Kicks

Kicks


Summer before freshman year. This definitely was a high point in my life so far. I had just tackled Jr. High at St. Augusta Middle School, and passed with flying colors. Oh, man, St. Augusta was good times. Me and my buddies Chris and Mike ruled that school with an iron fist. Basically, we were the coolest kids in all of our 24 member graduating class. I can still remember it: I was the only one of us three that the teachers liked for some reason. The faculty had the idea that Joe and Jake were delinquents, which they were, but there was some fierce injustice going down there, let me tell you.
Without question, Jake and I were still going to be awesome pals into high school. We were both going to the same private, Catholic institute, after all, but I didn’t know about Joe. He was going to the local public outfit, and it looked like I wasn’t going to see much of him from here on out.
So it would follow that I’d jump on a chance to hang out with Joe and Jake, over the summer, right? Right. Just making sure you were paying attention.
It’s a sleepover, actually. That’s the plan. Sleep over at Joe’s house, eh? It’d be awesome. We’d walk the streets of Green Town like the awesome guys we were. In fact, we’d rule that town just like we ruled St. Augusta.
I might want to mention that St. Augusta is a pitifully small private Catholic middle school. We had twenty four kids in our graduating class. If I’ve let you down now that Joe, Jake and I ruled such a small number of subjects, I’m sorry, but what’s done is done.
I might also want to mention that stuff doesn’t happen at St. Augusta. You probably got the low down at all your big shiny public schools where you write on white boards instead of chalk and every other teacher hasn’t taken Holy vows. You know, the standard stuff. I heard about it at all the public schools in Minnesota. I had friends who went to them. You know, by sixth grade kids are grinding at the parties and come eighth grade you get those two girls who ‘experimented’ with their own homemade sex tape. Plus, the pot heads emerge. You know your school has pot heads if anyone wears hemp. You think I’m kidding? I’m dead serious. And not to bash on hippies by any stretch of the imagination, but they produce some of the most legendary stoners and dealers. And that’s not a bad thing necessarily. It can be great. You can learn the arts of running basic illegal operations before you even get into high school.
In short, the more kids attend a school, the more of a hedonistic stew it becomes. And if we paid attention in geometry at all, the transitive property of something or rather means that St. Augusta was a pretty freakin’ safe place as far as drugs, alcohol and sex go. Hell, they even send the problem kids here. We got Kelly Turner back in seventh grade because she got caught with something other than water in her water bottle one too many times in the public system. But I ramble.
The point is, I had never even seen drugs. Not on the internet, not in person, not nothing. And I assumed that Joe and Jake were squeaky clean like me.
But whatever.


It was cool for a summer day. Basically, cool enough that I didn’t have to worry about my T-Shirt pitting out after staying outside too long. Really exceptional weather for a Minnesota summer day. I packed up for Joe’s house and headed on over right after lunch. I met the perpetually smiling Mrs. Anderson at the door and passed into the basement. Joe and Jake were taking turns at Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.
“Dude,” Joe said.
“Dude,” Jake said.
“Dude,” I said.
And I sat down on the couch and watched them play. I had never played GTA before, but as I suspected, it’s pretty much how the world would be if stereotypical macho men got to run the show. You know, the lawless town where you blow stuff up, steal stuff, bang hookers. All fun and games, etc. To be honest, I hade never even played an M rated game before. My parents wouldn’t let me near the stuff. But here it was, GTA, and sure enough, I got a turn.
I laughed at my clumsy character and his Rambo antics. The game was really sloppy for being a best seller. It’s kind of like ‘The Da Vinci Code,’ where the mastermind behind both decided to just cram as much controversy down our throats as possible and call it their work. But anyway, Joe had all the cheats turned on, so I just got to run around and shoot whatever I wanted. I laughed pretty hard: it was hilarious. This little pixilated dude was jogging around town with an automatic rifle and just killing anyone who looked at him wrong. I mean, seriously…
“Man, I think you’re having a little too much fun with this game,” said Jake.
“Well, you…can go cut your hair,” I said.
Since I haven’t mentioned it before, Jake pretty much looks like Sampson from the Bible. That is, he hasn’t cut his hair in forever, and if you cut it now, he’d probably loose all his powers. He’s also Indian, as in from India, not the Native American type. One time a girl asked what tribe he was from, though. She probably perished in the ensuing aurora of awesome that radiated from Jake.
Joe, on the other hand, was a Swede. We get that a lot up here in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. Joe played hockey, even though he’s only about five feet tall.
And I am the 6’2” Irish man who wears his hair to the side, thank you please come again.


We left Joe house at around one and headed for the single intersection that comprises most of Green Town. You may think that sucks, but it’s pretty awesome, really. It’s like having an entire city and your disposal expect they cut out all the bad parts and leave you with this one single intersection of Godliness. There’s a hardware store, there’s a grocery store, there’s a malt shop, and two gas stations. And a bunch of abandoned buildings. I mean, seriously, can you ask for more?
To kick off festivities, we hung out behind an old, 80s style office building and…Jake broke out a pack of cigarettes. Well, I mean, I kind of expected this, only in a way that meant I didn’t really expect this at all. He yoinked a lighter and lit the stick up.
“Ahh,” he said.
Not to be outdone, Joe, produced a pipe from his pocket. Apparently, the kid had a talent for whittling I didn’t know about. His two piece pipe was probably constructed out of a stick he found in his back yard. I, trying to be cool about all of this, decided to venture an obviously intelligent question.
“Dude?”
“Dude, what?” said Joe.
“Oh, I was just wondering where’s your, erm, chewing tobacco.” Then, “…is it easier to buy than cigarettes?”
