The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island Page 4

  Once we were friends, we were inseparable. I don’t know if it was divine intervention, teacher intervention, or just damned pure luck, but it’s funny how your friends in middle school can be some of the most influential friends of your life. To this day, I still think quite fondly of the adventures and troubles we got ourselves into. It’s pretty remarkable that none of us lost any fingers, toes, eyeballs, or testicles. And like I said before, real danger was waiting for us in the seventh grade. I wouldn’t have wanted to experience it with anyone else besides Randy Moss, Brian Johnson, and Miguel Gonzalez.

  5.

  On the way north on I-35, then west on FM 306, the sun began its descent behind the evening clouds, casting pastel reflections across the sky and earth as we headed to the campgrounds, giving our road trip the slightest hint of divinity and otherworldliness. Huddled together in the back of the camper—serenaded by the wail of the rear-mounted engine nestled beneath the back bench that three of us sat on—we listened to a cassette of various pop songs on a tape player that Randy ganked from his mom (ganking was our slang for stealing). The black rectangle emblazoned with the Sony logo finished with chrome paint was a small, one-speaker, battery-operated player she bought at K-mart, so she could listen to motivational speakers on tape, but never did. Brian’s parents exchanged goo-goo eyes in the front of the camper. They insisted on listening to Lionel Richie or Barry White albums on the camper’s cassette player which, to our younger ears, was appalling. Stereo wars between parents and kids weren’t unusual—the generational gap on full display through vastly different musical tastes—but Brian’s parents didn’t seem to mind that we didn’t want to enjoy the music of their “love.” We preferred the kinky music of Prince or the raunchy crooning of Robert Palmer to the sultry R & B that Brian’s parents enjoyed. If we felt especially giddy or goofy, then we’d play Art of Noise or Peter Gabriel, artsy stuff Brian’s parents wouldn’t be caught dead listening to.

  Playing our own music in the back allowed them to enjoy theirs in the front without interruption and provided us with some cover, along with the rowdy engine, for our important conversation about our shared conundrum: girls. We marveled that Cindy Hammond’s breasts were much larger than they were the year before and that Kathy McDonald smelled more like a grandmother than a middle-schooler. I would later discover why her alluring scent reminded us of an octogenarian when I helped clean out my own grandmother’s house soon after she passed away. On her dresser sat a bottle of Chanel No. 22 and when I popped the top and curiously sniffed it, the scent awakened memories of standing next to Kathy McDonald in line for a school assembly and secretly inhaling the air between us, as if we were sharing an intimate moment, even though we were just waiting to listen to the principal of F. D. R. go on about pep rallies and the dwindling supply of chocolate milk. Memories can do that, though; they can transplant all five senses into our brains like some sort of metaphysical incantation. Weird, huh?

  Anyway, as we whispered and snickered about girls in the back, the asphalt route of FM 306 loped over and through the Texas Hill Country, eventually leading the Volkswagen camper to the KOA campgrounds: our destination for the weekend. Mr. Johnson turned onto the gravel drive that led to the campgrounds, pebbles crunching underneath the tires and occasionally clinking against the underside of the wheel wells. A small, triangular, wood shack with a single window guarded the entrance with a striped guardrail—the kind with reflective orange and white paint that would tilt up with a flick of a switch—and when the camper stopped next to the shack, we peeked out the side window to see who manned the station. To our surprise, a beautiful teenaged girl occupied the entry post, looking bored and annoyed at the same time, but still beautiful nonetheless. With a red KOA t-shirt stretched over her large bosom and tucked into khaki shorts, her sparkling green eyes were complimented by a mound of curly, strawberry blond hair cinched in the back into a long ponytail of ringlets. We gawked at her from behind the side window curtain. When she asked Mr. Johnson if he had a reservation, she noticed our eight eyes peering, which seemed to please her. A smirk blossomed on her face.

  “She sees us!” Brian blurted, then slid the curtain shut.

