Lexapros and Cons

by Aaron Karo

  Rocking brown Cons, though I’m not sure if I actually feel confident or if it’s just wishful thinking.

  I pull up to the Randall Kaufman campgrounds in West Lake in Mom’s car. She spent another hour trying to talk me out of it and stalling before I finally convinced her it was okay to let me go. Luckily, I got out of the house before Dad got home so they didn’t have a chance to gang up on me.

  It’s about six o’clock when I finally get to the parking lot, so most of the class has already been here for a couple of hours. I can see our campsite in the distance: it’s basically just a clearing surrounded by heavy woods on three sides. There’s a bonfire going in the center. From where I’m parked, I can vaguely make out laughter and good-natured yelling. I take a deep breath and get out of the car.

  My quasi-confidence is shattered as soon as I take one step on the ground. I’m an idiot. Never in a million years did it cross my mind what effect last night’s storm would have on the campgrounds. My left Con sinks into the mud. The white stripe around the sole is now the same color brown as the rest of my sneaker. I have a fleeting sense of despair and pause on the precipice between getting back in the car and forging ahead. I force myself to put my right Con in the mud as well. I grimace as I close the car door behind me. I continue.

  I grab all of my gear from the trunk, press the Lock button on Mom’s electronic keychain about twenty times until the car alarm beeps just right, and then make my way toward the festivities.

  The grass is soaking wet, which is good in a way because it sort of cleans off my sneakers. But I’m struck with a sudden foreboding about what condition the campsite itself is gonna be in. It really rained like a motherfucker last night. I keep going. One Con in front of the other.

  It’s still light out, so as I get closer, I can start to make out details. Some of the meatheads have their shirts off and are chasing each other around the fire, cans of beer in hand. There’s a variety of tents set up, in all shapes and sizes, none of which look as shitty as mine. A few couples are making out. There are several iPods playing at once, competing for attention so that I can’t distinguish any individual songs.

  As I approach the outer ring of tents, I notice that the grass here has almost completely disintegrated. I’m guessing it’s a combination of all the foot traffic and the storm—the campsite is now nothing but mud. There’s mud on the tips of the logs in the bonfire, there’s mud on some of the tents, and there’s mud all over the drunk kids’ clothes. My pulse quickens.

  I find an empty patch toward the back of the site, on the edge of the woods, and decide it’s as good a place as any. I’d rather be isolated than in the middle of the mayhem. I yank a small plastic tarp out of my bag and the smell instantly transports me back to the Greulichs’ mothbally garage. It’s strangely comforting. I manage to put the tarp down on the mud and throw my gear on top. I’m sweating, my sneakers are filthy, and my hands are shaking. But I’m alive.

  I survey my surroundings. About fifty feet to my left I see Ashley, who has the biggest tent of anyone because he’s the tallest guy ever. Next to him are Stacey and Wendy. They have matching hot pink tents that look like they have built-in, like, porches attached to the front. Their tents are nicer than my bedroom. I despise them now more than ever.

  My seething is disrupted, though, when I realize Amy is nowhere to be found. Surely if she’s here, she’d be with one of those three people. This is simultaneously encouraging and discouraging. Nothing is ever simple.

  Next to Stacey and Wendy are my sister and Parker. Parker’s tent is red and stupid. Beth, who got to the Greulichs’ first, has a slightly less shitty version of my tent. I’m relieved she actually bothered to set hers up and not just crash in Parker’s. There’s a pile of empty beer cans next to Parker’s tent. He finishes another one and then burps. My sister giggles like an idiot.

  Across the site, on the other side of the fire, I spot Kanha. He’s wearing a do-rag. I crack a smile. What a moron. Next to him are the Barrys, who, if I’m not mistaken, are looking at a textbook. I assume they’re preparing—during Senior Weekend no less—for their climactic final mathletic competition. I silently declare myself superior to them and that makes me feel an iota better.

