Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Savages

So, Kelley and I have been best friends for years. All of the more developed memories I have of us are founded by our elementary times; being short and skinny, with bad bangs and awkward demeanors, prematurely drinking cappuccino, and running around wild and rule-less. Yes. As little girls we were dichotomously uninhibited, but at the same time completely self aware. Before Kelley had clear skin and a bright flawless smile, she was an apprehensive, insecure girl, with long blonde pig-tail braids and hillbilly teeth. To be fair, I was equally ridiculous looking. I was always covered in mud, with un-brushed snarls and an uncountable amount of freckles. Both of our parents were heavy drinkers, so entertaining ourselves in the car outside the bar, or in some random chaotic outing was fairly routine for us.

One summer Saturday when we were 8 or 9 years old, Kelley came with my family and I to our Lake Michigan beach spot on Esch Road for the day. It was sort of a weekly tradition to visit this spot, but my Uncle John was in town this time… meaning, the day of sand digging and tanning would be followed by a night of sand drinking and bonfiring.

Kelley and I roamed wild in the dunes. When the sun settled and moderated to a warmth, we retired from diving exaggeratingly in the high waves and making shallow tubs of water on the beach. Covertly, we stripped off our swim suits, and ran naked through the scarce barren woods. Laughing and semi-hiding from tree to tree, we peeked from behind the bark at the groups on the shore. The adults held busy with helpings from coolers by the beginning flames of fires. Some kids still floated in tubes. In an eye catching scene, a couple held each other in the water. The uncomfortable display of affection cliched above the sun sparkling water, but the uncouth drunks on land foiled them.
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Kelley and I gathered small sharp rocks and sticks. We sharpened the rocks and tied them onto sticks with weeds. We pressured sticks against each other and created fire. This operation took hours, and would become one of our greatest childhood accomplishments. On our hands and knees we dug a shallow sand hole against the dune, covered it with drift wood and created a cubbied shelter. Yes. Pleased with our primitive essentials, we huddled in the cubby, and capered around our struggling flame. The sun set below the lake slowly that night. It hovered above the anxious waves, momentous and confounding; maddening like God.

So this night, the sun was captured by one thousand Uncle John camera snaps. In the background of its' image, three strangers played bagpipes on the shore. They were older men. They wore long Scottish Kilts with t-shirts on top. The bellowed melodies screamed from the reeds; harmonizing, annoying, and beautiful. Uncle John caught the hours of music on film, with constant celebratory asides, and extended zoom-ins of the talented strangers.
“Wow.” he said.
“Hoooolyyy Shiiiit. OOOOH boy.”

The bonfire debris rose towards the sky, and my dad sat on a log by the flames.

“This is the music of my people. The McKenzies!” he said.

His hazel eyes drooped happily, and he moved his head side to side, mimicking the bagpipe hymn. Silhouettes of my sisters were fabricated silver from the moon rise. They dove into the waves, ignoring the bagpipes and the asides.

“IT’s the McKenzies! THE SCOTS! MY HOME!” he cried, standing now with his knees bent and his beer raised into the sky like a toast.

Uncle John set down his camera, and danced slowly in the sand by the bagpipers. He was tall and lean, with a long black-grey ponytail, set low on his head. He wore a white v-neck t-shirt and jean shorts, with high white socks and old running shoes. That was his outfit, no matter the occasion.

“Wooow.” he said. “woooa, ho ho… Ahhhh ha ha.. Ohhhh boy.”
The bagpipers finished the song. Uncle John put his hand on his heart, and his other hand on the players’ shoulder, mostly for support.

“You’re Scottish man?” he said.
The player in the Kilt was in his sixties. He wore a green hat, and had a narrow grey mustache.

“Yes, sir.” he said coolly.
“Wooooa ho ho… Me? I’m a Chippewa brother. From the Red Cliff reservation in Wisconsin. You heard of it?” said Uncle John.

“No I can’t say that I have,” said the Scot, with a baritone voice.

“Oh brother. Woooa ho ho, brother. You’ve gotta come to a pow wow. It’s reeeally spiritual man.” said Uncle John. His voice was a front throat whisper.

They shook hands and spoke closely by the waves. My sisters came in from the water. They wrapped themselves in towels and sat by the fire to warm. By now my mom could barely stand or open her eyes. She looked deeply into the flames with a look on her face that indicated she felt attractive. Yes. Her brows were raised high on her forehead, and her mouth was slightly pursed.

Up in the dunes, Kelley and I had painted our faces and arms in mud. We'd been spying on the bagpipers, on other bonfires, on my parents. We held our spears into the air and danced wildly, chanting impromptu rhymes.

Once the sun warmth completely subsided, our energy deflated. We put our swimsuits back on, gathered our spears and walked over the dunes to my family.

Dad and Uncle John were standing by the bagpipers. Their arms were around each others’ shoulders for balance. Dad smoked a cigarette, and his feet nestled into the cool sand, harnessing his hunched over stance. The orange cig end glowed in the darkness, and smoke exhales crept into the star blanket sky. Kelley and I crouched in the beach weeds near them, sneaky to pass by without being drug into long nonsense conversations about the McKenzie’s, or Red Cliff powwows.

