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Authors: Jonathan Tropper
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that coursed through our throbbing teenaged veins, keeping our blood at a constant simmer. There were only so many nights you could hang out at the mall, so many new releases to see at the Megaplex, so many cheeseburgers and tuna melts you could scarf down at the Duchess. Beyond that, all we had left was drinking, fucking, and random acts of senseless vandalism.
Sammy, Wayne, and I developed the habit of occasionally sneaking over the chain-link fence of P.J. Porter’s vast corporate campus at night and hot-wiring the electric golf carts left charging overnight near the loading bay doors. The carts were used by executives to traverse the acres of perfectly manicured grass between the main building and the distribution center on the far side of the campus. Working there as an intern, Wayne had learned that in lieu of a key, all you needed to do was lift the driver’s seat, under which the battery was cased, and use a paper clip to close the crude circuit and start the cart. There was something pleasantly surreal about piloting those silent carts across the grassy back acres of the Porter’s campus in the dark of night. We would race each other all over the campus, first driving forward and then in reverse, or attempt half-baked movie stunts like jumping from one moving cart to the other. Afterward, we would hang out on the manicured bank of one of the artificial ponds that glistened in the shadow of the office complex, lazily skipping stones at the spotlit automated geyser that shot fifty feet into the sky from the pond’s center, while we chugged discounted beer purchased over in New Haven with Wayne’s fake ID.
We were sitting on the lawn by the pond one hot, muggy night, buzzed on beer, staring at the kaleidoscopic spray of the geyser, when Wayne suddenly got clumsily to his feet.
“I’m too damn hot,” he said. “I feel like I’m on fire.”
“Just like the Boss,” Sammy said, singing lazily in his high-pitched voice. “At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head, only you can cool my desire. Whoa, oh, oh, I’m on fire.”
“He’s singing Springsteen again,” Wayne complained.
“I thought we discussed this, Sammy,” I said.
“You sound like the Bee Gees covering Springsteen,” Wayne said.
“You guys know you love it,” Sammy said good-naturedly.
“You manage to come up with a Springsteen quote for every possible occasion,” I said.
“I can’t help that. It’s a function of his genius.”
“Whatever, man,” Wayne said, climbing drunkenly to his feet. “I’m still boiling.” He pulled off his T-shirt, upon which was emblazoned the phrase BIG IN JAPAN in large black letters, and threw it to the floor. “I’m going for a swim.”
“We can go back to my pool,” Sammy said.
“Why bother?” Wayne kicked off his high-tops and waded into the pond and then, with no hesitation, plunged headfirst into the dark, shimmering water and swam out with long, powerful strokes toward the geyser.
“Drunken night-swimming,” I said. “Now there’s a brilliant combination.”
“And god only knows what the hell’s in that water,” Sammy said disapprovingly. “Microorganisms, parasites.”
“Radioactive nuclear waste.”
“The Loch Ness monster.”
“The Porter family’s personal sewage.”
“Come on, you guys,” Wayne called to us from the pond.
“It’s beautiful in here.”
“Isn’t this how the Jaws movies always start?” Sammy said.
“Sharks don’t live in ponds,” I pointed out.
“That’s exactly what the chick in the bikini says before she gets eaten.”
Out in the water, Wayne had reached the geyser and was now clinging to some unseen piece of its apparatus, his form lightly obscured by the thick residual mist of the water’s spray. I closed my eyes for a second, feeling bloated and dizzy from the cheap domestic beer we’d been guzzling. When I opened them, Wayne was gone. “Where’d he go?”
Sammy, Wayne, and I developed the habit of occasionally sneaking over the chain-link fence of P.J. Porter’s vast corporate campus at night and hot-wiring the electric golf carts left charging overnight near the loading bay doors. The carts were used by executives to traverse the acres of perfectly manicured grass between the main building and the distribution center on the far side of the campus. Working there as an intern, Wayne had learned that in lieu of a key, all you needed to do was lift the driver’s seat, under which the battery was cased, and use a paper clip to close the crude circuit and start the cart. There was something pleasantly surreal about piloting those silent carts across the grassy back acres of the Porter’s campus in the dark of night. We would race each other all over the campus, first driving forward and then in reverse, or attempt half-baked movie stunts like jumping from one moving cart to the other. Afterward, we would hang out on the manicured bank of one of the artificial ponds that glistened in the shadow of the office complex, lazily skipping stones at the spotlit automated geyser that shot fifty feet into the sky from the pond’s center, while we chugged discounted beer purchased over in New Haven with Wayne’s fake ID.
We were sitting on the lawn by the pond one hot, muggy night, buzzed on beer, staring at the kaleidoscopic spray of the geyser, when Wayne suddenly got clumsily to his feet.
“I’m too damn hot,” he said. “I feel like I’m on fire.”
“Just like the Boss,” Sammy said, singing lazily in his high-pitched voice. “At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head, only you can cool my desire. Whoa, oh, oh, I’m on fire.”
“He’s singing Springsteen again,” Wayne complained.
“I thought we discussed this, Sammy,” I said.
“You sound like the Bee Gees covering Springsteen,” Wayne said.
“You guys know you love it,” Sammy said good-naturedly.
“You manage to come up with a Springsteen quote for every possible occasion,” I said.
“I can’t help that. It’s a function of his genius.”
“Whatever, man,” Wayne said, climbing drunkenly to his feet. “I’m still boiling.” He pulled off his T-shirt, upon which was emblazoned the phrase BIG IN JAPAN in large black letters, and threw it to the floor. “I’m going for a swim.”
“We can go back to my pool,” Sammy said.
“Why bother?” Wayne kicked off his high-tops and waded into the pond and then, with no hesitation, plunged headfirst into the dark, shimmering water and swam out with long, powerful strokes toward the geyser.
“Drunken night-swimming,” I said. “Now there’s a brilliant combination.”
“And god only knows what the hell’s in that water,” Sammy said disapprovingly. “Microorganisms, parasites.”
“Radioactive nuclear waste.”
“The Loch Ness monster.”
“The Porter family’s personal sewage.”
“Come on, you guys,” Wayne called to us from the pond.
“It’s beautiful in here.”
“Isn’t this how the Jaws movies always start?” Sammy said.
“Sharks don’t live in ponds,” I pointed out.
“That’s exactly what the chick in the bikini says before she gets eaten.”
Out in the water, Wayne had reached the geyser and was now clinging to some unseen piece of its apparatus, his form lightly obscured by the thick residual mist of the water’s spray. I closed my eyes for a second, feeling bloated and dizzy from the cheap domestic beer we’d been guzzling. When I opened them, Wayne was gone. “Where’d he go?”
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