“Not really, man, no,” Joe said. “Most of the hardcore tobacco stores are really strict about carding.”
“Then how do you smoke that thing?”
“Like this,” he said. He took a cigarette out from his own pack. He cut of the end with a knife and started squeezing the tobacco into the pipe. Lighting that thing was tricky, but Joe pulled it off.
“Is that good at all?” said Jake.
“Yeah, man, but its unfiltered. That’s the problem.”
“Ooooooh. Yeah, that shit’s gonna be real bad for you Joe.”
“Ah, whatever. But you know, it does kinda suck.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, probably the biggest drawback to smoking is that if you trying running, even for a short time, you start wheezing and stuff. Like, jog jog jog— Oh shit I can’t breath no more. Like that.”
“Hey guys, what’s up?”
Brian came around the back of the building. He was short like Joe, but fatter, basically. He was all smiles and wearing his hardware store T shirt.
“Hey, mah hobres, just got offa work.” There were a couple high fives exchanged. “Who’s this?”
“Oh man,” said Jake, “Brian hasn’t met Pat yet! Brian, this is Pat, our co-conspirator in all of our St. Augusta-ruling activities. Pat, this is Brian.”
“Hey, man,” I said. We shook hands. “What’s up?”
“Not a whole lot, not a whole lot,” Brian said. “Man, I think Jake was right about you: you definitely look hung like a horse.”
I laughed. “Haha, man you said that?”
“Hell yeah,” said Jake. “You’re definitely up there. You’d be the number one guy I’d suspect to have a monster wang.”
“Oh well, you know,” I mused. “Pretty much. It’d probably drop to the floor if I let it out. For casual wear, I have to wrap it around my leg.” The kids chuckled..
“Do you ever think that personalities correlate to penis size at all?” said Jake. “Like really reserved people are really small, and like that.”
“Oh no way,” I said. “You know John Kauser, right?”
“Oh man, don’t get me started on him.”
“That kid’s probably nothing.”
Hey, not so bad. I was fitting in, after all.
“Hey, man, JJ said he’d meet us at the hardware store. He had to pick something up, I think,” said Brian.
“Dude, let’s go.” And go we went.
The hardware store of Green Town is pretty much like any other hardware store you’ll find in any town. No profound or significant statement there, I just wanted to tell you. And like all hardware stores, they had long plastic tubes that were sought after by white kids who wore dreadlocks. If you were a zoologist, you’d probably categorize this type of kid as the Juvenalis Jepordatis, or JJ for short. In any case, JJ was after a plastic tube, for what I didn’t know. All I knew about JJ was that he a lot of bandages on his hands. Like a mummy. He didn’t say much, just bought the tube and went outside to chill with Joe, who had a small order for us: an inch of screen for his pipe’s filter.
“You know, man, there is so much stuff here you can use,” said Brian.
Use? “Why did JJ want that tube anyway?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Jake. He lowered his voice. “It’s his bong.”
“Oh.” What the hell was a bong? “I get it.”
“Yeah, JJ’s a bong guy,” said Brian. The sound of Christian rock drifted through the store’s speakers. “What is this, fuckin’ Creed?”
“Hey, man, don’t fuckin’ dis Creed,” said Jake. “They’re like, what got me into rock.”
“Whatever, man. Hey, this one time, at Great Harvest, the guy said he’d give me a free loaf if I could guess what song was playing, and I got it. ‘Street Fighting Man’ by the Rolling Stones.”
“Yeah,” I said. “They do have great bread.” They did. I mean, I ate it.
We got to the screen and it turns out they only sell it by the square yard for ninety five cents. So anyway, we walk up to the counter and Joe had given Jake about five bucks for the screen. Jake bought the filter, but hung around the front of the store.
“I wanna steal some candy,” he said, “but the stuff is too close to the counter.”
“Yeah, man,” I said. “Maybe some other time.”


It was when we left the hardware store that I was introduced to the concept of the ‘Indian Run.’ Also called ‘Traffic Dodging’ in certain cultures, this ritual involved running across the street with your arms raised and screaming like an idiot as you hope the drivers swerving to avoid you aren’t sadistic. We all took turns, and I have to admit, it was pretty fun. We got across the street and I heard a small symphony of wheezes and coughs, but the Brian, Joe, Jake and JJ were up and going again in a few seconds.
“What’re we doing now?” I asked.
Joe looked around, then at each of us. “All right,” he said. I didn’t want to leave you guys in the dark about this, but I had to.” We all looked at him eagerly. “Tonight,” he said, “the greatest act of anti-authority ever will be done.” He spoke in his ominous narrator voice. If I was less of a man, I’d say I heart is ominous narrator voice. However, seeing as I’m not, I’d say it was pretty cool.
“The act,” continued Joe, “will be to throw the biggest party Green Town has ever seen, on the place no one will suspect.”
Large parties? Green Town? This was already sounding a little inconsistent to me. But whatever.
“What’re we gonna do?” said JJ, awed by Joe’s presence.
“We,” said Joe, “are going to hijack the Green Town Yacht Club.”
Silence.
“How…” said Jake, “the…fuck are we gonna do that?”
“I’ve taken care of everything already today. I have an inside man.”
“Inside man?”
“His name is Bryce. I sail with him sometimes. He’s going for a late race tonight and he’ll be there when they lock up. He’s assured me. He’s either going to hide in the bathroom and call me, or unlock a door on the way out and call me. When I get his call, gentlemen, the Club will be ours.”
“When’re we gonna get this call?” said Brian.
