Becoming a Man

           Just the other day my roommate, Persephone, said something to which I took a great deal of personal offense.  Typically, I don’t get upset by the things she says about me, as she is quite a kidder.  However, I think she must have experienced a great deal of trauma as a child, because her humor has an overly caustic quality about it, at times.  The reason this little joke of hers caught my ear is that I suddenly realized that I had heard her repeat this same "joke" on numerous occasions. 

There was the appearance of “the joke” at the mall the other day.  Persephone and I had taken her two kids to the mall to play in the Kid Zone.  I was innocently ordering an unruly child to walk the plank, on the big cushiony boat in the kids’ play area, when I heard it.

“I should have only brought two.  Three children are too many for me to handle,” Persephone was saying to a red-faced mom, who sat next to her on the couch area.

As I turned around to point out to Persephone that she had only brought two (she has a little problem with math), I caught her gesturing toward me with her thumb.  As she noticed me eyeing her, she quickly dropped her hand and smiled at me innocently.  I felt like gesturing with something other than my thumb and smiling innocently right back at her.

“Oops, did I lose count again, Ken.”  She said as the other woman barked out a laugh.  It was very unladylike.  It was at this point that I started to realize the problem might be with attitude more than arithmetic, and I decided I would pay a little more attention to Persephone’s comments from that point on.

In that one visit to the mall, the joke cropped up thirteen times.  For criminy’s sake woman, get some new material for your act.  Over the next week, I noticed that her joke had infiltrated every arena of my life.  At the gun range, even the range master seemed to have been infected.

“Hey, hey, Ken.  It’s nice to see you back, Young Fella’.  I guess you did all of your chores around the house, so you got your allowance this week, huh?”

 “Ya, ha, ha.  Give me some shells.” Like I do any chores. 

The infection seems to have spread to my workplace, as well.  Last Wednesday, when I returned to my classroom after recess, one of my students informed me that I had had a call from the office.

“Mr. Goree, the office called and said to pick up your brother and sister; Stephen and Carly from daycare.  What grades are your brother and sister in, anyway?”  I don’t have any young siblings, but I do have two children who answer to those names.

“Never mind.  I think it’s silent reading time?” I said.

After a week of this abuse, I suddenly realized (I’m that smart. I suddenly realize a lot of things) that I should do a bit if deep thinking and contemplation on the topic of my maturity.  Am I a boy, or am I a man?  I thought the answer was obvious, but apparently it isn’t for many of the people in my life.

Being a man of science, I decided to sort through the evidence.  As a beginning point I decided I needed a clear definition of “manhood” to go by.  I tried the online definition, and didn’t like the “humorous” definition of the noun.  I certainly am not something that gets caught in a zipper.

 Webster’s Dictionary was a little too easy, but it had the definition I was going to use: A fully-grown male.

“Ha!” I said pointing to the dictionary that I held toward Persephone.

“To the letter of the law, yes.  In spirit, I don’t think so.  When did you become a man anyway?”

“You don’t really want me to go into that, do you?”

“No really, when did you get to say, ‘Now, I’m a Man.’ When was the point where you really knew your childhood was gone and you were man?”

“Um, I’ll get back to you on that.”  That was tougher.  I didn’t think the dictionary was going to help me answer that.

I climbed into cyberspace and started to look for information on becoming a man.  I found out immediately that I needed to be careful of what I asked for on the internet or I would get a whole lot of information that I couldn’t use in this story.  After a few hours of university articles, encyclopedia articles, and opinion pages, I started to see a pattern forming.  Becoming a man seems to rest on “rites of passage.” 

I want to say now, for the record, my information is from the internet and has not been checked for factuality.  I, personally, am okay with that as I find that they (facts) often get in the way of a good story anyway.  In the research I performed, it was mentioned that usually a period of isolation, often accompanied by fasting, was the first step in the initiation into manhood.  Isolation!  You mean by myself, with nobody else around?  Hot diggity dog! I can do that.  Please let me do that for a while.  A long while.  And you will notice it said often accompanied by fasting; not always; often.  Some Native American tribes go through what is called a Vision Quest; part of which is this period of isolation and fasting.

