by Cooper, Doug
I mask my disappointment. “We’re just having fun. No hassles.” I turn toward the water looking for Cinch. “Do you see Cinch? He should’ve surfaced by now.”
She walks to the water. “Cinch? Quit messing around.”
The darkness swallows her words, and only the sound of the waves returns.
I rush into the water. “Cinch! Oh fuck! No!” I swim toward the landing spot. Astrid searches closer to shore. I dive underwater. Can’t see anything. I run my hands along the rocks, searching for something I really don’t want to find. The panic shortens my wind. I push to the surface. Still no Cinch. I kick back to the bottom. Each smooth stone I feel is another moment that Cinch might be okay. I push upward, staying above water only long enough to fill my lungs and check with Astrid, each time hoping to see the two of them together.
After three dives, from a cave under the cliff, Cinch’s voice slices through the commotion. “Looking for me?” He swims toward us. “Oh man, that was great. You should’ve seen your faces.” He splashes in the water, imitating us. “Cinch? Oh no. Where are you?”
Astrid swims toward him. “You think that’s funny, huh?” She dunks him repeatedly. “I’ll really drown you.”
“Okay, okay,” he says each time she lets him catch a breath above the surface. “I’m sorry.”
I trudge back toward shore. “Let’s just go.”
Cinch swims away from Astrid. “Don’t be mad at me because you were afraid to jump. There’s still hope you might grow a sack one day.”
I push back toward Cinch. “Everything’s a big joke to you, isn’t it?”
Cinch stands in the waist-deep water. “Just relax, tiger. No need to get your panties in a bunch.”
“Fuck off.” I shove Cinch back into the water.
Astrid steps between us. “Just cool down. Both of you.”
I spin away and head toward shore. “I’m out of here.”
“Come on, man. I’m sorry. I was just joking.” He trails after me.
I slog through the water. I know I’ve overreacted; now the question is just how to save face. I can’t embarrass myself twice in one night.
“I don’t know what I was thinking coming here,” I announce. The splashing behind me increases. I emerge from the water and lengthen the separation between us. His pace quickens. I let him catch me by the fire while I search for my second shoe.
“Just wait a sec.” He’s panting from the exertion. “The jump might not have killed me, but this chasing shit might.”
“Let’s just forget it. I’ll move my stuff out in the morning.” I drop down on the beach to put on my shoes, still not looking at him. “Maybe one of the other places is still hiring.”
“I said I was sorry.” He walks over and stands in front of me. “What more can I do to make it up to you?”
Astrid joins us by the fire. “Let’s all just take a deep breath and go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll laugh about this in the morning.”
I stand, and finally I look him in the eyes. “You really want to make it up to me?”
His body straightens. “Just name it. Whatever it takes.”
“On your knees.” I unbutton my shorts and let them fall around my ankles. “I need a good blow-dry.”
Cinch doesn’t react. Astrid is the first to laugh. “You know, you two really are made for each other. Somebody put another log on the fire. My clothes are soaked.”
I mimic the sarcastic voice Cinch was using earlier. “I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you? Please don’t be mad at me.”
“Okay. You got me. Game on. I see how it’s going to be.” Cinch slips on his dry shorts. “Who’s the one with wet clothes, bitch?”
Astrid removes her soaked shorts and smacks them against Cinch’s bare chest. “One of you jokers better find a way to get those dry. I’m not wearing wet shorts the rest of the night.”
I pick up her shorts and position them next to mine on the rocks by the fire. “Let’s stay until the clothes are dry or the fire goes out. Whichever comes first.”
“Who’s up for one?” Cinch pulls a plate out of the backpack and dangles the bag of coke between his fingers. “This could be a long night.”
Astrid clenches her teeth. “Oooh, I wasn’t planning to have an all-nighter. Maybe I’ll just stick with beer.”
“Does anyone ever plan to stay up all night?” Cinch sits down to perform the chopping ritual.
“I’m in,” I say. “The sooner I go to bed, the sooner tomorrow comes.”
