by Cooper, Doug
The lights in my face shield me from the piercing gaze of the spectators. I appreciate the blindness. Hundreds of eyes are staring at me, but I can’t see them.
I clear my throat, ready to begin, but can’t remember the first word. My smile fades. The lights, which only seconds ago provided cover, now expose me. Again I feel the sweat burst through my forehead. I strum the G-C-D-D pattern, hoping the words will come. After the fourth time through, the first line crystallizes. I sing, “Let us be merry with song and drink, to the point we may not think. Full of laughter and friends abound, here’s to forgotten minds but souls found.” I can hear the shakiness in my voice and the stiffness in my strumming. “Acts of courage and full of nerve, due to the spirits that we serve. To create a shot of particular flavor, or pour a drink for one to savor.” I feel my pace quicken, wanting to get to the end. I need to slow down. “Whether it’s a stein, a glass or ordinary cup, with beers and cocktails, we’ll fill you up. Not in money from tips we receive, but in people is what we truly believe.” Almost there. Just need to hold it together. “Free from the everyday stress and strife, to serve another is a great joy in life. So gather near and tip your cup, I will always do my best to fill you up.” I hold the guitar up to the crowd and pick up the bucket and pour it over my head, putting the bucket on like a hat, just as I have seen the drunks do so many times this summer. The crowd eats it up. I feel more relief that the experience is over than from the liquid on my sweaty skin.
“Great job, Shep,” someone says as I rush out the back door.
I push over a stack of empty kegs in frustration. Cinch comes out the back door. I sit down on one of the kegs. “Fucked up. That really sucked. I stunk up the joint.”
Cinch says, “What do you mean? That was fine.”
“I wasn’t exactly hoping for fine. I spoke too fast. See, I knew I shouldn’t have partied.”
“Fuck it. Who cares? Let’s enjoy the rest of the night.”
“You go ahead. I’m going around front.”
I loop back around and up the alley to the Park Hotel patio. Caldwell is in the same spot on the porch where I left him. I say, “Did you witness that disaster?”
“The bucket of beer was a nice touch.”
I stare at his silhouette, searching for his eyes. “Don’t bullshit me. I choked. I went too fast.”
“You did seem nervous. Maybe you should switch to decaf.”
“I know. You’re at your best when you’re sober and well rested. You told me that before.”
“There’s more to it than that. Somebody like Birch or Mad Dog can get up there all messed up, and most people won’t even notice because they’ve been on stage hundreds of times. That was your first.”
“Probably my last after that suckfest.”
“You can’t expect to do something well the first time. You probably shouldn’t expect to do it well after ten or twenty times.” The rocking chair creaks in time with his words. “When I first started playing guitar, I was seventeen. I was convinced that my fingers weren’t meant to bend that way. And when I could finally make a few chords, it was my right hand that couldn’t hold a pick and strum at the same time. It was so difficult for me to pick up the guitar because every time I did, I had to face how much I sucked. Eventually I realized that it really didn’t matter how good I was. All that mattered was that I played. The more often I practiced, the quicker I’d learn. It took me two years before I would even try to play in front of other people. And then, even after becoming a pretty decent guitar player and making a living playing in bands, I went through the same process when I learned to play the mandolin.”
Life always seems so simple for Caldwell. I say, “You’ve got natural talent, though.”
“There’s no doubt that some people have a gift for things. It might take you 108 tries at something when it takes another person only eight. You want to be good at things, but that’s not why you do them. If it is, you’ll never be happy because as soon as you get something down, you’ll move to something else. Find something you love doing and do it because you enjoy it. The skill will naturally follow.”
I want to believe him, but things just never seem to work out for me. I say, “I didn’t do myself any favors by being banged up.”
“What would you tell one of your students who was disappointed with a test result?”
Cinch opens the side door to the Round House. “Hey, they’re about to announce the winners to your event.”
Caldwell says, “Be the teacher to yourself you strived to be for others.”
Astrid is standing with Cinch a few feet inside the side door. “You sure you don’t want to wait outside to hide your tears when you lose?”
I smile and turn my focus to the judge announcing the outcome on stage. “In third place, receiving twelve points, is the Boardwalk. Second place and sixteen points go to the Round House.” I smile at Astrid, knowing what is coming next. “And taking the first-place prize of twenty points, and moving into the lead with one event to go, the Boat House.”
Cinch gives Astrid a congratulatory hug. He probably would’ve given her a consoling one if she’d lost; he never misses an opportunity to wrap his arms around her. I walk over to be gracious, feeling the full sting of the loss more because my finish caused our team to surrender first place. I say, “Winner gets what the winner wants.”
Astrid says, “I’ll settle for a hug right now, but I plan to collect tonight. So keep yourself open.”
“Don’t fraternize with the enemy,” Cinch says. “We still have one event left. There’ll be plenty of time for that after we win.”
The last event is the Drink Presentation. Each team creates a unique shot or cocktail for the judges to assess on overall taste and presentation. It’s probably not the most ideal event with which to finish, since drinking throughout the competition has hindered each team’s presentation skills. But in years past, when the event was held earlier in the evening, Haley said the judges were so drunk by the end that some didn’t stick around for the rest of the competition.