“When he’s ready. Until then we got some time to kill, but tonight, it’s gonna be a party.”
“Dude, do you have any goods for this shindig?” said Jake.
“Oh, man, don’t you worry. I have a guy who’s got all the hookups. We’re talking…well, you’ll see.”
“Sweet, man, I’m down,” said JJ.
“Dude I’m totally fuckin’ down,” said Brian.
“Yeah, man, down as hell,” said Jake.
“What about you, Pat, are you down?” said Joe.
Well fuck. Now here I am, torn between seriously fucking myself up with drugs, or seriously fucking myself up by ditching my two best friends. I’m going into high school next year kids, and it’s not like I know a whole lot of people at this new school. Seriously, Jake is pretty much it. At this moment, I’d like to thank whoever’s charge of fate, be it God or whoever. You’ve got a fuckin’ sense of irony, man. Fucking hilarious.
“I’m down,” I said.
“Sweet!” said Joe. “I knew you’d be down. This is gonna fuckin’ rock.”
“Okay, okay, what’re we gonna do until then?” I said.
“We’re gonna have fuckin’ fun. What else do we do?” said Joe.
“Dude, let’s go to the fuckin’ park!” said JJ.
“To the fuckin’ park!” said Brian.
“The fuckin’ park!” said Joe.
“For Frodo!” said Jake.
“The park,” I said.

You know how I said JJ has bandages on his hands sorta like a mummy? Well, it turns out, JJ really sucks at whittling. I mean really. Ever try to walk and whittle? JJ did. And he cut himself while doing it. The only finer he hadn’t bandaged that day was his left pinky finger. And, I swear to God I don’t know how anyone could cut their pinky whittling, but to be fair, we’re talking about fucking JJ here.
So JJ was bleeding and bitching and apparently he needed a band aid for his cut, so Jake and Brian split off to go to JJ’s house. They said they’d be back to the park in a bit. So it was just Joe and I then.
We sat on the swings. Some parents and their four year olds were buzzing around the playground, so Joe didn’t light up a cig. We kicked the wood chips.
“So,” said Joe, “how’s your life with the ladies?”
“Ladies?” I said.
“Well, yeah, man. The ladies. You’re Patrick Tellerman, after all, hung like a horse. How’re the ladies?”
“Well, I have a girlfriend.”
“Sweet. What’re her name?”
“Molly.”
“That’s cool. How long?”
“Two months.”
“How far have you gone with her?”
I had to pause to recollect my knowledge of the bases. “I think second.”
“You think second?”
“Well, yeah, people have different definitions of the bases, you know?”
“Yeah, alright, you tell me what you think the bases are and then I’ll tell you what I think they are.”
“Okay. First I thought was hugging or holding hands. Second was making out, third was oral and home was all the way.”
“Oh yeah, I know them a little different. First is making out, second is feeling them up, third is oral or fingering and home is sex.”
“Oh. Yeah. How far have you gotten?”
“Second by my standards.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, man, not really.”
“How…?”
“Well, it was like this man. There was a football game up at the high school. I was talking to this one girl, and she was horny, and I was horny, so we made out behind the bleachers. That’s the only time I’ve gotten any, actually.”
“Wait, so that was your first kiss?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t remember her name?”
“Dude, I don’t think we even told each other our names.”
Wow. “Yeah, that’s cool.”
There was a pause. “Haha, hey you remember Becky?”
“Our own authentic school Brit. How could I forget?”
“Well guess what? She’s fuckin’ hilarious when she’s drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“Oh yeah, a real freak.”
“What’s she doing these days?”
“Well she’s dating Andrew Kline.”
“Andrew Kline?”
“Yeah, I know! She went to fuckin’ second base with that kid.
“Andrew Kline?”
“I know! Fuckin’ Kline! He’s a fat ass!”
“And wait a minute, isn’t she like, best friends with Jenny Kline?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“That would be awkward.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Hey, is that Nick?”
“Yeah…”
Nick appeared on the walking path. Joe got up. I followed. The three of us converged and headed for the patch of pine trees in the middle of the park.
“So what’s been happening?” said Brian.
“Not much,” said Joe. “We were just talking about girls and shit.”
“Yeah, that’s cool. I do love me some ladies.”
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Over here to the woods,” said Brian. As soon as we were under cover of trees, Brian pulled out his cigs. Joe took one. They lit up. An adult passed through their line of sight.
“Jeez, isn’t there any safe place to underage smoke anymore?” said Brian.
I laughed. “So do you guys smoke pot too?”
“Yeah, me and Brian do,” said Joe. “We’re not like Jake or JJ with pot though. They’re fucking stoners. By the way, what happened to those two?”
“They wanted to hang at JJ’s a little more. I got bored. I didn’t want to hang around JJ’s house.”
“Why?” I asked.
“JJ’s dad is a fucking stoner. Like, seriously,” said Brian.
“He smokes?”
“Yeah, he has his own bong. That’s probably where JJ got his habit from. The funny thing is that JJ’s dad gets pissed whenever he catches JJ smoking pot. He’ll yell at him for being such a dipshit, then he’ll turn around and go back to his bong.”
“Oh.”
“The important thing, I think,” said Joe, “is that you don’t let pot take over your life. I mean, Brian and I, we smoke put, but it’s only now and then.”
“Yeah,” said Brian. “JJ and Jake…they just fuckin’ smoke ‘til they can’t stand.”
“I dunno. Pat,” said Joe, “Have you noticed a difference in Jake at all?”