“Oh hell, why not?” Astrid says. “Guess the first session of the season had to happen sooner or later.”
“Session?” I laugh. “Is this research for your psychology thesis?”
Astrid says, “It’s like group therapy. While most of the island sleeps, we’ll be whoever we want to be. For the next few hours, we won’t exist.”
“Buckle up your chin straps, kids.” Cinch passes the plate to Astrid. “Cocaine, alcohol, and new friends amount to more than a few hours, because everyone will have fresh lies to tell.”
The first hour of the session consists of Cinch performing his best bits from Jimmy Stewart to George Bush. Whenever he runs out of material, either Astrid or I willingly takes over. No one moves except to reach to the right and pass to the left.
There’s a drive in a lost soul—in one that is searching for acceptance, companionship, belonging, whatever you want to call it. The slightest coincidence ignites a spark that one hopes will lead to something meaningful. That’s why I’m here—for the slim chance that at some point in the day, whether it be four in the afternoon or six in the morning, I might have a conversation during which I honestly connect with someone.
Astrid stares at the pre-dawn glow above the tree line on the cliff. “It’s getting light out. Tomorrow has officially arrived.”
After all the chemicals we put into our bodies, a flash of morning light overrides them all. Cinch passes me the plate. “Put the rest of that back in the bag. Too conspicuous to be here at sunrise. Astrid, get the empties. I’ll take care of the fire.”
I clean the plate and put it back in the backpack. After twisting and tying the bag as I have seen Cinch do on other occasions, I extend it to him. “Here you go. You probably want this back.”
“Just keep it,” he says. “That way you don’t always have to rely on me.”
I nod and slide the bag in my pocket.
We leave the beach as we found it and slink back to the Jeep in silence. I guess after hours of unbridled conversation, there’s nothing more left to say.
We drop off Astrid at her place and park the Jeep behind the Round House. Cinch says, “How about another hour? Let’s go watch sunrise at the monument.”
“You don’t have to twist my arm. The walk will help me sleep.”
“If that doesn’t work, just masturbate. Works every time.”
I force a laugh. Even that takes effort at this point. “Here I thought that bottle of lotion next to your bed was for dry skin.”
A thin layer of dew massages the freshly trimmed grass, prepping it for the day ahead. The tip of the sun peeks over the horizon as we sit down on the cement seawall. Why am I not here every morning?
Cinch stares at the glimmering horizon. “Supposed to be a nice day, which means that starting in four hours, the Jet Express will roll in every thirty minutes, filled with tourons whose pockets are stuffed with money to leave on the island.”
My head slumps forward. “Don’t remind me.”
“There’ll be so much going on today that the sheer energy will keep you going. We’ll just party all day with them.”
We sit in silence. The sun, now fully exposed, makes my sweatshirt uncomfortable, as does the time of day. “We should probably head back soon, huh?” I ask.
“Yeah, a few hours of sleep might make a difference later in the day.”
We walk back along the seawall. A police car stops at the intersection. I bury my hands in my pockets. “Heads up. We’
ve got company.”
The turn signal on the right flashes, and the wheels point in our direction. Cinch says, “Relax. We’ve just been up drinking all night. We do it all the time. Are you carrying?”
I brush my hand against the bag Cinch gave me earlier. I forgot to leave it with the backpack in the Jeep. The car rolls toward us. There are only two reasons it would turn right down this dead end: to watch the sun rise or to see us.
The car stops as we pass. The bulge in my pocket feels like a baseball. Producing a smile requires all my concentration.
The window lowers. “Morning, boys. Awful early for you, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER FIVE
CINCH PEERS INSIDE THE POLICE CRUISER. “Skip, what the fuck? Trying to give me a heart attack?” The painted smile on his face fills with sincerity.
“If you’re not doing anything wrong, why worry?” the officer says.
“You know some of those pricks you work with just look for people to hassle. Brad, Skip works the door for us now and then, whenever he isn’t playing Barney Fife. Dude, give us a ride back to the red barn. We have to work in a few hours.”
