"You guys should send it to the radio," Philip said, glancing back, imitating me while I fidgeted in the backseat. "DUH! Can’t believe you thought we did that!"
Andrew was squealing with laughter. The drive was smooth and restful. I had been up there before over the summer.
"What radio?" Sandra asked.
"Oh, genius over here thought we made the remix of "Monkey" and said we should send it to the radio!" Philip howled. Andrew joined him in the howling.
Sandra sniggered a bit, but threw me a look that teetered on sympathy or what I hoped was slight intrigue. "He fell for it, that’s for sure," Phillip said.
After the first rest stop, which, for me, consisted of peeing and buying a can of Sprite, I leaned in from the backseat and put a cassette into the car stereo.
"What is it?" Andrew asked, glaring into the backseat.
"That tape we made two years ago," I confessed, red in the face.
"Oh God."
The tape began with Andrew’s near-teen voice announcing a match between me and another boy named Eric.
"Our main event has turned into something not suitable for children, ladies and gentlemen...Oh my God, Eric is in the ring waiting for Nate, who I think might have gone backstage to receive medical attention...wait, what’s this...he has come back with OH MY GOD! I can’t believe this, he’s got a saw blade4 ...Nate is juggling with a saw blade...and he’s gone again...so while we wait for him to return, let’s go talk to the man who has taken several blows NO! They’re back at it! They seem to be calling wrestlers in from all over the world to try and stop this...they say they’ll be here tomorrow morning?! What the heck, where are these people?"
4. The saw blade was from Dad’s workshop. I admired Andrew’s ability to do play-byplay on the fly. At one point, I got overheated and announced that I needed some water, and the match stopped. I checked to see if my electric heater was on. It was, and I immediately turned it down and left my room for a glass of water. Listening to the tape, I heard Eric say to Andrew, “It’s your turn.” “No way,” Andrew said, in what I can clearly state was the only Moment of physical fear I ever witnessed, even though I was in the other room, probably looking for a chainsaw. “He’ll beat me.” Eric, gasping for air, insisted, “Well, you’re going in anyway.”
"Ding ding ding!" I screamed on the tape.
"What ‘ding ding ding’?" Andrew injected, "This is like four hours later, all the wrestlers have gone home..." Eric and I laugh hysterically, more exhausted giggles on the tape ensue.
"That was funny." I laughed, back in real time, in 1988, the backseat, watching Andrew’s arm move towards the car stereo. Sandra was falling asleep.
"It’s so dumb." Andrew said, hitting eject.
The familiar road sign in cold blue letters came into plush focus: WELCOME TO BALM BEACH.
"You sleeping in the cabin or the cottage?" Philip asked Andrew, neither turning their heads as they spoke.
"Haven’t decided yet," Andrew said. "Depends."
Phillip changed lanes. "What are you homos going to do all weekend anyways?"
We arrived at the cottage just after six and had a bit of running around to do before the sun expired completely—checking the cabins and bedrooms for proper linen as well as putting away the groceries.
We goofed around in the early evening air, lighting the odd firecracker. I tossed a sparkler into the lake and got scolded by Philip for my environmental infringement.
The sun was barely lit now. Down at the beach, Andrew talked about Sandra’s body when his brother was out of earshot.
"Did you see her tits?"
Aside from our recent haul at Laird Convenience and abstract pornographic opportunities via Andrew’s father’s collection, Sandra was the only real-life girl we’d seen all year up close wearing next-to-nothing. Sometimes Andrew would show me her underwear in the laundry hamper, so we could imagine the extra flesh the magazines never offered. Sometimes he told me to steal Holly’s underwear, which pushed me into an anxious frenzy, always having to come up with an excuse as to why I couldn’t get them.
I took several eyefuls of Sandra’s ripe skin. She took the towel from around her waist, revealing hips and legs, sopping wet. I was careless with my glances.
"You can look but you can’t touch," Philip said, catching my obvious stare. "I see you staring at my girlfriend."
I felt my dick shrink.
"Yeah, what are you looking at, fag?" added Sandra, her blonde bangs covering her eyes.