Well, now that they mentioned it, I kinda had. “Sorta, like, I mean he used to be real sharp and everything, if you mispronounced a word or something he’d point it out to you. But he kind of makes those mistakes himself now…”
“Yeah, man. There’s definitely a balance you gotta have,” said Brian. “It’s like I said, pot and all the other shit you can take can fuckin’ ruin your life if you’re not careful. Actually, it’s kind of impressive that you don’t do any.”
“What?”
“Well, you know,” said Brian. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t smoke. It’d make some things a lot easier, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “I know I’m probably gonna quit at least smoking sometime soon. The shit’s expensive.”
“Hey, guys!” It was Jake and JJ. JJ had his final finger fitted with a fresh white band aid.
“Dude!” hollered Jake. “You wanna go hit up at St. Augusta? Tom’s gonna be there!”
“Tom?” said Joe. “Fuck yeah!”


The playground of St. Augusta consisted of a shiny new plastic set of slides, tunnels and monkey bars plus a long set of ancient looking swings. I’m told they only had enough money to replace the former part of the playground. I guess the contrast worked nicely.
We arrived at St. Augusta come sunset. The sky was red and the playground was dimly lit. You know what that means…
“Dude, gimme a cig,” said JJ.
That’s right folks. The notorious Tom hadn’t arrived yet, so we all just sorta hung out on the swings and smoked cigs. Except for me.
You know, by this point, I’ve probably inhaled so much second hand smoke that I might’ve have well been smoking. But whatever.
“You know what’s cool, man?” said Jake.
“What?” said Joe.
“I think I’m finally getting the hang of getting the buzz out of cigarettes.”
“Yeah?”
“You know, when you take a drag you get that buzz. I think I’ve mastered it.”
“That’s sweet, dude.”
“You know what else?” Jake continued. “I’ve always wondered if it’s possible to smoke an entire cig with one drag.”
“No way, man,” said Brian.
I was feeling kind of left out at this point because I didn’t have anything interesting to contribute to the conversation about drugs and cigarettes. So I went with the flow.
“Try it, dude,” I ventured.
“Dude, yeah!” said JJ. “Go for it Jake!”
“Alright, alright man, gimme a fresh cig,” said Jake. Brian hooked him up. “And a light.” JJ hooked him up. “Alright, here…we…go!”
Jake took the deepest breath his tar coated lungs could muster, then he inhaled like there was no tomorrow. Needless to say, he didn’t inhale the whole cigarette in one go; he may’ve gotten a centimeter, but that was it.
Jake fell off the swing and rolled to the ground, coughing and struggling for air. “Ahhhhhhh-eeeeeeeeee…fuck…” he wheezed.
Apparently, this was hilarious. Joe, Brian and JJ were laughing like there was no fuckin’ tomorrow. I started laughing too. I don’t know why.
“Hey.”
A slender figure shuffled up to us out of the darkness. He wore a plaid collared shirt unbuttoned and a blue T shirt under it. His dirty blond hair fell to his neck. His hands were in his pockets.
“Tom!” said Joe.
“Hey, guys, what’s happenin’?” said Tom. He drew one of his own cigs and lit it up. “Anything awesome go down tonight?”
“Not a whole lot yet,” said Joe, “but I’ll tell you what’s gonna go down.”
“What?”
“There’s gonna be the party of the century tonight at the Green Town Yacht Club.”
“Dude, the Yacht Club? How the hell are you gonna get in there?”
“I’ve got my man,” said Joe. “It’s going down tonight. You down?”
“Fuck yeah, you know I’m always down,” said Tom.
“Sweet dude.” Joe and Tom grabbed each other’s hands and embraced in what I like to call, ‘The Ghetto Hug.’ It was about then that I realized…
“Wait a minute, Tom Jones?” I said.
Tom froze. Recognition dawned on his race. “Tellerman? Is that you?”
“Yeah man! I can’t believe it!” I said. “Moose Jones! You were a tank in football. You really slimmed down, man!”
“Oh yeah, man. I quit football though. Now I guess I do…less appropriate things.” Brian and JJ laughed.
“I hate to ruin the family reunion,” said Joe, “but we’re running low on cigs here. You up for a cig run, Tom?”
“Fuck yeah,” said Tom. “Any fuckin’ time.”
“Dude,” Jake said aside to me, “this kid is either really stupid, or has incredible balls. You should see the shit this kid pulls. He does cig runs like nobody’s business.” I looked at Tom. He was talking to JJ, regaling some tale and making dramatic hand motions. I believed it.

You know when I said that the one intersection that contained most of Green Town had a lot of abandoned buildings? Understatement of the year. Except for about five, every building was abandoned. And coincidentally, the back of abandoned buildings makes a great place to smoke cigarettes.
It seemed that the choice spot was behind this old building with a loading dock. You could sit on the loading dock if you wanted, there was some foam on the loading dock where you could stick the cigarette butts…you know, an underage smoker’s paradise. Not to mention, it was right by the local BP: choice gas station to make cigarette runs. And this Tom did right now.
The rest of us just sat around the loading dock and smoked (except, like always, me). Joe had his pipe going again.
“Dude,” said JJ, “if Tom doesn’t get any cigs, why don’t we just break out some fuckin’ pot?”
“Chill, dude,” said Joe. “We’re saving that for tonight.”
“Oh yeah man, good point,” said JJ. “I’ve only got a couple ounces left anyway.”
“You know,” said Jake, “this is really a fuckin’ sausage fest here.”
I looked about. Five guys, no girls. Definite sausage fest.
“Yeah, man,” sighed JJ. “Hey, Brian, you remember that one time when we were smoking pot with Molly and Derrick?”
“Yeah, man!”
“And Molly took a huge drag, and then she grabbed Derrick and exhaled down his throat?”