“One up front and one in the back,” he says, unaware that if he drove straight to the station, he would have a pretty significant collar.
Cinch opens the back door for me, enjoying the situation. “Watch your head, young man.”
My sweaty legs stick to the vinyl seats. I gaze through the mesh wiring separating me from Cinch and Skip, trying to connect with their conversation. The deeper I gaze through the small holes, the farther away they sound.
Skip pulls the car behind the red barn. “Cinch, you’ll have to let him out from the outside. Get some sleep, boys. Going to be a long weekend.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I say. “Sorry—I’m a little out of it. Never been in the back of a cop car before.”
Skip laughs. “Let’s keep it that way, mister.”
In the red barn I toss the bag of coke on the table. “Man, that was stupid. One fuckup and it’s over. What if you hadn’t known him?”
Cinch says, “But I did. I know about 80 percent of the cops, so I wasn’t worried. Plus, we weren’t doing anything wrong. Of course, I didn’t know you had a bag of cosmic charlie in your pocket.”
After three hours of sleep, Cinch and I begin the next day as we ended the previous one. At the cove we had passed around a dinner plate; now our breakfast comes on a mirror. Sometimes things should be more difficult than they are. It would probably save me from trouble down the road if I feel worse than I do.
On my way to work, a man wearing a pink tank top and snug khaki shorts stands by the back door of the Round House. Must be Mad Dog. His long, stringy hair is pulled into a ponytail that extends through the back of a baseball hat that says Every day above ground is a good day.
Cinch had explained that Mad Dog plays at the Round House on popular weekends. The first two hours of his show are stand-up comedy while he smokes and drinks. For the last few hours, as his buzz takes over, he plays rock and roll on his acoustic guitar, sometimes until six thirty, when he leaves the stage barely able to stand. He drinks only Pink Catawba wine from Heineman’s Winery and shots of peppermint schnapps, consuming on average three bottles of wine and ten to twelve shots per show, all while smoking three packs of cigarettes. His tributes to excess are legendary, just like the sales on the registers as people attempt to keep up with him.
He pops a cigarette into his mouth. “Got a light?”
Fumbling through my pockets, I surprisingly find two lighters. Must’ve picked these up cleaning the bar. I toss one to Mad Dog. “Keep it.”
Cinch rounds the corner, yelling, “Every day above ground is a gooooooood day.”
“Cinchy! It’s about time,” Mad Dog says. “I thought I was going on without you. Get on stage and introduce me.”
With only a microphone and Mad Dog’s black Takamine guitar, the Round House stage looks barren. Cinch steps behind the mic. “Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to announce that despite spending the night in jail, Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Adams is here to continue spreading his gospel on the international ‘Every day above ground is a good day II’ tour. Please welcome the Mad Dog!”
Side by side, Mad Dog and Cinch are as visually appealing as two contestants in a hot dog eating contest. Mad Dog says, “Damn, anytime I think I’m getting too old and fat to do this, I see Cinch, who is younger, fatter, and balder than I am. It’s the little things, folks, that help you through the days. By the way, Cinch, I’ll get that bail money for ya after the show. Drink up, folks—I got bills to pay, and I guarantee not one damn dime will go toward charity. Every bit will go toward my alcohol and drug addictions. I feel good, though, folks. I really do. I feel a lot better than you guys look. What an ugly crowd. You guys are going to drive me to drink. We better start out slow, though. It’s going to be a long weekend. Haley, how about a shot? And crack that first bottle of Pink Cat. I think it’s gonna be a three-bottle day.”
All focus is on Mad Dog. He may be having a liquid lunch, but the screams and whistles are his nourishment.
“You know, folks, life is short. It really is. My grandfather was eighty-nine years old when he died. He smoked two packs of cigarettes and drank a fifth of Jack Daniels every day. And then the other day I was reading about some twenty-eight-year-old health nut who left his house for his morning jog and boom, he got run over by a truck. You just never know. At least I’m killing myself slowly. You got to take life slow, enjoy every minute. That’s why I say, ‘Every day above ground—’”
The crowd finishes his statement: “Is a good day!”
