Spud

by Patricia Orvis

  “Ball gloves and cards, too?” he asks, yawning and stretching, eager to wake his sluggish self for the fun evening ahead. “Might need to chill, play a little poker. I’m gonna see if Tyson and Steve are free,” and he is about to jet back downstairs to grab the phone.

  “Dude, why?” I ask after him, holding my glove. It’s my favorite piece of ball equipment, signed by Carlton Fisk. But, I’m a bit tiffed. I can’t stand those pot-smoking friends of his that live near Ned and the park, the one with the bridge.

  “Why not? The more the merrier. They ain’t so bad, Jack. Just had some hard times. Give em a chance.” As he heads downstairs to call and invite his pals, I try to shake off the situation and put my glove, hat, and some cards into my old track duffel bag. I just, dunno, don’t really like those guys. Whatever. I have to be around him though, at least I feel I have to, and kind of keep things safe, but I hate that job. Babysitter. I don’t get why he likes them so much.

  He quickly reappears at my bedroom door, out of breath from running up the stairs. “They’re gonna meet us at the bridge at five-thirty. So we gotta try to sneak a few beverages, wink, wink, too. It’s so gonna rock.” Then he heads to piss, as I am flustered and try not to respond so he doesn’t know I’m annoyed. Oh well, I’ll deal. We’ll take a walk from Ned’s to the park to meet them, I suppose. Once the adults start drinking, playing cards, and talking about the weather, they won’t even notice we’re gone, really.

  Chapter 5

  “It’ll be about seven, kids, when the steaks and brats are done, so go ahead and do whatever. Don’t get over-heated,” Ma says as she gets the grill ready with Aunt Sue, both swigging some fruity-looking wine coolers. There’s plenty of that around, and Spud and I have loaded some Miller Lites into my duffel.

  Uncle Ned has a huge concrete patio out his back door, where the adults have settled into folding chairs and three picnic tables. My dad has his car pulled up close, playing some oldies tapes from the tape deck for everyone to hear. A little Beach Boys and Herman’s Hermits, anyone? Little cousin kids inside are playing the Nintendo system, after getting banished from outside by the adults when squirt guns got out of hand, and Aunt Hettie got water in her eye. It was just water, but it made her mascara run, and she threw a holy fit, so the young kids are inside now.

  Some of the ladies are in the kitchen, where the air conditioning is cranked, playing cards and gossiping about whatever aunts and uncles didn’t show. Ned’s got a nice, large yard, but it’s kinda hot for doing much out here. Nobody’s really even taking advantage of the basketball hoop in the driveway. But, besides Mom and Aunt Sue, there’s four other grills full of hamburgers, steaks, and hot dogs manned by a few uncles, and there’s probably about ten adults out here altogether. Usually, the tables would be covered with generic bags of wavy chips and Fritos, Oreos and chocolate chip cookies, and all those fixings for the meat, like buns and ketchup and stuff, but with the heat, the food is inside. I’m thinking that’s why some of my fat aunts are inside, too. Hey, I can say that… I know their ways.

  “We’re gonna head to the park to play some ball,” I lie to Ma, hating that I have to. “We’ll be back around chow time.”

  “Well, make sure, and take some water. Please don’t be late,” Ma says. She’s a bit tipsy, must have had more than one wine cooler. With her small size, a little alcohol is all it takes to get her buzzed.

  “Sure,” I say, and Spud and I grab our bag and head off to the park. It’s like a five minute trek from Ned’s house. Convenient, I guess, but we’re both wearing shorts and light-weight tee shirts, as it’s just too warm, and the town is kinda quiet, everyone soaking in the AC.

  “There they are!” Spud says, as he jogs to catch his druggie pals, when we’ve walked the few minutes to the park. I can’t run with him or the bottles of beer in my duffel will shake up. It’s cool. I’m in no hurry to hang with his friends.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Spud approaches Tyson and Steve and notices the infamous Mike, the idiot cop’s son from home, with them. What the hell?

