It was a cool, breezy, Summer day in June of 1994. The temperature was a pleasant 82 degrees. This day presented the perfect conditions for baitin' up a hook with a plump and juicy earth-worm...or a night-crawler or some green worms or any other number of dirt-dwelling invertebrates and casting a line into the muddy depths of the Bessie Tonka River. Hell, maybe if your Pop had been working extra shifts at the Carlyle Industries you just might have found yourself with a container full of stink-bait. And if he finally got that raise he'd been prayin' for at the church, you might have even woke up with some chicken liver next to your pillow accompanied by a nearly illegible note informing you: "I gotta work 19 hours t'dee so you go on an' get some fishin' in. Don't fergitt!"
It's baffling. There I said it.
A boy of twelve emerged onto Main Street from Larson's General Store with a Mountain Dew Big Slam in his right hand. His name was Murray Tinklewater. This is the life, thought the boy as he adjusted the over-sized, foam headphones on his head. His brand new Sony CD Discman was held triumphantly, parallel to the ground at waist level, in his left hand. Just taking in all the sights, he was.
Murray revered the over-sized Confederate flag that was elevated to full-mast across the street. It waved with majesty and tenderness from high above the Post Office to every American citizen in Carlyle (and every American citizen here in Coleman County for that matter) with every breath of American wind.
The ol' Stars and Bars flying proudly this far North of the Mason-Dixon Line? All the way up here on "Jesus' Lil' Davenport," also known as the State of Wisconsin?
Goddamn right, thought Murray as he nodded in agreement.
And seemingly right on cue, Murray spied another familiar, late-morning, Carlyle staple: The noxious, blue-black plume of exhaust pouring from every possible crevice of "Box-Car" Dickerson's truck as it barreled down Main Street. The bouncing cardboard flap from a recently opened 30-pack of Old Style perched on the seat next to "Box-Car" was 100% visible to any observer.
The near-deafening screech from engine belts that were too loose, and the Mammoth roar from an exhaust system that may never have existed was a normal, almost comforting sound. The truck's engine was easily and almost certainly wound up to 10,000 rpm's, and yet he was still only travelling 25 miles per hour.
"Hey, the fucker still runs, don't it?" Murray overheard "Box-Car" tell Reverend Donaldson at the Norwegian Supper last spring, after the Holy Reverend playfully greeted him by saying: 'I hope you brought your appetite!'
And the truck has no floor-boards.
"You mean like, a hole in the floor-boards?" Most normal people might inquire.
No...literally, zero floor-boards.
That is why the bench seat is suspended from chains that are bolted to the roof of the truck.
"Box-Car" Dickerson's truck was desperately struggling to make it up Main Hill on four, bald, Donut-Tire spares with an engine that was screaming like a barn full of heifers getting the shit beat out of them by a drunken Sparky Gordonson.
"Well, that seems just about right." said Murray out loud. He watched the truck lurch to a stop in the middle of the road, halfway up the hill. He continued to watch as "Box-Car" threw it in neutral after the engine stalled, and watched still as the truck coasted backwards until "Box-Car" sat idle in front of the Lefsebjorn Supper Club.
"Box-Car" then repeatedly tried to start his truck until the battery went dead.
That's just the sound of 10:30 AM in this town.
A millisecond before hitting the play button on his Sony CD Discman and continuing on with his day, Murray heard a high-pitched voice call out from down the block: "Murray! Hey, Murray! Wait up, Winker!"
Murray didn't respond. He merely stood there and watched his grossly overweight neighbor and school-mate Brandon Dorsey (also 12 years old) chugging towards him in a pathetically slow run.
It was obvious, even at a distance of 50 feet, that Brandon was excreting remarkable amounts of sweat. Buckets, thought Murray. 5-Gallon Buckets. His head, which was too small for his body, seemed to be held up by a noodle. His double-chin was somehow swinging to and fro...almost high-fiving his earlobes. His Donny Wahlberg shirt, which he wears everyday, (although, on rare occasions he has been seen wearing a Crystal Pepsi promotional t-shirt) was clinging to his bouncing belly and his yellow sweatpants were filthy.
"Pffft." scoffed Murray to himself.
