Bud Smith: F 250

“God help us all,” I said.

The boat came in at breakneck speed. As they got closer, Feral appeared to be panicking at the controls.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” I said.

The boat got closer. Ron pushed Feral out of the way, but it was too late. The speedboat hit the pier.

We jumped to our feet. K and Trish came out of the house. We all stood around, looking at the wreck. The pier was mangled but hung on.

“You alright?” Trish yelled.

Ron jumped on the dock. It tilted but didn’t collapse.

“We’re fine,” he said, laughing.

The two of them came walking towards us. They looked like they were on their way back from a concert. Feral had a Pepsi in his hand.

“This is a RonBomb!”

“What is?”

“This!” Feral passed me the soda. “It’s Pepsi and vodka,” he said.

I passed it right back.

“Pepsi and vodka,” Trish said. “What the fuck?!”

“Sorry about your dock!” Ron punched Feral on the shoulder. “Hey, you said you knew how to drive a boat.”

“He sunk his boat,” Trish shouted.

“Your driving privileges are hereby revoked, bro,” Ron said sternly. “This is a seventy five thousand dollar cruiser.”

I went back to work. That’s how the afternoon was. They all watched me work. June helped out a little bit, passing me flagstone and tools as I needed them, but I mostly worked alone while they watched.

The evening descended.

Ron kept trying to persuade us to come back to his place.

“Let’s party,” he said desperately, like he would die if the evening ended. “Let’s party, please.”

I said, “I’m not feeling it.”

The girls all looked tired.

“Come on. I’ve got the biggest hot tub any of you guys have ever seen.”

Then he elbowed me in the ribs.

“I’ve got some sick tequila too.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. June and K insisted on riding over in the F-250. Feral and Trish took the boat back across to the lit up house, which was glowing like heaven.

“Automatic timers,” Ron said as he walked to the mangled dock. “So I know exactly when it’s time to party.”

It was the fourth of July. No-one had fireworks.

The girls were bored. That wasn’t a good thing. Bored girls will kill you.

It was the first hot night in the mountains. We sat on the concrete apron looking at Ron’s pool, which was still closed for the season. Beers were sweating in our fists.

“It’s too bad,” June said. “I’d like to swim.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

Ron had been vague. He didn’t mention his swimming pool wouldn’t be open. Now didn’t we look like assholes in our bathing suits? Drove all the way over here, and the pool’s still closed, and his beer was skunked.

“You want to get out of here?” I asked K and June. “You two want to go find the river? A stream?”

They shrugged.

“A polluted toxic river that will melt your flesh off? I know where that is.”

“Stop trying to take us back to Jersey,” K said.

“So, we’ll just sit here frowning. Looking at that tarp covering the pool,” said June. “What a nice tarp.”

“Fourth of July. Here … a goddamned light-year away from the boardwalk,” I said darkly.

Headlights flooded the driveway. Feral and Trish were back.

“I got the charcoal, and I got cold beer,” Feral shouted as he barreled through Speedboat’s fence. Trish labored with the ice, some hot dog rolls, and a king size bottle of mustard.

“We were all gonna die out here, weren’t we,” I said.

“How can you ever hope to survive this far away from the Atlantic Ocean?” K Neon mocked. “Poor thing.”

“Goners. Absolute goners,” June said.

I gave us all the sign of the cross.

K Neon jammed her knuckles in my ribcage.

Everyone else descended on the coolers and the barbecue grill, telling stories from town. I went in to talk to Ron, who was leaning slack-jawed against his own countertop.

“I’m sorry about the pool,” he said.

“What about it?” As if it was a nonissue.

He pointed at my striped swim shorts, “Go take a dip in the lake, maing…”

“K Neon will have to be institutionalized if we start night swimming.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said as he began pouring us all shots of medicine in shallow glasses. He was trying to be a good host. Quicker than I expected, he leaned over, whacked me on the wrist, and said, “Hey, I know what would make this better.”

Ron took out another shot glass. Filled it up. Now there were six shots on the counter.

“I’m gonna get my neighbor over here. He’s a complete and total train wreck. You’ll love him. He’s got nine confirmed kills in this decade alone.”

As much of a train wreck as Ron was, it was dangerous for him to think that way about somebody else.

He went out on the deck and started to yell into the woods behind his house.

“YO TERRY! HEY TERRY! COME OVER HERE!”

A light came on through the woods.

“WHAT??!?!”

Then, just like that, there he was: another big, drunk idiot with a dented head floundering through the door … obliterated.

“What’s up, guys,” Terry said sideways, enveloped in camouflage pants and a cutoff Van Halen T-shirt that was too big for his scrawny frame.

“Just trying to get drunk,” we said as if one life force.

“Trying?” He looked at his watch. His long, scraggly hair fell across the band. “Guys, it’s nine o’ clock at night. I’ve already been drunk, sobered up … got drunk again, sobered up, and now I’m working on my third drunk of the day.”

Ron looked at me, dead serious.

“Terry here was Special Ops.”

“Oh?”

“Is Special Ops,” Terry said. “Once you’re Ops, you never become not Ops.”

He just looked like another crazy, backwoods maniac.

“This guy could kill somebody with a blueberry pancake,” Ron said.

Terry nodded.

“Did you say something about a blueberry pancake?” Feral said, walking in the kitchen.

Terry leaned into the stove with his elbow on a burner. It wasn’t a joke. He really could kill somebody with a blueberry pancake.

“I can knock you unconscious with one finger,” Terry said.

“Sure. I can knock myself unconscious with drugs and alcohol though, so I’m good,” I offered.

That eased the tension. Terry wasn’t gonna have to kill anybody. Thank God.

We forgot the girls and went to quick work on the shots.

“Where’s Harpie?” Terry asked.

“Mother’s house.”

“Oh? A bachelor, you are?”

“Another night or so,” Ron said.

“Offer still stands.”

Ron busted out laughing.

“What offer?” Feral demanded.

“He wants to kill my wife for three thousand dollars.”

“Oh! I don’t wanna,” Terry said, “but I will…”

“With a Belgium waffle?” I asked half-jokingly.

“Fuck you man,” Terry said, snickering. “But I could FYI.”

“Hot tub,” Ron offered, peeking out the window at the bored girls.

“Hot tub,” Terry nodded.

“It’s the only way,” Feral said, shrugging.

“I’ll warm that motherfucker up. Your girls will be happy,” Ron said as he went out the door.

He crossed the lawn, swinging his arms like Quasimodo by the shed, and flipped on all of the flood lights. We shielded our eyes.

“This is a goddamn big house,” I said to Feral.

“What the hell does this guy do?” Feral asked.

“Not much,” Terry offered. “He’s got brain damage from getting hurt inside a Home Depot. One of those riding lawn mowers fell on him and clobbered his head open. Aisle ten.”