“Oh man,” said Jake.
“Hottest thing ever,” said Joe.
“So what’re we gonna do about are extreme lack of chicks at the moment?” said Jake.
“Well, there’s gonna be lots of girls at the party…” said Joe.
“Hey, dude,” said Jake, “let’s call up Becky! Brian, you’ve got here number, right?”
“Yeah man, right here.” Brian dialed. “Hello? Becky? Yeah, this is Brian….hey we were just wonderin’ if you wanted to come hang out with us and get drunk or somethin’…who? There’s me, JJ, Joe, Jake, Tom, and Pat…yeah…really?....uh huh…okay…okay, no prob…alright, later.”
“What’d she say?” said Jake.
“Well,” said Brian. “She couldn’t make it.”
“Dude, that’s it?”
“Well…alright, I’ll tell you as long as you don’t tell her.”
“What?”
“She said she didn’t want to hang out if you and Pat were there.”
I always hated that chick anyway.
“Dude, fuckin’ weak!” said Jake. “What a bitch. You know what, dude, c’mere, gimme your phone.” Brian obliged. “Alright…Becky, Becky, Becky…here.” Jake dialed. “Dude, shit…she turned off here phone…okay, no problem…I’ll leave a message…Hey, Becky, this is Jake. Fuck you ya fuckin’ square!” He hung up.
As expected, everyone was laughing. I was genuinely laughing too this time. It’s the kind of joy you can only get through sadistic behavior, you know?
“Dude, dude,” said Joe still laughing, “gimme the phone.”
He too got the answering machine. “Hey, Becky, this is Joe. Fuck you ya fuckin’ square!” Hilarity ensued for us again. I’m not sure I could ever explain how funny this was, but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. It was pretty funny.
JJ and Brian followed suit, and soon, just like a group joint, the phone was passed around to me. I thought about dialing for a moment, wondering what consequences there could possibly be. Then I thought, ‘Fuck it.’ I might as well live life a little.
“Hey, Becky, this is Pat.” I paused and took a deep breath. “Fuck you ya fuckin’ square!”
Everyone erupted. Here was the straight shooter, the shy guy, letting a little steam off. For a second, I felt like a fuckin’ god.
We were still laughing when Tom came back from his cig run. Jake asked him if he got any goods. Matt responded by opening up his shirt and revealing no less than ten packs of cigs. Jubilation that no Surgeon General’s Warning could ever suppress followed. We were rolling again.
This time it was to Tom’s house. We were talking about that kid’s amazing ability to always come away with cigs when we arrived. We didn’t go into the house, hell no. We went into the basement, straight from its backyard entrance. Down there was the most godly set of drums I’d ever seen and a guitar with a string missing.
“Dude, JJ!” said Tom. “Jam sesh!”
And jam they did, Tom pounding his drums with a fervor and JJ playing his funky guitar. I enjoyed their music, but it was mostly Tom’s drums that I heard through the mayhem. Oh, have I told you yet? Tom’s basement was a fifteen by fifteen cement cube, with rugs hanging from the walls. What wasn’t covered with rugs was covered was plastered with AC/DC posters. After jamming for a while, JJ and Tom struck up a tune. It was one I recognized. It was “What You Do For Money Honey?” by AC/DC themselves. I could just barely hear JJ’s howl over the cacophony of sound.
“Honey…what you do for money…honey…what you do for money…ohhh, whaddya do for money, honey, how do you get your kicks? Whaddya do for money, honey, how do you get your licks?”

My ears were still ringing whilst we were walking away from Tom’s house. Someone said something about that call to the Yacht club. Or something like that. Joe said he got a text message saying it was almost time. Alright…almost fuckin’ time…
The boys lit up there cigs again. We kept walking, walking. I didn’t have a clue where we were going. I was a little tipsy after the jam session and I was a little tired.
Joe took another drag. He exhaled, and then looked contemplative. “Hey, man,” he said to me, “you wanna hit?”
‘You wanna hit?’ Three most fuckin’ scary words in my life. For a hanging moment, I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to say. Half of me was screaming, ‘No, man, you’re just gonna get yourself fucked up!’ and the other half was screaming ‘You turn this shit down now and you’re never gonna hang out with Joe and Jake again! You think they’re gonna bring you to the fuckin’ Yacht Club so you can watch them smoke?’ My mind hung in mid air for a moment. You know the time when you throw a bowling ball up real high and then it pauses just a moment before crashing down? That’s the feeling, except when I say bowling ball I mean my brain.
“Yeah, man, sure,” I said. He passed me the cig. I took a deep breath, a d took a drag, everyone watching me. Halfway into my lungs my body rejected the smoke and I coughed. The shit tasted horrible.
“Heh heh, that’s it, man,” Joe patted my back. “Just give it a minute, you’ll like it.”
How the fuck did anyone manage to smoke anything? “Yeah man,” I gasped. I took another hit. It came a little easier this time, but I still hacked on the shit. But as I kept smoking that son of a bitch, it got easier and easier. Finally, on my third cig, I was blowing smoke out my nose and enjoying it. I felt cool, fuckin’ awesome man. Real. Fucking. Cool.

The notorious Green Town cemetery was on the way to the beach. We stopped there since time wasn’t pressing and walked among the dead. It was eerily silent. Jake started looking at grave markers.
“Hey look, Joe, this guy’s George Anderson,” said Jake. “And look, here’s a Joe, right here.”
“Haha, that shit’s hilarious, man,” said Joe. “I see a Jake!”
“Dude, there’s a fuckin’ JJ here, man!” said JJ. “Right here: Jonathan Jones.”
