Summer Love

by Annie Harper

  You hear about crazy shit happening on the news all the time—just last week there was a story about a woman who drowned her kids because she thought they would be better off—but I don’t think it really clicks until something happens to you. Sure, technically Muffin was just a house cat. But really, how big a stretch is it to go from wanting to kill the family pet out of mercy to killing your wife and children? Shit. I really shouldn’t think such things.

  And then there was when I told you I was gay. You had gotten some beer from Charlie. Well, more like you had stolen it, but you were adamant that you really couldn’t be held accountable for taking it because “if Charlie didn’t want someone to take his beer, then Charlie shouldn’t leave it in a cooler on the back of his truck.” So we headed out to the fort we had built that year behind your house. It was pretty much a glorified hole covered in branches, but to us it was the coolest damn hole ever covered.

  I’m not sure why I was so afraid to tell you. It’s not like I thought you wouldn’t accept me; I mean, you think Harry and Draco from Harry Potter should be a couple for fuck’s sake. Anyway, I think being afraid to tell you had more to do with the fact that, if I told you, I would be admitting it out loud. Sharing it with someone made it real. You didn’t even flinch when I told you, just asked if this meant I had the hots for you. That’s when I knew for sure that I had picked the right best friend.

  I guess I really should thank you for Country Fest, even if I honestly don’t remember a good chunk of it. God, looking back, we drank a shitload that weekend. I remember that I really didn’t want to go—my upbringing may have made me a redneck, but at least I am a classy one. But as soon as Anika and Jackie said they had bought their tickets, I knew my fate was sealed.

  In case you were wondering, his name was Chad—I’m not sure why I never told you that. I mean, I know more details about the first time you made out with a chick (and worse, the first time you had sex, which I REALLY shouldn’t know anything about since it was with MY twin sister) than I could ever want to, so it only seems fair that I share just as much with you. I am not even sure why I suddenly have the urge to bring it up. Maybe it’s because you just got married, and I’m going through a single and lonely phase, and remembering the first boy I ever made out with reminds me that at least someone found me desirable? Maybe because it’s the closest thing I’ve ever had (and probably ever will have) to a summer fling? I remember being very surprised when he started flirting with me during Lee Brice—that was the last place on earth I expected to meet another gay guy. Cowboys just don’t scream gay… I mean, not these kinds of cowboys. Wait, that sounds judgmental. But you know what I mean. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have been so close-minded. If I was there, why couldn’t another gay guy be there too? It’s not like I’m the only gay guy to grow up in small-town Manitoba.

  I was going through my portfolio from that summer class I took between first and second year of university, and you were right—I was one creepy-ass stalker! Do you know how many pictures I have of Alex? And there he is, once again, looking cute as all fuck, with his little headphones and nerdy glasses, drum­ming on the counter at the laundromat. What if he had been the one, Scottie? THE ONE? But no. And it’s not like I didn’t have all these opportunities to talk to him, either. After that first day he just seemed to show up everywhere: in the campus bar, at the library. Hell, we ended up having a class together the following semester. But I didn’t even have the courage to ask him if I could take his picture, I just followed him for a couple of months. Man, I’m a creeper. Jeez, no wonder I’m single.

  And how can we forget the summer your mom decided we were old enough to be responsible for looking after the cows at Morris? You joked that I was jealous because Becky was Brown Swiss Miss that year. And you want to know a secret? I kind of was. She got to hand out ribbons and pose for pictures. I pretty much just shovelled shit.

  Everything was going okay until the morning before the show, when I attempted to lead one of the cows to the hose so we could wash her up properly, but she was being a stubborn son of a bitch. No matter how hard I pulled and you pushed, she just wasn’t budging. And then you got the crazy idea that you were going to jab her really hard with a pitchfork. I don’t think she was expecting that, since she spooked and stepped right on my goddamn toe. I was so pissed off, because hello: A fucking cow stepped on my foot and broke my fucking toe and I had to miss the rodeo, which I really, really wanted to go to because what kind of twin and best friend would I be if I didn’t see my two favourite people in the world compete? And then you did something I will never forget—you dropped out of the rodeo and spent the night with me playing Mario Kart in the hotel room. And I think your memory has failed you, because I definitely kicked your sorry ass. I couldn’t believe that you would just let all that hard work go to waste, but you insisted that it was not your first rodeo and it wouldn’t be your last.