  “What are you doing?” Randy said, his eyes penetrating through irritated slits. Brian shrugged. “We want her to see us, doofus.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “And she looks way older than us, like 16 or something.”

  “Maybe 17,” Miguel added. “A full-grown woman.”

  Mrs. Johnson chuckled from her vantage point in the front seat, knowing full-well that our juvenile observations were way off the mark. Mr. Johnson paid the young woman, asked a few questions (where to go, times for things, the usual arrival-information mumbo jumbo), then asked her what her name was.

  “Victoria,” she answered.

  “Her name is Victoria,” Randy cooed. She was casting a spell over us without even trying.

  “I’ll come find you if I need anything, Victoria,” Mr. Johnson said. Mrs. Johnson patted his arm, as if pleased with his resourcefulness. He smiled at her, then turned back to Victoria.

  “I’m sending someone over to your spot to help you, actually,” she said, picking up a phone and dialing.

  “Sounds good.”

  The gate raised and he drove into the campground. Brian slid the curtain back open and we looked at the other families setting up tents or propping up canopies on the sides of their campers in their designated sites—cement slabs floating on a sea of grass. There were camp fires blazing within rings of stone and BBQ grills exhaling smoke. Kids chased each other with pop guns or sticks, while their parents watched from folding chairs, beers in hand insulated with neon Koozies. And through the trunks and sturdy branches of the watchful oak and pecan trees that surrounded the campground, the waters of Canyon Lake glistened and shimmied in the light of the setting sun. Without warning, the camper jerked back and forth—the result of Mr. Johnson driving the Volkswagen Westfalia onto our cement pad—and when he slammed on the brakes to park, the three of us sitting on the rear bench toppled on top of Brian.

  “Get off me!” he cried. “I can’t breathe!”

  “Sorry, dude,” I said, pushing myself from the heap. “We didn’t fall on you on purpose.”

  Mr. Johnson chuckled as he pulled the camper’s emergency brake. As he was getting out, he stopped to commandeer our attention. “Brian, get the tent from the back and show your friends how to put it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brian told him, then slid open the side door. “Come on, guys!”

  Quickly lifting the rear hatch, Brian pulled the tent out while we helped him since it was large and heavy. We set the long, canvas package in the grass and Brian unfastened a series of snaps and ties, allowing us to pull the tent out. Brian, being that he was a Boy Scout, was well-versed in the ways of camping and survival, and patiently showed us how to prop up and secure the tent to the ground that we’d be sleeping in the next two nights. Although not self-explanatory, it didn’t seem too difficult to setup. We had a canvas home constructed in less than ten minutes.

  As we hammered the stakes into the ground to secure the tent, as Brian directed, I noticed Victoria approaching our camp site. Randy elbowed me in the ribs—whistling through his pursed lips while he jabbed me—and when I turned to him with an annoyed look, he tilted his head in the direction of our approaching guest. He didn’t need to do that, though. You couldn’t miss her coming from a mile away.

  Victoria walked past without even looking at us and found Mr. Johnson. She said something to him we couldn’t understand, although it seemed authoritative enough, then he followed her behind the camper. A moment later, they reemerged, and Mr. Johnson shook her hand, looking pleased. Then all of a sudden, she approached us. She examined our handy work and nodded.

  “Looks like someone knows how to secure a tent,” she said, sliding her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, then rocking to and fro on her heels.

  Brian jumped up. “I showed ‘em. I’ll be an Ea
gle Scout soon.”

  “I can see that. Nice work.”

  “Thanks!” he said, flustered from her compliment.

  “Me and my boyfriend usually hang down by the water after the office closes at nine o’clock. We roast marshmallows and stuff. Watch for shooting stars. You know? Hang out.”

  “You’re inviting us?” Randy said, befuddled. For such a big and intimidating looking guy, he sure could reveal his weaknesses quickly.

  “We like to meet other kids around our age. Make new friends. It gets boring working all day long.”

  “Around your age?” Randy said. She had obviously mesmerized him something bad.

  Victoria laughed. “Nine o’clock. Be there or be square.”

