by Brent Runyon
She should know. She's always reading some mystery with dumb-ass titles like A Is for Accidental Homicide and B Is for Bathwater Drowning.
I say, “I should just go unscrew that lightbulb.”
Dad says, “That's not a bad idea. Let's do it.”
Mom says, “Please don't. That's trespassing.”
Dad says, “It'll be fine.”
I say, “It'll be fine.”
Mom says, “Fine, but if you get arrested, don't expect me to bail you out.” Dad and I sneak out onto the dock. I've got the Mission: Impossible theme in my head. This is fun. I hum a little of it out loud and Dad turns and smiles at me. Now we're both humming it.
We get to the end and I stretch up, but it's a little higher than I can reach.
Dad and I are almost the same height, so he can't reach it either. But he weighs a ton more than me. He whispers, “Get on my shoulders.”
He squats down and I put my legs over his shoulders. He's strong enough to lift me, and I go right up to the light.
I lick my fingers so I don't get burned and then twist it really fast until my spit evaporates. It takes a few licks and a few twists, but finally the light goes out.
I whisper, “Should I take it out?”
He says, “No, just leave it unscrewed.”
“Okay.” He puts me down and we run back to where Mom is sitting on the beach.
Dad says, “Good job, son.”
Mom says, “You are a bad influence.”
The Richardsons invite us over for ice cream after dinner, and we tell the story about how we unscrewed the lightbulb on the minister's dock. Mr. Richardson tips his head back and laughs into the night.
He seemed so stern before we got to know him. When he's just hanging out having an ice cream, he's really cool.
Mrs. Richardson is smiling and asking if we want any more ice cream. But she's not just like a grandma-type person. She's also really tough. I've seen her climb out onto the bow of their boat and balance out there. I've seen her carrying around picnic tables and canoes. She's tough.
Dad and Mom are sitting on an old-fashioned couch on the screened-in porch, and I'm sitting on this wicker chair with cushions. It's so nice here. I wish our house were this nice.
Mr. Richardson is telling some long story about something. I stopped listening a while ago. He can really talk.
Mrs. Richardson comes back out of the kitchen and interrupts him. “Bill, Freddy is here.”
“What?”
“Freddy is outside.”
“Oh, okay. Cool Hand Luke, want to help me with Freddy?”
“Who is Freddy?” I ask.
“Freddy the Freeloader.”
I follow Mr. Richardson through the kitchen. He picks up an old margarine tub filled with food scraps from dinner. Some half-eaten ears of corn and some apple skins. I feel sorry for Freddy.
We go out into the night and stand outside. I don't see anyone. I wonder if he's hiding somewhere. I try and look into the shadows near the garage, but I don't see anyone. This is weird.
Mr. Richardson whispers, “You see him?”
I whisper, “No.”
“Up in the tree.”
Now I'm a little scared. I look up into the branches. There's nobody up there, not that I can see. Mr. Richardson sees me looking up and says, “Not up there. There.”
He points to the crotch of the tree, where the branches split off. I see a pair of eyes looking back at me, but that's not a guy. That's a raccoon.
“You see him now?”
“No, all I see is a raccoon.”
Mr. Richardson laughs really loudly. “Well, I'd be worried about you if you saw anything else.”
He throws a corncob out into the lawn, and just like that, Freddy climbs down the tree, picks it off the grass, and goes right back up to his perch. He eats it with two hands, rotating it all the time to get every little piece of corn off, but the freaky thing is he's staring at me while he's eating. He just keeps staring at me.
I say, “He's a fatty.”
Mr. Richardson laughs. He dumps the rest of the food on the lawn and calls out in a big voice, “This is all for you, Freddy.”
When we head home, I see the minister is sitting at the end of the dock in the dark with his back to the water. I can't see his eyes, but I can feel him staring at us.
I get into bed and turn off my light. I don't feel like reading tonight. I close my eyes and I see Freddy the Freeloader sitting up in that tree staring back at me. I just know I'm going to have a bad dream tonight.
Plus, the minister's dogs are howling at some other dogs across the creek. It used to be so quiet that I could hear everything, and sometimes I would even wish I could hear a car or two just so I could go to sleep. But now the dogs are out there, and so are the raccoons, and the minister, sitting there in the dark watching us.
Roger, Kay, and Claire are here. Good God, why do we have to keep entertaining them? They're like the most boring people in the whole world. Claire annoys me just by being taller than me, plus her hair isn't even a color. It's so blond it's practically clear.
The adults head off to the beach to drink and to tan themselves. Claire prefers to stay inside, out of the sun. Maybe that's why her hair is so clear and her skin is so pasty.
She's dealt herself a game of solitaire on the kitchen table. I wonder if I can get her to talk to me.
“Hi, Claire!” I pretend that I'm really excited to see her, just to see if I can get her to react.
“Hello, Luke.”
“What are you up to, you old badass, you?” She hates when I swear. She almost looks up from her cards but keeps her head down and moves a red queen to the black king.
“Nice move. I have this game on my computer. I'm amazing at it, so let me know if you need any help or anything, okay?”
“Sure. I think I'm all set, though.”
“Okay, just speak up if you need a tip.”
