Apparently the dock was a pretty great place to take photos.
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 “Nookie” filled the air and was bringing out all kinds of crazy we didn’t
know was inside of us. Mark was
wailing on a rake for effect. Chris was head banging while opening a beer.
I was stoking the fire and giving it my best Fred Durst. And Dan was slurring
his speech.
“Dan, you alright?”
He said something none of us could
understand. We looked at each other. There’s no way someone, even drinkers as
green as us, could get that drunk off a shot of Everclear and half a beer. We
settled on the explanation of Mark’s glance. He’s faking it.
He had all the tell tale signs. The
tone in his voice went up, a tactic stolen straight from a poorly-acted
Western. His eyes weren’t glassy. And his gestures were too wild and frequent
for it to be real. So of course he would elevate the role by falling off the
bench. Hitting his head on a log from the woodpile was all part of it as well. And so was
the groan. But the blood was real.
We rushed
over, still not believing he was actually drunk. But if he was faking it, his
performance was Oscar worthy. Any normal teenage boy with face to save would’ve
dropped the girlish tone and slurred speech.
“Just
kidding, guys. Fuck, did that hurt!”
But that’s not what he said. What
he actually said cannot be typed here because it was incomprehensible. His
annunciation wasn’t the only unstable thing. His legs were wobbly and it took
two of us to bring him back to the tent. The third began implementing operation
drunk tent.
The bleeding had stopped and we
weren’t about to let a lightweight ruin our fun. So in a matter of minutes we
had set up a smaller tent off to the side for Dan to rest in. We grabbed him a
bottle of actual water, a bucket for the puke he was threatening us with, and a
pillow. We laid Dan inside and listened a bit to his gibberish, holding back
the giggles as we instructed him on when and how to use the bucket. We showed
him the water and headed back to the fire.
To this day we have no idea if Dan
was faking it or not. Maybe he didn’t want to feel the heat we’d give him if he
stopped drinking. Maybe he wanted the attention. Or maybe the Everclear fucked
him up right good. At any rate, the rest of us did a hell of a job catching up
that night.
...
Music
was a staple for those weekend escapes, whether we unleashed it from our lungs
on the ride up, or jump-jived it into the dirt around the campfire. It was
rare, but it even boarded with us when we took the boat out for a spin on the
lake.
The set up wasn’t simple but it
worked: momma boombox with child Discman, joined by the umbilical tape adapter.
Discman was weaned for MiniDisc, which allowed us to record mixes. This was before the days of burning music to CDs. Then Diamond Rio was added to
the family. It was a brand-new device called an “Mp3 Player,” which held a
total of 7-9 songs—or 32KB—that you could download off the Internet. This was
revolutionary, especially since we were getting all our music for free from a
program called Napster. No longer were the days of hauling around a giant case
of CDs. The future was here. It was 1999.
Hard rock and “alternative” were
topping our playlists. Disturbed. Foo Fighters. Metallica. And yes, even Creed.
Incubus was breaking out, new Rage Against the Machine was on the charts, but
one song will forever be ingrained into our skulls, whether we want it there or
not.
Chris
had taken to “Summer Girls” by LFO like no other. We enjoyed the song, don’t
get us wrong, we sang along, we danced, but he was obsessed.
Yup.
“Nooooo!
Not again,” we’d say, pleading with him to take his finger off the back button.
But he’d press it, and we’d listen to it for the fourth time in a row, and we’d
sing along, but with melting enthusiasm. With each, “New Kids On The Block had
a bunch of hits,” we became more and more sick of the song, sinking deeper into
our lawn chairs. “When will it end,” we asked each other with knowing glances.
The second we hid the fucking CD from him. That’s when.
…
And if you missed part one, finish your beer and click click here.
