The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  “And what about water snakes?” the child persisted.

  Captain Jack belched, sending the boat lurching off to port. “The snakes are afraid of the manatees. Everyone knows that!”

  Being so late in the season, virtually all the manatees had already traveled north. So we puttered around in the larger channel for two hours without seeing a single manatee. Feeling the reproachful stares from his boatload of now hot, disappointed tourists, Captain Jack finally pulled up next to a small island.

  “Well, hell, I just thought of something!” Nodding sagely, the wily seafarer opened his fifth bottle of the morning. “We just switched over to Daylight Savings Time. But them manatees don’t have a watch or nothing, so we’re just a little early for them! They’ll be out soon, a humping and a hollering, don’t you worry!”

  For Mom, this had already turned into a hell trip. Not only had Dad begun spelling Captain Jack’s nonsense with lectures on the tides and wildlife in the area, but a young couple from Belgium sitting opposite us decided to strip out of their wet suits. The girl, about 24 or so, was now happily sunning herself in the skimpiest of bikinis. And I’ve got to tell you, she’s still on my All-Time Top Ten Hottest Women I’ve Ever Seen. I have personally screwed that girl, in my own fantasies, a thousand different times right there on that shitty little boat.

  So, while I was mentally encoding a lifetime of jerk-off material, Mom had finally had enough. “Sir!” she snapped at Captain Jack. “Please!”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll find them manatees soon enough!”

  “I’m sure.” Mom smiled, very faintly. “But until we do, please do not refer to them, or any other creatures we may or may not encounter, as ‘humping’ and ‘hollering.’”

  “What?” Captain Jack took another swig.

  “And you.” Now Mom turned to the Belgian girl. “While we all appreciate your lovely figure, there are children here. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to cover up.”

  “Oh, but yes!” The girl broke into a radiant smile, leaning forward. “I am Hannah. This is Stephan. Yes! We! It is so…how do you say…beauty-ness? Beautiful? Loveliness? We!” Hannah, bless her soul, made no attempt to put on more clothing. I’ve never appreciated a language barrier more in my life.

  Sighing, my mother gathered herself for another attempt. “My daughter,” she then slowly enunciated, pointing at Megan, “is at a very sensitive age. So if you could…”

  “Oh, yes!” Hannah reached over, shaking Megan’s hand. (The wet suit, by the way, was no match for my robust, pubescent erection. I promptly pitched a tent large enough for a revival meeting.) “I am Hannah! From Belgium!”

  “And I’m Megan, from America!” my sister eagerly replied. “Belgium! Isn’t that where they have all the flowers and windmills?”

  “No.” Hannah pursued her lips. “That’s Holland.”

  Clearly, Megan wasn’t going to take defeat gracefully. “But Belgium is next to Holland, right?”

  “Yes. We.”

  “So, there must be flowers and windmills on the border. Right?”

  Smiling, Hannah laughed. “Stephan and I,” she said, pointing to her boyfriend and herself. “Belgium. We’re from Belgium. We!”

  “But I’m saying that Holland and Belgium…”

  Whatever point my sister was trying to make was lost in a bellow from Captain Jack. “See that big old heron there?”

  We all looked over to see a huge white bird settling down atop a tree.

  “That there bird,” he continued, nodding with great self-assurance, “is a world famous heron! Why, just last week he was on the front page of the Citrus County Chronicle!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, everyone staring in utter disinterest at the heron in the treetop. Considering you could see such birds moping around any hotel pool, we weren’t very impressed.

  “World famous, he is!” I think Captain Jack was disappointed we didn’t swim over to get the heron’s autograph.

  “Are there any manatees out here?” one kid wailed.

  “I’m hungry,” another sniffed. “I want to go home.”

  “Well, now, let me tell you something about herons,” our skipper continued. “Them male herons go out every day to get the sticks and stuff, then bring them back for the female herons to build the nest with!”

  Several people yawned. At this point no one gave a shit.

