Blogger's Note: First, some business. I've been doing some planning and talking; and, as fate would have it, I think I just may have been talking to the right people. I have been contemplating the future a lot lately. I once read that a person who is anxious lives in the future; a person that is sad lives in the past; and, a person that is at peace lives in the present. Makes sense to me. So, today and the next post, I plan on sharing some of the goals and plans I have for myself and for my blog. And after that, fuck it. I'm going to do my best to take it one day at a time, one episode at a time.
Today, I'm going to share with you some additions to the blog. First, I'd like to give credit to my friend Amy who has a terrific blog of her own titled On a Journey Back to Her Wings (check it out). She told me don't be afraid to post/share links to my blog more often. People get online at different times of the day, and they may not see it the first time. She also suggested some gadgets to add to the side panel of my blog. I'll explain them now.
"Join This Site" is a way to follow my blog via a Google account you may already have (such as Google +, gmail, or a blog you may be working on of your own). If you don't have a Google account already, you can follow the easy steps to create one. From there, you can add and follow as many blogs as you'd like, and get notifications when a new installment is available.
"Follow by Email" is pretty self-explanatory. An email will be sent to you when a new episode is published. I haven't actually used this function, so I'm not sure if it literally sends you the blog or if it sends you a link to the blog (I should try it out, huh?)
I'd like to remind everyone that Parenting with Lightsabers now has its very own Facebook page. You can like it here. I'd like to encourage anyone that hasn't already to please like my page. I'm getting close to 100 Likes; I'd like to hit that milestone. (please, however, don't encourage Joe Blow to "like" it just to get me 100 Likes. I really just want people that either read it or think they might read it to "like" it. That way, I don't feel like I'm bugging anyone if I post on there. If you haven't noticed, I like having fun from that page).
If you scroll to the very bottom of the page, you'll find a "Translate" function that is supposed to allow you to translate my blog to any language. I did this for my Polish readers. Most of them can probably read this in English, but I thought I'd throw that on there just in case. I've tried it out, and it does appear to translate everything. I'm afraid my Polish isn't good enough to say how well.
I sometimes talk about Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora on here. I always listen to this station when I'm writing. It inspires me just right. I've recently come to realize that if someone were to go to Pandora and choose to listen to a station seeded by Mason Jennings, it wouldn't sound anything like what I listen to. I have "thumbs up'ed" and "thumbs down'ed" many songs, and I have seeded other artists. So I have renamed this station "Parenting with Lightsabers Radio". You can go to Pandora and listen to this station if you'd like. It is a chill mix of folk rock and hipster music, exactly what I like. If you think you might like it as well, check it out.
Lastly, today you'll notice a new feature that will be a regular part of your favorite Parenting with Lightsabers episodes. At one point, I said I'd never do this. But, never say never, right? Today, you'll notice a "Listening To:" feature. Beside it, you'll find a link to either an audio source or a YouTube page where you'll be able to listen to the song that inspired me for this particular episode. As I'm listening to Pandora, there's always one song that stands out. One that encompasses the spirit of what I'm writing about. Starting today, you can listen to it while you're reading, which is how I picture each episode being enjoyed. And, of course, you can always choose to scroll right past it if that's not your thing. No big deal...
Today's episode may be the first that I created a new Pandora station to "inspire" me. Parenting with Lightsabers Radio just wasn't doing it, so I turned it to Poison Radio. And then I fell into a memory of those days like they were yesterday...
So, finally, on to today's episode...
If you haven't noticed, there's a rotation system that I use. I rotate three types of blogs: a Flashback episode, a new chapter in our "How We Got Engaged" story, and a random whatever's-on-my-mind post. I like this technique because it usually gives me two-to-three weeks to brainstorm the next segment, and I generally do need this much time. Today's episode is a Flashback episode.
And not just any Flashback episode. It's one that's been on my mind ever since the idea of doing a regular Flashback episode bubbled in my brain. Today you will be introduced to my "hoodlum" days, and the friends that I had in those days. I tried to tactfully introduce them in last week's "Approaching 40" episode. Today, you will see them in action.
This is the episode that really worried me to write. I didn't want to feel "harnessed" while I was writing about those days. I'm not sure how much I'd change even if I was. But, I don't want to feel bridled. I'm not sure if that makes any sense to you, but it does to me. If there wasn't any doubt before now, then today will remove all doubt. Parenting with Lightsabers is for mature readers only.
Grab your favorite hair band tee-shirt, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Strawberry Hill. Where are we going? Glad you asked. Why, to the Mad Dog Shack, of course. What's the Mad Dog Shack? Oh, my. Now that's a story...
Listening to: Poison "Nothin But a Good Time"
"I don't know when he'll be home, but you're welcome to wait..."
I didn't know what afflicted Franklin's wife, but she always sat in her wheelchair with her head tilted at the neck and one elbow resting on a hand rest. Her hand hung limp at the wrist, and she would look at me out of the corner of her eye when she spoke. I didn't know her name, but I enjoyed talking to her. What she lacked in physical dexterity, she made up for in mental clarity.
"Ok, we'll wait," I decided. "I'm going to tell my friends."
In the driveway, my 1988 red Chevy Cavalier was sitting. Bret was riding shotgun; his long, blonde hair, popular among the girls, was resting over his shoulders as he anxiously watched me approach. He could see that I wasn't carrying any alcohol, and the prospect of showing up at tonight's party without beer was intolerable. I walked behind my car, past the YODA 16 license plate, and to the open window on the passenger side. In the back seat, I could see Damon massaging his arm.
"Two for flinching, fat boy!" Dennis told him.
"Me? You're the fat boy, bitch!" Damon responded. "And if you punch me again, I'm going to clock you in the fucking face, mother fucker!"
"He's not here yet," I informed them, although Bret was the only one that seemed concerned.
"We going to wait?" Bret asked me in a way that clearly said 'we have to wait; we're not leaving here without beer.' I agreed.
"Yeah, I don't see another choice," I professed.
"Hey!" I couldn't see through the screen door, but the voice clearly belonged to Franklin's wife. "Hey! Come here!"
I immediately walked back to the house. I walked onto the porch as she spoke. "If one of you can push me up there, I'll buy for you. Y'all can just give me that twenty dollars," she offered.
We had learned quickly that Franklin's fee of twenty dollars was the same no matter how much we got. We would combine our "orders" and split the twenty proportionally. Each of us would order beer, as that was the cool thing to drink, but we'd also throw on there something else. None of us cared to admit that we hadn't yet acquired a taste for beer, and we were certain that there was some delicious alcoholic nectar that would get us really fucked up if we only knew what to order.
"Ok, let me tell my friends, I'll be right back," I told her.
I walked back to my car and explained the situation. "Man, I've done this much. I'm not pushing her up there," I finished.
"I'm not either!" Bret asserted.
After a brief moment of silence, Dennis spoke. "Fuck it. I'll do it."
"Yeah, the bitch will do it," Damon clarified as Bret lifted the seat so Dennis could climb out. Dennis punched Damon in the arm and climbed out before he could retaliate. "Oh, you got it comin', mother fucker!" Damon insisted.
"Your mom's got it comin'!" Dennis nudged as he walked to the front porch; I joined him to introduce the two.
"This is Dennis. He's gonna push you. Here's the list of what we want and the money. There's an extra twenty in there," I told Mrs. Franklin.
"All right. Honey, just push me down that ramp to the alley," she pointed to the edge of the porch.
Dennis raised an arm, lifted his fist, and extended his pinky and his index finger in a rock 'n' roll salute. He was a stout boy with the sides of his head shaved and the top grown long so that it hung to one side. He always seemed to have his head tilted the way that his hair hung, and I thought the effect made him look like a heavy metal, sumo wrestler.
Dennis rolled her down the concrete sidewalk into the gravel alley. Damon, Bret, and I hung back and followed from a good distance. The drive-thru liquor store was only half a block away, but the distance was difficult thanks to the crater-filled road that Dennis was going to have to navigate.
Mrs. Franklin bounced around in her seat as Dennis rolled her through the bumpy alley. The rest of us were trying not to laugh as one particular jolt tossed her into the air a little. "Sugar, you gonna have to stop and straighten me up," she politely told Dennis. He walked around to the front of the wheelchair, straightened her up, and extended the palm of his hand and awaited Mrs. Franklin to "give him five". When she did the three of us cheered with "WoooHoooo!", "Rock 'n' Roll, mother fuckers!", and "Fuckin' A!". She used the hand that worked to suppress a grin.
When at last they arrived at the drive-thru, the three of us waited anxiously beside the dumpster behind Chong's. At the window, I could see Mrs. Franklin reading the order to the cashier. Three cases of beer and a cardboard box filled with bottles started coming through the window and were piled onto Mrs. Franklin's lap.
"We still have ten dollars!" Dennis yelled at us.
Damon felt a sudden need to use his asthma inhaler; Bret took a keen interest in a cloud overhead; and, I discovered the rocks at my feet were great for kicking.
"Did you guys hear me?? We still have ten dollars! Do you want me to get anything else??"
"Just get anything!" Bret responded in a loud whisper. He was waving his hand as if swatting the question away, and he was still watching the interesting cloud.
"What about this? It's Mad Dog 20/20, and it's cheap. We can get four bottles!" Dennis shouted at us.
"Whatever! Get whatever! What the fuck, man?" Bret shared an incredulous look with the rest of us. Apparently, discretion wasn't in Dennis's repertoire.
At last the transaction ended, and Dennis began pushing Mrs. Franklin into the alley. A tower of boxes was haphazardly stacked on her lap, and Dennis was trying to balance it with one hand and push with the other. After watching the attempt for a short span of time, I began to realize that the task wasn't possible. We were going to have to help.
Bookending the wheelchair, Damon and I steadied the tower as Dennis leaned into the effort of pushing her forward. We were all too afraid to actually carry anything and be caught as minors in possession of alcohol.
We got stuck in one particularly large crater, so Bret grabbed the wheelchair from the front as the four of us worked together to get out of the depression. We successfully maneuvered through the rest of the alley and at last reached the sidewalk behind Mrs. Franklin's house.
"Thanks cool lady!" Dennis said goodbye to her after we'd gotten her up the ramp and into the house.
"No problem. Don't tell Franklin I did that. I'm gonna use this to buy me some lottery tickets," she smiled as she held out the twenty she had just earned.
"We won't!" I smiled as the screen door slammed shut and the four of us began loading the alcohol into my trunk. We climbed back into the car; I shoved Poison into the tape deck; and we spun onto the road with the music cranked as loud as it would go and smiles on our faces.
"Where to now?" I shouted over the music.
"Dinger gave me directions," Bret answered. "It's almost to Pope County. Just head like you're going to the ridge and I'll show you. He's getting the sleeping bags there now. He's gonna cut across the forest on his dirt bike and meet us there."
"Mother fucker!" Dennis shouted as Damon apparently knocked the fuck out of his arm. "You just wait. I'm gonna get you good!"
"That's what your mom said last night!" Damon didn't hesitate a response.
"Fuck you. Your mom's so ugly that she tried to get in an ugly contest but they said 'sorry, no professionals.'"
Damon quickly reciprocated. "Your mom's so fat that her belly button gets home five minutes before she does!"
Whenever Damon and Dennis started in on their "your mom" jokes, I always felt certain that it was going to end in fisticuffs in my backseat. But it never did. I slowly grew to realize that they were playing a game where the loser was the first person to actually get pissed. I don't recall either of them losing that game.
We flew across the Brookport bridge at a safe speed of 80 mph as Bret Michaels was crooning some "Unskinny Bop" and random yells and screams emitted from my various passengers. My Cavalier skimmed over hills and around curves. An old man in bib overalls was checking his mail as Bret shouted "Rock 'n' Roll MOTHER FUCKER!" out the passenger window. Dennis and Damon continued their banter behind me, and I tried to distribute my laughs evenly on both sides so that neither of them ever felt like they had the lead.
We called ourselves 8-Pak. We did have a list of eight people that we considered part of the group; but, as time and distance constantly shifted and changed the roster, we decided that 8-Pak was more a state of mind than an actual group of people. 8-Pak was whoever we were partying with.
And usually that was just other guys. We weren't old enough or cool enough yet for pot or pussy, so we would gather at one of our various gathering places and hope that somebody would show up with a girl (or a few of them if we dared dream it), but that rarely happened that summer. Adams' Gravel Pit, the Pines, Strawberry Hill, Beaver Dam, Over the Top, and Mill Springs were names of some the places that we would end up partying at. Tonight, Dinger said he found a new place he wanted to show us. And Bret knew how to get there.
Dinger was definitely a member of 8-Pak. He was one of the best people I've ever known. He was good-natured and honest and just an all-around good guy. His real name was Aaron, but everybody called him Dinger. I'm not sure why. I was probably the only person that called him Aaron because I always considered the nickname "Dinger" to be unflattering, and I liked him too much for that. He didn't seem to mind either way. He had long hair like most of my friends and was the group boy scout. He was great to have around when we were camping as he was always the most capable at building a campfire or erecting a tent or whatever needed doing. He also made sure everyone had sleeping bags. For some reason, he always had plenty of sleeping bags. He handed them out like candy on Halloween and collected them in the morning.
Bret was directing me by looking at a map that had been drawn for him. Turn left, turn right, turn right again, two curves, and then right again. A trail of dust suffixed our route and provided an omen of concern for the residents in this normally quiet stretch of countryside. Hair band music screamed out our open windows and adulterated the peaceful back roads.
We were actually pretty good kids compared to some that were our age. Most of the time, we were just looking for a safe, secluded place to get drunk. Occasionally, we would get bored and try our hands at some mailbox baseball; but, we didn't do that too often. We looked a lot more "motley" than we actually were.
At last, we pulled into a small, one-lane gravel road that left the county lane and disappeared into the arms of some gnarled trees. I ejected Poison and stuck Great White in the deck. "Once Bitten Twice Shy" was conveniently waiting to escort us down this new and strange road.
"You sure this is the right way?" I yelled over the music.
"As best as I can tell by this map that Dinger drew me!" Bret assured me.
We followed the road for quite a ways. It was a sturdy path and seemed to hold no danger of heavy ruts that might be too much for my little four-cylinder. I had no idea when we turned onto this road that it would go back as far as it did. We had already traveled at least two miles, and I didn't think a road this small could have possibly gone back this far.
When the song finally ended, I turned the radio down. The four of us sat in silence and watched the forest slowly drift by us. At last, we idled up an incline; and, once we reached the top of the rise, we could turn left or right into open fields. We could go straight, but the road was heavily rutted and my car wouldn't be capable of driving that way.
"When you can't go any further, turn left," Bret read the last piece of direction to us.
"Into that field?" I wanted to confirm before we continued.
"I guess so," he said.
I turned into the field. Once we cleared the trees, our destination became apparent. An old house sat on the edge of the open pasture. A rusted, tin roof covered old wood that was thirsty for paint. A humble, front porch was covered by an overhang. Beside it, a dirt bike was parked. Aaron stepped out of the house wearing his typical smile as he waved.
"Shagnasty!" Dennis yelled from the back seat. First Dinger and now Shagnasty. I laughed at the name as I considered the probability that we'd be hearing it again.
I turned the key off as Aaron ran up to the car. "You made it!" he welcomed us. "Did you get the beer?"
I answered by popping my trunk and revealing the treasure inside.
He reached into one of the paper sacks in the cardboard box. He pulled something out. He held up a bottle of the Mad Dog 20/20. "What's this?" he asked through a chuckle.
"I don't know," Dennis responded. "We had some money left over, and the lady that bought it for us said that it was cheap and would fuck you up."
Aaron opened it and took a swig. He coughed as he handed it to me. "Fuck man! It tastes like cough syrup."
I tried it. Indeed, he was right. Oh well. At least it had alcohol in it. I handed it to Damon as we began passing it around.
"So what is this place?" I asked Aaron.
"Come on! I'll give you a tour."
Aaron led us onto the front porch and through the front door. Inside, three nice bunk beds lined the walls. A sturdy, cast-iron wood stove had a chimney that disappeared into the wall behind it.
"Holy shit! This is awesome!" I couldn't contain my excitement. "I call this bed!" I said as I tapped the top bed next to me. I suspected that heaven might look something like this.
Aaron led us into another room in the back. A toilet seat had been situated above a five-gallon bucket. The back door that led outside was partially open.
"This rocks!" Bret confirmed.
"Yeah. I think it's a deer hunters cabin!" he speculated. "Down the road a ways, there's another house that's similar to this one, except it's in really bad shape and it's hard to get to. I bet these houses were built in the 1800's!"
"Fucking A!" Dennis expressed our sentiment.
"So who all's coming tonight?" Damon asked.
"Well, I gave directions to Jeremy. He said Ben is going to ride with him. His friend David is going to follow him so that he can bring Boogie and Devan. I asked him to pick up Neidermyer like you asked and he said he would." Aaron explained. Neidermyer had moved north, near Chicago, but he was in town visiting his grandmother. He was my friend, so I felt an obligation to invite him to the party. Neidermyer was just fine when he was sober, but once he started drinking he was a total idiot. Everyone liked to remind me that he was my responsibility, and I begrudgingly accepted the role. We, unfortunately, all knew that he was going to do something really stupid tonight; so, everyone wanted to be double certain that I knew that I'd be babysitting. I liked Neidermyer, but sometimes I wished that something would come up and he wouldn't be able to make it.
"Is Jeremy going to bring the coolers?" I asked.
"Yeah, he said he's bringing two big coolers with ice since you guys got the beer," Aaron resolved.
"Cool. Well, let's get this party started!"
Aaron and Bret went to work putting the sleeping bags on the beds. Damon, Dennis, and I started unloading the party supplies from the trunk. I passed out the beers, and the popping sound of opening cans was followed by the distant sound of approaching vehicles
Not long after, Jeremy's Fiero and David's Ford Tempo pulled into the field. The cars were loaded with our friends. Aaron ran out to greet them. "You found it!!!" he was shouting.
The crew of new-arrivals filed out of the cars excitedly. Everyone was anxious to explore the cabin.
After Aaron had taken them on a tour, we divvied the alcohol according to who paid for what. We only had Bud Lite, so figuring out who got what beer wasn't too difficult. Jeremy, Ben, and David each got Strawberry Hill; Boogie, Dennis, and Damon had Jack Daniels; Devan and Neidermyer had decided to split some vodka. The rest of us were drinking beer and, apparently, Mad Dog 20/20. Usually, after the first round, everybody was drinking everybody's anyway.
Jeremy pulled out the coolers, and we started filling them. The drive from Paducah in the summer heat had warmed up the drinks; now we needed to let them chill for a bit. None of us felt like waiting long, so we just started drinking warm beer.
The afternoon trudged into night. A jam box had been placed on the porch and was playing somebody's mix tape. Currently, Nazareth was lamenting that "Love Hurts". I had a pretty good buzz going when Aaron and Bret walked out the front door. "We're going to go find some wood for the stove," Aaron said.
"Need some help?" I offered.
"No thanks, we've almost got enough," Aaron explained.
I went back to drinking my beer and listening to music when Boogie sat down beside me. He was holding a duffle bag in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Boogie was Native American; he had long, dark hair and a vicious temper when he was in a bad mood. He pulled a can of black, spray paint from the bag. "Let's name this place, man," he suggested.
Sounded like a good idea to me. "Ok. What's a good name?" I responded.
"I don't know, man," he smiled. "What's a good idea?"
I drunkenly spared a look at the dilapidated building. "How about the Love Shack?" I suggested. I could see Jeremy and Ben standing next to the Fiero listening to some Faith No More. David was getting some blankets out of the trunk. He accidentally stepped on a discarded bottle on the ground and nearly tripped. He picked it up where we recognized it as a Mad Dog 20/20 bottle and tossed it further into the field.
"How about the Mad Dog Shack?" Boogie countered.
I smiled and nodded. The Mad Dog Shack it would be. Boogie took the cap off the spray paint and wrote Mad Dog Shack in big, bold letters on the front of the cabin. Jeremy shouted "Kill-No-Save!" from where he was standing. I recognized the unusual cheer as meaning, "Hell yeah!" Apparently, he approved.
Aaron and Bret walked up the steps carrying loads of sticks and wood to add to the pile already inside. Most of the others were standing around Jeremy's car talking about skateboarding. Neidermyer was sitting on the porch with his back against the wall; the vodka bottle he was working on was half-empty. I knew that I would be called to duty soon.
Aaron and Bret came back outside brushing the evidence of kindling from their arms. They sat next to me and Boogie. I could see in Aaron's eyes that he wasn't feeling any pain.
"Man, that Mad Dog ain't too bad once you get used to it," Aaron proposed.
"Fuck that, Dinger!" Bret disagreed. "That shit's nasty. Here, drink something else." He handed him a Bud Lite.
"Did you start the fire yet?" Boogie asked. The question triggered my awareness that the sun had been eradicated by the night's whispering assurance. A chilly dampness crept from the ground and shrouded our entourage.
"Yeah, just now," Bret said as Devan shouted something and started laughing.
"I'm gonna punch him tonight," Aaron revealed.
"You're gonna what, Dinger?" Boogie pressed through a bewildered snicker. We had never known Aaron to hit anything; my ears perked up at this unexpected revelation.
"I'm gonna knock the fuck out of him one good time," Aaron reiterated.
"What for?" I wanted to know. I wasn't taking sides, but my curiosity over what might spark this peace-loving man to violence had been stroked.
"Because he's got a bee bee stuck in his head," Bret answered for him.
"Do what?" Boogie asked.
We paused to listen to an uproar of cheering from the area where everyone was gathered around the Fiero. "Dude, get that shit out of your hair! What the fuck is that, anyway?" Damon was speaking to Dennis. Dennis went to work combing his hair with his fingers when Damon continued. "Oh, nevermind. That's just your face..."
Another cheer erupted from the huddle. Those of us that were gathered on the porch laughed as well. Neidermyer was still laughing long after everyone else had stopped.
Aaron finally resumed our conversation. "When we were ten, Devan shot me with a bee bee gun. The bee bee got stuck in my head."
"Why didn't you go to the hospital? Get it taken out or something?" I asked.
"I did," Aaron revealed. "The doctors told my parents that they were afraid to remove it. They said it would never hurt anything where it was, so they left it. I still owe Devan one good punch for that shit!"
"Where is it?" Boogie questioned.
Aaron bent over and parted his hair with his hands. He showed us where to feel by guiding our fingers until, sure enough, I could feel the small raised hump of a bee bee just below the scalp. Amazing!
"So he's gonna knock the fuck out of Devan tonight!" Bret surmised. Neidermyer started laughing antagonistically, and I could feel everyone looking at me. When he saw that everyone was staring, he took a swig from his bottle of vodka.
I raised my beer to toast Aaron on his venture and decided that I would meander over to the group next to the Fiero. I gauged my inebriation by the ebb and flow of the ground as I walked; I smiled to affirm that I, indeed, was "feeling good".
When I arrived, David put me in a headlock. "Come on, Great Dane! Oooh, yeah!" The Great Dane was my wrestling name. We took wrestling seriously in those days. We had regular, big events where we would get a camcorder and videotape ourselves trampoline wrestling. We got pretty crazy with it. Some of us did incur some pretty gnarly injuries; I'm surprised no one ever got hurt any worse than we did.
I tripped him by placing my leg behind his and pushing him backwards. Once on the ground, I was trying to free myself from the headlock while he tried to maintain the hold. After a while, when neither of us could gain any leverage, I finally said, "All right, all right. Let's get back to drinking. I'm too fucked up for this shit."
David let me go, and we both started laughing. Damon was reaching into the cooler. He pulled out a beer. "Hey, Duane, need a beer?" he asked me.
After I replied "sure", he tossed me one. Droplets of icy water shimmered free and splattered my face as I caught the tossed can. Ben and Jeremy were discussing an idea for a comic book that involved a masked vigilante by the name of Whiplash. Devan was explaining to Dennis how he was going to put together a band. Dialogue was being exchanged on every level; we were all so confident about the future.
"Thanks man," I said to Damon. "By the way, do you think we can film some more of Jacque Strapp next Saturday? We've got some ideas on a sequel." Damon was the only one of us that had a camcorder. We used it to film our wrestling events, our spoof commercials, or the movie we'd been working on. Jacque Strapp was a comedy about the misadventures of a goofy detective; it was actually pretty funny stuff.
"Duane!!!" Bret was calling me from the cabin. The urgency in his voice suggested that I shouldn't waste any time. Everyone got quiet as I strode towards the old house. Bret was standing in the doorway and from inside I could hear Neidermyer moaning. Neidermyer.. of course...
As I climbed the front steps, Bret moved aside so I could enter the shack. Neidermyer was sitting on the floor with his back against one of the beds. He was moaning and trying to smile at the same time. The effect was somewhat eerie. "What happened?" I cringed as I braced for the explanation.
"He hugged the stove!" Bret explained.
"What happened? Did he trip and land on the..."
"No! He hugged the stove!" Bret insisted.
Aaron walked up to me, put his arms around me, and hugged me. "Like this," he demonstrated.
"Why??" I asked looking at Neidermyer to assess the damage. His hands were laying with their palms up in his lap; I could see in the lantern light that his forearms were bright red. Neidermyer shrugged and started laughing again.
The others had congregated at the doorway; those in the back were looking over the shoulders of those in the front, trying to get a peek at the newest Neidermyer endeavor.
"While you check on him, I'm gonna grab a beer," Aaron stated as he parted the crowd to get outside. Bret followed after him; and, once outside, the rest of the crew left the scene.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" I asked Neidermyer once we were alone.
He shook his head. He spit his answer, "No, juth give me the vodka. I dropped it."
I looked around and saw the bottle of Smirnoff lying on the floor near the stove. As I retrieved it, I could feel the heat from the stove and wondered how badly his arms must have been burnt. I considered that maybe I shouldn't give him any more to drink; but, ultimately, I decided that he could probably use the pain suppressant. Besides, maybe he'd get drunk enough to just pass out, so I handed him the bottle.
"Why did you hug the stove?" I asked confidingly.
"I don't know." He started laughing that pathetic laugh again. "It looked like it needed a hug."
"Well..." I began when suddenly a loud commotion erupted outside.
"Holy shit, Dinger!" I heard someone yell. "Go Shagnasty!!" someone else cheered. "Kill-No-Save!!" a couple of others chanted.
I immediately knew what had happened. I left Neidermyer to his bottle of vodka and walked out to the front porch. In the beam of the Fiero's headlight, Devan was picking himself up from the ground. He was touching his lip with his fingers and checking to see if he was bleeding. From where I was standing, I couldn't tell whether he was or not.
"That's for the bee bee in my head, mother fucker!!!" Aaron shouted. It would be the first and only time of his life that I had known Aaron to hit anybody. I smiled to myself.
Devan stood up, and I half-expected him to start swinging. But, he didn't. Ben handed him another beer and smiled. Everyone was smiling. Well, everyone but Devan. He opened his beer and took a drink. I came down to join them.
So, the night went on. We all stood around talking about beer and pussy. Devan would occasionally feel his lip; but, he was otherwise fine. None of us revisited the topic that night.
When we finally retired inside, Neidermyer was passed out sitting in the same spot where I had left him. I threw a blanket over him. Six of us claimed beds; the rest made pallets on the floor. We lay there listening to the wood crackling in the stove; periodically Aaron would add more kindling and stir the embers in its belly. The energy in our slurred voices slowly faded as the night slipped into morning.
Damon and I were two of the last remaining awake. "Do you think we'll all stay friends?" I asked him.
"Who knows," he said. "I doubt it. I mean, someday we'll all probably go different ways. Who knows where we'll end up."
And then I fell asleep.
The sound of a vehicle approaching woke us up. In our groggy hangover states, we started gathering the sleeping bags and blankets and whatever else we could find. We didn't have permission to be there, and we needed to get the fuck out of there.
David was the first to open the door. The sun was much higher than I expected it to be; cruel light stabbed our eyes as our hearts pounded in our chests. I popped the trunk of my car, and everyone started shoving in the supplies.
I looked up to see Neidermyer stepping carefully down the front steps and examining his forearms. I wondered how badly he was injured, but I was in too much of a hurry to ask right now. As everyone climbed into the car, the revelation that there was no where to go suddenly dawned. There was only one way in or out of here, and it was the one-lane road that was now blocked by whatever was coming our way. We were doomed.
I looked at Jeremy sitting beside me in the driver's seat of his Fiero. We shrugged at each other as if to say, 'what should we do?' Neither of us had an answer. I decided to get out of the car and stand beside it, waiting cavalierly (no pun intended) for whatever fate might befall us.
The sound grew rather loud, and we could see through the trees that it was a tractor. Perched on the seat was a gentleman in a straw hat wearing a friendly smile. He turned the tractor into the field where we were congregated. I felt sick to my stomach for more than one reason. Looking around, I could see that everyone else felt the same as me.
The old farmer pulled his tractor up beside us, fidgeted with the lever between his legs, and finally shut down the engine. It sputtered a couple of times before the silence that followed somewhat eased the pounding in my head.
"How you fellas doin'?" he asked with a big, friendly smile. I considered the possibility that this was the calm before the storm. He was about to let loose a scolding lecture about trespassing and underage drinking and not having permission. I considered that maybe we should just make a run for it now; there was a space to get around him if we hurried.
"Pretty good," I answered instead.
"Did y'all stay in the cabin last night?" he asked me.
"Yeah," I didn't see any point in lying. Besides, my red eyes would probably betray any clever explanation that I might be able to conjure on the fly.
"That's an a'ight little cabin there. Some deer hunters turned that old house into a place that they can stay during hunting season. Do you kids hunt?" he asked us.
"Nah," I answered.
"Oh, yeah? Just camping? Well that sounds fun. As long as you kids take care of it, you can come as often as you like I suppose. It could sure use a coat of paint." He looked to where Boogie had spray-painted Mad Dog Shack in big, black letters across the front. I suddenly felt very ashamed of the idea to paint the name across the front of it.
"We could paint it sometime," I offered. And I meant it. Everyone around me muttered their agreement.
He scanned us with one last visual assessment, nodded a final smile, and started his tractor. My heart finally slowed as we climbed into our cars and drove away.
Over the next few years, we would use that cabin many times. I have many Mad Dog Shack stories. Though we never painted it, everyone of us took care of it. Any time we introduced someone new to that cabin, we instilled in them the respect for that place and for that old farmer that we had for it. The creaking, wooden floors of that old house would hold us up many a drunken night and would be the setting for many a story from my youth.
I haven't been there in many, many years. I suppose I should go there and see what it looks like today. Someone once told me that some vandals burnt it down a few years later. I don't know if that's true or not. If it is, I can only say one thing. I know, without one morsel of doubt, that none of us that stayed there that night were responsible. We took care of the Mad Dog Shack. It was our home.
-- if you'd like to read another Flashback episode, then check out "Bad Boys, Bad Boys"
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