"Nothing," I muttered.
Andrew paddled frantically in a canoe, slicing through the lake, his dog Brandy swimming near him. The early evening was being sliced in all directions, and I felt invisible, scrawny, digging in the dirt. Sandra toweled around in the water and on land, glancing coldly at me every once in a while, but I just stared straight ahead to Andrew in the canoe. The sun was wrinkling mute in the overcast sky. Sandra took Philip’s hand and walked past me, up the sandy hill back to the cottage. I played with the foamy wrapper of a short bottle of black cherry seltzer, the remnants of its metallic taste still bubbling on my tongue.
I never spoke of girls to Andrew in a candid way. I did, however, start a journal of lists and meticulous scenarios involving some of the girls in my grade nine class, including Selene, Jennifer and Melissa. Sometimes I showed Andrew these entries on my computer.
I allowed Andrew to conjure up fantasy girls for the both of us, more scenarios or options. These activities played into our recreation so stealthily it seemed natural.
We returned to the cold cabin and its dark musty contours. Once the door was shut, curtains drawn, we became like soap in each other’s hands.
Soft and strange time together, in public, time alone, together, unchained and scented. I couldn’t help but memorize the contours of Andrew’s growth.
Now there were no borders.
Andrew was inside the main cottage. It was past midnight, and I was wandering around outside by myself, forty feet from the cottage, when Philip and Sandra practically cornered me in the dark. They’d been down by the beach. I noticed the beer bottles in their hands. Sandra looked at me and asked me if I wanted one.
"No," I said quietly. She took a sip and let out a laugh, "So you’re just going to sit out here alone?"
Andrew said he had a few beers with Philip sometimes, but I didn’t believe him. I guess I was wrong. "Andrew’s having one, come on," Sandra said. Philip took a sip from his beer. "Forget him; come on," he said, luring Sandra back into the house with a mischievous expression.
The porno stashed. The chocolate milk circulating, we went to bed.
In the middle of the night, Andrew spoke into the darkness, "Shut the window," in a startling dark slur. "Raining out...coming in."
I crept along the cold carpet, shut the window tightly and returned to bed.
Go-karting5 in the morning would take us away from each other’s erections. The drive to the track was short and full of waffling sunlight; wimpy grey clouds had formed on the horizon, and pleasant raindrops tickled the dash, only to be sopped up by the perennial sunshine.
5. “Half a mile of smooth asphalt track, 25 fast, safe karts that really move ... half a mile from the Bay west of Perkinsfield. Balm Beach Go Karts has been a part of summer activities in Balm Beach on beautiful Georgian Bay for years.”
"Pick you up in a bit," Philip said, and drove away, leaving us near the ticket gate.
"Ready to lose, boy?" Andrew let out a loud bolt of laughter, making actions with his hands like he held the ruckus of lightning and thunder in a holster beside his long legs.
"I’ll destroy you out there," I said. "It is my destiny."
Now on the race course, we were all chin straps, gas pedals, sharp turns and breaks. Andrew was chewing on a plastic straw. He punctured the top of his plastic soda lid.
I had never go-karted before, but felt it was important to dramatically declare my superiority.
We gunned our engines and whipped out of t
he start position. I pulled ahead for a while, trying my best to outdrive Andrew.
"Just like Beggar’s Canyon back home," I screamed.
"You’re goin’ down, boy!" Andrew shouted, now tailgating, riding me hard.
On the third lap I could feel Andrew on my back tire. "Stop it!" I screamed backwards. Andrew cackled madly. I felt Andrew’s tires on my back, took the turn but poured on the gas, winding up on a hill.
"Fuck!" I shouted. My car’s engine wouldn’t stop; there was no reverse. "Asshole!"
I climbed out of my car and embarrassingly walked back to the starting point. The attendant looked perplexed as I emerged from the track in my helmet.
"Something happened to my car," I bashfully told the man who had sold me the laps. "It went up the hill."
Andrew finished his laps alone and approached me while I was nervously pacing around the ticket counter. "What happened?"
"Whatyamean what happened? You clipped me from behind, and I went up the goddamn hill!"