  She walked off. We watched her get back in the triangle shack by the entrance. When we were sure she was inside, we teased Randy.

  “Around YOUR age?” Miguel whined, mimicking Randy’s surprise. Randy’s face turned red with embarrassment, knowing that his internal monologue was audible for the rest of us to hear. It was a humorous revelation.

  “Ha ha,” Randy bemoaned. “Very funny.”

  “Just kidding.” Miguel patted him on the back.

  Mrs. Johnson examined our work with the tent, then offered her motherly approval to Brian. “You know where to find us, if you need us.”

  “Yeah, I know. In the camper,” Brian said. “Hey mom?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Victoria, the girl that works here, she asked us to meet her and her boyfriend down by the lake to roast marshmallows and stuff. Can we go?”

  “Sure,” she said, then her face contorted into a look of concern. “But stay away from the water. You know you can’t swim.”

  “Can’t swim?!” I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. “But aren’t you in the Boy Scouts?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, a befuddled look on his face like his deepest, darkest secret had been unwittingly revealed by his callous mother.

  “What if you have to rescue a bunny from a brook or something?”

  “I guess the bunny’s gonna drown,” he quipped.

  We all laughed, but not his mother. “It’s all fun and games until you fall in the water. Mind your mother.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brian answered.

  “You boys be good,” she said to the rest of us, wagging an indignant finger. Then she climbed into the camper and slid the side door closed. In a matter of seconds, Sweet Love by Anita Baker played inside the camper, causing strange looks and raised eyebrows from my friends. When the camper’s a rockin’...

  For an hour or so, we sat inside our tent while the tarp of night slowly laid atop the campgrounds. Randy, Miguel, and I played a couple of rote games of Uno while Brian flipped through his pocket-sized Boy Scouts Survival Guide—obviously taking notes for how to survive in case we needed him to step it up and lead our ragtag group of friends in a do-or-die situation—then we made our way down to the water along a crushed granite pathway around nine o’clock to meet Victoria and her mysterious boyfriend. As we walked, I fell behind a bit, because my limp made it hard for me to keep up with my friends sometimes. I looked back at the Volkswagen camper to see the lights inside go out. I knew Brian’s parents wouldn’t miss us. The path led to a picnic area that nestled the shore of Canyon Lake, with a silhouette of a couple lounging on top of a table at the far end, who I could only assume was Victoria and her boyfriend. I sped up to catch my friends. The rising moon’s visage reflected in the smooth waters of the lake. Occasional ripples from straggler insects stitched the surface and the nipping, floating turtles pursued them, accompanied by the smell of the surrounding trees and fires from the campground. The funny thing about early summer nights in Texas back then was that they weren’t much cooler than the summer days—just darker and still. Randy and I peeled off our t-shirts, then slung them over our shoulders. Victoria called to us.

  She introduced us to her boyfriend. “This is Tony.”

  Slender with shaggy, long, cinnamon brown hair and stick-thin arms, he wore ragged blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt with the words Canyon Lake Marina and a silhouette of a motor boat on the front. He extended his large, bony hand to me for a shake. “How’s it going?”

  On the table was a pack of Camel cigarettes, a lighter, and two bottles of Lone Star beer.

  “Great,” I said. I gave him a firm handshake. “Where are the marshmallows?”

  Tony chuckled, then he tilted his head up to gander at Randy’s tall stature. He seemed a little miffed when he commented to Victoria. “I thought you said these were some younger kids.”

  “They are,” she said.

  “Riiight,” he said, then extended his hand to Randy. “Dude’s a giant.”

  “I’ll be fourteen in the fall,” Randy quipped, crushing Tony’s hand with his massive, meaty mitt. Tony shook the pain out of his hand, then extended it to Brian and Miguel for a slap, which they did.

  “Nice meeting you boys,” Tony said.

  I looked out across the lake at a structure that appeared to be floating in the water with Christmas lights strewn along the top at one side.

  Tony cleared his throat. “That’s the marina where I work. My parents own it.”