  I look past the Barrys and suddenly find myself making eye contact with Steve. He stares at me from across the campsite, a look of astonishment on his face. I don’t blame him. I’m literally the last person he should expect to see here. I quickly look away, only able to guess what he’s thinking.

  My tent goes up a lot easier than I expected (then again, I always expect the worst). I throw the rest of my shit inside, then sit with my ass in the tent and my feet sticking out onto the tarp.

  Reality quickly sets in: without the distraction of getting my gear from the car to the campsite, or setting up the tarp and the tent, I’m forced to soak in the severity of my situation. I’m surrounded by mud. My sneakers, socks, and hands are caked with it. There’s dirt and blades of grass inside the tent. Mosquitoes buzz everywhere. My face is sticky with sweat. I spot one rickety porta-potty in the distance.

  You proved your point. Amy’s not even here. Just go home.

  I close my eyes tightly, then reopen them. I’m starting to get itchy. Really, really itchy.

  I think I’m gonna hyperventilate. That is, until I’m distracted once again.

  Parker has gotten up and is making his way toward Steve.

  “Parker, stop!”

  Beth is yelling at Parker, who is stomping across the campsite in Steve’s direction. Parker is definitely drunk—he almost stumbles into the fire as he marches past it (which, honestly, would have been the greatest thing ever). Parker is about ten feet away when Steve finally realizes what’s happening. I can sense Steve’s heart sink when he spots Parker charging at him. Without thinking, I get up and head toward Steve as well.

  “Hey, Fudge Packer! What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Parker is kind of slurring, which worries me. Who knows what he’ll do?

  Steve doesn’t speak; he just stands there with his hands out, as if to say, “It doesn’t really matter how I respond, does it?”

  “Come on, you fucking nerd. Say something!”

  Parker has stopped about three feet in front of Steve. I arrive and stand off to the side. Beth is behind Parker, continuing to yell at him.

  “Parker, just leave him alone!”

  Parker turns around and yells back at her: “Will you shut up?”

  “Hey,” Steve says, before I even have a chance to react, “don’t talk to her like that!”

  Parker relishes the challenge. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, Fudge Packer?”

  Unsurprisingly, a crowd has already gathered—with Parker and Steve at the center and me and Beth just steps away from them. The entire class huddles around the four of us in a bloodthirsty circle. I can’t hear music anymore, just random yelling from bystanders—some supporting Parker, fewer supporting Steve, and most, it seems, just wanting some action of any kind.

  “Fight!” someone yells out, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

  Beth walks up behind Parker and grabs his arm. “Let’s go!”

  Parker roughly yanks his arm out of her grasp—definitely more forceful than necessary.

  I take a step closer, sensing the irony of getting pulverized to defend the sister who I hate.

  “Hey! Don’t touch her!” Steve yells.

  And then, to everyone’s disbelief, Steve walks right up to Parker and pushes him.

  The crowd lets out a big “Ohhhh!”

  Parker barely moves an inch, though, and is now standing face-to-face with Steve, towering over him and grinning like a wild man.

  Steve struggles to maintain his composure.

  Parker clenches his right fist.

  My body moves without permission from my brain.

  I dash toward Parker and Steve.

  I position myself in between them, facing Parker.

  I’ve placed mysel
f in the middle of the storm.

  “Chuck, no!” Beth yells.

  Steve is speechless.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Parker snarls at me.

  “Just walk away, Parker,” I say. It feels like someone else is talking.

  For a brief second, Parker seems to relent, as if he’s grown bored with us. Then, he takes a step forward and pushes me into Steve. We both stumble backwards a few steps like a couple of circus clowns. Steve still doesn’t say anything to me. A hush falls over the crowd. I attempt to reason with the beast.

  “Parker, why are—”

  It happens in slow motion. I can see Parker’s right fist flying at my left eye, but am powerless to do anything about it. Just before the punch hits my face, everything goes silent, like when your ears clog on an airplane.

  THWAP!

  Next thing I know, I’m on the ground. There’s mud in my mouth, on my tongue, and all over my clothes. I put my hand over my eye, but I don’t feel pain. I think I’m in shock. I can’t stand up.

