by Cooper, Doug
Caldwell strums a C. “Next chord to learn is C. Low E string not used. Fifth string, third fret; fourth string, second fret; third string is open; second string, first fret; and first string, open.”
I stretch my fingers into position. “Haven’t got the G down yet.”
Caldwell strums a G for two beats, then a C. “That’s what practice is for.”
I strum the C. It sounds sickly. I adjust my fingers and repeat. The sound improves.
He says, “Now try the G-C combo with the strum pattern.”
I strum in a slow rhythm on the G.
Caldwell keeps the time. “One, two, three, four. One, two, three, now, C, two, three, four.”
I am slow on the change, not making the C until the four. I stop. “A little behind on that one.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just keep going. It’ll come. The changes are difficult. When something sounds good, you don’t want to let it go. But it will always be there when you’re ready to go back to it.”
We spend the next hour with Caldwell counting and me trying to keep up. Time spent with Caldwell is the only thing that feels real anymore—or maybe I’m just hiding behind a new mask.
While entertaining my parents throughout the weekend, I recognize in them the same affinity toward the island I experienced upon my arrival. It puts all of us at ease. For me, it reinforces that my comfort here is more than the party. For them, it opens the possibility that I might know what I’m doing. I just have to finish what I started.
Although the day breezes by—lunch at Frosty’s, visit to the top of the monument, golf cart tour of the island, two-bottle stop at the winery, dinner at the Boardwalk—as we move to the porch after dinner, I know I can’t avoid it any longer. I say, “I can’t believe you leave tomorrow already. Time flies here. It’ll be fall in a blink.”
My mom says, “At the end of the season, you’re still welcome to live with us while you figure out your next move.”
“You know I love you,” I say, setting up the inevitable “but” that we all know is coming. “But my future is not in St. Louis.”
My comment disintegrates the restraint she’s exhibited and the progress we’ve made for the past thirty-six hours. “Your future is checking IDs and sweeping floors in this Disneyland for alcoholics?”
“At least the immediate future. I don’t have all the answers, but I feel like I’m finally on the right path.”
Ever the diplomat, my dad says, “You understand why we’re worried, don’t you?”
“Of course. This whole change has been tough on all of us. I spent the past ten years building a life that I’m not sure I want anymore. I just don’t know what the next step is.”
My mom holds back the tears my words trigger. She’s still not able to see beyond herself. My decision to leave and now my decision to stay here both amount to a rejection of the life she built. I know my dad understands and would encourage me under other circumstances, but he still has another day and a half until he’s safely home. One wrong move and he’ll become the enemy in her eyes. Looking at them, all I can hope is that they’ve finally heard me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TIME PASSES SWIFTLY WHEN A PERSON DOESN’T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING. Or maybe it’s that when a person looks back, he doesn’t recall anything significant to mark the passing time, so he remembers it as one complete piece of his life.
After the weekend with my parents, the next few weeks run together, as much of my time here does when I reflect on it. Why wouldn’t it, though? Monday through Sunday the island fills with visitors who have a single objective: to get fucked up. The islanders’ also remain unchanged: Herd ’em in, take their money, herd ’em out. The unexamined life may not be worth living, but it sure makes time pass quickly.
My continued sobriety and increased time practicing with Caldwell don’t seem to affect the others. They really don’t slow down or speed up. They simply maintain the same frantic pace they’ve set throughout the season. It has become the norm, and they aren’t about to break the routine.
Fortunately the guitar shields me from their activities. It is an acceptable excuse. They never pressure me to join them. They offer; I decline; they go without me. More than anything it reduces the probability that I will see Astrid and distracts me from replaying the story over and over, devising new scenes in the drama.
There were two more interactions since our run-in at the Skyway, both at the monument and neither ending well. I played off the meetings as coincidences, but inside I knew that I went there every night hoping to see her. The hooks she had in me made quitting the cocaine seem easy.