Brandon didn't even like 'The New Kids' until I showed him how cool they are, thought Murray. I mean, I'm the one who taught him all the dance moves to 'Step By Step.' That is a totally, excellent shirt though.
The over-sized foam headphones on Brandon's glistening head were being tossed around wildly as he approached. One foam ear-pad was actually covering his left eye when he finally covered the short distance.
While clumsily repositioning his headphones, Brandon, with an asthmatic-type wheeze stated, "Gosh, that Mountain Dew sure looks delicious! Can I have a drink?"
Ignoring the question, Murray asked "How in Holy Fuck could you possibly be so sweaty?"
"I just ran all the way from the corner. You seen me running." replied Brandon, holding his own portable CD player parallel to the ground at waist level.
"But, your shirt is completely soaked, dude. Seriously, I mean, the corner is literally less than a hundred feet from..." started Murray.
"Hey, check this out!" interrupted Brandon, who was absent-mindedly digging the wedged sweat-pants out of his butt-hole.
Sniffing his fingers, Brandon continued: "Now, promise to not be jealous, man. Take a look at my new CD player! Huh? Pretty bodacious, right? It's a Wang-O-Sonic! Yeah, I know. It's like a Panasonic, but it's totally better quality. It's made in Croatia."
Puzzled, Murray said, "Wang-O-Sonic? I have never h..."
Not even listening, Brandon began talking: "What'cha listening to? I just bought that new Poison CD "Native Tongue." I know it's been out a couple of years but, holy shit! They got this amazing, new guitar player, Richie Kotzen. Dude! These guys are so much better than when they had that nobody, C.C. Deville. It's like, these guys actually rock now! Man! I will even go on record saying that these guys are the very definition of Heavy Metal, now. I mean, take that song "Stand" for instance... Dude! Fucking Metal, right? It's like these guys weren't even Metal until Richie Kotzen showed up and taught'em how to play heavy, you know? And mark my words, Murray, you will be hearing big things from this Poison line-up for like, the next 20 years probably. I wouldn't be surprised if the album went Platinum on the first day. I think I actually heard that it did on MTV awhile ago.
The same goes for Motley Crue. John Corabi is so much cooler than that pussy, Vince Neil. Everybody can tell that Vince Neil's voice got, just steadily weaker and weaker as the 80's went on, right? John Corabi is like the only reason I even listen to Motley Crue now. I hear that from like, everybody, dude. I mean, it's not like their record sales are going to plummet disastrously or anything without Vince Neil. Yeah right! No chance in Hell!
And another thing I was thinking, was that, I mean I'm sure this would never, ever happen in like, a million years, but don't you think it would be totally rockin' if Van Halen got rid of that lame-o Sammy Hagar and replaced him with the singer from Extreme? Am I wrong, or would that be the most radical thing ever? I mean, the guy who sings "Whole Hearted" singing for fucking Van Halen? Holy-Shit-Dude! Right? Those guys would rule the fucking world! I mean, like I said, it will probably never happen but man, just think! Gosh, that Mountain Dew looks refreshing! 'What-A-Beverage,' is what I always say. What have you been doing today, Murray? I wish I had a Mountain Dew Big Slam!"
Still trying to process the lunacy that was laid so sincerely before him, Murray stammered out the truth: "Well, me and Graham Jackson and Zippy Wegmueller were down by the Depot playing 'Kick the Can.' I'm supposed to be heading back there right now if you...want..."
Murray trailed off into his own thoughts without finishing his sentence.
Why I was playing 'Kick the Can' with those two rummies in the first place is a fair question, thought Murray. I could have suggested: Home-Run Derby, The Interception Game, Wiffle Ball, Curb Ball, The Bruce Smith Game or Smear the Queer.
Christ! Even a fucking game of 'Pin the Ref' would've been a better idea in retrospect.
Of course, the best idea would have been to just look the other way when you saw Zippy and Graham walking towards you wearing those matching, brown and orange shorts with the bottom hems that were at least four inches above their knees.
But, you just stood there, Murray.
Hey, Murray! How about, when two booger-pickers ask you to play 'Kick the Can' of all games, make sure you don't forget to say: "Sure, guys! That sounds great! You got a can? Ooh, that's a good one!"