  When I get my bearings, I see that Parker still has his fist cocked and Steve is still standing there, helpless.

  “Are you ready for some of that, huh?” Parker taunts.

  Steve puts his hands out again as if surrendering.

  Sunset is approaching, and from my vantage point on the ground, I can just make out the moon on the horizon. It’s nearly full.

  A light bulb goes off in my head. A great, big, amazing light bulb.

  “Steve!” I yell. “Steve!”

  Steve has more important things to worry about. Parker is chomping at the bit.

  “Steve!”

  He finally turns to me.

  “Did you see Sensual Moon IV last night?” I ask.

  “What?” Steve looks at me like I have three heads.

  “Sensual Moon IV. On Skinemax. Did you see it?”

  Steve, perhaps assuming I’ve suffered severe brain damage from the punch, turns back to Parker, who’s cracking his knuckles in anticipation of bashing two losers in one night.

  “Steve!” I yell again.

  “Yes,” he says finally, “I fucking saw it!”

  “You have the power!” I say.

  “What?”

  “You have the power!” I repeat, pointing at Parker.

  In this moment, nearly a decade of best friendship comes to fruition. All those sleepovers, all those Facebook chats, all those inside jokes, they’ve forged a bond between me and Steve that is paying off right now. A look of understanding washes over Steve’s face. My idea is transferred to his brain. He smirks almost imperceptibly.

  Steve steps toward Parker, who is seemingly dumbfounded by Steve’s sudden boldness. Before Parker can throw a punch, Steve reaches in, grabs the waistband of Parker’s warm-up pants, and in one fluid motion rips them clean off, the snaps running down Parker’s legs opening simultaneously.

  Steve finds himself with his arm raised triumphantly, clutching Parker’s pants in his hand. Parker is left standing in front of the entire senior class wearing a raggedy pair of tighty whiteys.

  The laughter comes quickly and loudly from the crowd. Waves and waves of it raining down on the humiliated Parker. Steve looks at me and I look back at him, not really knowing what to do next. Success is not a familiar feeling for either of us.

  “Fudge Packer!”

  Uh oh. Parker has gathered himself and, despite being half-naked in front of the jeering crowd, sets his sights on revenge. He sneers at Steve so angrily that the throng begins to quiet. Steve drops the warm-up pants. I finally get back on my feet. And that’s when Steve does something so strange, so bizarre, he’s the only person on earth who would ever think of it.

  Steve starts pumping his fists out in front him, first slowly, then faster, then as quickly as he possibly can. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right. Only I realize what’s he’s doing.

  Wii Boxing.

  Parker and the crowd are equally perplexed but Steve keeps pumping away. Finally ready to dispatch him for good, Parker takes a few half steps toward Steve to gather some momentum and winds up to deliver the punch of all punches. Parker plants his lead foot but—either because of all the mud or just too many beers—slips and hurtles headfirst at Steve. Parker’s face meets one of Steve’s flying fists and CRACK!

  Parker wobbles for a second, then crumples facedown in the mud, the back of his tighty whiteys exposed for the world to see. The crowd erupts in cheers.

  Steve Sludgelacker just knocked his nemesis out cold.

  After cheering Steve’s victory, the crowd loses interest and disperses. Steve, who’s not used to so much attention, seems more relieved than anything. Parker starts to come to as Ashley is wrapping a towel around him. He lifts Parker up and helps him stumble woozily back to his tent. Neither Parker nor Ashley looks back in Steve’s direction.

  I’m still struggling to get the dirt out of my mouth when Steve approaches me. He looks a little dazed.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I think so,” he says. “How’s your eye?”

  I reach up and touch it. It’s tender, but to be honest there’s so much mud I can’t even tell if it’s swollen or not.

  “It’s fine I guess.”

  “That was pretty crazy, huh?” he says. “Did that really just happen?”

