using all the hot water in the showers. She opened the door and looked out at the sheep grazing in the distance.

Slowly she turned around and said, "A part of you will always be in here."

I watched her pat her heart and then said, "I hope you know what you are doing."

"Good-bye then," she whispered and walked away.

Andrea Swain never married Simon, so I heard later on. Complications. I didn't know the details. It angered me. My little bit of vindication was no solace. I entertained thoughts of going to South Africa. Didn't we deserve a chance? I don't know. For years afterwards I often wondered what happened to Andrea. Did she stay on in South Africa? Who did she marry? After awhile I accepted the fact that it was better to not know.

IN A FLASH

Chapter 14: Dos Cervezas

We were drinking Carta Blanca, standing at the bar in a dive that was in the bad part of Nogales--as if there was a good section of the town. We had driven down from Tucson that morning. It wasn't far. Mexico was so close.

The border crossing had gone off easily. This was in the early 70's, when the border was more like a simple formality than anything else. Migrant workers came and went with ease, spending time on both sides of the border, treating it as an inconvenience you had to deal with. Had been that way for many years, stretching back to the Wild West, when desperadoes hightailed it south to avoid the posse on their tail. After hundreds of years there was an ingrained cross cultural aspect to all of it. We Americans got their beer and cuisine, not to mention cheap labor and they got our money. It was free trade in its rawest shape and form.

I was traveling with a friend from High School. We had come West to work in the Grand Canyon but were taking a detour before starting our jobs. Why not take a peek at Mexico? he had asked me. South of the border didn't interest me all that much but I had agreed to go along for the ride. I had no expectations beyond thinking that history had handed us a slice of their country and I hope you don't have any hard feelings about it. Hell, I was from DC and had never even met a Mexican before.

Anyway, our cultural experience had gotten us as far as this darkly lit bar on a side street in the middle of town. The bartender had greeted us with Spanglish and we had ordered up two bottles of beer. It was summertime and outside the desert heat was rising fast so two cold beers were going to hit the spot. Although we could have done without the Mariachi music blaring from a small radio propped up at the other end of the bar.

It was a hole in the wall type of bar, barely big enough for two tables and the bar itself. The bartender was keeping time to the music by drumming his hands on top of the bar. Every so often he would sing along with the song, crooning, adding a two step by shuffling his feet. It was annoying but the beers were ice cold and were going down easily.

We made small talk among ourselves, laughing about being in a run down bar in Mexico. My friend wanted to drive further south into Mexico. I couldn't imagine that it was going to get any better. It was the third world, admittedly with great beer and good food, but never the less, you know, poor. The border guard had told us to watch out for "banditos." Even the police were questionable, bent on extracting whatever money they could out of gringos. Delicious tacos couldn't make up for all the hassles.

A man came in the bar and ordered some Tequila. He seemed to be drunk already, as he stumbled towards us, drink in hand. A smattering of Spanish flew by us then he realized we were Yanquis and laughed at his mistake. He retreated to the other end of the bar and ordered another drink. The bartender called him by name and they had a short conversation. Must be a regular, I thought.

Ten minutes later another man walked into the bar. He stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the room. He was in his late thirties, maybe forty, short, wearing cowboy boots. He rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots for a minute then decided to come in the bar, where he sat down at one of the tables, calling out to the bartender that he wanted a beer. The Tequila drinker glanced at the man then looked away. At the time, I should have noticed the strange dynamic but was too busy sucking down my beer to notice.

The bartender took the beer over to the man in the cowboy boots and they had a short conversation. Then he came back behind the bar. So far, no problem. My friend had taken out a map and spread it out on the bar, where he was going over the routes south, deeper into Mexico. I ordered two more beers.

Then the Tequila drinker says something over his shoulder at the man in the cowboy boots. He says something back. The Mariachi music wells up a little bit. The bartender mutters something under his breath. It's a showdown, in Spanish, and we have front row seats.

Cowboy boots stands up and walks over to Tequila drinker. Spanish is flying now. The bartender pipes up but they aren't listening to him. Tequila drinker then turns away, telling the man, apparently, to go fuck himself. Cowboy boots makes a strange, grunting sound, whips out a knife and stabs Tequila drinker right in the chest then bolts out the door. It was like an awful Hollywood B-movie, only there is no director to yell "CUT!"

What is burned in my brain even to this day, some forty years later, is Tequila drinker's response to being stabbed. The man stands there and finishes his drink, with the knife sticking out of his chest. Then he calmly pulls the knife out and tosses it on the bar, before staggering out of the bar. And, wait, he bids the bartender good afternoon on his way out too.

For many years afterwards I would insist, in my brain, that it had all been staged, like some Mexicano Punk'd episode or something. Put one over on the gringos. Amazed, we finished up our beers and got the hell out of Mexico. I have never been back.

Chapter 15: Demolition For Dummies

It was the beginning of the 70's. I was right out of High School. Jimmy H. and me had hitch-hiked from DC. to California. Been on the road for almost two months and were now running out of money. We were in a small town north of San Diego. Our funds had dwindled to about ten dollars. We were over three thousand miles from home. Not good.

We did have a pressing problem. How to traverse the entire damn country on ten dollars? The daunting task was never openly discussed. I had mentioned we could call our parents and have them send us a few bucks. Jimmy H. was definitely against this solution. I believe his exact words were: "I'd rather starve first." Pride? Maybe.

We were heading south to catch I10 across the southern part of the US. Along the way south we had gotten sidetracked by a guy driving a VW van, who wanted us to know, in no uncertain terms, that his recently overhauled van would make it all the way to LA--no problem.