“Hey, a Jones? Let me see,” said Tom.
I took a deep drag. It was depressing as hell.

When we got to the beach, Joe still hadn’t gotten the call from his contact Bryce to begin the party. But, never fear, JJ to the rescue!
“Dude, as long as we’re waiting here, let’s have a fuckin’ golf ball party!”
“Golf ball party?” I said.
“Oh man, I’ve heard about these,” said Jake. “I’ve always wanted to try one.”
“They’re pretty fuckin’ awesome,” said JJ. “But, uhh…does anyone have any golf balls and clubs on them?”
There was a silence that collectively said, ‘Well, fuck.’ Then Joe struck inspiration.
“Hey, man! Bryce left his car here!” said Joe. “He told me to bring stuff for golf ball parties. It’s still in there.” He found Bryce’s maroon sedan. “Fuck, it’s locked. Hey, JJ, you still got that hook on you?”
“Oh yeah, man, right here.” JJ tossed Joe a slender piece of metal with a hooked end.
“Thanks, man,” said Joe. He went to work and slid the hook down the window on the driver’s side by the lock. He prodded the interior a bit before hitting his mark. He pulled up, and sure enough, the door unlocked. He tossed the hook back to JJ.
“Why do you have something like that?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” said JJ. “Sometimes if I need a little extra dough I steal a car or two. Just every now and then, you know.”
“Oh yeah, man,” I said. “I know.”
Joe popped the trunk and retrieved several irons and buckets of golf balls. He locked the car up again and started carrying the gear onto the sandy beach. We followed him. Once Joe was halfway to the water, he set down the buckets and dropped the clubs.
“Dude,” he said. “Let’s fuckin’ do it!”
It turns out the goal of a golf ball party is to hit golf balls into the lake. Bonus points if you nail any of the sailboats parked in the harbor. I had golfed before, and I was feeling high from my fifth cig and the whole atmosphere, so I joined the fun. I took a five iron and crushed a shot onto the deck of a boat. I was cheered, praised. Tellerman’s got the skills, man. Tellerman’s sweet as hell, man.
Headlights suddenly clicked on. A police car was on patrol. He was driving up to the beach.
“Dude, cigs out! Cigs out!” whispered Joe. I took one more deep drag then buried my cig in the sand. Everyone did likewise.
“Shit, what’re we gonna do about the golf stuff?” I whispered.
“Kick sand on it!” whispered Joe. “Start walking this way!”
We ditched the golf gear and stated walking away from the scene of the crime. As expect, we started to casually walk by the cop car. Only, the car stopped. The window rolled down.
“Evening gentlemen,” said the middle aged man in blue. “What’re you up to tonight.”
“Nothing much, officer,” said Joe. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m doing alright,” the man said. He paused. “Say, what’s the golf club for, there, young man?” Everyone looked at JJ, who was still holding his golf club.
“Fuck,” said Joe under his breath.
“Oh, yeah…” said JJ, just realizing what a dipshit he was. “It’s my walking stick.” He put the handle on the ground and leaned on the club. “See?”
“Mhmm,” said the officer. “Well, you boys have a nice night, now, y’here?”
“Yes, sir,” was the collective response. The cop drove away.
“Jesus Christ, JJ, you shit head!” screamed Joe. “Tell me, what the fuck does ‘kick sand on the golf stuff’ mean? You douche, you could’ve gotten us all busted!”
“Relax, man,” said JJ. “No harm done.”
“Fuckin’ JJ…” said Joe. A cell phone went off. Joe answered it. “Hello? Alright.” He hung up.
“It’s go time.”

Calls were made. A lot of calls. It seemed to me that Joe knew everyone and their mother in a fifteen mile radius that could attend this party. And let me tell you, they all sounded pretty enthusiastic on the other line.
I was on my seventh cig, and finished my eighth by the time everyone was called. When Joe finally hung up for the final time, he grabbed the golf ball gear and walked along the shore a little while, us following him. Finally, Joe stopped and dug through the bushes and trees.
“Here it is, guys, give me a hand you fat asses.”
We all dug in and started hauling what turned out to be a metal rowboat, complete with oars. We hauled that fucker into the water and let it splash.
“Alright,” said Joe. “You all can see the Club from here.” Indeed we could. The club itself was a man made island only a mile off shire in the bay. I looked out at it. Lights were turning on. “So here’s what you do. Get in this bad boy and row it. I’m going to wait here on the beach and receive all our other gracious guests. When you’re there, Jake, row that mother fucker back.
“Got it,” said Jake.
“Now get going,” said Joe. “Bryce will meet you there. Help him set everything up.”
We all piled in the little rowboat and I got on the rows. We shoved off and I started rowing my way to the little island that was the Club out in the bay. I got some cheers for my work on the oars, some called me a ‘horse,’ a ‘beast,’ etc. You know the drill.
It wasn’t that long of a row, just enough to break a sweat. It was harder than I expected though, probably due to my recent cig binge. When I pulled us up to the plastic docks on the club, JJ, Brian and Jake hopped out and gave me a hand up. Tom stayed in the boat.
“I’ll row it back to shore,” he said. “I’ll give Pat a break.”
I gave him my thanks and walked up the dock to the beautifully tended lawn at the Club. There were rows of 420s and Lasers, as well as a few X Boats parked at the dock. Off to the side, the Prams, which I usually call bathtubs with a sail, were stacked on top of each other. Lights were on inside.
A slender figure wearing only a bathing suit wandered out the front door.
“You guys with Joe?” he called.
“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ right we’re with Joe,” said Jake. “You Bryce?”