  “Relax, we’re all friends,” an already drunk Steve says. “This is Tyson’s cousin, Mike.”

  “You two are cousins?” Spud is incredulous, almost speechless, looking at them wide-eyed.

  Tyson, brown hair, choppy and lengthy like Spud’s, has on navy blue swim trunks and a white tee. He looks a little dangerous, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, a straight look on his face. He takes a slow puff of his cigarette, eying me. Sheesh! Steve has a more friendly look in his green eyes, his blond hair cut crew style, and is dressed like Tyson. Not like twins, but the same concept. On the other hand, there is a drunkenness to Mike, odd because he’s supposed to be always playing by the rules, with his dad being the Mr. Cop and all. For some reason, Mike seems a bit off, ready to do anything that’s new, exciting, wild today. He’s all hopping around like he’s real sugared up or something. Got a strange look in his eyes. Makes me nervous.

  “Well, never thought I’d be hanging with you, country crooner,” Mike slurs and gives Spud a light punch on the arm. Spud, though, recoils, disgusted. “Let’s bury the hatchet for a day and be pals?” Mike tries.

  “Whatever. Don’t even talk to me, and maybe we’ll be fine. Just shut up now,” Spud warns. He whispers to me, “You believe this sh--?”

  I’m shocked. I thought for sure he’d avoid Mike at all costs. He must really want to hang at this stupid park with his stupid friends, or maybe he just realized since the boys are already buzzed, there’s no point in trying to argue. Whatever.

  “Dude, who’s up for a swim?” asks Steve, setting down a bottle of Bud. They had their own stash prior to our addition of Miller. “Let’s walk up the bridge and jump, then swim back here for our final refreshments. I can’t stay too late tonight. Ma wants me home to be sure I get up early for some family funeral thing. Some uncle croaked from heat stroke.”

  How cold is that? No pun intended, but that’s certainly not so nice. I’ve misjudged him. This heat and the deaths from it are serious, and this idiot is acting like it’s some inconvenience to him. Real swell.

  “Yep, let’s get moving then,” Mike says, taking off his sweaty plain blue tee shirt.

  “I’m in!” Spud says, taking a large swig from his bottle.

  Looks like they’re all game, but I’m not so sure. Steve hasn’t said anything, but it’s like he’s the mastermind here. All is going according to his plan or something.

  “Yo, Jackson, what’s the hold up?” asks Tyson, getting off his tee, waiting for me to agree to the adventure.

  “Um, I’m just not sure. You all go ahead. I should probably watch our stuff. Just don’t take forever.”

  “Come on,” whines Spud, jokingly, kinda. “You don’t wanna miss the rush! Ya gotta take some chances, bud. Sink or swim, you know?”

  “No, it’s cool. I really don’t care for that, Spud. You know, you shouldn’t do it either. It’s not safe, and it’s illegal. Who knows what’s in the river or what the current will do. And not now. I thought you all weren’t gonna drink until after the swim.”

  “We were thirsty. In fact, I still am, so I wanna a couple drinks before we do anything,” Mike insists and settles on the ground, cross-legged. He really doesn’t need anymore. “P
op a squat, you all. Plus, we should get rid of some of our evidence here before we go moving.”

  He’s convinced them, and swigging the alcohol, they sigh, sitting in a circle, which I’m a part of and gripe about the heat. I’ll admit, I drink here, too. Tastes so refreshing in the sun’s heat, but they’re smoking and that I can’t do. Like I have said, I hate that stuff.

  Imagine being in a deep sleep, and come two or three in the morning, your body is taken from slumber by the horrid, choking smell of smoke. Nothing is worse, when that happens almost every day! It’s frustrating, and tiring, but that is usually when Dad happens to wake for his nicotine fix. Then I can hardly fall back asleep. Hate it. So, no thanks. I can’t even pretend to think smoking is cool.