"Did not. You’re just a terrible driver," Andrew scoffed, all tough.
"You’re a fucking asshole."
Andrew bought another four laps. I was black flagged, not allowed back on the track. I watched Andrew whip around the track from beside a set of vending machines, just out of the sun’s glare, grinning like a big dumb clown the whole time.
*
Before dinner, we messed around by the unlit beach, whipping rocks while candy and cola rotted our stomachs. Clouds covered the sky, used like swabs for the eventual mess. In a dip in the sand, Andrew told me to jump. I did, and dozens of birds, nesting in a series of holes, flew from the holes. He howled his reserved-for-special-pranks "Hee-Hee-Hee-Hoo!" laugh. The birds’ sudden ascent from nowhere terrified me.
We headed back to the main cottage, dripping from spastic dashes into the cold water. I paced in the living room, watching Andrew’s brother unload groceries in the kitchen.
"You wanna go?" Andrew said, flexing his muscles, putting down a stale life jacket and a set of paddles in the mudroom. He glared at me through the screen door, pointing and gesturing with conviction. "Sure!" I shouted back. "You’re in the danger zone now!"
Andrew stepped into the living room, where I was sitting on the couch.
"Hold on," I said, "I have to put on the song."
"What song?" Philip asked, walking into the living room from the kitchen. "You need a song to fight?"
"Hulk Hogan’s song, ‘Real American’," I said.
"You think it’ll make you stronger or something?" Philip laughed.
"He does," Andrew said, shaking his head.
Andrew began to fall on me, putting all his weight over my back; we landed in a loud heap on the living room floor. The music blared, and I began to shake my arms. "Give up, you can’t beat me."
"Gaylords," Philip said, staring at the spectacle. Sandra was in the shower. Philip shook a large glass container of pasta in the air. "You want spaghetti for dinner?"
"Burgers," Andrew said, his face a bit red, his voice winded.
"Yeah, burgers," I chimed in.
"How many?" Philip asked. I shrugged.
From the floor with my feet, I tried to trip Andrew, but he just stepped over me.
"Look," Andrew said, looking down at me. "I’ll let you elbow drop me; it won’t hurt one bit."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Go for it."
"It’s a Mega Powerexperience6, yeah!"
6. In late 1987 WWF storylines, Randy Savage and Hulk Hogan had formed a hyperbolic union of ego, body and soul called the Mega Powers: Macho Madness and Hulkamania coming together to overcome all odds. Though I had partially outgrown my affection for wrestling, Randy Savage’s mid-1988 WWF title win and highly enchanting interactions with Hulk Hogan set things up for a dive right into celluloid altitudes and sugary excitement, glancing at glossy photos of Hogan and Savage at the corner store while loading up on overprocessed supplies. One night Andrew carried his black-and-white television set over so we could watch the three-hour VHS of Wrestlemania IV which I had rented.
Andrew lay down, and I stood over him, raised my elbow and pointed to the imaginary crowd. "You sure?"
"Just do it."
I dropped down, my armpit landing across Andrew’s neck, my elbow landing on the corner of Andrew’s left shoulder.
"See, nothing. I told you. Even if you had the chance, you could never beat me."
Back in our cabin, Andrew laughed so hard he spilt cola over his white shirt.
"Shit." Noting my gaze on him, Andrew comically smiled and began to tango with a broom. He felt his face. "I probably need to shave soon." His skin felt soft and hot in the dark.
Our young bodies shadowed by night and quiet, blond and brown pubic patches. Softening eyes lowering over each other’s skin, as mouths tingled with excitement, anticipating the slow familiar scent rise from our underwear. In the cabin, we were alone. "They’re down at the beach." This was our distinct world.
That night at midnight we blasted Salt-n-Pepa’s song "Push It" over and over again, rewinding it on the ghetto blaster we had in the cabin.
"Crank it!" Andrew shouted, dancing and laughing in the middle of the night. Ah, push it Ah, push it Oooh, baby, baby Baby, baby Oooh, baby, baby Baby, baby.
