singing boys, the screaming Book, then something like a chant — “Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!” — as they pried open his jaws, shoved in the funnel, and poured down the beer. This must be what those girls in the restroom meant on my first day at Craven High when they said “Welcome to Hell.” I wanted desperately to leave and thought about hiking the ten miles back to Aunt Sue’s. And maybe I could just keep going after that — out of Craven County altogether. Out of North Carolina. All the way back to Maine.
But I didn’t have a chance to go anywhere. Three football guys came over to Tiny’s truck and saw me before I could leave or hide.
“Hey,” one of them said. “Know what this is?”
He had unzipped his pants. The other guys laughed. They were all already drunk.
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to be nonchalant, even though my heart was pounding. “But it kind of looks like a birth defect.”
The guy with his pants open looked confused, but his buddies laughed even harder. One asked if I would judge their contest. Before I could answer, they all unzipped and took aim at a blue Camaro six feet away. One mostly peed on himself, one made it halfway, and the third hit the Camaro’s passenger-side door.
“Congratulations,” I said. I knew I needed to stay calm, as if I saw this sort of thing all the time and dealt with these sorts of guys. “That’s quite a talent. You could probably get a scholarship for that.”
The winner took off his baseball cap and grinned. “Don’t I get something right now for pissing the farthest?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. You get another beer. You better hurry back over, though, because I heard they were running out.” I waited until they left, then I climbed into the cab of Tiny’s truck and locked the doors with shaking fingers to wait out the rest of the night.
I stayed in the cab for the next couple of hours, watching the beer funnels, the waterboarding, the fights, the drunk couples pulling off clothes and grinding on top of one another in dark corners of trucks or the field. Finally, well past midnight, I saw Tiny and Book staggering toward the truck, covered in mud and vomit and blood and beer and, from the smell of it, cow shit. They didn’t quite make it, though, before they collapsed on the ground. Book pulled them both up into sitting positions, and he leaned on Tiny for balance. Then he started crying and talking, though Tiny didn’t respond. I wondered if he’d passed out. It took a while before I understood that Book was talking about Aunt Sue’s “company.”
“I gotta leave so he can come over on her like that, at our house? That ain’t a date. A date, he takes her out to a movie and dinner and flowers and candy and opens the door. Isn’t that a date? Isn’t that a date? He thinks a six-pack is a date. That’s not a date. Is that a date? Is a six-pack a date? Is a twelve-pack a date? Is kicking Book out of the house a date? Where’s Book supposed to go? You think I want to be here? You think anybody cares I’m here? Why are we here? Ah, hell. Move over, Tiny. I gotta lie down, too. Let me lie down, too.”
I thought about taking Tiny’s truck and just leaving, but I was in enough trouble with Aunt Sue as it was, and knew I couldn’t actually abandon them. I climbed out of the cab and tried getting Book and Tiny up, but they were both passed out now and wouldn’t budge. They were too heavy for me to drag. “Just come on!” I said, gritting my teeth and pulling on Book’s heavy arm. “Just come on.” But they were too drunk. It was useless.
Finally I realized that if I wanted to get us home before morning, I had no choice but to ask for help. I chose two guys who seemed to be stumbling less than most — a couple of football players in Confederate caps and practice jerseys.
“Hey, baby,” the first one said when I walked up, before I could calm my nerves enough to say anything myself. “I’m Dennis. Like Dennis the
But I didn’t have a chance to go anywhere. Three football guys came over to Tiny’s truck and saw me before I could leave or hide.
“Hey,” one of them said. “Know what this is?”
He had unzipped his pants. The other guys laughed. They were all already drunk.
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to be nonchalant, even though my heart was pounding. “But it kind of looks like a birth defect.”
The guy with his pants open looked confused, but his buddies laughed even harder. One asked if I would judge their contest. Before I could answer, they all unzipped and took aim at a blue Camaro six feet away. One mostly peed on himself, one made it halfway, and the third hit the Camaro’s passenger-side door.
“Congratulations,” I said. I knew I needed to stay calm, as if I saw this sort of thing all the time and dealt with these sorts of guys. “That’s quite a talent. You could probably get a scholarship for that.”
The winner took off his baseball cap and grinned. “Don’t I get something right now for pissing the farthest?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. You get another beer. You better hurry back over, though, because I heard they were running out.” I waited until they left, then I climbed into the cab of Tiny’s truck and locked the doors with shaking fingers to wait out the rest of the night.
I stayed in the cab for the next couple of hours, watching the beer funnels, the waterboarding, the fights, the drunk couples pulling off clothes and grinding on top of one another in dark corners of trucks or the field. Finally, well past midnight, I saw Tiny and Book staggering toward the truck, covered in mud and vomit and blood and beer and, from the smell of it, cow shit. They didn’t quite make it, though, before they collapsed on the ground. Book pulled them both up into sitting positions, and he leaned on Tiny for balance. Then he started crying and talking, though Tiny didn’t respond. I wondered if he’d passed out. It took a while before I understood that Book was talking about Aunt Sue’s “company.”
“I gotta leave so he can come over on her like that, at our house? That ain’t a date. A date, he takes her out to a movie and dinner and flowers and candy and opens the door. Isn’t that a date? Isn’t that a date? He thinks a six-pack is a date. That’s not a date. Is that a date? Is a six-pack a date? Is a twelve-pack a date? Is kicking Book out of the house a date? Where’s Book supposed to go? You think I want to be here? You think anybody cares I’m here? Why are we here? Ah, hell. Move over, Tiny. I gotta lie down, too. Let me lie down, too.”
I thought about taking Tiny’s truck and just leaving, but I was in enough trouble with Aunt Sue as it was, and knew I couldn’t actually abandon them. I climbed out of the cab and tried getting Book and Tiny up, but they were both passed out now and wouldn’t budge. They were too heavy for me to drag. “Just come on!” I said, gritting my teeth and pulling on Book’s heavy arm. “Just come on.” But they were too drunk. It was useless.
Finally I realized that if I wanted to get us home before morning, I had no choice but to ask for help. I chose two guys who seemed to be stumbling less than most — a couple of football players in Confederate caps and practice jerseys.
“Hey, baby,” the first one said when I walked up, before I could calm my nerves enough to say anything myself. “I’m Dennis. Like Dennis the
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