  “Now, wouldn’t that be great?” Another long drink. “Just go out to the store and bring back a mess of lumber for your gal to build a house with? Then she gets to cook dinner too! Hell, sign me up for that!”

  “Please.” Once more, Mom drew herself up. “There are young women here.”

  Captain Jack sighed, wiping his face. “Say what?”

  “Let me explain again.” Another tight Mom smile. “When you make sexist remarks, these young women suffer a loss of self-esteem.”

  Bored, Megan stared down river. Hannah giggled, leaning over to splash water over her bikini top. I’ve never been to Belgium, but I really want to go.

  “So,” my mother concluded, pointedly tossing a tee shirt at the foreign nymph. “Once again, could you please refrain from such comments.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. Captain Jack tried to smile. “Well, now, I’m sorry there, little lady. I’m sure them herons ain’t doing nothing dirty up there. I didn’t mean to say they was.”

  Thankfully, Dad then started taking pictures of the heron, violating the no-pictures-without-family-members rule. Mom started chastising him just as Megan and I rushed over to get in the shot.

  About ten minutes later we finally spotted two manatees near the surface. Cutting our engine, Captain Jack then bid us all to put on our snorkels and flippers. “Go on now! There’s two thousand pounds of fun!” Sitting back, he then took another drink.

  So, while our sloshed tour guide sent a boatload of untrained tourists floundering out into a dangerous Florida waterway, I swam out in search of a manatee.

  Floating face down, I breathed through the snorkel. The water was incredibly murky, sunlight glimmering from impenetrable waves of sand and silt. I realized chasing after the manatees was useless, so I just calmly waited for them to approach me.

  About a minute later I noticed a bulky, hazy shape rising up through the muddy water below. Tentatively, I reached out my left hand, laying it along the back of a great manatee.

  For about five minutes we simply floated there, the manatee remaining a precise arm’s length distance below, my hand resting on his back. His skin was tough, yet supple and alive. I ran my fingers along ridges created by long-ago propeller strikes, though the worst of the damage had been smoothed over. Oddly enough, though I’m sure we were twirling around in the current, the manatee remained exactly in line with my own body, my head over his back, my legs above the tail.

  I don’t know if I can explain how it felt. We were communing on some level, of that I’m absolutely certain. The manatee was an incredibly comforting presence, his great bulk radiating assurance, and yes, even love. It was as if he appreciated my coming out to see him, and wanted to make sure I knew that.

  Still, he finally disengaged, drifted down mere inches, then accelerated ahead of me. Sliding by underneath, I could see his huge body tapering somewhat, propeller and boat scars catching spare rays of sun, the classic manatee tail almost flipping me in the face. In a moment, he was gone.

  Stunned, I picked my head up, seeing I had drifted pretty far from the boat. Everyone else was calling out in disappointment, saying they couldn’t find the manatees. Giving a few kicks back in the boat’s direction, I once more put my head down, mentally calling the manatees.

  And not thirty seconds later the second manatee drifted up beneath me, in line with my body, just like the other one. This one was female (don’t ask me how I know that), though it also remained an exact arm’s length away. The second one liked to slide up and back by several inches, finally placing me over its bottom half so it’s head could
come up for some air. Though still looking down into the water, I could feel it break the surface about five feet ahead. Warm water droplets came down on my back as the manatee cleared its blow hole, then it noisily sucked down large amounts of air. With my hand on it’s back, I could feel the lungs filling. After a moment it again submerged. Several moments later it waggled back and forth, as if saying goodbye, then dropped down and shot ahead.

  Finally picking my head up, I saw the manatee had maneuvered me closer to the boat, placing me in a current that easily took me home. Everyone else was already aboard, staring at me in disbelief.

  Never have I lived more in the moment. Even at such a young age I realized how unique an experience this was. It was an instant out of time, connecting my past and future in a singular whole.

