Эд Макбейн - Last Summer

So I said, simply, “Yes, we’re wise guys.”

“Cutting in like that.”

“Yes,” I said, “cutting in like that.”

I tilted the bottle of Coke and drank a little of it, and then I looked at him, and we just stood there outside the store, staring at each other. Or at least trying to stare, since it was pretty difficult to locate each other’s eyes in the dark. I didn’t know what he had in mind, really I didn’t. Perhaps a fight, and perhaps not. I’ve learned, though, that most guys who come over and sound off do so without any intention of starting a fight unless you push them into one, unless you make it absolutely impossible for them to back away. The truth about this particular situation was that I felt indestructible. This fellow was at least six feet tall, and very burly in his Charlie Brown sweatshirt, but I wasn’t at all afraid of him. In fact, I felt I could knock him flat with a single punch if I had to, walk all over him, squash him into the pier. I felt absolutely courageous and bold and powerful and great. I felt like Batman.

So we kept staring at each other.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Batman,” I answered.

“You are a wise guy, aren’t you?”

“I am a very wise guy,” I said. “My friend is even wiser. We are the two wisest guys on this whole island, you want to get out of my way?”

He kept staring at me.

“Huh?” I said.

And then he backed off.

Everything exploded inside me, I felt suddenly weak. This was affirmation, you see, concrete affirmation of the fact that I was surrounded by a glow that nothing could penetrate, a magical glow that had somehow been generated by Sandy and David and me, impervious to anyone or anything. With a little fillip, I put the Coke bottle into the crate beside the machine, gave Mr. Charlie Brown Sweatshirt a brief nod, and walked up the pier and into the firehouse without looking back.

“Hey, we were trying to find you,” Sandy said. “We want to go crabbing.”

“In your wig?” I said.

“No, there aren’t any crabs in her wig,” David said.

We borrowed a net from the lobster joint on the pier, and then asked Mr. Gorham to lend us his flashlight, which he did reluctantly. It was a marvelous night, with a silver crescent moon in a sky overwhelmed by millions of stars. A mild breeze blew in off the mainland. We could hear the music from the firehouse, the sound of water gently lapping the rotted timbers of the old pier. Sandy flashed the light out over the water in wide probing arcs. The crabs we were after were blue crabs. Whenever we spotted one, Sandy would lead it in toward the dock, and either David or I would scoop it up into the net. When we caught the first one, we realized we didn’t have anything to put it in, so we had to throw it back. I ran up to the firehouse and borrowed one of the red buckets from the wall, dumping the sand out. My friend was still at the dance. When he saw me come in, he moved over to the other side of the room.

We caught six crabs before the dance ended, and then returned the net to the lobster joint and the flashlight to Mr. Gorham. We could have taken a jitney up the beach if we’d wanted to, but we walked all the way home instead, singing. Sandy cooked the crabs the next day, which was Sunday. They were delicious.

On Monday we drank the truth serum.

The truth serum was beer.

“This isn’t beer,” Sandy said, “it’s truth serum.”

We were sitting inside the tent we’d constructed by hanging David’s poncho from the beach umbrella. Through the open flap facing the ocean, we could see the slanting rain and the gray sea and sky beyond. Each time a wave crashed in against the shore, it left behind it a roiling wake of pebbles and sand, twisted seaweed, splintered rotten wood. The beach looked dirty.

We had walked all the way out to the point in the rain, wearing only our swimsuits; our towels and other stuff were wrapped inside David’s poncho. It wasn’t until we were putting up the umbrella and fastening the poncho to it that we began to feel a bit chilled. The moment we got inside the tent, we dried ourselves and put on sweaters. Then we spread the blanket and opened the beer. That was when Sandy said it was truth serum.

“It looks like beer to me,” David said. “What does it look like to you, Poo?”

“Beer,” I said.

“It’s truth serum,” Sandy insisted. She tilted the bottle to her mouth, drank a little, and then lowered it into her lap. She was sitting with her long legs crossed Indian fashion, a gray sweatshirt covering the top and pants of her bikini. She rolled back her eyes and then intoned, “My middle name is Bernice.”

David laughed and said, “I wouldn’t tell my middle name if you tortured me.”

“Peter?” she said.

I drank a little beer and then, imitating her monotone, said, “My middle name is Albert,” and looked surprised, and said, “I think it is truth serum, David.”

“Try it,” Sandy said.

David studied us both solemnly for a moment.

“Go on, David,” I said gently. “Try it.”

David gave a slight shrug. It seemed to me that he was more interested in drinking the beer than in playing games with it. But I knew he wouldn’t spoil the fun, and I wasn’t surprised when he lifted the bottle to his mouth, drank, put it down, and very quickly and softly said, “My middle name is Lloyd.”

“Oh, no!” I said.

“Oh, yes, ” Sandy said. “That’s a wonderful middle name, what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, “here’s to David Lloyd,” and I raised my bottle and drank.

“Now you have to tell us another truth,” Sandy said.

“Why?”

“Because you just drank some more serum.”

“Oh, I see, I see.”

“It has to be about yourself,” Sandy said.

“Of course.”

“So?”

“I flunked geometry when I was a soph,” I said.

“Everybody knows that,” David said.

“Sandra Bernice didn’t know it.”

“That’s true, I didn’t,” Sandy said.

“Still and all,” David insisted, “if a person is under the influence of truth serum, he doesn’t tell you something stupid like he flunked geometry when he was a soph.”

“It is stupid to flunk geometry,” I said, trying to rescue it.

“But David is right,” Sandy said.

“All right,” I said. I deliberately took another swallow of beer and then said, “I hate my Uncle Ralph.”

“We don’t even know your Uncle Ralph,” David said.

“What difference does that make? I hate him, and that’s the truth, and how come I’m the only one drinking?”

“Okay, okay,” David said, and drank some beer.

“The truth,” Sandy said.

“The truth is this is a pretty idiotic game,” David said, and then frowned, thinking. Sandy and I both waited.

“So?” she said at last.

“So okay, wait a minute.”

Sandy drank and said, “Major truth: My top is wet.”

I drank and said, “Major truth: I like girls who say things like My top is wet.”

“I only said it under the influence of the serum,” Sandy said.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“Thank you,” she said, and nodded.

“You’re welcome,” I said, and nodded back.

“But the truth is, it is wet, and also uncomfortable.”

“So take it off,” David said, and shrugged.

“Ho-ho,” Sandy said, and rolled her eyes.

“Since we are dispensing with crap,” I said, and quickly drank, “let me say in all truth...”

“No, wait a minute,” David said, and drank. He lowered the bottle. “Are you ready?”

“We’re ready,” I said.