Every time I thought of stopping by the Boat House or going where I expected her to be, I simply picked up the guitar and channeled the frustration and hurt. Now I understand why heartache fuels artistic growth. I had to do something, anything to get rid of the sting. Unfortunately, nothing could completely eradicate the pain. I was forced to live with it.
With August here, many of the college students will start to leave in a few weeks, only to return for the Labor Day weekend to receive their bonuses, which won’t be much—one dollar for every hour worked throughout the season—but enough to get them to stay through that last busy weekend.
This evening, another annual tradition on the island commences: the Bartender Olympics. The event varies significantly from others on the island in that it’s staged for the workers instead of the tourists. Tonight, for once, will not be about the almighty dollar. In fact, minimal money will be exchanged. As a way to give back to the workers, the bar owners comp all drinks for team members.
The twelve scheduled contests vary, ranging from a bar knowledge test to drink presentation. Judges award points according to each team’s finish in an event. At the end they declare an overall winner, and that team has bragging rights for the year. The Round House is the two-time defending champion, and Haley is not ready to give up the trophy yet.
Our security staff is responsible for the Keg Roll Relay, in which each team member rolls an empty keg down a thirty-yard lane to a waiting team member who then rolls it back. The last person travels two lengths and finishes on the same side where he started. The only rules are that you can’t pick up the keg and you have to stay in your lane. The winning team receives twenty points and a full keg, donated by Bob.
I’m also entered in the “What It Means to Serve” contest. Although technically I’m not in drink or food service, I was chosen because my previous life as a teacher and my new guitar hobby labeled me as the most qualified to write and perform a song about service in front of a crowd.
The course of planned events runs parallel to the modern Olympics: opening ceremony to light the torch, singing of the national anthem (for which Mad Dog will be coming to the island), then commencement of the games. But the similarities stop there. Tonight, I’ve been told, is no display of athleticism, but rather an homage to alcoholism. Each event centers on, or at least involves, drinking, which is the main reason why there is no closing ceremony. By the end of the evening, everyone is so blasted that it’s impossible to have an organized event.
This morning at the boat ramp I practice my song over and over to ensure that it will flow when the time comes. Word by word, line by line, verse by verse I broadcast my message out over the water, hoping to feel something come back like when I first arrived.
Behind me I hear a bike roll down the ramp and into the gravel. “Ready to get your butt kicked tonight?”
My hands tighten. I recognize the voice. Blood rushes to my face. I don’t know what to do.
She says, “At least they give points for second place.”
Just play along. Don’t get heavy. I turn around and force a smile. “Funny, I was just thinking of telling you the same.”
Astrid steps off the bike and rests it in the grass. She wears a baseball cap backward with a few blonde strands hanging down on each side of her face. Does she ever not look amazing? The sleeves of her T-shirt are bunched around her sh
oulders and her shorts are rolled up so that they angle upward from her inner thigh to her hip. She walks toward me. “I don’t need to beat you; you’ll beat yourself, or Cinch will. He’ll have you so messed up, you won’t even know your name.”
I say, “Let me guess, you’re wearing a sundress tonight? You’re going to play the sex card. Walk up there all shy and cute, looking the way you do, and nobody will even care what comes out of your mouth. We’ll see what they really judge on.”
“Come on, give me some credit.” She pushes her lips out in a pout. “Do you think I’d really want to win that way?”
“No, but you’re not going to walk up with a bag over your head, either.”
She tilts her head and offers a shy smile. “Care to make a side wager? How about winner’s choice? Winner gets what the winner wants.”
I hesitate. Now I’m confused. She won’t talk to me for weeks and now she wants to make a bet? Just doesn’t make any sense. Wait. Don’t think. Keep it light. I smile back at her. “I’m listening.”
She sits on the rock next to me. “We’re entitled to some fun, aren’t we?”