  I hate to get all high and mighty here, but we’ve all seen that ugly lung that is pictured in every junior high science and health book. The one that compares a smoker’s lung to a normal one? Who in their right mind wants a charred, gooey, gross lung in their chest, to depend upon when it comes to breathing? Yuck. And bad breath? Cancer? Coughing? Who wants to pay money for that? Cigs are expensive and only cause trouble. Problem is, they’re addictive, and some TV shows make them look like they’re cool. It ain’t cool to see your friends and parents slowly kill themselves and stink in the process. Nope, not cool at all.

  Well, looking around, the park is like an abandoned desert island, since it’s so hot out, so it’s not like we need to be too careful. The bridge, as I glance, is even quite empty of traffic. It’s about a half-mile away and high above the noisy waters. At least, it’s windy, and the river isn’t just sitting there but is sploshing and wavy and loud in a calm way. It doesn’t look too friendly for swimming.

  “All right, enough of this sitting around, getting hotter by the minute,” says Mike, getting up and tossing his bottle into the nearby water. “Quit being a wimp, Jackson,” he says, stretches his legs and looks at Spud. “Come on, Spuddy, we’ll race. Winner gets bragging rights.”

  With that, I knew Spud was a goner. He hates Mike with a passion and won’t pass a challenge. Why does it have to involve jumping from the bridge? It’s so sick to witness this. It’s a traditional car bridge that connects the north and south sides of town, located over the Illinois River, suspended at least a hundred feet over the deep, dirty river, old and dangerous.

  They try me again, but with my decline, they race off.

  It will take a good twenty or thirty minutes after their jump to swim to shore, if the current settles, but I’m sure it won’t. With the time it takes to actually walk up the bridge’s walkway, to the middle, to get to their jumping place, I’m sure I’ll be left here a good hour. This sucks. Why didn’t I just go? It’s not too late. Well, no. No. I cannot. I’m a great swimmer, but the river is dirty, and bridge jumping is illegal, and who knows about the current?

  Why, why, why are they doing this? I’m roasting, too, but this is pure stupidity! Just to impress each other. Thank God for the excuse of watching our stuff and that they were tipsy, otherwise, I’d have to deal with being called a chicken, a pussy, and a Mamma’s boy. Usually Spud defends me, but he didn’t have to today, thank God.

  Anyway, to pass the time as I wait, as the guys are now out of sight and surely walking the bridge now toward its middle, I decide to try my hand at a second beer before the bottles in my bag get too warm. Nothing else to do. Maybe it’ll calm that uneasy, nervous feeling in my stomach. I feel like I just lied or cheated or stole something. It doesn’t feel right.

  The shade under the browning tree where we’ve settled is sufficient, so I lean against the trunk, twist open a cold bottle, wet with condensation, talk a long gulp, and stare out at the welcoming water. I finger the guitar pick necklace I always wear, wishing Spud had stayed here. It would have been cool just to sit around and chat. Why’d they have to run off?

  Looking at the wide span of water can be such a wonderful way to daydream, to lose yourself. It’s not clean, but any water in this heat looks refreshing. Too hot even for boaters or water-skiers. It’s just so empty, but calm in that way. It’s moving with the wind and current, but I’ve always found it relaxing.

  Illini Park, one of Illinois’ best, is like a second home to my family, and we typically have this feeling like we have ownership of it or something, as we’ve been here so much throughout the summers of our lives. Today, we’re in the camping area, which is closer to the Marseilles bridge. Yet, the other section of the park, with the main parking lot, has a shelter, picnic tables and horseshoe pits, a shoddy playground, and ball diamonds. I grew up on the swings, the slides, and the merry-go-round. We played our yearly family softball games at our reunions on that diamond. I had my eighth grade graduation party out here, a joint one with Spud. It is the only place I’ve ever camped. All the family reunions are held here, always have been, the end of each July. We’ve spent so much time at this park that it should almost be named after our family. Coopertown, haha.

