by Ryan Downey
Alcoholics who had yet to tap their full potential, they hadn’t finished all the hooch. There was still the majority of a case and collectively three full bottles under leaves and twigs by a marked tree. The house party wasn’t until later and he was done work by late afternoon. The boys were waiting for him and just as rum fueled pirates to uncover buried treasure, state law led minors to buried rum.
The bottles were almost gone when he arrived. Just as well. He hadn’t developed taste for it. A small fire blazed as he cracked his first beer. Between sips he would indulge in a swig or two of the hard stuff, but two nights in a row and a hard day’s in between was more than enough incentive to pace himself.
Beer gone and bottles condensed to one, Dankar, an exchange student eager to fit in despite the school year being long over, shoved the bottle in his pants. They peed out the fire and these knuckleheads were on their way to an even grander ritual. The journey across town was arduous, given the sudden lack of consumption and waning buzz. They feared not.
Sted Burman was Master Of The House Party, Keeper Of The Inebriated, and tonight was Vulcanalia. The lush overgrowth diminished any clear visibility of the festivities taking place, but upon approach one could make out the glow of bonfire. The Crandalls were out of town and Sted was tending to responsibilities of being a good host with such fervor as to ensure it may be of no trouble to Martin Crandall whatsoever. So efficient was he, in fact, that Martin Crandall didn’t even realize there was going to be a party until the keg was rolling up his driveway earlier that afternoon. Sted considered it no problem at all and was all too happy to oblige.
They entered the front door without knocking and Dankar cut straight for the kitchen to add the stash from his pants to the potluck of swag ravaged from older siblings, parents’ liquor cabinets, and church tabernacle. He followed Dankar at a casual distance and grabbed a light beer from the fridge.
A Beirut tournament raged on in the dining room, he figured he could get in on it later. He soon found himself wandering, exploring the labyrinth of hall and den. A large TV in the basement was running Animal House on loop until the ever-prudish Susie Nguyan complained of how debaucherous it was and demanded it be changed. Tim Hutch jumped up and grabbed a copy of Caddyshack, which she had never seen either, and convinced her a lighthearted comedy about golf was far tamer.
There was a game he didn’t recognize in the corner, much like pong, but with the entire table filled with cups. They were jokingly calling it ‘Bubba Gump’ because the creator claimed it would make anyone who played “retarded.” Desiring to neither watch Caddyshack again nor to ‘get retarded,’ he ascended the back cement stairs that led through the Bilco double latch metal doors to the back patio and emerged in Crandall’s backyard like a football player returning from the locker room.
The pit was not the only fire going out back, there were several throughout the immense acreage. Some were smoking up, some were burning whatever they could get their hands on; some were burning their hands as they were burning anything. Heathens blowing out the end of summer with spectacular antediluvian style and all taking part. All except he.
Left alone by so-called friends, ostracized by social cliques, in a backyard not his own, he felt the slightly overgrown grass beneath his shoes bouncing like a sponge. Adam O’Leary and Cole Myer were smoking on the patio. He didn’t smoke himself, but secondhand never bothered him. Others sat around the nearby fire pit, source of their lit cigs. After imbibing gifted nicotine and tar for a moment he started walking towards the pines that ran along the property line with no discernable destination other than to leave.
King Of The Irish Goodbye, he cut between two Leyland Cypresses without a single word, one beer in hand and two in pocket. Having no baby, they were both for the road.
Crossing to the cattycorner block, he noticed a figure lingering near the intersection. Long hair made him guess the shadowy figure female; she appeared to be heading to the party, but at a gradual pace. Almost as if she had no intention of getting there. Paying her no mind, he turned back to his route and spotted a pair of headlights way up at the top of the street as he heard someone yell “wait” directly behind him. She had crossed the street and was scurrying to catch up with him. Her hair flapped this way and that. Before he could figure it out, she was standing directly in front of him. “Oh hey,” he recognized her immediately. Can’t forget a pair of glasses like those. “You were in my Bio and Pre-Calc, right?” She had been in a few of his classes over the years and she was, as he and everyone else remembered, the one kind enough to remind forgetful teachers if homework went unassigned. He minded far less than some, barely to the point past an eye roll, but it certainly granted no favor for her with their fellow peers. “On your way to Crandall’s?” he asked. “Uh-huh,” she lied leaving out the part where she wasn’t invited and was only passing for a quick spy. “Ah. I got bored and decided to head out,” he responded. As he conveniently left out the part where he was there primarily by association. The first set of headlights grew close enough to decipher make and model, with a second just like it coming up the rear. Paddy wagons barreled past them and whipped around the corner. “Time to go,” he grabbed her hand and took off running down the block, not waiting to see the commotion that followed and not realizing she was perfectly capable of running without his help.
A considerable distance away, several blocks up and a few blocks over, they stood at the base of a bridge that carried car over creek. They came around to the side of the bridge to lurk in shadow in case any catchers sped by, nets grasped, looking for strays. Finishing the beer in hand, he broke out the other two and was gentleman enough to give her the now shaken back up. Lifting the tab as gently as they could and without losing hardly any through hissing foam, the familiar crack pierced the night’s silence. Frogs hidden somewhere in the creek bed were the only to respond.