  Did you know that your mother called me the other day and said that the Brown Swiss Association wants me to take the pictures at Morris this year? (It will never stop being funny that she puts “BS Ass Meeting” on her calendar every month. And considering that they talk about cows, there is a slight possibility that they could talk about bullshit, which makes it even better.) Me, taking pictures of cows? I’ll probably do it, if only to see the reactions when I show people my portfolio. Can you imagine? “And this is a picture of Oak Point Mission Mary Jane, Grand Champion at Morris Stampede 2015.” Oh well, if I have to take pictures of cows, then I am going to make damn sure they are the best pictures of cows you have ever seen.

  Speaking of cows, you will never guess what my mother bought the other day. A goddamn Texas Longhorn. And not just a little one, oh no. She had to buy a full-grown one—and then take me out to the pasture to take pictures of it. You know I can’t stand those things. Just thinking about them makes me shud­­der. I mean, come on. What the hell is the purpose of those stupid horns? So they can poke each other’s eyes out for fun? And how do they stay standing? Shouldn’t they just fall over because they are so top-heavy? And did you know she wants to mount this thing’s horns on her living room wall after it dies? Hell, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she decided to use it as her meat for the winter just to get those damn horns. Is she out of her freaking mind? News flash, Mother, we don’t actually live in Texas!

  Did you know that thirteen years ago today is the day I broke my arm? Boy, I was so mad at you. I don’t think I have been ever been that mad at anyone. You and your stupid cousins and my sisters were climbing that fort out behind your parents’ barn—you remember, the one we helped our dads make out of square bales—and then jumping off of it. Like any sane person would, I had refused to go up there. But you all kept telling me that I was being a chicken and that everything would be fine. And then I figured that since Becky was jumping and landing on her feet, I might as well do it too. I mean, she was only eight, and I was twelve. Of course, the first time I jumped I landed on my arm funny, and it broke. I don’t think I have ever been in more pain in my entire life—it hurt even worse than the time I broke my toe. And everyone just fucking left me there for, like, at least half an hour! You still like to bring up that I didn’t talk to you for two weeks. But later on you apologised and even watched Dawson’s Creek with me, so it’s all good. On a side note, if you say you don’t have at least a tiny bit of a crush on Pacey Witter, you are lying. Everyone has a crush on Pacey Witter.

  Did you know that Lena is coming to visit this summer? God, I haven’t seen her in at least six years. We still keep in touch on Facebook and whatnot, but it’s not the same. She was by far my favourite of the German exchange students my mother collected over the years. She is just really cool, with her purple hair and comic book collection. She taught me how to develop my own film and even convinced my parents to make that darkroom for me in the basement. She also posed nude for me once—which, judging by the fact that Great-Aunt Olga is excited she is coming, was never discovered by my parents (or her
s). And no, you are a married man now, Scott, so I am not going to give copies of those photos to you. Even if you weren’t married I wouldn’t give them to you. They are art, not pornography.

  I am curious to know if she still really wants to see a bear. The whole damn trip we took that August, all she wanted to do was find a bear. What she was going to do after she saw it, I have no idea. But even I will admit that trip was a shitload of fun. I still can’t believe we convinced our parents that it was a good idea. If I had been them, there is no way in hell I would have let four seventeen-year-olds—two of whom were dating—pack up a bus they had converted into a camper and wander the countryside for a week. Although I’ve got to say, if Lena hadn’t been there I don’t think it would have worked. The whole “but, she’s not from here, and she needs to experience as much of Canada as she can,” worked to our advantage so many times during the year she stayed with us.

