Here's the 5th part of "The Boys of Summer," a rehashing of great times with great friends at my parents' lake home. The latest theme is fire, as in campfire, not burning orphanages. So when you see my photos below, don't think I like to burn orphanages. Don't get me wrong, though, I'm wanted in five states for burning buildings, something I enjoy very much, but just not orphanages (mo-rals). Butt seriously, if you missed parts 1-4, you should really start at the beginning. Click here if that's the case: one, two, three, four.
All embers rising from a campfire should be followed with stories, either their telling or making. If you’re not chasing each skyward spark with vowel and consonant combinations, if the air isn’t stabbed with laughter and gestures, insights and “interesting”s, then you’re a disgrace to each branch or leaf that laid down its life to provide you with dramatic lighting and a soundtrack. Every flame is a stripper, some lead with their hips while others are stretching to reveal a hidden curve. All aim to hypnotize you into a calm, where your breath becomes steady and long, preparing you for a dive below the superficial to the deep. Look at the flames. Watch them and fall in love, so that they may seduce your thoughts and your stories onto the stage like dollar bills.
My best campfire story begins the night before the fire was
lit. The players are Chris, Kevin, Mark and myself. Guest appearances include
my brother and his wife.It’s a blustery bitch outside and the rain is preventing our first fire of this trip, so we blanket our sorrows with whiskey. Chris and Kevin trade “Wafters,” or drinks so strong the alcohol wafts from the top as you bring it within a foot of your nose. After a couple, Chris is quickly melting into Drunk Chris.
Drunk
Chris is like The Beast, if The Beast was as stubborn as a diarrhea-ridden asshole that’s been
glued shut. Drunk Chris isn’t a hit. He’s not even fun. He doesn’t trust a soul
and he doesn’t listen to your stories because Drunk Chris doesn’t listen to anyone,
especially those trying to help him.
He
usually slips onto stage unnoticed until the director or players shift the
scene to another location. Tonight, however, Drunk Chris makes a grand
entrance.
The
act begins in the garage of my parent’s lake home, the giant structure that
kicked the old cabin’s ass and booted it off the property. My brother, his
wife, and I are joking back and forth. It’s hushed mingling, a common scene
starter, and actual alcoholic beverages, not props, are in hand. A man, in his
early 20s—hair jelled and spiked, polo shirt tucked into belted cargo
shorts—interrupts with breaking news.
“Chris just fell and hit his head. There's a lot of blood.” It’s Kevin, and he’s pulling off a very serious and scared
look. He’s not a skilled player so we take him for his word.
The lights drop out a second after surprise shocks us indoors.
Scene two has Chris propping
himself against the marble-topped island when the lights come up. One hand
steadies him while the other presses a wad of paper towels against the top of
his head. A small pool of blood rests on the wood floor stage center.
“What the fuck happened,” my
brother asks a second before tearing his shirt off.
Kevin explains that Chris stumbled and smacked his head against a marble covered corner. My brother's using his shirt to clean up the blood on the wood floor. As he later explained, "It's a lot easier to wash blood out of a shirt than removing a stain on the floor." It makes sense, but it also makes me wonder how many people my brother has killed.
I pour a glass of water for Drunk
Chris, knowing full well he may refuse it, and my brother cleans up the puddle
with more paper towels. We try to get Chris to sit down but he refuses. My
brother takes a look at the ruby gash and I follow suit but only long enough
for a manageable bout of dizziness. We guide Chris to the sink where my brother
washes the wound and places a clean paper towel on it for him to hold. A
judgment call is made. He won’t need stitches, but he needs to keep pressure on
it.
Great, Drunk Chris needs to do something.
The imaginary stage crew is clearly doing a fantastic job because when the lights drop and come back up, two podiums sit facing each other stage center. I remind myself to reward them with imaginary gift baskets. The debate begins with a reiteration of the diagnosis
and advised treatment. We promptly take the position that Chris needs to
apply pressure and, for the sake of more than argument, Chris takes the
opposite. A few steamy back-and-forths ensue before a compromise is reached: we’ll find some tape and wrap his head with a makeshift, Rambo-like paper-towel bandage
and Chris will apply pressure. Great, that’s settled.
“He
needs to got to bed,” my brother says.
“No,”
Chris slurs with defiance.
“Dude,
the podiums are gone. We don’t need to argue anymore.”
He
steadies himself and clumsily licks his lips. “No.”
It
takes more cajoling than it should, but I finally tuck him in and rejoin
everyone in the garage.
The
lights drop, the sun rises, and Saturday is upon us.
Our plan is set: take the fishing
boat to the bar across the lake, pick up some ladies (with Rico’s help, of
course), and bring them back to the fire. The greatest part of this plan is
that we don’t need to be sober. We'll be traveling by boat, and as long as we keep an eye out for fisher peoples, we're golden.
We
pound a couple beers, pack a few for the ride over, lower the boat from the
lift and hop in. Chris and Kevin set up the lights to let other boats know of
our presence and I settle into the driver’s bench. I’m playing captain since I
know how to start the thing and where we’re going.
The lake is choppy, a gift of the
strong, northwest wind, but the 50 horses inside the Yamaha engine don’t have a
problem getting us there. The moon is bright and sprinkles itself over the
waves, lighting our way to the bar. Ten minutes later we’re docking the boat
and strolling inside.
We order our beers and strike up a
conversation with a small group of younger lads and ladies. Shots of Jäg are downed, we generate some laughs and 30 minutes
later we’re back in the boat, on our way to our new friend Ashley’s cabin. It’s the perfect
storm for another great story: her parents are out of town, there’s a campfire,
beer, and more people—most importantly—more women.
