There were three cans of High Life at the boat landing off of Willow Road and we planned to make them ours. Jesse scoped them out when he went fishing with his uncle the Saturday before.
Our moms asked us where we were headed and we said, “Brenner’s.”
“Oh, good! Ask his mother if she needs anything,” and “I think that’s a great idea.”
The truth was, of course, that we were headed out to learn how to get drunk on 1.5 High Lifes. High Lives. The truth was that Brenner’s dad had recently died in a car accident and Brenner talked about it a lot. Even when we were at pool parties or at the movies with girls. He didn’t hide it away like I did my brother in prison or Jesse did his parents not having enough money for Chuck Taylors. For Brenner, it was all there, out loud. So, some days we ditched him because it was too much. It stretched our budding sympathy too thin. Sometimes we just wanted to hang out without picturing Mr. Daniels mashed up against his car’s dashboard.
When we got close to the boat landing, we stashed our bikes in the bushes. Jesse kept looking over his shoulder as we walked towards the dock. He had 20/20 vision. No cops, so we crept towards that busted down dock and grabbed those cans like they were dreams come true. Or Kristy’s tits or Lara’s or someone’s.
We ran into a clearing that we knew eventually emptied out into Brookside Park. Jesse, Brenner, and I used to make forts back there when we were younger. There were still remnants of duct tape in the kitchen where we used to spread dandelion heads on birch bark and call it buttered toast. Aluminum cans in tow, we sat down, river rocks vaguely outlining our forest home, which we once imagined to be mansion-big and mansion-fancy.
I opened my can first, which I remember feeling proud of. We synchronized a proper “Cheers!” and Jesse said, “here goes nothin’,” something his five-year-old sister starting saying every time she went outside. Jesse thought it was really annoying and always told her to quit it, but she wasn’t my sister so I didn’t think much of it at all. Thought it was a kid saying kid stuff, big deal.
“Eck.” It tasted like piss or metal.
“Maybe it’s old.”
“Maybe some lake water got in.” I peered into the hole and saw no tell-tale signs of contamination. I guess I assumed contamination would materialize as lime green sludge or something similarly obvious.
“Let’s chug it.” We swallowed as hard as any sewer drain, and fast, too.
“Do you feel anything?” I asked
“I think so.”
“Me too.”
We split the third can sip by sip, passing it back and forth, our faces twisted up from a taste we’d not yet acquired. When the cans were as empty as cans can be, we crushed them with our sneakers and hid them under the log we used to use as a couch.
Running back to our bikes, we laughed. Hard. Jesse tripped on a root; we were sure we were hammered. We biked around the new cul-de-sac, in and out of driveways that led to early-stage basements or empty lots. My eyes felt warm and I was certain it was harder to steer straight.
“We can’t go home yet, man. They’ll know.” Our parents. The capital They. The Boss.
“We’ll just bike around for a while then. I have gum for our breath.”
So we biked around for a while then. Unless we wanted to circle around the whole town, we had to pass Brenner’s house, so we rode at what we thought was a camouflaging speed. Sure as shit, when we passed Van Buren, Brenner was out mowing his front lawn. His dog, Moose, was barking at the lawnmower. Sure as shit, Brenner saw us as we passed.
“Oh, hey guys!”
“Hey, Brenner.” I called back.
“Whatcha guys doin’?”
Jesse replied with a story about running to the Quick Mart as an errand for his mom. I couldn’t for the young life of me stifle the laugh that was creeping up my throat. Jesse hit me in the chest.
“Well we better get back.”
“Okay,” Brenner responded, scanning our expressions.
I mustered a “See you tomorrow, man.”
“Yeah.” Brenner started the mower and Moose barked loudly enough that we could hear her for blocks and blocks.
The truth was that our blood wasn’t drunk. Only our hopeful minds were. The truth was that if anyone needed a beer or a suburbian opportunity to do something city kids weren’t afraid to do, it was Brenner. If anyone needed to feel like an honest-to-goodness teenager, it was the kid who couldn’t stop thinking of the worms eating his buried family. We knew we should have invited him. There were three cans under that dock, one for each of us, and his dad was dead, for crying out loud.