Well...you actually did say that, barn-doon.
And the fact that it took 20 minutes to sink into your dummy head that this game is for Heebie-Feebies is bewildering.
It's baffling. There I said it.
Don't forget your yarmulke, Steinberg!
To your credit, ruminated Murray, deliberately kicking the can into the river was a good exit strategy. It was also a master-stroke, when you coaxed your playmates to stay put while you were supposed to run home and get a fresh can to kick, while assuring them that this was in fact, not a ruse to just leave them there and never come back.
"No, really guys, I've got this Bush's Baked Beans can from dinner last night! It's in the garbage, right on top! You guys like beans, right? I'll be back lickety-split!" you said.
And shouting over your shoulder as you sprinted away from them as fast as you could, "You guys just stay there, okay? Don't follow me! Alright?" was probably your ultimate redemption.
Re-instilled with confidence, Murray offered: "So, what do you say, Michael Landon Dorsey? Why don't we play some 'kick the can?' I'm just running home quick to 'take the Cosby kids to the pool' and I'm going right back down to the Depot. Why don't you just go down there now and wait with Graham and Zippy? I'll just meet you down there. Cool? Haven't you caught your breath yet?"
"Nah. I don't really like to play sports." said Brandon, laughing. "In fact, the only sport I play is called 'Sit On My Can!' Get it? Hey, I was thinking, wouldn't it be great if I had a shirt that said: 'I'd Rather Be Nigger Knocking.' Wouldn't that be hilarious?"
"Hilarious," responded Murray. It was and he knew it, but even so, there was a narrowing of his eyes and the slightest sense of menace about him. There was a vortex of jealousy in his voice. Murray was fixated on Brandon's slightly uneven flat-top haircut and the greasy, almost-shoulder-length tendrils of hair that were purposely left long in the back. That is a fresh haircut. God-damn him. "It's even funnier than Gary Cherone's performance at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert. Right? Get it?"
"No," said Brandon. "If there is one man who can rock a little stadium like Wembley, it's Gary Cherone, dude! It was probably like playing some dive bar for that guy. Just a 'who-even-cares' type of gig. He easily has the coolest moves of any rock and roll front man, too. Probably the best wardrobe as well, I would say. I just wish I knew where to get some bad-ass pants like those, you know? Hey, Gary! Can you save some pussy for the rest of us? All the girls will be like 'I got the right one baby...uh huh, uh huh!'"
Murray subconsciously lifted his hand to his head and smoothed his hair. He had been trying out a new hair-cut "look" that would be best described as a 'Page Boy/Perm-Hybrid.'
You could say that people's reactions have been lukewarm...
Responses to Murray's question, "Do you like my new haircut?" were varied. They ranged from: "God-damn it, boy! This civil rights bull-shit is fucking up my God-damn country!" to "Hey, Valentino! Didja stick your wiener in a light-socket or something?"
Although, there was that one time Murray and his fresh 'do' ambled into the high-school weight-room for no real reason and without even saying a word to anyone, Abe Babler (a high-school senior) screamed at him, "Why don't you get out of here and go spank your boner or something?" This was pretty cool, recalled Murray, because like, a week later they had to call the Fire Department on Abe after he climbed up to the top of the Water Tower in the middle of the night with a loaded rifle and was blasting Guns N' Roses from his boom-box and then, after 3 hours (fellow high-school senior) Jason Mathys was finally able to talk him down. Abe Babler was then arrested.
A proud Brandon Dorsey snapped the smiling Murray from this moment of bliss by saying, "Great hair-cut don't you think? Steve Tree cut it for me and I only had to pay him every last dollar of my lawn-mowin' money!"
Murray involuntarily cocked his head directly towards the sun and asked, "Steve Tree cuts people's hair now? Is he, like, even qualified to cut people's hair? I mean, he's for sure, the gnarliest dude in town, of course. Everybody knows that, but I thought he just hangs out by the girl's softball field after school when he isn't working at the Foundry. You know, ever since he crashed his Firebird that had the snow-plow attached to the front of it, into the Police Station..."