  One of my favourite memories is from the second night of that trip. We stayed up all night by the fire, drinking and singing songs and telling stories. It wasn’t complicated; nothing crazy happened. It was just four young people, enjoying the simple things in life. That was also the night you told me you loved me, and that if you were gay and weren’t dating my sister you would totally do me. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it was the beer talking, but I appreciate the sentiment. Every once in a while, I do wonder about that moment. What would you have done if I had, say, leaned over and kissed you? Not that I would have betrayed my sister like that, but still, if she had not been in the picture, I might have done it.

  I do love you, Scottie. And you are, as you are not ashamed to admit, an attractive guy. It would have been nice to have my first kiss with someone I trusted. But even if we had done something, I don’t think it would ever have worked out—whether or not you are gay. Our relationship is more than all that.

  That was also the trip when it was confirmed that I just don’t fish. I don’t care what anyone says, poking a live minnow with a hook is disgusting and cruel. And then on top of that, all you do is sit around for hours waiting for some stupid fish—who is mostly likely too small anyway—to eat the minnow.

  We also learned that none of us are the most outdoorsy of people when we parked the bus and attempted to paddle to some island to set up camp for the weekend. I could have told you that would be a disaster. But we had to go anyway, because someone—and I am not pointing fingers here—decided that just because we had all participated in a high school canoe trip, we were “wilderness experts.”

  I was helping Great-Aunt Olga clean out her closet last week and you will never believe what I found: her infamous marijuana bandana. I can’t believe she kept that. Scratch that, I can’t believe she bought it in the first place. It’s a good thing she already has a reputation for being the crazy old Russian lady, or else who knows what everybody would have thought about this eighty-year-old woman wandering around town sporting a bright yel­low bandana with multiple pot leaves on it? “I thought it was a maple leaf, Nicholas.” Bullshit. You’ve been in this country since 1956; there is no way in hell you mistook a pot leaf for a maple leaf. There is just no way. I still can’t believe you asked her if this meant she wanted to smoke a joint with you in the base­ment. As if she needed another reason to be suspicious of you. Seriously, sometimes I wonder why she even lets you visit. I bet she is secretly—or maybe not so secretly, judging by her reaction to Ingrid’s job announcement—counting down the days until you move away and aren’t over here every second night of the week eating her kotlety and borscht.

  Speaking of joints, guess who I saw uptown the other day? Stoner Patrick. Do you remember him, the old guitar-playing dude who was perpetually high and pretty much lived in the hotel the summer we worked there? I mean, as you know full well, with my Great-Aunt being the resident drug-dealing granny and all, I have nothing against recreational pot use. But still, I swear I got high every time I cleaned the guy’s room. But he wasn’t a total waste. He did teach me how to play guitar, mostly some weird random shit like the theme song to The Care Bears. Seriously, who plays the theme song to The Care Bears on an electric guitar? He couldn’t have taught me something that made sense, like, I don’t know, “Smoke on the Water”? Regardless, I appreciated the gesture. Although he also tried to hook me up with my twin sister—which, let me tell you, was beyond fucking awkward.

  That summer was a hell of a lot of fun. A lot of it had to do with the fact that, because we had that job at the hotel, we had a legit excuse for getting out of working in the fields. As you can attest, my sisters, and Anika in particular, were pissed. I never knew how many people actually came through our little town until I had that job. It sure as hell beat that summer we were chicken catchers. I swear that has to be one of the shittiest jobs I have ever had—which is saying a lot.

  I doubt you forget, that was also the summer we “officially” learned to drive. My mother laughed her ass off when she heard you failed your test the first time around. I remember that she had to go pick you up because your mom was sick, and she said you were mumbling and swearing under your breath the whole ride home. I think they failed you on purpose. You can’t tell me you didn’t go into that test acting like a cocky asshole, assuming you were going to ace it just because you had been driving since you were ten. But don’t worry; you were not the only one who had to redo the test. I’m pretty sure Jesse Stevens did too. And didn’t your cousin fail as well? I wouldn’t really know, because unlike SOME people, I didn’t have to retake it.

