Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The Boys of Summer, Part 1

A summer sunset at the cabin, taken from our dock. 
   

“Fuck that,” I say. “I’m not going to church.”
“Is she serious,” asks Mark. “She’s actually making us go to church?” He, Chris and Dan are all shocked that my mother stood outside our tent in her Sunday’s best at 9:20 in the morning to not-so-gently wake us up through the nylon fabric. Her and dad had just gotten back from the early service where she was instructed to deliver a message from God: the big man wanted to see us in his local office immediately.
“I don’t fucking care,” I say while we're getting dressed. “We’ll drive somewhere and park and sleep or something.”
And that’s exactly what we do. It’s only fitting that I stop my 91’ Honda Prelude—also known as “Goldie Honda”—in the parking lot of a bar, considering we’re nursing the worst hangovers known to high schoolers. The air is humid and shade is scarce, and if not for the cool breeze dancing through the windows, we surely would have died. But sleep isn’t coming easy and I regret not grabbing a pillow before we barreled out of the driveway.
“What do we say if she quizzes us on the sermon,” asks Dan.
We try to push the pounding aches in our skulls aside so we can think.
“Maybe we should go get a program to prove we went,” I say cringing at the slight movement of my head. “Or for clues.”
In actuality, we should know exactly what will be said in church. We met in a Catholic K-8, a devout place of learning and worship, a place where Religion class sat firmly between Math and Science, and where weekly mass was mandatory on top of whatever our parents decided to put us through on the “Lord’s Day.” Some of us were allowed to sleep in on Sundays. Some of us wore the “Christmas and Easter Catholics” label with pride. Not me. My mom saw missing a blink of the Sunday word as a crack in the world’s foundation, an erosion of everything sacred and holy and good. To miss church was a stain on the soul and would not be tolerated. She seemed saintly on the outside, what with her delicious home-cooked meals and tidy home, but waking us up that morning was pure evil.
The clock reads 9:50. Church starts in ten minutes. Plenty of time to go snag a program and slip out without any remnants of Jesus—words, flesh, or blood—clinging to us. But that would involve moving.
“We’ll just say Jesus got nailed to the cross again,” Chris breathes out his cracked mouth. “They realized they didn’t do it right the first time.”
We want to laugh, we do, it’s funny, but the fear of pain reduces our joy to sleepy smiles. 
“He just keeps coming back from the dead,” I mutter with my eyes shut. “It’s been 2,000 years and no matter what we do, Jesus just keeps coming back.”
So we sit. And wait. Time moves, but barely. Our hangovers are terrible, but life isn’t. We’re alive, relaxing and waiting for our heads to clear and while we do a few stories sneak in. Some are legends at this point, and others have yet to be written. Thinking about both, I can’t help but smile big.


...


Fourth of July over our lake. 


The cabin, which rested on the edge of a good-sized lake in northern Minnesota, was exactly what a cabin should be: small. It was hugged by split logs of knotty pine stained a reddish-orange that glowed through the trees with the sunrise. There was a medium slope to its a-frame and greenish black shingles lay neatly on top, protecting the panels and beams of more knotty pine inside, which was planed smooth before it all was assembled in ’64. The entrance split an open room in two, the kitchen’s vinyl flooring on the right and the living room’s green and blue carpet to the left. Straight ahead was the sole bathroom, which divided the only two bedrooms. The one facing the lake was my parent’s and the other, which faced the driveway and road, was my sister’s. Above the bath and bedrooms was a loft. Its four mattresses slept my brothers, myself, and any guests we had up for the weekend. The reasons for why we stopped sleeping there on these summer trips could be summed up in one word: volume. We could be louder if we slept in a tent and—a point that became more important in later trips—we could get away with consuming more alcohol.
A fridge in the shed was where my father and his of-age guests sheltered the weekend’s stash. It was common in size, the kind of fridge you’d find in every kitchen in America, but this one stood stocked from top to bottom with booze. Vodka and other hard liquors sat in the freezer. Below, mixers topped the shelves while rows and rows of beer provided a sturdy foundation. It was these rows that yielded a perfect visual effect for the hourly heists.
Beer operations began during the summer before our Sophomore year in high school. The key, as is the key to any secret mission, was to leave no trace, to maintain an appearance that not a single can had been touched. We would memorize the front row, steal from the back, place the spoils in a bag, restore the front row, and casually stroll out of the shed all in under a minute. Three sets of eyes: one to stand watch and two for the take. Every operation was executed with militarist efficiency and speed and the rush was addicting. 


...


"H2Oak", Collegeville, MN.


The 190 proof Everclear was Dan’s contribution. He stole it from his father’s liquor cabinet and smuggled it north in a plastic water bottle. After we downed a shot in the twin-room tent, we headed to the fire.
Limp Bizkit's...    


                          To read PART TWO of 
                "The Boys of Summer" click here

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