  I’ll tell you this. The manatee could well be the most unique creature known to man. Can you name me one other animal that will actually interact with humans, in the wild, in such a manner? That will approach us and allow themselves to be touched? There are dozens of videos on the internet showing baby manatees racing over to swimmers and canoes, fondly pressing up against humans. Often the mother manatees are nearby, allowing such interaction. Baby manatees often seek out children, as if they’re as curious about our race as we are about them. Mother manatees will sometimes attract a human’s attention if their calf gets in trouble or needs help. And so on and so on.

  The manatee is a creature that needs our love and support. Should they go extinct, an unbelievable tragedy will have befallen us all. Call me crazy, but I think they’re telepathic.

  Heading back in, we puttered by two huge alligators. “What’s their names?” the same child as before asked.

  By now flat drunk, Captain Jack laughed. “Damned if I know!”

  The child frowned. “I thought you said there weren’t any bad alligators out here?”

  Shrugging, Captain Jack belched. “Hell, this is Florida, kid. There may not be any more pirates, but we sure as hell got plenty of gators.”

  About ten years later I read that Captain Jack died after ramming his boat into a pier. Toxicology reports showed the intrepid tour guide had a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit.

  I hope he’s resting in peace somewhere. I also hope my manatees are still cavorting in the rivers and bays of western Florida, racing around rocks and logs, nibbling on grass. I bet they’ve had plenty of adventures over the years.

  The earth’s a better place for having manatees. I’d hate to think of a world without them.

  DAVE MILLER

  When I was institutionalized, my therapist once asked what the most comfortable moment in my life was. Without hesitation, I told him about a morning with Steve, Sophia, and Brooke back in college.

  I was in a local rock band. We did mostly covers, but were working on our own stuff. Our drummer actually knew some big-time concert promoter, and we occasionally traveled around upstate New York and into Canada opening for larger acts. We didn’t make any money. In fact, it usually cost us to do those gigs.

  But here’s the thing. There are times in your life when you just have to follow your dream. It eats at your soul, demanding attention, until you have to give in.

  Actually, I knew a guy once who wanted to be a stand-up comic. He would write his routines and practice in front of a mirror. Then he started auditioning at clubs and began getting a little work out of it. And you know what? He was kind of funny, for a beginner. I think he could have made something of it.

  But his wife couldn’t stand it. This woman would insist on attending his shows, then sit him down the next day and dissect every joke.

  “Okay. Let’s talk about the sex line,” she’d begin.

  “Which one?” Lee was the guy’s name.

  His wife would then consult a note pad. “Making love is what women do,” she’d read out, “while men are fucking their brains out.”

  “What about it?”

  With an exasperated sigh, she’d let the pad drop. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Honey,” Lee would begin for the umpteenth time, forcing out a smile. “This is my act. It’s humor. I can’t explain it. It’s just funny.”

  “To whom is it funny?”

  “Why…people. The audience!”

  “Really?” Now she’d sit back. “What about all the women you insulted. Do you think it was funny to them?”

  “They were laughing!”

  “Please! They were laughing at you, not with you! Every single one of them wanted to throw up, believe me.”

  And on it went. Lee finally gave up comedy, getting a job as a dishwasher, but no one could get any work done in the kitchen because they were laughing so hard at his jokes. Now he’s the head clerk at a hotel. There’s a comedy club on the other side of the lobby. Every Friday and Saturday night he has to stand there and listen to other guys follow his dream.

  But you know what? Maybe his wife saved him. If he’d kept doing comedy, Lee might be broke and divorced, like so many other guys our age.

  So back to rock and roll. Steve was a big help back then, encouraging me to give it a shot when everyone else said to give it up. I mean, Jen came along for the ride, cheering me on from the front row and partying hard back at the motel. But Steve really got it. And so did Sophia. I mean, our music wasn’t her scene, but she and Brooke tagged along on a few trips. Those were good times.

