Lawn Boy(30)

Mom had to work doubles all weekend, but somehow Freddy managed to get the days off. Saturday, around noon, Nate, Freddy, and I trudged downtown into the thick of the festivities. It was eighty degrees, and people who shouldn’t wear shorts were wearing shorts, including Freddy. I bought us all Indian tacos and lavender lemonades and bottle rockets, and we listened to the drums and watched the dancing and ate more Indian tacos. We poked around the booths and watched part of a softball game and ate sno-cones and shot off our rockets. Then we rounded it all off with a salmon dinner for nine bucks a plate—my treat.

In the evening, we bumped into Nick down by the tribal center. Considering we had not spoken since he walked out of Tequila’s a few weeks ago, it wasn’t that awkward. Familiarity trumps just about anything in the end. Why else would we keep making the same mistakes over and over?

Nick had a bottle of Old Crow in his pack, and I staked us to a box of Henry’s Private Reserve, and we all walked down to the beach. At the bottom of the stairs by the boat ramp slumped the snaggle-toothed Indian kid, looking disconsolate with his beat-up guitar case and an old gray wire-haired dog sprawled at his feet.

“Boy, can you play that ax?” said Freddy.

The kid shrugged. “Some.”

“Well, come on, then.”

The kid stood up and fell in line with us, the old dog following along at a distance of ten or twenty feet, nose to the ground. We walked north under the bluff, away from what was left of the revelers, spreading out to collect firewood along the beach. Nick and I were side by side out of habit.

“Dude, look, I’m sorry,” I said.

“For being a fag?”

“For being a jerk.”

He took a slug of the whiskey and passed it to me.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m a jerk, too, if you hadn’t noticed. But, dude, did you seriously put a guy’s dick in your mouth?”

I passed the bottle back. “I was in fourth grade.”

Nick immediately wiped the rim of the bottle off with his shirtsleeve. “That’s it? That was the last one?”

“Does it matter?”

Nick took a slug and handed the bottle back, considering me in the dusky light, like he was looking for a different Mike.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I guess not. Just stop talking about it. So, you think our offensive line is going to be shit again?”

“Depends on how things shake out with the draft and everything.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. What the fuck makes anyone think Britt can play center? Couldn’t play guard, couldn’t play tackle, now he’s supposed to be the answer at center? Arizona scares me, bro. Fuck, I hate Arians. He looks so fucking stupid in that Kangol hat with his fucking red face. He reminds me of my dad.”

“I can see that.”

“Fuck that guy. I hope he drops dead.”

“Arians or your dad?”

“Both of them.”

We all converged about a quarter mile down beach, away from the fireworks, our arms loaded with driftwood. Coaxing logs around to serve as benches, we started a fire under the bluff and commenced drinking beer and passing around the Old Crow. Now and then, somebody patted the dog’s head as we bullshitted and ate pretzels, and sometimes fell to silently watching the fire, hypnotized by the hiss and crackle of it. At one point, the kid’s dog started vigorously lapping at its own nuts, and we couldn’t help but pay attention.

“Wish I could do that,” said Nick.

“Better pet him first,” I said.

We all laughed at that and stared back into the fire, sipping our beers as the water licked the shore.

“Boy, what’s your name?” Freddy said to the kid.

“Marlin.”

“Like Brando?”

“Like the fish.”

“Marlin, let’s hear you play that hammer.”

The kid looked into the fire and kicked some embers around with his old combat boots.

“Do I gotta?”

“Hell, yes,” said Freddy. “Beach fire got to have a guitar.”

Marlin reluctantly lifted the guitar out of the case. He set it in his lap and looked at the fret board for about fifteen seconds, as though it might finally reveal the answer to some mystery. Then, apprehensively, eyes still trained on the neck, he started picking “Seven Nation Army” on his E string.

Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun.

I thought I heard a little improvement myself, a little more confidence, a little less clumsiness, but Freddy was wincing.

“Don’t you know any chords, boy?”

“I can play something else, if you want,” the kid said.

“Well, no wonder you ain’t got but fifty cents in your case. Boy, get over here and let me teach you some chops. Freddy’s known primarily for his bass licks, but he can find his way around a six-string.”

Marlin stood up and lugged his guitar over to Freddy’s side of the fire, where Freddy immediately started instructing him, first in the art of tuning, as Nate watched on absently in a food-induced stupor. I scooted a little nearer to Nick, to where our arms were grazing, and Nick shifted ever so slightly on the log, like it might have made him uncomfortable. Then, as Freddy strummed a few soft chords, I leaned in real close and whispered in Nick’s ear.