I look out over the water. The message I hoped to receive is now coming back. Each wave splashing against the rocks drives the message deeper inside me. I turn toward her. The softness has returned to her face. I’m afraid to speak. Words will end this moment and bring on the next. I want to stay right here.
She slaps my leg. “Of course if you’re afraid, I understand.”
I shake her hand to cement the deal. “Even if one of us finishes fifth and the other sixth, fifth place is considered a win, right?”
Her sportive smirk indicates that I can’t lose. Maybe winning isn’t everything. One just needs to hedge the bet and minimize the risk.
The final notes of the “Star Spangled Banner” ring in different keys as other voices excitedly drown out Mad Dog’s for the start of the games.
The torch constructed in the park consists of four empty kegs welded together and anchored in the ground with an old TV satellite dish mounted on top. A propane tank supplies fuel for the flame through a hose that runs along the base and attaches to a fixture in the center of the dish. Mad Dog turns on the propane and lifts the flame toward the center, eliciting cheers from the crowd as it lights and then burns on its own.
When it’s time for the Keg Roll, our team marches down the alley from the red barn in reverse order, with Griffin holding an empty keg above his head. With a shirt on, Griffin doesn’t appear muscular, but now as he struts down the alley bare-chested and glistening with sweat, several people gesture to one another regarding his physique. Robin is no slouch, either, but our team goes drastically downhill from there. My excessive indulgence and lack of exercise have taken their toll, and Cinch gave up trying to stay in shape years ago.
Seeing that Lane 2 is the only vacant slot, Griffin walks to the starting line and sets the keg down.
Cinch says, “Don’t worry if you’re a little behind. It’s more important to stay in your lane. The team that finishes first usually ends up getting second or third place because of penalties. Be fast, but be under control.”
Griffin and I follow our shadows to the other end, as the sun at our backs is beginning to dip behind the trees in the park.
Bob serves as the referee. He raises the starting gun. “On your mark, get set, go.”
The blast sends the contestants scurrying down the lanes. I can’t tell who gets the early lead, but it’s easy to see the difficulty each team has moving in a straight line. The Beer Barrel contestant is the first to break out of his lane.
Griffin says, “We’re in third place, but only ten feet separate him from the leader. Just keep it close.”
Cinch crosses the line and brings the keg to a complete stop. After the judge’s signal, I keep my head down, focusing only on the ten feet in front of me to avoid the sun, which bobs up and down behind the tree line as I run.
I take my eyes off the keg to check my position, and the keg skips away to the right. I scramble after it, catching it before it crosses the lane line, but not before all the other teams pass me. I hear Robin cheering. I must be close. I push forward, crossing the line and stopping the keg.
Cinch walks down from the other end. “Good job, Shep. Nice save.”
“Yeah, right. We’re in last place now.” I raise my hands above my head to catch my breath.
He says, “Don’t worry, we don’t have any penalties. That’s what’ll kill you. Look, Robin already moved up two spots and Frosty’s just picked up a penalty. Let’s go to the finish line. Griffin will pull it out. He lives for shit like this. Plus he knows I’ll kick his ass if he lets the team down.”
Robin hands off to Griffin as we break through the crowd to wait in our lane for his return. In the first ten yards Griffin moves into third place. His hips are low, his back arched at a forty-five-degree angle, his head level.
I say, “He’s a machine.”
Cinch smiles proudly. “He should be. I’ve had him practicing for weeks.”
By the time Griffin gets to the end to turn around, he’s even with the Boat House team, which is in second place and only five yards behind Frosty’s.
Robin joins from the other end. “Holy shit! Can you believe that? This is in the bag.”
The three of us, along with the spectators, watch in awe as Griffin effortlessly chews up the remaining distance, finishing five yards ahead of Frosty’s team, not even needing the penalty to beat them. But the penalty does cost Frosty’s second place, dropping them behind the Boat House. Fourth place goes to the Crescent Tavern and fifth to the Beer Barrel.