I wasn't so sure. When he had stopped to pick us up north of LA it had taken him at least 15 minutes to get the van back into first gear. After this was accomplished, with much grunting effort, the VW wouldn't budge. The clutch was burnt out. The guy kept revving the engine and popping the clutch, while shouting endearing terms of encouragement. Nothing. Behind us there was a cloud of menacing white smoke.

"Okay-okay, I know what we have to do," the guy announced, smiling at us conspiratorially.

"What's that?" I was curious to know.

"Gotta let her rest," he replied, patting the dash board affectionately. "A little siesta will make her happy again," he chirped.

Yeah, I thought, glancing at Jimmy H., who was already getting ready to grab his pack and start hitching again. We waited. It wasn't so bad. The guy produced a big joint and we got high, while we listened to a Hendrix tape. "My baby loves Jimi, don't you?" the guy asked his van, again patting the dash board.

A little while later he turned the van back on and the engine sluggishly came to life. I was thinking if he ran the battery down playing that tape I'm going to smack him. He winked at us then crammed the van into first gear. He worked the gas pedal and the engine whined. There was an awful grating noise as metal ground against metal. The van shuddered and rolled a few feet forward.

"I think we'd better start hitching again," Jimmy H. suggested.

The guy shot him a dirty look and lovingly cradled the gear shift knob. He was cooing something under his breath. Worked on this yourself, I was thinking. Some mechanic.

"I think you guys are going to have to push," the guy declares suddenly, averting his eyes from our looks of astonishment.

"Like all the way to LA?" Jimmy H. blurts out.

"Naw, just until I can get up enough speed to get her into second gear. Maybe then we can make it," he explained. "You see once I get her going we won't have to change gears anymore until we get off the highway."

It sounded reasonable or about as reasonable as it was going to get when you don't have much other choice in the matter. Jimmy H. and I jumped out and started pushing. Once we got the van moving it rolled pretty good. Then we had another small problem, a little detail. The guy couldn't stop the van to let us get back in so we were going to have to run and jump in the side door of the van.

Two stoned hippies pushing and jumping in a moving vehicle. Oh yeah, that will work. We pushed. I fell down, twice. The guy scraped those gears until the grinding noise made our ears bleed. Finally, he got it into second and was moving. Jimmy H. was up ahead of me and managed to jump in the van first, where he went sprawling against the other side of the van. I scrambled along side, desperately trying to keep up.

"Hurry up!" the guy yelled at me.

The van was beginning to shudder from going too slow in second gear. I had latched onto the sliding door handle and Jimmy H. was trying to pull me in. I almost tripped. I lunged forward and landed half in the van and half out. One of my feet was dragging on the pavement. Jimmy H. grabbed me and yanked me in.

Anyway, we made it beyond LA when the van started acting up again, as in mechanically hemorrhaging. It was then the guy suddenly says he has a friend on the coast who works on VW vans and he's going to stop there and see if he can fix it. We were invited to come along. It was a bad move but we took him up on it.

What this did, ultimately, was leave us on Highway 1, stuck, because the van was going to take maybe three years to repair. The guy apologized. We had no choice but to start hitching down the coast.

So here we were in some small town after enduring a hundred rides that took us about ten miles. It was late afternoon. We had pretty much given up on hitching for the rest of the day. I had spied a dilapidated house near where we were last trying to hitch and had walked over to it to check out the possibility of crashing in it for the night. It was really more a cabin than a house and it looked abandoned. I sat down on the front porch and watched Jimmy H. idly attempt to get a ride from the few cars that were passing.

Then suddenly there was a man standing there. I hadn't heard or seen him approach. He was a short, older guy wearing overalls. He smiled at me. I smiled back.

"Know who owns this house?" the man asks me.

I turned and glanced at the derelict place and said, "Nope."

"It's mine," the guy says, still smiling.

I was thinking: Oh boy, he doesn't like trespassers or something. So I said, "I was just leaving."

"Need some money?" he asks out of nowhere.

I eyed him for a moment, deciding more or less where he was coming from. He was standing there with his hands on his hips. There was a hammer stuck through one of the loops on his overhauls.

"Don't we all," I replied evasively.

"See that cabin there," he said, pointing behind me. "Well...I need it torn down...completely."

What is he talking about? rang in my mind for a minute. I looked over at Jimmy H., who was watching what was going on, expecting the worse. My first impression was that this guy is crazy as they get.

"What for?" I wanted to know.

He owned the property and lived in a house on the adjoining lot. This old cabin was an eyesore and he had plans to rebuild something else on the site. What he wanted was to knock down all the walls. This sounded insane of course, but once he showed me the cabin inside I could see that the structure was nothing more than inexpensive slats nailed over a two by four frame.

The cabin had been completely gutted inside and half the roof was missing. He had already set up a scaffold in the interior. For two days he had been chipping away at the place with sledge hammers and regular hammers, dismantling it piece by piece. This was Don Quixote in reverse.

We were broke. Any kind of money sounded good to us. We worked out the details, with him even offering to let us stay at his house, where his wife served us sumptuous meals.

I'm not into tearing things up. As a kid I was never one of those types that like to blow up my toys. Jimmy H. was a little different. He took right to it. Climbed up on that scaffold and started whacking away. Splintered wood flew everywhere. Maybe it was good therapy. Aggression release. It would make a good, novel new psych treatment. You know it originated in California. Doesn't everything?

It was hard work. Our arms were sore as hell after swinging sledge hammers for hours. Two days of hard labor wore us out. When we were finished all that was left standing was the foundation and a pile of broken wood.

We had a little money in our pockets and our bellies were full. His wife even gave us sandwiches for the road; peanut butter and jelly sandwiches if memory serves me correctly. We said good-bye after two days and took our blistered thumbs back on the road.

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography
