Post 6 The Nearly-Full Moon On the Lake

Once returned to the safe haven of the Buick, for no other reason than to keep boredom from setting in, we had a French fry fight and tried to see who could eat a double cheeseburger in the fewest bites (Chris won—three and a half bites). We sprayed hot apple pie filling at friends in other cars passing dangerously close in the parking lot. And, of course, more beer.

Reaching for the last of the fries, Spence noticed a rapidly spreading ketchup stain on the brocade fabric of the rear center armrest. It was bright red, like a fresh wound in the car’s upholstery. “Holy shit. Your mom is gonna kill us. Here, put some beer on it,” he said.

 I obliged, and we both scrubbed with paper napkins until the stain took on a sad and sickly pink hue.

In the driver’s seat, Chris seemed singularly unconcerned. He lit another smoke, tossed the pack to us, then the matches, and exhaled comfortably. “You don’t need to worry. She never sits back there. Nobody sits back there. In fact, practically nobody ever drives this car, except my older brother, Gordon. And he’s so stoned most of the time he’ll never notice. Relax.”

Coming from families where there were no spare cars and whose parents would definitely notice, it took us a few minutes to believe Chris, especially since we each straddled the scene of the crime. Following a few minutes of  teenage worry, Spence, in his problem-solving way, made the semi-catastrophe disappear by folding the offending arm-rest back into the seat. We both smiled, satisfied and relieved.

Chris cranked up the radio: “I love this song.” Without hesitation he sang, in a passable baritone, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog!”

We joined Chris and the twelve-speaker sound system, belting out a back-seat chorus of Joy to the World at maximum volume.

“You all suck.” Arnie popped his head through the shotgun window and grinned his bad-boy grin. “What did you think of your happy meals, kids?”

“Best haul ever,” Chris said, turning down the volume.

         “Tried to get you all milkshakes but butt-hole Jamie was watching me the whole shift. I can’t wait to quit this shitty job.”

“Aren’t you kind of amazed that they don’t seem to miss all this food?” I said.

“The manager, Jason, is dumber than dirt. On the nights I close, I make sure all the tills and the tapes balance.” Arnie added air quotes to the word “balance,” and popped open a Coors Light.

            Spence grinned, then turned a heavy shade of drunk-serious. “I don’t know what my dad would do if I got caught stealing.”

“It’s not stealing,” said Arnie. “No fucking way. The way I see it, I get paid a dollar and five cents per hour and fucking minimum wage is, what, a dollar-sixty, right? I’m down about sixty cents an hour times six hours a night. That’s about four dollars they owe me a night, right? So, the way I see it, they’re coming out ahead even if I spot you guys three or four dollars of food.”

Spence seemed intent on doing the math himself in his head. It took Chris a little longer. Once reasonably satisfied with the result, he nodded, threw the Buick into Drive, and screeched out of the now-dark parking lot onto Highway Eleven.

We took the usual route: Eleven North into old Salem, and a stop at the duck pond where we stacked our empties. We used the loose rocks at the base of the town founder’s statue as projectiles. As beer bottles shattered, formerly sleeping ducks left the pond in a frenzy and we made bets on whose throwing arm would destroy the most targets. After an hour, we grew bored and headed for the entrance to Carvin’s Caverns, whose fading billboard lured the occasional tourist with the promise of “Spectacular Sights!” We had each been through the caverns on various elementary school field trips. But the caverns weren’t the draw tonight. We had our sights on the sign.               

We were drawn to climbing things: trees, telephone poles, the sides of barns, ridge poles of houses and, of course, signs. We had climbed the Carvin’s Caverns sign several times before, always at night, always undeterred by the “No Admittance” sign that sat at its base. The summer before, I had given up objecting to the climb. They ignored my warnings that it was fully lighted, with no place to conceal ourselves. Any passing car could see us and, worse, report us. What’s more, no one seemed even remotely worried that the rusted and rickety sign supports and the sign itself actually swayed like a palm tree in a stiff breeze.

“Shut the fuck up,” had been Arnie’s standard reply to my protests.

And, eventually, despite every good reason not to, I did.

After we had scaled the sign, yelled at a few passing cars, and had satisfied our need to defy the authority of the “No Admittance” sign, we piled back into the beige barge, popped open fresh beers, and headed in the vague direction of our houses, but with no intention of going home.

The Buick’s Dynamic Sterling Stereo radio gave us rich basses and mellow trebles as the speedometer hit seventy-five. We coasted almost silently, like a jet reaching cruising altitude. All 4,825 pounds of American automobile ingenuity virtually floated.

Chris eventually lowered the driver’s window, stuck his head out, and let the cool night air rush over him. “Pool or lake?” he yelled, over the road noise.

With calm authority, Arnie flicked his cigarette out the window. “Definitely the pool.”

“No way,” Spence replied. “My dad’s on the board, and he’s been getting reports about late night noise and skinny-dipping.”

I weighed in. “I vote for the lake. Less of a risk.”

“Well, aren’t you the chicken-shit wimp tonight?” Arnie sneered. We were all several beers in, and he had caught up with us fast.

“Fuck you. And what’s wrong with the lake?”

Arnie spun around, offering alcohol-laced contempt and logic. “Nothing, except” gesturing to Spence, “our families live on the lake and it’s our asses if we get caught.”

“Now who’s the chicken-shit?” Chris shot a smug grin at Arnie.

Spence spoke up again. “Look. We just have to hold down the noise. No reason we have to wake the dead, ok? So, park in the circle below the dock. We can slip in there, no hassle.”

Arnie considered the plan and took a long drink. The plan and the additional beer seemed to satisfy him. “Ok. The lake.”

The Buick glided into the empty cul-de-sac and came to a silent stop. We moved in unison. Only the four gentle clicks of carefully closing doors broke the early morning quiet.

Arnie motioned for me to grab the remaining beer, and we all ran barefoot down the path to the lake’s edge. There was a nearly-full moon, and it was a warm, friendly kind of night. Late spring frogs spread a hypnotic chorus over the calm water.

We reached the dock and stripped quickly, leaving watches and wallets in our shoes. Surveying the lake, we detected no lights in the surrounding houses. It was three a.m.

Feeling giddy from the beer and exhilarated by the feeling of getting away with something, we giggled, muffled at first, then high-pitched and alcohol-laced. Aware of our noise, we simultaneously raised cautioning fingers up to our lips to quiet each other. Followed by another wave of uncontrollable laughter.

“Shut the fuck up.” Spence spat at us in a whisper. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

Unable to kill his urge to laugh, Arnie said, “No, that won’t get us caught, but this will.”

He began a slow-motion run across the dock, naked and surefooted as a gazelle. For maximum effect, Arnie executed a perfect cannonball, and sent a water-crash echoing across the lake. To finish it off, he let out a war whoop.

Two houses down, a light came on. Then another.