  Some summers there’s a concession stand, a little battered, white trailer, like something you’d see at one of those shifty carnivals that pull into small towns over the summer for a week or so. Usually the food is at your own risk, as I’ll never forget my ant-infested blueberry snow cone of last summer, but it’s cheap. This park is where my dad spent all his summers growing up, where I learned to catch a baseball and swing a bat, to throw a football, to get used to the sight of cooking on the grill. This is the place of family water balloon fights, reunion raffles, and kid games, and, unfortunately, where I have grown up watching my relatives get drunk.

  This little park will always be important to the family. Always. We’ve fed the ducks by the shore of the Illinois River, wandered the trails into the woods, played the oldies music too loudly, learned to swing high in the air, go down slides on our own, and tease the girl cousins by pushing the merry-go-round too fast! Illini Park. Home away from home.

  Drinking my warm Miller Lite and fingering the guitar pick around my neck, I allow myself to settle into a quick nap, try to pass the time. I’m getting hungry and hope we get back to Ned’s for dinner on time. Nothing beats a juicy steak on the grill. A nap, though, is hard to resist with the heat draining my energy. I yawn and close my eyes…

  Chapter 6

  Sirens. Close sirens, and lots of them. Sounds like some high speed chase you’d get with that Cops show. My afternoon siesta under the tree is abruptly interrupted by these menacing, uninvited, too close sirens. What the flipping hell?

  Disoriented from my heat-induced nap, I slowly gather my surroundings and realize the guys aren’t back yet. I’m still alone, and it’s gotten a little darker. My God, what time is it? Where are the guys? Oh no, this isn’t good! And oh, I realize, as I sit up, I have a headache from the booze. The annoying, incessant wailing of the sirens is not helping. And my left arm has horrible sunburn as it’s the body part that somehow was hit by sun as I slept. Damn tree. Nice job shading me…

  Two racing ambulances and three police cars arrive up the road not far from me and toward the river. Oh dang! First the officers and paramedics, then Steve, Tyson, and Mike all show, climbing from the different vehicles. They are climbing out slowly, though, stupid-looking. I rush over, now fully awake and a feeling of panic in my chest.

  “What happened? What’s going on? What did you do? Are you in trouble?” I’m shaking like cr
azy, frantically asking questions that are not getting answers. The cops are busy with their walkie-talkies, and the paramedics are heading toward shore. It’s all so confusing and mumbled, and I can’t understand what anyone is saying!

  Did the cops find out we were drinking? Is that what this is about? Did they get in trouble for illegally going off the bridge? Wait. Just wait. Think, Jack. That wouldn’t bring this many cops and the ambulance for just that. What did they do? Are they going to jail? Am I?

  “Steve?” I plead, trying to get his attention by the cop car. “Talk to me. What is this?” I wave my hands at all the commotion. Steve is crying, hands going through his hair. The others are just standing there, not knowing what to do or say. Looks of complete shock on their red, sunned faces.

  They are dumb-founded. No one is giving me anything solid to go on, and I know I’m like a broken record with my questions but god dammit, why won’t someone talk to me? I scream, “Tell me, dammit!”

  “Oh, man, Jackson,” Tyson wails, finally. He’s almost in tears, still running his hands through his sun-lightened hair, then up and down his arms like he could possibly have a shiver in this heat. His head keeps shaking back and forth, like he’s watching a tennis game, but not sure where the players are.

  “It’s Spud!” he continues. “He was the first to jump, while we were talking, and when he got in the water, he panicked and started shouting that his foot was cramping. Mike and Steve then jumped to help him, but they couldn’t; it was like Spud was possessed, all cussin’ and kickin’ them and fightin’, like he was all cramped up and scared. They tried to hold him, get him to relax, and to pull him toward shore with them, but they weren’t strong enough. He kept going under the water, and they tried to keep him up, keep his head above to get air, and my God…,” he stops for a second. “Then, as they were in the water struggling so much, I flagged a car, got in and we headed for the police station. By the time the cops and me,” he pauses, “and me….”