He raised a light beer most wouldn’t use to wash crud off their tires and searched for an acceptable toast. “Here’s to a… uh…” “A daring escape,” she jumped in. He nodded in approval and their cans clinked. A siren kicked up and they instinctively ducked under the bridge. They couldn’t tell how close it was and it didn’t matter. She hadn’t experienced this much excitement in at least a week and he certainly wasn’t bored anymore. He looked up and around the base of the bridge to see if he could make anything out. She looked down. Her hand was being held again. Once more she resisted the urge to point out she needed no help hiding under a bridge. When he turned back, her face told him all he needed to know and not wanting to let the moment slip, without a single word, he kissed her.
“You sure know how to party, Sweetheart,” he said once his tongue was freed. Cheek blushed and smile spread. “I have a friend who calls me that.” “That right?” he responded, turning once more to make sure the coast was clear. “Hope he doesn’t mind if I borrow it.” She did nothing to hide her ebullience; couldn’t have even if she so desired. He did nothing to loosen his grip. “He won’t mind.” “Good,” he said assuredly. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.” And he walked her home at a very considerable pace.
Aftershock
The unofficial end of summer was three weeks past and it was feeling more apparent by the day. But she refused to close her window. To save energy, the heat wasn’t on yet and the chimney had yet to be cleaned. She had heard the ruptured evening air with that all too familiar struggle. Several rips of the cord and the little gas powered Black and Decker that could sputtered a healthy cloud of exhaust as the partially rusted blades began to spin. Less than a week left in the month, one yard back and three over, she never could quite see the cord ripper. She had always assumed, perhaps unfairly, that it was a young male. Maybe he was cute. Now she knew. He was. And he was hers. And the future was in their hands.
Imagination ran uncharacteristically wild as she desperately tried to avoid getting back to her Calculus. For the most part she had been raised conservat
ively and would think and dress as such. But hormones coursing though a developing body and the attention span of the average American teenager are two forces of nature that suffer no reckoning. With nurture effectively vanquished, her mind was free to carry out fantasy.
When she was finished, her problem remained before she could go downstairs for an early supper. Distance between two points should be easy enough.
2∏R/2Re = 38880/107 = 363.36…
The numbers all seemed to run together.
3.844 02 x 108
Whatever. It was quarter past 4. She was distracted. And hungry. So it would just have to wait.
64 1/6 R
Numerical nonsense. She would never get into AU at this rate. Not the best way to start the semester.
And yet, it was.
The lawn was suffering as homework, more so as the homework would eventually be finished that day. Patches spotted revealing a curved pattern. Each line bent as he strained to spy her bedroom window, which if he looked at the right spot at the right time, he could glimpse through tree and over shed.
The air was crisp with autumn leave and his mind was on her fireplace. The one whose smell always marked the beginning of the new season for him. The one that burned for years without him knowing who dwelled near its hearth.
Going back to retrace step and smooth patch was growing tiresome. Steam ran out like a deadbeat dad and smoke bellowed within. All he could think of was that fireplace. He stopped and stared at the hole between red, yellow, and orange and all he wanted was to be alone. His bedroom was the best place for that. Yard half done, the mower was left where it stood. October would come before the chore was finished for the final mow of the season.
The Zoo
The cotton head tamarins were shrieking something awful. Something had riled them up. Ms. Brennan’s class trip making its way through provided an unwelcome din in the primate house and the sensory assault was more than certain simians could handle. With teacher’s back turned, one rambunctious 10-year-old, David Nelson, a human, did his best to invoke the wrath of a razorback by pressing ham against the inch and a half of double paned laminated glass separating them. But the full moon stirred no emotion in the giant alpha male enjoying his afternoon snack of leaves and stems. Amidst the rustling of all these evolutionary branches, two clasped hands refused to break rank. Not in a showy way, they weren’t the type. Rare was the occasion one of their impassioned kisses saw the light of day. A social courtesy as if disarray would follow as couple after couple would be forced to question whether they had ever actually been in love.
The passing shower that had chased them inside had begun its trek to the big blue and they were met with a cool humidity. He had purchased a green T-Rex snapper and, child that he was, kept using it to bite her ass. Then in true form would look up, wide-eyed and clearhanded, back and forth to buoyantly play it off. Always the sporting type she would follow suit by searching the area unassumingly for the culprit. Until she finally ‘caught him’ and gave chase. A procession of strollers prevented him from reaching maximum speed and he was easily caught. She took the toy and used it to bite his ears. A sizeable snack for such a small reptile.
