One Fall Night

It was dinner time on a Friday evening in late Fall when I was fifteen. My siblings and I were gathered around the kitchen table. The mood was buoyant and the light through the kitchen window was golden with promise. The chatter between us kids was giddy with the prospects of the weekend before us. My father stood close by manning a blender. He was whipping up a second quart of mocha flavored milkshakes. I was drinking my fill because teenage logic had me convinced that a milk coated stomach enabled me to later on drink copious amounts of beer without throwing up. My mother was flipping burgers at the stove. She cooked them medium-rare and then piled them up on a serving dish. With milkshakes and burgers my parents joined us kids at the kitchen table. For some reason the usual familial stress engendered by my under age drinking and use of illegal drugs was missing that evening. There was an unspoken truce between one and all and we were in that moment in spite of our alienating differences a happy family. I ate two cheese burgers before hitting the road.

I stuck out my thumb and hitched a ride. Hitchhiking then was common place and rarely did I have to wait long before someone stopped and gave me a lift. And never once did I have a bad experience. Although a couple times I had an irksome moment or two. For instance late one night as I hitched along a lonesome stretch of road a car stopped for me and as I stepped into it the driver asked me if I was clean. Indignantly I told him I'd had a shower the previous night. "No," he said as if I were a dunce. "I mean are you armed?" He reached over and frisked me saying, "Have you got a knife or a gun?" The subsequent ride was an unnerving one. Another time also late at night as I was walking along the road and thumbing every passing car I saw a motorcycle exit a barroom parking lot. It seemed to be wobbly and just after it passed me on the opposite side of the road I heard the bike spill. I turned to see the bike bouncing down the street and the driver sprawled on the side of the road. The accident seemed like it happened in slow motion and I was laughing and I expected the driver to rise and stagger about drunkenly. But the rider did not move. It turned out that when he fell although he wore a helmet his head hit a metal post sticking out of the ground several inches. It killed him. Not right away. He died several days later. It turned out I knew the motorcyclist's cousin. And he would later tell me in an accusatory manner that his mother had had a dream in which I killed the the motorcyclist. The withering look on his face when he told me this was that of a righteous prosecutor saying to the clearly guilty party, Confess. But getting back to that Friday evening in the fall of my fifteenth year the ride was uneventful.

The driver dropped me off where I indicated at the mouth of a dirt road leading into the woods. Several hundred yards up that tree lined road friends of mine were gathered around a bonfire. I joined them there. Soon someone announced he was making a liquor run and those of us under age handed over our money and requests for six packs of tall beer cans otherwise known as kingers.

After a few beers I had a warm glow on and when Pat W. challenged me to a game in which we sat facing one another, almost touching, and punched each other in the kneecaps until one of us called it quits I obliged him. Several punches later Pat had a crazed look in his eyes and I knew that I would be the first to capitulate. But not wanting to be called a wimp however I soldiered on for several more punches until my hand was smarting along with my right kneecap. When I gave up and said you win Pat let go with a laugh that I can only describe as maniacal.

Our bonfire that night had flames six or seven feet high and after swilling a six pack I joined several guys in taking running jumps through the blaze. Somehow, perhaps beer addled, I did not jump far enough. Instead of clearing the bonfire I landed in its center. Flames and sparks shot up around me. (The next morning I woke stinking of campfire and something else burnt. I discovered upon looking in the bathroom mirror that my hair, eyebrows, eyelashes and the peach fuzz about my chin and cheeks were all singed.)

When it neared my curfew hour that night I headed off for home. Jay C. who had less than a year to live before he was murdered was likewise going in my direction. Together we tottered and stumbled the length of the dirt road. When we cleared the woods we stuck out our thumbs. But there were hardly any cars on the road. We wound up staggering along for several challenging miles. At one point we ventured off the road and into nearby tobacco fields. Soon a car was nearing our way. As the car was about to pass by we hurled solid clumps of soil and crabgrass at it. We hit the car and the driver jammed on the brakes. We took off into the safety of the fields. The driver shouted something our way that I couldn't make out. No doubt a curse or two. Several minutes later Jay and I climbed up and got atop the tobacco netting some eight feet off the ground. We were whooping and hollering and feeling invincible. But when we attempted to run across the netting we tore right through it and plummeted to the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of me.

A short time later Jay and I were back on our way home. At a fork in the road where our paths diverged we went our separate ways. Minutes later I was at my house and swaying. I tried to rouse myself into being sober before entering. It didn't work worth a damn and I fumbled getting the key in the lock. When I finally got the door open and I stepped into the glare of the kitchen light I realized just how drunk I was. But the gods were with me. My father was not waiting up for me with a lecture and a look of disdain. He was instead in the bathroom he shared with my mother getting ready for work as a third shift corrections officer. I made my way to the other bathroom to take an urgent piss. When I stepped out of the bathroom I heard my father in the kitchen readying to step out the door. I called out good night and my father replied the same. His voice I thought was flat with disapproval. He stepped out the kitchen door locking it behind him. And I staggered into my bedroom where, if my luck held out, my bed would not spin me into nausea the moment I laid my head down.