  “Yeah, it did,” I respond, equally amazed. “Listen, Steve. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “No, I think I do. I’m sorry I didn’t help you out sooner. That was really selfish of me.”

  “Well … better late than never, right?” Steve jokes.

  “Something like that,” I say. “I was wrapped up in so much shit. I guess I just took our friendship for granted. I’ll never do that again. You know, if you still want to be friends or whatever.”

  Steve grins. Then he hugs me.

  “I’ll always be your friend, man,” he says. Then he looks at all the mud that’s rubbed off on him. “What the … Chuck, you’re fucking gross.”

  “I know.” It concerns me that this hasn’t sunk in yet.

  “I’m sorry I talked all that shit to you,” Steve says.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks for having my back tonight,” he adds.

  “I can’t believe you knocked Parker out,” I say.

  “I know, right? My fist kinda hurts. Is that normal?”

  “I have no idea,” I admit.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Chuck.”

  “Steve,” I say, “that was all you. You did it. I mean, Wii Boxing? Come on!”

  “I told you: natural talent, Chuck. Natural talent.”

  We both laugh.

  “By the way,” Steve says, “how did you know I watched Sensual Moon IV?”

  “I don’t know; I just did.”

  “Have you seen II yet?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Oh, you gotta—”

  “I know, Steve, it’s the best one.”

  We share another laugh. It feels great to be friends with Steve again. I think we’re gonna be talking about this night for a long time.

  A mosquito bites me. I slap my arm, leaving a handprint of mud. My eye is starting to throb a bit. I try to focus.

  “So,” Steve says, “there is one thing I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. You know that story I’m always telling about my hand job?”

  I shake my head, knowing at long last he’s going to admit he’s full of shit.

  “All true,” he says with a huge smile. “All true.”

  “Fuck you!” I joke.

  I playfully push him, and then we hug again. Then I notice someone standing behind Steve.

  “I think someone wants to talk to you,” I say.

  It’s Beth. She walks up to him.

  “Hi, Steve.”

  “Hi.”

  “I just wanted to, you know, thank you sticking up for me back there.”

  �
�Oh, it’s okay. He just seemed a little drunk is all,” Steve says.

  Steve’s adrenaline must still be pumping because he’s actually forming coherent sentences.

  “Yeah, well Parker is a big jerk,” Beth says. “It was really brave of you to stand up to him like that.”

  I think Steve is blushing.

  “I just did what I had to do,” he says.

  “I guess I’ll see you later,” Beth continues. “I’m gonna go move my tent away from that douche bag.”

  “Do you need a hand?” Steve asks, remarkably poised.

  Just when I think Beth is about to blow him off once again, she relents. “Sure,” she shrugs, “that’d be great.”

  Steve looks at me. I refuse to explicitly give my blessing, so I just do an awful job of pretending I’m not paying attention.

  Steve and Beth both smile at me. Then they walk back to Beth’s tent together. I stand there long enough to see them start to chat.

  I head back to my own tent. As I do, I unexpectedly get a few passing words of encouragement from my classmates.

  “Nice job, Chuck!”

  “Good work, man!”

  “Fuck Parker!”

  “You’re the real G, dog! You’re the real G!”

  Besides Kanha, most of these people I haven’t spoken to since we were in Plainville Elementary. It feels good, but a few slaps on the back can’t hide what I’ve been fighting since I stepped in the mud in the parking lot: all of my OCD “things” are being triggered at once and I’m not sure how much longer I can handle it.

  I get back to my tent and worry I’m beginning to experience sensory overload. I can feel the mud and sweat and bug bites on my skin. It smells like burning logs, wet grass, and the Greulichs’ garage. I can hear crickets chirping deep in the woods as the sun begins to set. I can taste dirt on my lips. My eye is definitely starting to swell.

  I collapse onto my tarp. I reach into the bag in my tent and grab the travel sanitizer. I squirt the entire contents onto my hands. I rub them like crazy. It just seems to be pushing the dirt around. I try to rub some on my face. Ow! It stings right where I got punched.