The name was derived from a defunct car repair shop that had been housed in a barn shaped building that was later turned into a youth center. It likewise folded. One night two friends and I shot off fireworks while perched atop the building. The police soon arrived. We fired bottle-rockets at them until they told us through a bullhorn to come down off the roof, a signal to run if there ever was one. We didn't get far before we were in a flashlight beam being told to halt and get on the ground and spread 'em. The officer handcuffed the three of us and put us in the back seat of a cruiser without patting us down. As he went off looking for other miscreants we took the opportunity to empty our firework bulging pockets. We stuffed our booty beneath the back seat of the cruiser. Afterwards patting us down and finding us free of fireworks the police let us off with a stern warning.
Some time later one Sunday afternoon in a clearing aside the building we played a game of football. I did so after swallowing four downers called Yellow Jackets. It soon felt like all my movements were occurring underwater. Everything was so slow. I loped about and when I got tackled it seemed to take ages before I hit the ground. Of the dozen kids who partook of the pills stolen by Jay C. from his family doctor ten were admitted to hospitals as ODs. I was not one of them. Upon stumbling home my parents placed me in the cold blast of a shower and slapped my face while asking who was I and where did I get the pills? This they kept up for what seemed like hours. Finally they let me go to bed, my mother keeping vivil at my side monitoring my vital signs. I woke some many hours later to find that I was grounded for the next several weeks.
Once again after I was no longer confined to the family home I made my way to the bonfire of the RPM's. Most nights we drank and smoked pot in peace. But every so often police came with their blue lights flashing and we'd sometimes run into the woods to wait them out. Other nights they came we mumbled fuck 'em and stayed in place. On one such night I chose like several others not to run. The cops started patting us down. It was not their usual response. Every other time they'd merely told us to put out the fire and hit the road. That night however we were all searched. Unfortunately for me I was holding an ounce of pot. Because I was under age and it was my first offense I was able to plead Youthful Offender. This meant the record would be later expunged. At the hearing I was asked by the judge if I had anything to say for myself. Disregarding the advice of my lawyer I told the judge, God bless my father who stood silently aside me, that I didn't think there was anything wrong with marijuana. This put another crimp in what was quickly becoming an adversarial relationship between father and son.
Regardless of the familial tension there was for a time a ritual around our family kitchen table on Friday nights. We would gather one and all to wolf down cheeseburgers and glass after glass of coffee or mocha flavored milkshakes, the conventional wisdom being it was best to coat your stomach with milk before a night of heavy drinking. Afterwards I would hitchhike to the RPMs where I would gather with friends and pool our money. Then someone of legal drinking age and a companion or two would make a run to the liquor store while others gathered wood for our communal bonfire.
Some nights in games of dare we'd pile on wood until the flames shot up six or seven feet and we would leap through them from one side to another. Every once in a while however someone would miscalculate his jump and wind up in the bonfire. One morning following such a jump I woke reeking of wood smoke and discovered upon looking in my bathroom mirror that I had singed my then as of yet unshaved peach-fuzz. I'd also given light to my hair, eyelids, and eyebrows.
The following weekend found me once again gathered in fellowship around a bonfire. And there I would be every Friday and Saturday night sharing banter, whimsy, and illegal substances until I reached a legal drinking age. Then I left the woods for the welcome of bars.
And now as I enter my autumn years I look back upon my time around those bonfires of the RPMs as halcyon days. There was much good humor carefree and unmoored from responsibility. We drank and smoked in fellowship, exchanging bravado, laughter, and knowing looks. And, fuck it, the life that awaited us all beyond the woods would be there long after the bonfires burned out and the coals had grown cold.
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