  I can remember one cold November concert in Syracuse. We had a great set, then partied most of the night. Hours later, after everyone else had finally crashed, Steve and I wandered outside the motel. It was freezing, but we didn’t give a fuck. Lighting up our last joint, we just watched the sunrise over some field. Sophia and Brooke came out to join us. I’ve got to tell you, even after a night of partying, wrapped up in some ripped blanket, Sophia was good to go. But I was with Jen so it was all cool.

  But I still remember that morning, our breath making clouds of steam, a few morning birds flitting about. As usual when Steve was around the motel cat came out for some attention. Something about Steve…animals loved him. Sophia too, for that matter. We all walked over to a convenience store for hot chocolate, talking about our futures. Soon we went back inside and crashed until the afternoon, hauling back to Buffalo in time for classes on Monday.

  I know it doesn’t sound like much now, but it’s those kinds of times, and memories, that really make life worth living.

  You know, thinking about it now, I can’t believe we all drifted apart like we did. After what finally happened, I guess, but still…I don’t know. It shouldn’t have gone down that way. But you know, back in those days, before the internet, it was kind of easy to lose touch.

  Actually, we were the last of the pre-digital generation, when doing “research” meant more than just popping words in a search engine, when “cut” and “paste” was something you actually did with scissors and glue. In some ways I miss that world.

  Now everything seems so much more…I don’t know…flimsy. I mean, look at television. All these shows with people dancing, and singing, and playing games. I mean, who gives a shit? People used to read newspapers and magazines. An education actually meant something. There was just more substance to our lives.

  Look, don’t get me wrong, I love the internet and cell phones and the rest. Science fiction meeting science fact and all that. But even though we’re all supposedly more connected now than we ever were, there was an intimacy to our youth that I often miss.

  So yeah, we were the last of an era, something none of us realized until it was too late.

  HAYLEY SYKES

  Look, like I said, one of the things I’m going to do with my blog is talk about some issues in the news. I have a lot to say. The first topic will be gay marriage.

  Let me start by conceding something to the holy rollers. Gay sex is a weird act for which there is no obvious biological purpose. Note that I didn’t say gay sex was unnatural. I just said there was no obvious biological purpose (Emphasis in original.
I’ve always wanted to say that!) to inserting a cock into another man’s asshole.

  But by that same token, there’s no obvious biological purpose to blow jobs. If a woman sucks a guy off, she can’t get pregnant. It does not lead to passing on her genes to the next generation. Yet I can assure you, straight guys want blow jobs very, very much, just like gay men want ass sex. So where does that leave us?

  Here, then, is the Hayley Doctrine. Something does not have to have an obvious biological, practical purpose in order to be a legally and socially accepted practice in our society. After all, kite flying serves no obvious purpose, yet it is legal to fly a kite. And there’s no biological purpose to having tonsils, or a tail bone, or any of the other evolutionary odds and ends we now have. Should everyone who gets a burst appendix be thrown in jail for having useless, dangerous organs? I don’t think so.

  By the way, how funny is it that the holy rollers, who all believe in creationism, then turn to an evolutionary argument to bash gay sex?

  But it does make you wonder. Could there have been an evolutionary purpose to gay sex at one point? Perhaps, in our distant past, men could actually produce children when semen was squirted up their anus at the right time of the month! Who knows? Perhaps long ago the products of gay sex where the real geniuses! Maybe somebody fucked somebody else up the ass, and twenty years later the child discovered fire! And then twenty years after that, after another cock-ass encounter in the back of a cave, the next genius discovered the wheel, and so on.

  Dare I say it? Maybe, far back on our evolutionary road, gay sex was the better, more productive type sex? After all, everybody has an ass. It’s more universal. Perhaps the true deviants were the guys who actually wanted pussy, and we’ve all been heterosexual posers ever since.

  But look, don’t be a tard about this. I’m straight. And gay people all seem…well, sad in some essential way. My gay friend Nick is constantly trying to “explain” to everybody about his “orientation.” I finally told him he had my full permission to fuck whoever he wanted as long as I didn’t have to talk about it anymore.