They give us each a beer and we wedge ourselves
into a group of 15 around the campfire. They’re all in college so “What are you
majoring in”s naturally fill the air. I’m enjoying myself, which means I have at least one thing in common with "Stacy with a 'y'," the cute woman next to me. She's also enjoying me and I put it all together when her foot begins molesting my leg. She was flirting with me back at the bar and she wants it now. Hard. I relapse into a very traumatic experience from freshman year. The Catholic high school I attended had finally gotten around to teaching us about STDs and I scroll through the five or six she probably
has. If I was a few beers deeper, I may have made a trip into one of the empty bedrooms with STDy—err Stacy—but I stay instead, setting the stage for one my greatest performances to date.
A future friend marijuana jumps from person to
person. Chris passes, but Kevin and I oblige. Pause for an interruption to explain something about our players. Chris was the second person I ever smoked weed with because he was experienced and knew how to roll a joint. Kevin, well, Kevin can't stand it when his shirt is untucked. So I was more than surprised (and still am to this day) at who chose to partake and who didn't.
The beer fridge is in the shed—like all beer fridges should be—and Chris is
empty. He winds through the cabin on his way to the promise box and takes an ill-fated wrong turn.
Meanwhile, Kevin and I are in rare form around the
flames, giggling our balls off.
“Why do they call you Bobcat,” asks a bro across
the pit.
To this day, the boys, or at least Chris and Kevin,
call me Bobcat because of a hat I used to wear. I'll spare you the story because it's not that great, but I explain it to the audience.
“They should call you ‘No balls,’” Stacy with a y says. She's clearly upset that I’m ignoring her advances.
“Yes, they also call me ‘Bradlee No Balls.'" My
sarcasm elicits laughter. And the words hang in the humidity for a moment.
“Why do they call you ‘Bradlee No Balls’?” It’s
Broseppi again. He’s got a smile on his face. He wants a story, they all
do, and their eyes are the spotlight I’ve been waiting for, the one I’m always
waiting for.
“Well,” I begin while letting a giggle slip. “It
all started when I was born with bowling balls for hands.” Their smiles feed my
inner thespian. “It was terribly embarrassing as a child. Imagine it for a
second,” My eyes bounce from face to face. “Imagine growing up and not being able to open jars or play catch, to only be good for smashing walnuts at Christmas or knocking on
large wooden doors.” They laugh. “Do you know how hard it is to scratch an itch
when you have fucking bowling balls for hands?!”
They try to imagine it but fail. They don’t know. They don’t know the pain.
“It wasn’t until junior high that an engineer
developed robotic hands.” My voice begins a crescendo for the finale. “My
parents scheduled the surgery.” Louder. “I went under the knife.” Louder still.
“They remove the bowling balls, installed these, and I’m normal.” I begin to
stand. “I suddenly can hold hands with women, flip the bird, do pushups without slipping onto my face, masturbate!" I'm standing on the balls of my feet and screaming. "AND
THAT! IS WHY THEY CALL ME! BRAAAADLEEEEEE NO BALLS!!!”
I don't remember all the details of that night, but I do remember expecting a standing ovation and uproarious laughter, maybe even a showering of roses. Instead, I get Brosicle, who says with wide eyes, “I’m pretty sure the whole lake now knows why you’re called ‘Bradlee No Balls.’”
“Yeah,” says Bropop's understudy. “That was really loud.”
Kevin can’t stop laughing and I join him. We
couldn’t give a rat’s ass what these kids think. We’re baked and having a
blast.
Back inside, Ashley is accusing Chris of sniffing her panties. You can’t make this shit up.
"You're making this shit up."
"I swear to God," Chris recalls.
"Yeah, but was she serious?"
"Dead serious! It was the weirdest fucking thing."
Apparently Ashley's prime side effect of weed is paranoia and when Chris mistakenly turned into her bedroom on his quest for the holy ale, she flipped out on him.
“Hey man,” a manly man says, interrupting the
interrogation. “Your friends are outta control. You gotta get 'em outta here.”
Chris takes a half a second to agree and sneaks
past Ashley. He herds us to the boat. Kevin and I are having a hard time
walking, partly from the booze and pot, but mostly from the fits of giggles we’re
losing to.
“How funny is this,” I ask through tears. “We were
taking care of Chris last night, and tonight he’s taking care of us!”
Kevin erupts.
I’m the only one who knows how to operate the boat
and since we’re aiming for a quick escape, I’m guided to the
helm. We’re reversing slowly away from shore when Ashley runs onto the dock and
starts screaming at us.
“Don’t hit the boat lift! Don’t hit the boat lift!”
We’re not worried. Boat Lift isn't worried either. Because we’re at least 15 feet away from each other.
The ride back to the cabin is less than straight,
but the order from the captain is to scope with vigilance for any boats in our
path. No lake star gazers are out and we travel the mile in five seconds flat, drunk time. We slow to a near stop 30 yards out from the lift.
“Guys,” I say. “Two things.” Giggle. “One, you need
to help me get this thing into the lift.” Giggle snort. “And two, we gotta keep it down because we can’t give my parents the slightest idea that we’re as fucked up as
we are.”
The
wind and my level of intoxication are making it difficult to put the boat to
bed. But on the fifth try, we guide it in with the delicate clumsiness previously reserved for drunk banging. And
approximately one second later we're in front of the campfire, throwing quiet to the wind, and acting out the insanity of the night.
Stay tuned for the next installment of "The Boys of Summer." It may not be for a while because I have to serve time for burning an orphanage (thanks for putting that in my brain, assholes!).