  “And my parents own the campground,” Victoria added. “That’s how we met.”

  “Nice love story,” Miguel said. Brian elbowed his ribs, then shushed him. “Hey!”

  “If you guys want to rent a motor boat, then come by tomorrow morning. I’ll set you up.”

  “That sounds coooool,” I said, turning to my three friends for approval. Brian returned a sagging disapproval. “Except Brian can’t swim.”

  “That’s all right,” Randy said. “We got life jackets. No sweat!”

  “Coooool,” I repeated.

  Brian didn’t seem convinced. But rather than talk about it, he walked closer to the lake, picked up a flat rock, then flung it side-armed, the small projectile skipping across the water. It hopped once, twice, three times, then plunked on the fourth, quickly sinking in the black water. Miguel joined him soon after, skipping another rock across the water. I looked up at Randy to see if he also wanted to skip rocks, but his attention was elsewhere, somewhere far across the lake.

  “What’s that over there?” Randy said, then he pointed to the object of his attention.

  Tony and Victoria looked in the direction he was pointing.

  “Oh, that’s the abandoned Meyer lake house,” he said, peering at the dilapidated bungalow that sat on a piece of land that jutted out into the lake, a tiny peninsula across from the marina on the other side of the bay. Tony smiled slyly. “Vicky and I go over there sometimes.”

  “Don’t tell them that!” she said, then shoved her boyfriend in the chest. She crossed her arms to defend herself from his apologetic touch. “Don’t even touch me!”

  “Sorry, babe! I didn’t think you’d mind me saying so.”

  “That’s private,” she whispered, then sighed.

  “I’m sorry, babe,” Tony said, gently patting her arm, a gesture she reluctantly allowed him to perform. Then he turned to us. “If you guys come by the marina tomorrow, I can take you over there in a boat. Just don’t tell anyone that I’m taking you there. I could get in trouble.”

  “Why’s that?” Randy said.

  “It’s private property,” Tony replied. “And they say it’s unsafe, but it doesn’t seem unsafe to me. I just don’t want my parents on my ass about it. That’s all.”

  “That sounds coooool,” I said. “I wanna go.”

  “Me too,” Randy chimed in.

  “Great, just come by in the morning,” Tony said, then he twisted off the cap to one of the bottles of beer. With a snap of his fingers, the bottle cap flew ten feet to an aluminum trash can, then clinked on the side down to the grass. “Almost made it.”

  “It must be fun working out here at the campground and the marina,” I said, rocking on my feet from heel to toe, then back and forth some more in a repetitive motion that felt like
a dance.

  “I guess,” Victoria said. “It’s kind of a drag working for my parents sometimes.”

  “Except after work,” Tony said, clucking his tongue, then placing his hand softly on Victoria’s arm, a move that must’ve elicited a positive response at some point before, but at that moment sent Victoria into repellent throes of discomfort and irritation.

  “I said, don’t touch me!”

  “Come on, babe! I’ve been looking forward to being with you all day!”

  Victoria stood her ground for a moment or two, then turned to reveal that her act of rebellion was just a tease. She wasn’t really mad at her boyfriend. She smirked, then kissed him on the cheek. Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

  He took a swig from his beer, then offered it to me and Randy. “Want a swig?”

  Randy and I looked at each other, then shook our heads. A swig of disgusting beer was the last thing on our minds.

  “They’re good boys, unlike you,” Victoria teased, then she leaned in to kiss her boyfriend again.

  But rather than stand around and watch them make out, Randy and I walked over to where Brian and Miguel were enjoying their game of rock skipping on the shore. Randy and I gathered a few flat rocks of our own, then took turns skipping rocks across the glassy water, laughing when it seemed our rocks were whizzing by unsuspecting moths and mosquitoes, cheering when one of our rocks surpassed the others with its delicate skips and plunking demise. Every time a rock sunk at the end of its dance, the reflection of the moon on the water exploded across the retreating ripples, along with the laughing and cheering from my friends and our two new friends: Tony and Victoria.