here?”
“It’s okay.” I practically have to shout over the music Killian has blasting out of the speakers. “It beats flipping burgers at McDonald’s.”
He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “I work at Chipotle. It’s not that much better.”
“We don’t have a Chipotle around here,” I say. “I would kill for one.”
“That sucks. I’m down at Ann Arbor; we have everything there.”
Of course. The whole group has probably driven up to Butterfield for the weekend, a summer escape for the university crowd.
The bus hits a pothole, and the guy falls forward, practically toppling onto my seat. “Whoa,” he says, pushing himself upright.
Killian swings the bus in a wide arc, following the permanent ruts in the field next to the river.
“Looks like we’re here,” I say, standing up before the bus has come to a complete stop. “Have a good float.”
The guy has already turned away, handing the Bud Light he offered me to a girl wearing a tiny pink bikini top. I follow Killian off the bus and around to the back, each of us working in tandem to loosen the straps enough to slide the canoes off the trailer. Some of the college guys help Killian lift the boats down from the top part of the rack. We carry the canoes to the edge of the river while the group unloads their coolers and argues over who is going to sit in each boat.
I grab a dozen pieces of rope out of the bucket in the back and hand them to the guy with the tattoo. “Here,” I say. “Use these to tie all the canoes together like a big raft. That way you won’t drift away from each other, and you won’t have to paddle so much.”
“Thanks,” he says, looking genuinely grateful, his fingers brushing against mine as he takes the rope. “Hey, would you take a picture of us?”
They gather around their canoes, the guys with their shirts off and the girls with their sunglasses on, beers held high and stomachs sucked in. “One, two, three,” I count, and snap the photo on the iPhone the guy handed me. The picture will be posted to Facebook and Instagram before they even reach the middle of the river, everyone tagged and commenting on a memory they haven’t even really made yet.
Killian and I help them load up and then we stand on the bank, waving as the group floats away.
“One reservation down, seven to go,” he says brightly.
I groan. “Plus however many walk-ins show up.”
“Hey, consider yourself lucky,” Killian says, raising his arms over his head in a long stretch. “At least no one puked on the bus this time.”
It’s a long day, and by the end of it my muscles are burning and my face feels like a big grease pit of sunscreen and sweat. But all the canoe floats launched on time, no one lost any paddles or life jackets, and we only had three broken beer bottles to deal with. So, all in all, a success.
“Looks like our friends from this morning are still hanging around,” Killian says as we finish loading a final round of canoes onto the trailer so we won’t have to do it first thing in the morning. Some of the guys from our first group of the day are in the parking lot, sitting on top of their coolers or in the bed of a pickup truck, sobering up before the drive home.
“I don’t know how they can drink all day and not be passed out by now,” I say, inspecting a blister on my finger.
“I’m sure alcoholism is like a varsity sport where they come from,” Killian says. “Did you know half of college students regularly binge drink?” He rolls his eyes, and my face flushes as I think back to the other night on the dock. I’m not sure how much Killian drank. One beer? Two? Not enough to make a fool of himself, anyway.
“You know, George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.’ That guy had a zinger for every occasion.” Killian looks down at me. “You’ve heard of Shaw, right?”
I fold my arms. “Of course.” A typical debate trick is to start
“It’s okay.” I practically have to shout over the music Killian has blasting out of the speakers. “It beats flipping burgers at McDonald’s.”
He nods and takes a sip of his beer. “I work at Chipotle. It’s not that much better.”
“We don’t have a Chipotle around here,” I say. “I would kill for one.”
“That sucks. I’m down at Ann Arbor; we have everything there.”
Of course. The whole group has probably driven up to Butterfield for the weekend, a summer escape for the university crowd.
The bus hits a pothole, and the guy falls forward, practically toppling onto my seat. “Whoa,” he says, pushing himself upright.
Killian swings the bus in a wide arc, following the permanent ruts in the field next to the river.
“Looks like we’re here,” I say, standing up before the bus has come to a complete stop. “Have a good float.”
The guy has already turned away, handing the Bud Light he offered me to a girl wearing a tiny pink bikini top. I follow Killian off the bus and around to the back, each of us working in tandem to loosen the straps enough to slide the canoes off the trailer. Some of the college guys help Killian lift the boats down from the top part of the rack. We carry the canoes to the edge of the river while the group unloads their coolers and argues over who is going to sit in each boat.
I grab a dozen pieces of rope out of the bucket in the back and hand them to the guy with the tattoo. “Here,” I say. “Use these to tie all the canoes together like a big raft. That way you won’t drift away from each other, and you won’t have to paddle so much.”
“Thanks,” he says, looking genuinely grateful, his fingers brushing against mine as he takes the rope. “Hey, would you take a picture of us?”
They gather around their canoes, the guys with their shirts off and the girls with their sunglasses on, beers held high and stomachs sucked in. “One, two, three,” I count, and snap the photo on the iPhone the guy handed me. The picture will be posted to Facebook and Instagram before they even reach the middle of the river, everyone tagged and commenting on a memory they haven’t even really made yet.
Killian and I help them load up and then we stand on the bank, waving as the group floats away.
“One reservation down, seven to go,” he says brightly.
I groan. “Plus however many walk-ins show up.”
“Hey, consider yourself lucky,” Killian says, raising his arms over his head in a long stretch. “At least no one puked on the bus this time.”
It’s a long day, and by the end of it my muscles are burning and my face feels like a big grease pit of sunscreen and sweat. But all the canoe floats launched on time, no one lost any paddles or life jackets, and we only had three broken beer bottles to deal with. So, all in all, a success.
“Looks like our friends from this morning are still hanging around,” Killian says as we finish loading a final round of canoes onto the trailer so we won’t have to do it first thing in the morning. Some of the guys from our first group of the day are in the parking lot, sitting on top of their coolers or in the bed of a pickup truck, sobering up before the drive home.
“I don’t know how they can drink all day and not be passed out by now,” I say, inspecting a blister on my finger.
“I’m sure alcoholism is like a varsity sport where they come from,” Killian says. “Did you know half of college students regularly binge drink?” He rolls his eyes, and my face flushes as I think back to the other night on the dock. I’m not sure how much Killian drank. One beer? Two? Not enough to make a fool of himself, anyway.
“You know, George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.’ That guy had a zinger for every occasion.” Killian looks down at me. “You’ve heard of Shaw, right?”
I fold my arms. “Of course.” A typical debate trick is to start
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