“I will.”
“Roger that, over and out. Hey, do you ever call your dad Roger? Like do you ever say, ‘Roger that, Roger'?”
“No.” Her tone of voice is a little flatter than it would normally be. I think I'm starting to piss her off.
“Blackjack.”
“What?”
“I don't mean blackjack. I mean black jack. Move the black jack to the red queen.”
“Yeah, I know. I was going to. I just wanted to see if I could do anything else first.”
“Okay. I don't think so, though.”
“Thanks.” Once again with the flat tone of voice. Nice.
I look out the window. There's nothing out there more entertaining than annoying Claire. “Hey, do you still play the flute?”
“No. Not really. I'm focusing on piano.”
I hate the way she just said that, “focusing on piano.” “How's that going? How's that piano focusing going?”
“Fine.”
“Red seven on the black eight.”
“I know.”
“Do you think you're getting pretty good, or do you suck, or what's the story?”
“I wouldn't say I'm good, and I wouldn't say that I'm not good.”
“So you're just pretty average, then? Just kind of in the middle?”
“Uh-huh.” She deals out three cards from the deck.
“Ooh, black five.”
“I know.”
“Cool. Cool. Well, I'll let you play for a little while longer, and then I'll come back and annoy you some more.”
She looks up at me and actually half smiles. “Okay, I can't wait.”
I see the Vizquel girl all the time now. She looks so good in her bathing suit. She goes swimming by herself and sits outside her cottage by herself. Her mom mostly stays inside or goes to work somewhere. The car is gone now, so she must be at work. Mom told me the girl's name is Sophie. I want to do something. I want to meet her or say hi or something, but I don't know how to do that.
She's in the lake right now. I take a quart of fresh strawberries out of the
fridge and walk it over to the Vizquels' cottage. I place it on the front step so she'll see it when she comes back from the lake.
I go back to our cottage and watch from the window as she walks up from the lake. She sees the strawberries and she picks them up. She looks around like she's wondering where they came from, but I don't think she can see me.
She takes them inside with her. I don't know what I was expecting. I guess I sort of wanted her to run over here and thank me and then we could meet, but I didn't leave her a note or anything, so I don't know why she would do that.
Mom and Dad are getting drunk with the Richardsons on their porch before dinner. Dad is having his third or fourth beer, and Mom is drinking wine coolers with Mrs. Richardson. I'm just sitting here with my headphones on, pretending to listen to my music, but with the sound turned way down so I can hear what they're saying.
Adults get really weird when they drink. Right now Dad is talking louder and louder and laughing too long at nothing. Mom is dancing to the music on the radio. Motown.
Mom has this one dance move she always does when she gets a few wine coolers in her. She shifts her weight back and forth on her hips and snaps her fingers at the same time. Old people shouldn't be allowed to snap their fingers while they're dancing.
I turn my music up so I can get through the next two and a half minutes without puking. Finally, the stupid song ends and Mom sits down. They think I'm not listening, so I turn my music back down again.
All they're talking about is how the Sinister Minister is at it again. I guess he didn't just screw the lightbulb back in, like everyone thought he would. He installed some sort of metal grate in front of the lightbulb. Not only that, he installed this bell on the side of his cottage that rings every time his phone rings, so if he's on his dock, he can hear it.
Mr. Richardson is really angry about it. He keeps swearing like a crazy old man about the minister. He keeps calling him an SOB, which stands for “son of a bitch.”
Dad says, “What I'd like to do … what I'd like to do …” When Dad drinks, it sometimes takes him a couple of tries to get through the sentence he started. “What I'd like to do is go over there in the middle of the night and cut the power to his whole damn area. I really would.”
Mr. Richardson nods his head over and over. I feel bad for him that he's gotten so worked up. It's too bad. The minister's ruined his perfect world.
The only good thing about the minister problem is that the Richardsons keep inviting us over to hang out with them. It's like we're all of a sudden part of their family.
Dad is out in his kayak practicing his Eskimo roll. It looks really hard. He wants me to learn it too, so I wade out into the water and stand next to him while he gets ready.
He says, “Here's how we do it. I tip my body to the side, go under, and sweep my arm out like this.” He gestures with his right shoulder, like he's throwing a punch. “Easy as pie, son.”
I smile at him and nod. I disagree that it will be as easy as pie, but I don't feel like saying that. I disagree with the whole notion that pie is easy, actually. I don't have the first clue how to make pie. It's probably pretty complicated. There are probably a number of steps and ingredients. Every time I have ever tried to bake anything, it's always been a disaster, usually because I can never remember the difference between baking soda and baking powder.
Dad is getting ready for his first try. He says, “Here goes nothing.” He dips his head to the side and the kayak rolls right over, but it doesn't come back up again. He's upside-down in the kayak. He makes some motion with his hands and the paddle, but the boat doesn't move at all.
I wonder if I should help him. He tries again, but it doesn't do anything. He's panicking, I think. He pulls himself out of the boat and I reach down underwater to grab his hand. I pull him up and he looks really disoriented. He shakes his head, opens his eyes wide, and spits some water out of his mouth.
“Whoa, that was intense,” he says. “Did I come up at all?”