“Damn straight,” said Bryce. “C’mon in, I need a little help here.”
JJ, Jake and Brian piled in the front doors and I began to follow. I stopped at the doorstep and looked around. It was quiet. There were no boats on the lake, or at least in the bay. Crickets were constantly chirping. I lit up another cig.
The main hall of the club was filled with tables and chairs. I noticed there was a clutter of stuff on a couple tables. There was one table that had about five bottles of something on it. Yeah, I sound like I’m fucked up here, but let me tell you, I had no clue what any of this was. I didn’t know Bryce had set up a bunch of drug paraphernalia or that those were bottles of booze. Yeah, maybe I should’ve guessed it, but I’m not the suspicious type.
“Alright, Joe’s got more stuff, right?” said Bryce.
“Yeah, he’s got stuff,” said JJ.
“Also, we got a lot of people coming, man,” said Brian.
“Dude, rock!” said Bryce. “Chicks?”
“Fuck yeah,” said JJ. “You think Joe would let this be a sausage fest?”
“Oh man, this is gonna be sweet,” said Bryce. “Alright, what’re you guy’s names?”
We recited.
“Alright, I need you two, JJ and Jake, you brothers can set up a stereo right? I’ve got some tunes I leave here most of the time in the front office, they’ll get the ladies going. You, Pat and Brian, you wanna go around and turn on the deck lights? We’re not gonna have too much light because then we might attract someone. Oh, and hey! JJ and Jake! Don’t rig the speaks for the outside! We’re not broadcasting this thing to the whole lake! Alright, yeah, you guys get on it, I’m gonna fire up my bong.”
Brian and I walked upstairs to the deck. It had a nice view of the lake.
“Whaddya think, man?” he said as he lit a cig. “Is Joe awesome or what?”
“Yeah,” I said. I was still looking out at the lake. The water was so dark and so smooth. I wondered if anyone was out there. “Yeah, he is. Can you give me a light?”
“Anytime, man,” said Brian.
I took a deep drag and flicked the lights on.
I know Joe called a lot of people, but I wasn’t exactly sure how many. I didn’t know how many the Club could hold, after all. All I know is that I couldn’t count the total number of people there, and I had never seen a single one of them before. They piled into the rowboat as many as they could, their drugs and booze with them. The rowboat looked like a floating orgy. They all got off the boat yelping and hollering about a big party, and they all piled into the main hall of the Club, and they all started drinking. It was the first thing everyone did. Everyone but me.
Of course, I didn’t have a fucking clue who anyone was, so I just sat against the wall, watching twenty some people on the makeshift dance floor. They were bumping and grinding to some rap song fit for the occasion. The song was about dope and girls. That’s all I could understand.
I was on my ninth cig, three left in the pack Jake gave me. I have to say, the first cig was hell, but they get better every time. I just let the drags buzz my mind a little, let me tune out of the situation that I really didn’t want to be in.
Everyone else was sitting at the tables with the drug equipment. I could hear JJ talking to another guy over the noise.
“Dude, is that meth?”
“No fuckin’ way, man. That shit’s retarded to take. It’s heroin.”
“Heroin? Don’t you need a needle?”
“Yeah, man, but it’s totally worth it.”
“No way, I’ll stick to pot.”
“Suit yourself.”
Joe ran into me.
“Hey man! Is this a great party or what!” He was really loud, that kid. “Man, ditch the cigs!” He swatted the last cig out of my mouth. “Cut loose. Get your ass over here.”
He dragged me across the dance floor someone grabbed my ass. I jumped, but Joe kept pulling me along.
“Take alooka this,” Joe said. “We got whatever you want, man. Jus’ say the word. Why not try-a joint, eh?” He waved the white cigarette in my face.
“Naw, man,” I said. “I don’t know about pot.”
“Hey, I know, I know I know.” Joe put the joint back. “Hey! Bryce! You got the booze?”
“Fuck yeah!”
“Fuckin’ all right!”
Joe ran over to Bryce and grabbed a big bottle with clear liquid. On the count of three, they both began taking chugs. First five each, then Joe did five, then Bryce did five, then Joe did ten, then Bryce put down his bottle. Joe kept chugging. He dropped the clear bottle and the crack split the hip hop noise of the room. No one stopped dancing. Joe started staggering outside and I saw him collapse on the grass through a window. Bryce followed him out and gave him a nudge. When Joe didn’t move, Bryce shrugged and walked back in.
“He’ll be alright,” he said. “I put his head off to the side so when he pukes he won’t choke to death.”
“Sweet,” I said.
“Hey, man,” Bryce said to me. “You wanna shot at this?”
I looked at the outstretched bottle. It must’ve been hard liquor of some sort, probably vodka. Alright, sure, I knew pot was illegal, but my parents drunk vine all the time. This couldn’t kill me, right?
“Yeah…I’ll take a little,” I said.
“Woo!” I heard Jake run up from another table. “Pat’s lightening up! Thatta way, buddy!”
“Yeah, man.” I looked around briefly for a cup to put the booze in, but there wasn’t any. I guess I knew what that implied.
Yeah…so it turns out pure vodka doesn’t taste that great. The shit’s seventy percent alcohol, I’m told, so guess what it’s gonna taste like. You bet: alcohol.
I almost spit out my first shot of vodka, but not quite. My eyes watered and some of the stuff leaked out my lips, but I got it down out of sheer will. People cheered. This was the ‘beautiful’ corruption they were hoping for. I took another shot.