At the fire, my sisters were wrapped in towels, packing up snack wrappers and water toys, coaxing Mom to take them home.

She was standing now, with an expression indicating that she was too attractive to be ignored. Her brows slightly furrowed down now, and her lips were full on pursed. She glanced at Dad and John and the bagpipers in the distance.

“Okay girls. I’ll take you home. Your dad can ride with Uncle John.” she said. With her lips closed tightly she smiled large. Against the fire, the remnant of her hour old red lipstick was visible in the night. Yes. She gathered her own things. She talked nonsense.

“Of course I’ll take my girls home. They’re tiiiired.” she said.

We headed down the beach stretch, towards the road with the last lingering parked cars. Glows of three single fires sporadically lit the beach further on. The nearly empty span went down a mile. At the end of the stretch, large sand dunes bordered the curved beach. The moon was full, splashing silver on my toes, as I trucked through the coddling sand waves.

Esch Road was the entrance to the beach. Only five or six cars remained on the forest drive. Our car was furthest away.

We drove the eight miles home. The dark roads curved around hills through thick bordering forests. Mom squinted drunk into the beamed headlights. Her lips still pursed, she cautiously moved the steering wheel, following the double yellow lines as they moved sharply right, straightened for miles, and curved left.

“You are my friend, yellow line.” she said. She laughed uproariously.

When we got home, Kelley and I stayed in the front yard and jumped on our giant trampoline. We jumped freely and high. The summer night air was biting and cool against our sunned sweating skins. We knew the exact way to jump, the timing of each landing in order to accentuate our flights. We took turns sharing the middle of the trampoline, the best spot for jumping.

An hour later, slow headlights headed down the dirt road towards our house. The car crawled, and music resonated from the open windows. It was a blaring guitar solo. It echoed through the yard. It was Uncle John’s car. He parked in front of the beaten red fence, the butt end of the blue jeep halfway into the dirt road.

“Hey!” Uncle John yelled, his car door slamming behind him.
“Where did you guys go!” said Dad. He appeared from the dark at the edge of the trampoline. His face was sullen and sad. He sounded flushed.
“We couldn’t find you anywhere.” said Uncle John. He looked more pissed than sullen. He put his hands on Dad's shoulder, as a comfort it seemed.
“I’ve never felt so lonely in my life!” Dad belted out, full of disorderly passion and furry. He shook his head back and forth. His right eye was lazy and drunk. Uncle John patted him on the back now.
“It’s ok Jer. We made it.” His demeanor was that of a surviving soldier, after a long perilous battle. We laughed.
“Dad, we drove home with mom, where else would we have been?” I said.
“The lake is big, Jen. And those woods are dark.” he said. He hung his head down.
“Let’s go inside, Jer.” said Uncle John.

He carried a large wooden flute in his hand, one he had hand carved. It was an artful masterpiece; with a green textured lizard by the keyholes, and a brown suede band knotted around its’ body. He coolly played ‘Eleanor Rigby’ as they walked down the driveway towards the house. The smooth wooden melody echoed around the hill yard. The sounds, and smells of strong weed and beer breath trailed them ardently.

The house was loud with liquid voices. We laid now, catching our hot breaths on the trampoline. Our foreheads sweat with jumping achievement.

“I’VE NEVER FELT SO LONELY IN MY LIFE!” said Dad inside the house, as he likely recapitulated his moments of despaired panic to Mom.

“Tough shit, man!” she screamed back.
We laughed, mocking her staple comment; her 'tough shit, man' made me contort and sick.

The hill bottomed lake was a quiet basin. It created a sort of amphitheater of echoes. All could be heard around the lake. The slightest raise of a voice carried for a mile, and our house was the apex of noise here.

With heavy eyelids and chilled sweaty palms, we jumped down from the purple trampoline and headed inside for bed. The house was quiet now. The windows were open and the lights were all on. Breeze moved the smells of weed and smoke around in this world, and we tiptoed through it. Mom was passed out in bed on her back, still in her swimsuits and khaki shorts. We turned off her lights and put out of her lit cigarette. Dad was passed out on the stairs. He laid balancing on the steps, his hands a pillow beneath his head. The same sullen expression was on his sleeping face. Yes. We tiptoed passed him and laughed.

Downstairs, the kitchen counter was swamped in macaroni and cheese mayhem. Half-cheesed noodles dashed the counter and floor, and a Kraft box laid open and torn. It was savagely ripped, and shreds of the cardboard box laid on the stove and tiled floor. A pan and multiple cheesed wooden spoons sat on the burner, with burned noodles stuck and stinking on the low heat.

Bottles and glasses of last minute night caps sat half filled or empty on the counter. Rolling Rock beers, and a dripping tap of cheap boxed wine sat on the kitchen table. Under the kitchen table, Uncle John laid sleeping and snoring in his white boxer briefs. He hugged our Brittney Spaniel, Rusty, under his arm. Next to him were two empty bottles of Rolling Rock, and his wooden flute. We laughed behind restraining palms. Our faces still savage-painted, we stunk of beach and sweat. We ate potato chips like pigs, insatiably crunching greased sand handfuls into our mouths. Soon we slept, coma-ed with full bellies and hot tired skin, and cooed by the lake crickets; harmonizing, annoying, and beautiful.

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