“No, not really.”
“Not at all?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Shit. You want to give it a try?”
It's always a good sign when Dad starts swearing around me. It means he's either drunk or really frustrated; either way, it's awesome.
I don't want to do this, but I say yes anyway. We flip the kayak right side up and then upside down to get all the water out. We go up onshore so I can get all the equipment on and so Dad can refer back to his book about how to do an Eskimo roll. Dad says, “See, son, it's a sweeping motion like this.” He points to the picture of the guy in the book. I see what he means, but I can't really imagine myself doing that underwater. I get all the gear on and paddle out into the lake, turn the kayak around, and paddle back toward shore. Dad wades out into the lake and meets me about halfway up to his chest. He says, “If you get in trouble, just pull on this little loop.” He shows me a loop of rope that will pull off the watertight seal, and then I'll be able to get out of the boat.
He holds the bow of the kayak and waits for me to set myself. I'm ready. I take a deep breath and lean over, but the boat doesn't tip right away. I take another breath and try again, but it won't go over. Maybe I'm not heavy enough.
Dad gives the kayak a little push and I go right over. I'm upside-down underwater, so the rocks and everything below me feel like they're above me. The sky is the floor, and the rocks are the sky. What am I supposed to do? Don't panic. Just push the paddle out.
Never mind that there's water going up my nose and I can't do anything. I grab the release loop and pull and I'm out of the boat and swimming. I come up for air, and I can breathe again.
Okay, that was not a really supercool thing to do. Dad asks me if I want to try again, but I tell him I don't like being upside-down underwater and feeling like I'm going to drown.
I don't want to do that again. This is his thing, not mine.
Mom and Dad went into town this morning, so I'm hanging out on the beach with Mike's girlfriend, Eliza. Mike and Eliza are so cool. Especially Eliza, and not just because she's got huge tits. Really huge tits, actually. It's because she's got this amazing personality. She's a grown-up, but she's not grownup at all. Not like my parents. She's just really wild and free. I hope when I'm a grown-up, I'll be like that.
Even with her tits, you know, she's just so cool about them. Like she's just hanging around in her bathing suit and she doesn't mind that I'm staring at them the whole time. She doesn't mind at all.
She's been coming down to the lake on the days when no one else is here. I guess she likes to be alone, but she doesn't seem to mind if I come over and talk with her while she's sunbathing.
Eliza's not afraid to ask anything either. That's the other thing I love about her. She says, “Are you still a virgin?”
“Me? Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess? I think you would know.”
“I am. I am, but I don't know if I'm going to be that much longer.”
“Really? Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah, yeah, but I'm not that into her.”
Eliza laughs and reaches down to scratch her ankle. She's got a tattoo down there.
I say, “What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“Are you a virgin?”
She laughs again, kind of a smoky laugh that makes it sound like she's the furthest thing from a virgin. “No. I'm not a virgin. I wish I was, though.”
“Really? I wish I wasn't.”
Something about Eliza, she's like twenty-five, but she seems like a big teenager. I even feel like I've kind of got a shot with her. How cool would that be if she let me have sex with her? I would totally do that.
Eliza opens up another wine cooler and takes a big sip. Her lips are big and soft-looking. I'm getting a major hard-on. I can't help it.
“Do you want a sip?” she says.
“Yeah, sure.” I reach out and take a drink of her wine cooler. It's really sweet and sparkly. I lik
e it, but I don't really like it. I guess I'd rather have a Coke.
“You can have one if you think your parents wouldn't mind.”
“Um, I don't know. They might mind a little. I don't know why.”
“Okay, well, there's a Coke in the fridge if you want.”
“Really? Cool.” I get up and walk into the Richardsons' cottage. I love being in here. Everything is right where it should be, and there are all these pictures on the wall that make everything look so perfect.
I hope she didn't notice my boner when I stood up. Or maybe I don't care.
I open the ancient refrigerator and look for a Coke, but the only thing I see is Diet Coke. What the hell? This stuff is gross. At least it's cold, though.
I walk back out through the screen door and onto the stone patio. When I get rich, when I'm older, I'm going to buy this place from the Richardsons. I'll still let them come visit, but I'll live here year-round.
I sit down next to Eliza again and stare right at her tits. I wonder if she notices when I do that. Probably not. I'm pretty good at disguising it. I only look when I'm moving, or when they're moving, or when she looks away or something.
The best is when she reaches down to pick something up and I get to look right down her bikini.
Eliza said something, but I wasn't listening, so I just say, “Yeah.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” I'm not sure what she's talking about, but it seems easiest to say “yeah.”
“Really? You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Me? No. Go ahead.”
“Oh, okay, because if you mind, I don't have to ask you.”
“No, I really don't mind. I mean, I like it. I just didn't know that's what you were talking about.” What am I talking about?
“Okay. So you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I'm just curious, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Has your … has your penis started to get bigger yet?”
I don't know what to say. That's not what I was expecting her to ask me, but it's also exactly what I'm in the mood to talk about.
“You mean right now?”
She laughs, but it wasn't a joke. “No. I mean like puberty. I'm just curious. When does a guy's penis start getting bigger?”