“Now where exactly is our keg?” Griffin says, emerging through the crowd barely winded.
Cinch says, “Don’t forget a trash can and some ice so we can tap it later. It’ll need to sit for a while after being carried up the steps.”
Our focus immediately shifts from the competition to setting up for our post-competition party, which is pretty consistent with the way our whole summer has been. Everything is always about the party.
Unfortunately, our first-place finish vaults us into the lead for only one event. Our skit flops, dropping us into second. Only three events remain: the 16-ounce Beer Chug, the Bartender Speech/Poem, and the Drink Presentation, in which each team creates a signature cocktail and presents it to the judges.
I say, “I’m going upstairs to get ready for my event. Come get me when it’s time.”
“We should be back in first by then,” Cinch says. “We got the Beer Chug locked up. Our guy wins every year. He just opens his throat and pours it back.”
I recite the song as I walk out the side door of the Round House onto the patio.
“You talking to yourself again?”
In the darkness only the red glow of his cigarette is visible, but I know the gravelly voice. I launch my words at the scarlet flare. “Caldwell, why you hiding out here?”
“You know this is the crazy time of year. I try to stay out of the way. Only a few more weeks left, though.”
“Are you going to be here for a little bit? I’d love for you to hear this since you helped me with the music. It’s just a stupid song about service, but I’m still nervous.”
“Do you know it? Then why be nervous? Get up there, be open, and let it rip. Truth flows when you allow it to.”
In the barn, confident that I know the words, I stand in front of the mirror to watch my body language. Cinch comes up after my second time through. He says, “The first person just walked on stage, but you’ve got seven other people in front of you.”
“Tell me which rendition is more effective.”
He sits down at the table with the lock box. “Do you care if I prepare a few packages while you do it?”
“Do what you gotta do.” I go through both versions. “So which do you like better?”
“The first one,” he says, although he hadn’t been watching. “How about a little boost to get you ready?”
&nbs
p; “No way. I’ll be too edgy.”
“A little won’t hurt.”
“I can’t. Bad shit always seems to follow.”
“Nonsense.” Cinch scoops some on a spoon and prances over. “Here comes the airplane. Just a little sniff of jet fuel.”
I stare at the end of the spoon. “Not now. Maybe later.”
“Come on. Be a good boy and take your medicine.”
“Fine. But this is it. No more.” I take a blast in each nostril.
Cinch licks the spoon in triumph. “Now was that so bad?”
The inside of my nose burns. My throat swells. The roof of my mouth and my gums numb. I shake my head and shoulders and wiggle my fingers. A wave of anxiety surges through me. “Fuck. Knew that was stupid.” I put down the guitar and pace around.
Cinch says, “Here’s what you do. Walk on stage with a bucket of beer. Hold it to the crowd and then take a long drink. It’ll get them going and calm you down. When you’re done with the song, dump the pitcher over your head. They’ll eat it up.”
I head toward the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Cinch walks to the couch and picks up the guitar. “Uh, don’t you want to take this?”
“Shit. I’m such a space cadet.” I take the guitar from him. “This is going to suck.”
Cinch gathers the packages he prepared. He says, “At this point in the season, it would be wrong not to be under the influence when you go up there.”
I wait behind the Round House. Astrid’s voice flows over the PA. I can’t listen to her. Walking back toward the parking lot, I move my tongue around my mouth. But the only moisture in my body streams from my forehead. I repeat the first few words. “Let us be merry, let us be merry.” I walk into the back room and wait behind the curtain.
“And now our final contestant, from the Round House. All the way from the Show Me state, please give a nice welcome to Brad Shepherd.”
Astrid winks at me from the other side of the bar as Cinch hands me a bucket of beer. A gulp from the bucket prompts cheers from the crowd. I continue to drink, not to encourage their enthusiasm, but because my body soaks up the liquid as I pour it in. Jeers emanate when I stop with half remaining.