  I remember it was about a week before your seventeenth birthday when you finally did get your license. Charlie thought it would be a cool idea to buy you a truck and had enlisted me to help. Just so you know, I was geared toward getting you a new—well, newer—model. But he insisted he buy you an old clunker so the two of you could bond over fixing it up. Do you remember how against the idea you were? “Why would I waste my time fixing a truck when both my big brother and my best friend’s dad are mechanics?” You did kind of have a point, but I understand why you gave in, because hey, why pass up on a free truck, right? I think I have pictures of you working on it. I should send those to you. (An excuse for you to give me your mailing address, you bastard. Of course I’ll hand-deliver this letter to you before you leave.) Although, now that I think about it, I am not sure where they are. Maybe I gave them to Charlie? I will have to ask him.

  Anyway, that was the summer of 2007. I don’t have to remind you of what else happened that summer. But let me just make something clear—being stuck between you and Anika for two-and-a-half years while you attempted some sort of romantic relationship is not something I ever want to go through again. It was annoying as hell, and kind of awkward. It was always, “Nikki, you go over there right now and tell Scott to get off his lazy ass and come here,” and, “Nikki, your sister’s taking too long to get ready. Go tell her to hurry up.” Jesus, it was like I was a personal messenger boy.

  And then after you broke up (the first and the second time) you were both mad at me. As if it was somehow my fault just because technically, you met because of me. Ha—Great-Aunt Olga was convinced that you were going to marry her. Mainly because the two of you reminded her of when she and Uncle Maksim dated, which I am not quite sure is a good thing, because if the stories are to be believed all they did was fight.

  And speaking of your wife, I’m still not sure how you con­vinced her to marry you. Ingrid is one hell of a sophisticated lady; you’ve seen the price tags on the shoes she buys and the pictures of her when she used to dance ballet. You are… well, you are you. You’re like the poster boy for Rednecks Anonymous. Actually, no, your cousin Jim is the poster boy for Rednecks Anonymous. But that’s only because he says things like, “Hook me up with that them there tractor, ‘cuz it’s pretty good, eh?” Who talks like that? Seriously, if you ever said “that them there” I would disown you. No joke. But back to your marriage. When you were dating my sister, your idea of a date was to buy a shitty-ass truck o
ff some old guy and get it stuck in the mud out in the middle of nowhere. Then you would have to walk like ten miles home, because you had forgotten your cell phone. No wonder Anika dumped you—twice.

  I remember the first time you invited Ingrid to hang out with us. I sort of felt sorry for the girl. She really did look so out of place, sitting by the campfire with her cute summer dress on. I bet the mosquitoes ate her alive that night. I thought we would never see her again. But I guess love is blind and all that shit.

  Actually, I like Ingrid a lot, and I am going to miss our dinner dates. It’s hard to be a self-proclaimed “classy redneck” if you have no one to be classy with. And it’s nice to have someone to go to MTC or The Warehouse with, someone to appreciate a good glass of red wine with.

  Not to be a big sap, but your wedding really was spectacular. To top it all off everyone was on their best behaviour, including Great-Aunt Olga who, of course, does not drink and was only doing shots of vodka because she could feel a cough coming on.

  The pictures from your wedding are some of the best pictures I have ever taken, and I am not just saying that because you are my best friend. Seriously, I often use your photos in my portfolio and I have had many clients comment on them. I think it might have to do with the fact that the groomsmen were not wearing camo. I am telling you right now, I would not have been your best man if I had been forced to wear glorified hunting gear. But I am grateful that you wanted me to both be in your wedding and be the photographer—although it does kind of suck that this means there are no professional pictures of me. Also, I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for not having female strippers at your bachelor party. I know you did that for me, and I greatly appreciated it—even if your cousin Jim didn’t.