Did I mention that vodka is seventy percent alcohol? That means you get drunk really fast. And even if I was an Irishman, I apparently couldn’t hold my liquor very well. After the fifth shot I wasn’t feeling so good. My brain was going wishy-washy. I stumbled over to the opposite wall and sat down on the dance floor. I tilted the bottle back again, automatically guzzling the sharp and stinging poison. Jake and JJ were laughing. JJ had a joint sticking out of his mouth.
The music pulsed; my head throbbed. “’Eeeeyyyy….” I said. “Y’all stupid kids turn yer mutherfuckin’ mus—ic down!”
They say there are happy/funny drunks and angry/depressed drunks. I think I must be the third type, the crazy drunk. Or at least the one who mumbles endless curses.
“What-the-fuck-in-fuckin’-hell-I-did-not-ask-for-these-mutherfuckin-kids-on-my-motherfuckin-island biotch!”
Eloquent, I know.
Well, my crazy drunk antics were starting to attract the attention of a pair of girls. I wasn’t completely conscious at this point, but I think they had dirty blonde hair, orange tan skin and mini skirts that looked like large belts. And too much eyeliner. They were both like that. Twins, practically, just like those Coors commercials… ‘I love playing two hand touch… drinking way too much… and twins!’ Yeah. It went something like that.
“Hey, look at this hottie,” Blonde One said to Blonde Two. “Hey hottie, you want to have a little fun?”
“I’ll bet your mom had fun last night,” I said. The Blonde sisters laughed.
“You’re a funny drunk,” Blonde Two said. “And guess what kind of drunk I am?”
“Your mom?” I ventured.
“Tee hee, I’m a horny drunk.” The Blonde sisters proceeded to kneel down next to me. Blonde One started kissing me.
Did I mention I’m a virgin? And I have a girlfriend? Admittedly, I have no problems with kissing, but I really didn’t want to cheat on Molly. Drunk as I was, I pushed her face back.
“What’s the matter, hottie?” said Blonde One.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Aw, come on, hottie, you know you want some…”
At this point I became cognizant of Blonde Two, who had somehow managed to unzip my jeans. Jesus Christ, we were still on the fucking dance floor. Not that anyone on the floor seemed to notice.
“What you doing?” I mumbled.
“We’re just gonna have some fun, hottie,” said Blonde Two.
“Cuttit out…”
“Shhh…just don’t say anything, hottie.” Blonde One pressed her face into mine again and started grabbing my hair. I may’ve been drunk, but my nerves weren’t dead. That shit hurt. I started to panic and pushed her face away again. I let out a small yelp as our faces broke.
A few people were starting to notice us and a semicircle was forming around this demented threesome. Blonde One slapped me.
“Shhh…” She pressed her face against mine again. My head banged against the wall. I tried to yell, but my howl died in her throat. Suddenly, my pants were gone and so were my boxers, compliments of Blonde Two. Jesus Christ, I was naked, and there were people around. Shit.
“Oooo…” said Blonde Two. “Lookit, he’s got a boner.”
It was true, I was trying hard as hell to kill it. But I didn’t have that type of control. Please, I prayed, just this once, let me be a limp dick.
Blonde One took a break from devouring me. “Tee hee, you like it, don’t you, you dirty boy.”
I started to say no, when she slammed my head back into the wall and started kissing me again. A few kids started laughing. Something was happening to my dick. It was…
Oh fuck. Blonde Two was going down on me. Shit. Not like this man, not like this. They say guys will take sex anytime, but not me. I didn’t like these girls, I didn’t want them. This was humiliating. I was getting fucking raped in front of over twenty people. Please, be a limp dick. Please, God, give me temporary erectile dysfunction… please Jesus.
I couldn’t breathe. Blonde One wasn’t letting me. I started kicking against Blonde Two. A guy from the semicircle came down to hold my legs. Each resistance became weaker and weaker. I needed air. I needed to stop…oh fuck not like this.
My head started swimming. Someone said something. I saw a pair of funny looking blonde boys come over and say something to the blond sisters. I couldn’t tell what. All I knew is that Blonde One got off mercifully stopped choking me. Blonde Two stopped sucking my dick. Thank God, I was still a virgin, she didn’t get me to reach my climax thank God.
Blonde Boy One said something to the Blonde sisters. They flipped me over. As my face collided with the wood dance floor, I finally passed out.

My consciousness flashed on and off. I was back on the shore of the Green Town beach. I was riding in the back seat of a car. Jake and Joe were dragging me across a lawn. I was in a basement somewhere. Someone said something. And there was black, black all around.
I become conscious of the headache first. I am in Joe’s basement. I am hungover.
God, make it stop. God, make the pain stop.
I get up off a couch. Joe and Jake reek of the night before. They lie askew across the carpeted floor.
As I stand up, a searing pain rockets up my back. My butt hurts. It feels like I have just taken an atomic crap. I walk to the bathroom.
My face is bruised. My hair is ruffled. I take off my T shirt. There are bruises across my chest. I take off my pants.
The bruises across my pelvis are dark and blackish blue. They hurt. A lot. I turn around. There are flecks of red on my ass. Oh, just red stuff. That’s no problem. I turn back around.
I pause.
I turn back around and examine my ass once more. I flex my butt and some of the red stuff peels away. I flinch in pain immediately. I grab a fleck of the red stuff, my head still swimming. I sniff it.
It’s blood.
I am dizzy. I stumble back into the main basement, pants still down. Joe is awake and rubbing his head.
“Hey, man,” he says. “The party never ends for Pat Tellerman.” He notices my lack of pants. “Yo,” he continues. “Wanna cig?”
Joe extends a cigarette and lighter before me. My brain hangs in the air for one more moment. I look at the cig.
And I light up again.