The order of presentations is the reverse order of the standings. Our drink, a shot named Perry’s Cannonball, pays tribute to Perry’s naval victory at Put-in-Bay. It’s peppermint schnapps and vodka chilled and strained into a shot glass with a quarter shot of Jagermeister, which coagulates in the bottom to resemble a cannonball.
The key for our team is the presentation. One of our bartenders is a true professional. He’s tended for fifteen years in a variety of locations around the country and even in the Caribbean for three winters. He can do all the tricks—flip bottles in the air, catch them behind his back, whatever.
The clincher with our performance will be how he pours twelve shots simultaneously. He’ll stack thirteen small rocks glasses inside one another and pour only into the top glass. After the glass fills, the liquid will flow into the one underneath it, and so on until he fills all the glasses. He’ll line up twelve empty glasses on the bar, remove the top glass, pick up the stack of glasses, and tip the entire stack so that the liquid in each of the glasses runs into the ones on the bar. Then, after a couple flips and spins with two bottles of Jager, he’ll drop in the cannonball. The whole time the song “You Dropped a Bomb on Me” by the Gap Band will be playing.
Our team is presenting a simple shot because after a few drinks, the judges won’t be able to taste anything anyway. But they always remember the presentation.
It probably works to our advantage that we’re in second place because we go before the Boat House team. All the pressure will be on them to hold the lead, especially if we nail our presentation.
Cinch and I watch each team through the curtain. Most focus more on the drink than the presentation, and each time, the judges drink less and less, eventually only sipping the cocktails offered them.
As the music starts, our bartender’s flashy moves seize the judges’ attention. He fills the glasses without spilling a drop and tips the stack so that each glass is filled evenly. As
he flips the Jager and drops a splash into each glass, I know we’ll be tough to beat. He finishes by sliding a glass in front of each judge, leaving one for him and each team member.
“You guys better have something good to top that,” I say to Astrid, who is standing on the other side of the bar.
“Care to make another side wager?”
“Whatever happened to competing for the sake of competition?” I ask.
The sportive smirk returns to her face. “You’re right; you’re already into me for one favor. You don’t want to make commitments you can’t live up to.”
The Boat House team had obviously learned from years past as well. Not only do they have Hawaiian music, but a fog machine blows a white stream of smoke from the middle of the stage, and tiki torches outline the bar. The female bartenders wear grass skirts and drape leis around the judges’ necks. The bartender doing the mixing is dressed as a witch doctor, but he refers to himself as a mix doctor. Their drink is called the Island Volcano.
Puffs of smoke from the fog machine collect and dance around the torches. The mix doctor pours vodka, black raspberry liqueur, rum, and banana liqueur into a large hollowed-out coconut. He puts the top on, shakes it, then strains it into six martini glasses garnished with pineapple wedges.
Two of the girls in grass skirts finish the drink by pouring shots of 151 rum on top. The mix doctor lights a smaller torch and ignites the alcohol floating on top of each of the drinks. After he lights the last drink, he tips his head back, lets the girls fill his mouth with 151, raises the flame to his lips, and spits the alcohol into the air, shooting a six-foot flame.
Cinch and I slink into the back room. There’s no way we beat that performance. Haley knows it, too. “Looks like we have to settle for second place this year,” she says.
Now I really feel like shit. I say, “Sorry I let the team down.”
Haley glares at me. “Just because you finished second you think you let the team down? This is for fun, remember? Come on, let’s do a shot, and then we’ll go down to the Boat House and let them rub it in.” As usual, one shot turns into three. She says, “In a way I’m glad we lost because hosting the party afterward is a pain in the ass. Not to mention that the amount of alcohol consumed is staggering. I’m going to enjoy being a guest tonight.”
At the Boat House, people whisk Haley away to do shots. Cinch suggests we get Astrid and go to the monument because he has something to tell us. We locate her by the bar with the rest of the Boat House crew and absorb the jeers as they remind us about who won and who lost.
Astrid leans over. “Feeling up to settling our bet?”
“Cinch and I want to leave now,” I say, “Come with us to the monument, and then you and I can have the rest of the night to ourselves.”
“Okay, but Cinch isn’t part of the bet.”
It takes another twenty minutes and three more drinks before we make it to the door. People are at the emotional stage of their buzz, which means we’re escaping at the perfect time. Fifteen minutes more and we wouldn’t be able to get away.
The three of us climb up to our usual pod in the southwest corner of the monument plaza. Cinch opens a bottle of Pink Catawba. “I got a call from my dad today. A school district on the mainland wants me to come in for an interview.”
I say, “And you’re going?”
“This summer can’t last forever.”
I take the wine from him. “I’m not ready for it to end yet.”
“Sure you are. Think about the past few weeks. You’ve already grown tired of partying and going out. It’s only a matter of time before the Round House and red barn are on that list.”
“Come to OSU with me and get an apartment,” Astrid says. “Take some classes, substitute, find a job, whatever.”
Cinch says, “I’m done with campus life.”