Andrew had suggested these secret acts two months earlier, in summer’s heat camp, during video horror rentals when goalie-masked killer Jason Voorhees was stabbing camp counsellors in bikinis and tiny panties; Andrew stuck a knife in the pizza box, paused the movie on some breasts. He pawed at me, then returned to the film, the freeze-frame, slow-motion scope of Jason Voorhees breaking through a closet door with a machete. Un-paused. The terrified breasts were moving again, running for their lives.
Then another time a few days later, we had camped out in the backyard in a musty tent, drinking grape soda, tingling with acrid heat, taking turns with each other’s erections, fumbling and tugging in the dark, the taste of candy, sweat and pre-cum.
The treasures of that night were spoken in code: "Grab a Kleenex."
Afterwards I coiled into sleep.
*
The morning sun lagged. Awake and fumbling and squeezing before the bright sphere rose, before it shot out of the earth’s mouth bright and orange and electric, we groaned and jerked. Before the sun shot up into blue-denim sky, before either of us could be quarantined from our own self-love.
When the sun finally burst in, Andrew pulled the curtains together. He was changing. I closed the door. "Lock it." As it closed, I stepped forward into the cabin; the thick carpet muted the action. "Locked?"
"Yeah," I said meekly.
Andrew approached me from behind; I could feel his eyes on me, his hands lowering, pulling me from behind into his chest and leaning over.
"Grab it," he said.
Andrew was wearing his usual weekend-pervert jogging pants. "Push the beds together," he said, motioning with his shaggy blonde hair for me to start rearranging the cabin’s interior.
Andrew began to talk about a girl’s tits—a specific pair—from school. He approached me. "Did you see Sandra on the beach?" Andrew ran his hand across my back.
Masturbate. Sometimes Andrew just said the word. I could hear it in my head, invisibly charging through the cabin, implying the activity was forthcoming. The word was so casual, as if it were a band’s name, a flavour of drink or a simplistic ritual or gesture. Andrew was standing now, in his underwear and T-shirt.
"Look at her tits," Andrew said, cupping my balls, making certain I was on a hot page.
"Just think of that, or Sandra’s swimsuit."
The word felt like a utensil that Andrew put into my mouth and made me chew on, hard and cold at first. He was standing right behind me now, his hand clasping my neck.
"Did you see her nipples poking out?" My hockey jersey was full of heat; the routine pressure of his touch was becoming a necessity inside my heart which I pawed at regularly.
"I guess."
&n
bsp; Our clothes landed together in a heap, and I imagined their zippers fought like chain mail and swords, metallic teeth briefly grazing each other’s fibers.
Andrew hovered around: the faint scent of gum and fountain pop. He pulled and twisted my head and neck into his—this was our skin together.
Andrew leaned down on me, his weight too much on my shoulders.
Our aromas only. Andrew exhaled—touched it. The elastic of my briefs pulled up, fresh air all over.
"Take it out."
I trailed off, wondering what Philip and Sandra were doing in the cottage: maybe waiting for a VHS rental to rewind, considering popcorn, considering turning off the lights and having sex, making hot chocolate, collecting wood for a fire.
Perhaps they would discuss dinner options. What would the boys like? The video rewound. Someone going, "What else did we rent? What are they doing out there?"
Andrew’s blue eyes were now checked and wet with a reflective glaze from the heat.
"Now me," he said, his heavy wet breath spreading across my meek biceps.
My name stenciled in my clothing was illegible from this distance. Erections in swimwear liner. As the touching continued, I clenched my eyes and saw a reel of our collective experience: hockey sticks dragged and scrapped against the cement in my driveway.
The parked car hung like a polished cavity along the stony road, slick and jewelled in the brief rain from last night, surrounded by green and reddening leaves.
A rinse of sunlight through the pale curtains.
*
On Sunday morning we dressed and rushed to the breakfast table; I ate some cereal.
Andrew was rummaging for something in the hallway, moving around on the deck outside. "Where are you going?"
No answer. I followed him. He turned around, and as he rotated his body towards me, it revealed he was now holding a gun.
"Oh my God!" I shouted.
"What?" Andrew said. "It’s an air rifle, pellet gun."
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