"Yeah, it's fucking boss. Plus, he taught me a pretty great game, it's called: 30 For Flinching. Hey, do you have that Nelson CD I let you borrow?" asked Brandon, sweat-soaked and lecherously gazing at the candy display in Larson's front window.
Brandon chuckled, remembering a conversation he had twenty minutes ago. "I will take 100 Pal bubble gums and 100 Mini Tootsie Rolls, Mr. Larson! And two boxes of Lemon Heads, two Alexander the Grapes, two packages of Freshen Up: 7-up flavor, two packages of Freshen Up: Dr. Pepper flavor, One Big League Chew, one Bubble Tape and a dozen Caramel Apple Suckers! Heck, yes! I sure will eat it all up m'self, Mr. Larson! Two cases of Warheads also."
I didn't even have any money to pay for it, thought Brandon. When I said "I guess you'll have to put all that stuff back now, huh?" Mr. Larson was like: "Why'n'cha get out m'store ya shit-head-dumb-shit!"
"Well, yeah...I was listening to it just now. I've only listened to like one song and...well, you know..." began Murray, apprehensively removing the disc and handing it to Brandon. "I mean, don't you already have a CD to listen to in your Wang-O-Sonic? What was it, like, 'John Corabi's #1 Hits' or something?"
"That's why this CD player is 'Cool as Ice!' It can totally fit more than one disc into it. This thing can probably hold three or four CD's, Meat-Stick." replied Brandon, nodding enthusiastically and placing the circular object into his European music player.
Balancing his 'Nelson - After The Rain' CD loosely on top of his 'Stand' CD single Brandon closed the lid. There was an unmistakable, crunching sound when both CD's snapped in half. When Brandon jammed the lid closed on the third attempt, the CD player lid actually stayed closed. One of the lid hinges became disengaged, though.
Brandon hit the play button, but the digital read-out remained blank.
"Well, what the Chinker? The batteries must be dead or something." shrugged a still grinning Brandon.
"Heh. I wish I still had some lawn-mowin' money to buy some more D-Cells for this thing. I think I'm going to just listen to it later after I eat a bunch of chips. See ya later, G. Gordon Liddy!" sang Brandon as he skipped away.
Murray watched Brandon prance slowly, and not even a bit gracefully down the sidewalk. Brandon tripped over his own feet, less than 10 seconds after departing.
Brandon's head slammed into the curb and his Wang-O-Sonic CD player shattered into a hundred pieces.
His shoelaces were not untied and there were zero obstructions in his path.
Pretending not to see, Murray shook his head and said: "What a dick-licker."
Then he walked the other way.
Re-instilled with confidence, Murray offered: "So, what do you say, Michael Landon Dorsey? Why don't we play some 'kick the can?' I'm just running home quick to 'take the Cosby kids to the pool' and I'm going right back down to the Depot. Why don't you just go down there now and wait with Graham and Zippy? I'll just meet you down there. Cool? Haven't you caught your breath yet?"
"Nah. I don't really like to play sports." said Brandon, laughing. "In fact, the only sport I play is called 'Sit On My Can!' Get it? Hey, I was thinking, wouldn't it be great if I had a shirt that said: 'I'd Rather Be Nigger Knocking.' Wouldn't that be hilarious?"
"Hilarious," responded Murray. It was and he knew it, but even so, there was a narrowing of his eyes and the slightest sense of menace about him. There was a vortex of jealousy in his voice. Murray was fixated on Brandon's slightly uneven flat-top haircut and the greasy, almost-shoulder-length tendrils of hair that were purposely left long in the back. That is a fresh haircut. God-damn him. "It's even funnier than Gary Cherone's performance at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert. Right? Get it?"
"No," said Brandon. "If there is one man who can rock a little stadium like Wembley, it's Gary Cherone, dude! It was probably like playing some dive bar for that guy. Just a 'who-even-cares' type of gig. He easily has the coolest moves of any rock and roll front man, too. Probably the best wardrobe as well, I would say. I just wish I knew where to get some bad-ass pants like those, you know? Hey, Gary! Can you save some pussy for the rest of us? All the girls will be like 'I got the right one baby...uh huh, uh huh!'"