“My plan is Key West,” I say. “But that could easily change. That’s why I love it here. I don’t have to think about tomorrow—only today.”
Astrid says, “That’s unrealistic. You have to have some picture of the future.”
“Why?” I ask her. “My future isn’t connected to any decision I make. Things are always just out of reach. You know why? Because I’ve been stupid enough to think I can control my future and make it happen. I thought coming here would change that, but now that the end of the season is almost here, I’m in the same situation again. Why not just go with it?”
Astrid says, “Maybe you’re just trying too hard. I’ve had a blast this summer, and I know more about myself now than I did at the beginning of the season. That’s enough for me.”
“That’s what makes it tough to leave,” I say. “You do learn about yourself here. In the real world, other forces determine your life.”
“I need distractions,” Cinch says, seeming not to recognize that he is a major one. “The only things for me here are friends and partying, and the friends leave at the end of the season.”
Astrid takes my hand. Her touch sends a jolt through me. “Brad, maybe you should just stay here. If you can’t think of a reason to leave, then don’t. You might be home.”
Cinch drains the rest of the bottle of wine and drops it into the bottom of the stone urn, where it clinks against another bottle someone else has left here. He laughs, looking down at it. “We’re not the first to come here, and—”
“We won’t be the last,” I finish. “What do you think the people who drank that bottle were talking about?”
Cinch says, “Who cares? Let’s go home. I’m tired of thinking.”
We climb down and walk along the seawall. Astrid pauses when we get to the intersection. “You still up for hanging out?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “A bet is a bet.”
The smell of beer mixed with marijuana conveys that we’ve just missed Griffin and the others. I count thirteen cups, all filled with varying degrees of beer.
Astrid draws from the keg. “There’s a note on the table: 2:45 a.m. Went to the cove.”
Cinch says, “Fuck it. No reason for me to stay here … unless the three of us aren’t done for the evening.”
“Nice try, Cinch, but Brad has his hands full with me. I’m not sure he could handle both of us.”
Cinch does a healthy blast right from his bag. “I was talking about partying, but maybe I should stay to help.”
I motion toward the door. “Maybe I should go to the cove while you two finish abusing me.”
“Relax. Astrid’s not my type,” Cinch says. “I like the cerebral ones.”
Astrid tilts her head to the side. “That’s so disappointing because I love fat, balding men.”
“Are you really sure you should go?” I say. “It’s been a long day. Maybe bed is the best place for you.”
Cinch downs his beer. “Who cares? I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.”
I light a candle on my dresser and sit on the bed. “We can just go to sleep if you want.”
Astrid kicks off her shoes, sending them in opposite directions like scurrying mice. Her dress falls to the floor. She drifts across the room toward me. I can’t believe this is finally happening. The candlelight blankets her curves, a hypnotic flickering light against her angelic frame.
She pushes me back on the bed. “I don’t want you to say or think about anything. Just relax.”
“But I lost—”
“Shhhhh. Winner gets what the winner wants. I want you to lie there and be quiet.”
I rub her chest and back, creating a mental snapshot. How I’ve longed for this moment. Her skin feels as creamy as I imagined. The same curves I watched swallow the candlelight, I now trace with my fingers. She eases down on top of me, placing both hands on my chest and extending her arms. She rocks back and forth, slowly increasing the length and the force of each stroke until our bodies tense, and she collapses on my chest in silence.
Astrid shakes me. “Hey, I think somebody’s here.”
“It’s probably just Cinch.�
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“No, I think something’s wrong.”
We both listen. Someone rushes into Cinch’s room, calling his name. It’s Stein.
I put my shorts on and open the door. “What’s up? What happened?”
“Cinch is missing,” Stein says in a panic. “A bunch of us went to the cove to jump. Afterward we built a fire on the beach. Cinch came late all fucked up and wanted to jump. I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept talking about doing a flip. I don’t know if he did the flip or not, but there was a huge splash and then nothing. It was so fucking quiet. At first we thought he was screwing around. You know how he is, always playing jokes. After a few minutes we went into the water. We looked everywhere but couldn’t find him. We hoped he’d just come back here, laughing about how he fooled us. He did, right? He’s probably fucking around, right?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SUN CLIMBS ABOVE THE HORIZON ON THE EAST SIDE OF THE ISLAND. It’ll still be another thirty minutes before light reaches the west.
Griffin is wading through the water twenty-five feet from shore when we arrive. The fire the others had built on the beach smolders, giving off puffs of smoke that rise up to the cliff. I stand on the edge as a spotter.
For the next hour we search the coast for a quarter mile in each direction. The sun, now fully visible above the tree line, warms the morning air but does nothing for the cold, aching realization hanging over us. I motion them in. “He’s not here. He has to be playing with us.”
Griffin says, “Let’s go check the barn. If he’s not there—” He hesitates, inhaling a deep breath. “If he’s not there, we should go to the police.”
Stein and I follow Griffin up the steps of the red barn. I’ve climbed these steps countless times this summer, often at this very hour after a long night, but never this slowly. I hear Griffin ask Astrid if Cinch has come back. I know her answer by his response. “Fuck! That fucking asshole.”