Mad Dog guzzles from one of the three wine bottles perched within arm’s reach. “Sounds like you guys have been here before. We have some repeat offenders.”
By two o’clock, Mad Dog has finished one bottle of Pink Catawba and downed four shots. Regardless of when people join the show, they always seem able to catch up with everyone else when it comes to drinking. Song by song, as Mad Dog’s eyes narrow from the alcohol, the crowd’s actions become clumsy, almost embarrassing to watch. So I move out to the porch. Ferries filled with sheep and cattle ready to graze on the island roll in one after the other. The more people that come to the bar, the better I feel. I’m a vampire feeding off the energy of others because I have very little of my own right now.
Robin from the ferry crosses the street with three girls and introduces Dawn, Lea, and Brooke, who are visiting for the weekend. Lea stands closer to Robin and seems to have more confidence than the others, so it’s obvious that she’s with him. Dawn and Brooke appear unsure of their roles, and quiet anxiety oozes from behind their polite smiles.
Robin turns to Cinch. “What time should I be in tonight?”
“Just be here by the time the band starts,” Cinch says, never taking his eyes off Brooke.
I say, “Robin, you work here, too?”
He smiles. “Might as well get paid to hang out and drink.”
“Ladies,” Cinch says, “just ask for me at the door when you come back later. We always have room for three pretty faces. We’ll throw out ten drunks if we have to.”
Only a short time on the job, and already much of this is routine. After the Mad Dog show we kick everyone out, clean with push brooms, shovels, and a wet-vac, then we take our break at the Boardwalk before the evening shift begins. To show me what “busy” means, Cinch decides to position me inside by the side door.
Just before we go back to work, Haley motions me over and slides a shot across the bar. “First of all, drink this,” she says. “Second of all, stand on the stool so you can see everything.” She swirls the shaker and pours the rest into my glass. “Get with the program, rookie.”
I put the flashlight into my back pocket and stand on the stool, placing my hand over the door to monitor who comes and goes. The two bouncers perched in the opposite chairs flash their lights to welcome me. Haley finds the matter more humorous. Every glance in my direction elicits a smile.
One day I’m not here, the next I’m a fixture in her daily routine.
The pool of humanity pulses and moves with the music, flowing as one body. Within the small pond, individual puddles bubble, each having its own purpose and mission but connected in this common space.
The door shakes. I extend my wrist to prompt the people to show me theirs. Instead, two smiling faces, appearing much more relaxed than at our first meeting, shine through the glass.
I open the door and step down. “Ladies, please come in. Where’s Lea?”
Dawn says, “She’s with Robin getting us wristbands.”
I remove two from my pocket. “I can take care of that.”
I’ve already learned that a bouncer is more concierge than security personnel. The role entails making sure the guests are comfortable, getting them what they need and dealing with any problems that may arise.
Brooke says, “Such gentlemen around here, Dawn. What did we do to deserve this treatment?”
I say, “Ladies, I learned long ago that life is about service. Serve the women in my life, and I’ll have a much more rewarding and happier one myself.”
The innuendo, glances, and smiles remove all the mystery about where the night is heading. How convenient. Lea has her friends when Robin is busy, and her friends have us when Robin and Lea are busy.
Robin returns with five shots and drinks. Dawn turns to me and offers a toast. “To new friends.”
Our touching of shot glasses officially begins the games for the evening. These games will not be centered on pride, individual achievement, or self-respect, but instead on blatant sexual conquest. The only question is this: who among us are the hunted and who the hunters?
These roles fluctuate as the night progresses. It’s always the three women with two of us entertaining them. The other is either on the porch attending to business or—at least if the other is either Cinch or me—in the red barn having our own private party.
By midnight the foundation has been set. The shots, the dancing, and the superficial conversation have already transpired, so no one finds another bar appealing. The red barn might be appropriate to entertain at three in the morning, but not now, not with this crowd. The only thing we need is some one-on-one time to provoke physical contact.