Murray subconsciously lifted his hand to his head and smoothed his hair. He had been trying out a new hair-cut "look" that would be best described as a 'Page Boy/Perm-Hybrid.'
You could say that people's reactions have been lukewarm...
Responses to Murray's question, "Do you like my new haircut?" were varied. They ranged from: "God-damn it, boy! This civil rights bull-shit is fucking up my God-damn country!" to "Hey, Valentino! Didja stick your wiener in a light-socket or something?"
Although, there was that one time Murray and his fresh 'do' ambled into the high-school weight-room for no real reason and without even saying a word to anyone, Abe Babler (a high-school senior) screamed at him, "Why don't you get out of here and go spank your boner or something?" This was pretty cool, recalled Murray, because like, a week later they had to call the Fire Department on Abe after he climbed up to the top of the Water Tower in the middle of the night with a loaded rifle and was blasting Guns N' Roses from his boom-box and then, after 3 hours (fellow high-school senior) Jason Mathys was finally able to talk him down. Abe Babler was then arrested.
A proud Brandon Dorsey snapped the smiling Murray from this moment of bliss by saying, "Great hair-cut don't you think? Steve Tree cut it for me and I only had to pay him every last dollar of my lawn-mowin' money!"
Murray involuntarily cocked his head directly towards the sun and asked, "Steve Tree cuts people's hair now? Is he, like, even qualified to cut people's hair? I mean, he's for sure, the gnarliest dude in town, of course. Everybody knows that, but I thought he just hangs out by the girl's softball field after school when he isn't working at the Foundry. You know, ever since he crashed his Firebird that had the snow-plow attached to the front of it, into the Police Station..."
"Yeah, it's fucking boss. Plus, he taught me a pretty great game, it's called: 30 For Flinching. Hey, do you have that Nelson CD I let you borrow?" asked Brandon, sweat-soaked and lecherously gazing at the candy display in Larson's front window.
Brandon chuckled, remembering a conversation he had twenty minutes ago. "I will take 100 Pal bubble gums and 100 Mini Tootsie Rolls, Mr. Larson! And two boxes of Lemon Heads, two Alexander the Grapes, two packages of Freshen Up: 7-up flavor, two packages of Freshen Up: Dr. Pepper flavor, One Big League Chew, one Bubble Tape and a dozen Caramel Apple Suckers! Heck, yes! I sure will eat it all up m'self, Mr. Larson! Two cases of Warheads also."
I didn't even have any money to pay for it, thought Brandon. When I said "I guess you'll have to put all that stuff back now, huh?" Mr. Larson was like: "Why'n'cha get out m'store ya shit-head-dumb-shit!"
"Well, yeah...I was listening to it just now. I've only listened to like one song and...well, you know..." began Murray, apprehensively removing the disc and handing it to Brandon. "I mean, don't you already have a CD to listen to in your Wang-O-Sonic? What was it, like, 'John Corabi's #1 Hits' or something?"
"That's why this CD player is 'Cool as Ice!' It can totally fit more than one disc into it. This thing can probably hold three or four CD's, Meat-Stick." replied Brandon, nodding enthusiastically and placing the circular object into his European music player.
Balancing his 'Nelson - After The Rain' CD loosely on top of his 'Stand' CD single Brandon closed the lid. There was an unmistakable, crunching sound when both CD's snapped in half. When Brandon jammed the lid closed on the third attempt, the CD player lid actually stayed closed. One of the lid hinges became disengaged, though.
Brandon hit the play button, but the digital read-out remained blank.
"Well, what the Chinker? The batteries must be dead or something." shrugged a still grinning Brandon.
"Heh. I wish I still had some lawn-mowin' money to buy some more D-Cells for this thing. I think I'm going to just listen to it later after I eat a bunch of chips. See ya later, G. Gordon Liddy!" sang Brandon as he skipped away.
Murray watched Brandon prance slowly, and not even a bit gracefully down the sidewalk. Brandon tripped over his own feet, less than 10 seconds after departing.
Brandon's head slammed into the curb and his Wang-O-Sonic CD player shattered into a hundred pieces.
His shoelaces were not untied and there were zero obstructions in his path.
Pretending not to see, Murray shook his head and said: "What a dick-licker."
Then he walked the other way.
The End
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