Their very perceptible attachment to one another was the healthiest he had ever known. Several months had passed since he began telling her he loved her for sentimental reasons and would do so until days’ end. Balance was achieved in keeping one another in check while extracting the best in the respective other. When he neglected to recycle his Coke can, she exhumed it from its trashy grave in lieu of the nearby recycling bin, staring him down every step of the way. When she began chewing her Big Red too loudly, his mock chewing shut her up quick. Even if she stared him down for that too. When he made a comment off color and surprisingly somewhat misogynistic, she smacked him in the mouth. Then upon his begging her pardon, she accepted with a kiss on the cheek. While standing in front of the rhinos, she began to freak out about college. He made her dance. At once her heart was light and her mind was at ease. The song on nearby speaker probably should have been Young At Heart, but Swingin’ On A Star would certainly suffice.
The tigers were her favorite. She would never admit it. She claimed to love all animals equally. And for the most part she did. While some patrons saw them as lazy, she saw them as patient. While some handlers found them to be finicky, she knew they were just particular. And while some took their lofty prowling as arrogance; she was keen to their subtle intellect.
The Siberian Snow variety, they were among the farthest from home. But with two square meals a day and all the admirers they could handle, no complaints would be heard. She was their biggest fan and as a result they would spend the longest time in their presence. A slight attack of boredom hit him about halfway through. Though he dared not utter a word. Instead he wrapped her tighter in his arms and rested his face in her hair. Ocean Breeze? No. Rainforest something or another. Or Forest Rain. Whatever. All of her shampoos and products had those kinds of names. Tropical Escape. That’s it. Whatever its name, it was hers. He would have gladly breathed it all day. But hunger struck and now she was on the clock to see the giraffes before they would grab a late lunch at the café downtown.
The reticulated giraffes carelessly swatted flies from their hind side with their tails. They turned a dull gaze towards the crowd forming and were not visibly impressed. She watched them doing nothing and even she grew bored. The way they clumsily chewed acacia leaves made her instantly aware of the rumble in her stomach and her desire to continue pointing out how cute everything was was overcome by the rumble in her stomach. To his relief, it was time to go.
A Small Café
Slight gusts were kicking up. Spring breeze had yet to turn to summer wind. The hair blowing into her face didn’t seem to bother her nearly as much as it would have him. Rare were the instances where he would let go and get a buzz cut. Summer fast approaching, he had at least one more season cutting lawns. A handsome leonine mane may have made ladies swoon, or so he chose to believe, but it accelerated sweat production to unbearable proportions.
The table saddled the corner of the restaurant. Sitting on different streets made no dent in their afternoon. The metal chairs weren’t the most comfortable, small price to pay to dine al fresco. Their habit of ordering too many appetizers had once again gotten the better of them and their entrees sat unfinished. Decisions weren’t their strength. Which meant at that age they were right on point with their peers. After what was surely more deliberation than that which went into the Manhattan Project, they decided to go for everything they wanted.
Lunch needed to be complimented. Not that it wasn’t transcendent. Hard shell beef tacos for him, spicy chicken quesadillas for her. Ceviche with shrimp, baby scallops, pico and fresh lime, wild boar empanadas, homemade tortilla chips, homemade guac to start. It was BYOB and she had by means unspoken provided them with a bottle of tequila. The staff provided the lime juice, triple sec, glasses and salt.
Unlike the atom, her attention could not be split. Flies passing by had to reroute because nothing could break her stare. All bugs pull up.
Then something crashed into her cheek. Nearby milkweeds must have lost contact with the control tower and a small white craft had to make an emergency landing. Before he could see what it was, it rest in the palm of her hand. Jaw dropped, she turned to look down her street.
“Can you see anything?” he asked in a voice he had only ever used for her, still puzzled, but ever accommodating. She nodded excitedly. He leaned forward, imploring her to elaborate just a little. “Things.” He sat back. “Things?” he encouraged. “Yes, wonderful things.”
True to form, she jumped up and disappeared around the wall. The seeds, known colloquially as ‘wishies,’ flurried a wonderland in the oldest district of the metropolis. He rounded the corner to find her spinning methodically. Evenly. As if she were locked into a track. Her arms outstretched, they tailspun any mil
kweed seed in vicinity.
Their waiter, Carter, a nice young man under the impression that he was simply working his way through college and not going to get stuck in restaurants forever, had a minor heart attack when he saw the deserted table. He caught himself from bussing the table, and cursing, when he noticed her windbreaker still resting on the back of her chair.
Eyes closed, wishy landed dead center of her face, fingers spread, this star-nosed mole was in her glory. Happiness she never knew. With the man she loved. Not a soul on the planet with whom she would rather share this sanguine moment.
Though he couldn’t be certain, and it seemed like pretty long odds, he could have sworn he heard Marion’s Theme playing softly nearby. He was the first thing she saw when she finally opened her eyes. Adding the proverbial cake icing, she ran over to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. What a handsome sight. What a sharp couple. Surrounded by wishes unmade.
Mam’selle
Labor Day Weekend to the workforce, it was another occasion for celebration to them. Either way it meant a trip to the beach.
It had been hours since they had shoes on. Sand between toes, in toenails, and just about every other imaginable crevice as they had been in and out of the water all day. She was turning red, despite relathering twice. He was golden brown and soaking it up, despite being Irish. Lucky bastard.