Then there was the mention of a period of trial.  This consisted of either physical or mental hardship.  In several regions of the world a circumcision is done at the time of becoming a man.  Yowch!  It seems to me that this would be best done to a baby who won’t remember it, and who can’t punch you in the nose if you try.

In another area of the world, initiates into the ranks of men have horizontal cuts gashed across their foreheads.  These leave permanent scars, extend from ear to ear, and go as deep as the bone.  Of course, I do like to play the “My scar’s bigger than your scar” game, but I prefer to get my scars the old fashion way; accidentally through stupidity and negligence.

Then there is the modern version of the trial period.  That’s right, the armed forces boot camps.  In this setting, the recruit is physically and emotionally broken down.  He is then built up to be a man who can defend a nation.

Some regions of the world support the theory that a boy is not a man until he makes his first kill in a hunt.  This symbolizes his being one with the world, and his ability to provide for his family and community.  Until this test has been passed, he may not be permitted to marry.  This seems to me, a really good argument for why men shouldn’t hunt.

I believe that expeditions and adventures fit into this category.  Luckily, I just so happen to have had my share of adventures and expeditions (A&E).  I covered both A and E on a road trip to my cousin’s place in Colorado one summer.
            Then there is phase three of becoming a man; the taking on of adult responsibilities.  At the age of thirteen, a Jewish boy becomes a man and then becomes part of the religious community and prayer.  He is at that point accountable for his actions, and is made aware of his responsibilities.

Some of the times, stages, and situations that I have been through seemed like they were stepping stones toward manhood.  Each of these steps, now that I look back, wasn’t the passage.  There was my first successful hunt.  My first girlfriend, was another step.  Then there was my first job; the driver’s license; being able to vote; graduating from high school; being able to drink legally; graduating from college; getting married; and having kids.  I don’t think any of these moments was my passage.  There was no line I stepped over and, poof!  “Hey look Ken’s a man!”  It just didn’t happen that way.

            One of the articles that I read fascinated me, and I now realize that it explains me pretty well.  The article states that, often without a threshold event, or ceremony, men may carry their adolescence into adulthood.  This is reflected in their behaviors, which other people interpret as irresponsibility.  Here is the best part; this is called “extended-adolescence.”  Is that cool or what?

            I am going to keep this to myself though.  Otherwise, someone might try to give me a “threshold event,” and I would have to start acting responsibly.  I might even stop playing on the climbing toys at the mall. 

            I am glad to have found a reason to be able to blame my extended adolescence on my parents; they didn’t give me a party when I was thirteen.  Do you think 48 is really too late for a bar mitzvah? Skip the bris.  I am especially happy to know what causes the particular condition of “extended-adolescence,” because I want to make sure my son has these threshold events.  After all, when I get old and gray, (older and grayer), I’m going to need someone responsible around to take care of me; and get me to the mall to play on the big boat climbing toy.

            “Argh! Swab the deck ya land-lubber.”

The Goree Intellect Averaging Principle

            In the following investigation of several case studies I clarify certain events that will enable the reader to understand a particular truth from the sciences of psychology and sociology, and endocrinology.  Each of the following case studies have been changed so as to not name any specific individual, describe recognizable physical characteristics as to make individuals readily recognizable within a group of his or her peers, or to remain completely faithful to the specific details of each case.

At the conclusion of this article, a main, indisputable truth will be outlined (The Goree Intellect Averaging Principle).  The aggregation of the data in these studies will render reader, layman or doctoral philosopher powerless to find fault, or alternate theoretical ground.

Case 1:

A call is taken to a triage nurse at County General Hospital, as relayed by 911 being dialed on a cell phone.   Hospital operators kept an open line of communication while an aid unit was in route, and the conversation was recorded.  Screams could be heard in the background.  The male on the phone seemed distracted and at times unintelligible.

Operator: “An aid unit is on its way.  Could you explain the nature of the injury, Sir?”

Hysterical Friend:  “Like, I thought he was going to blow up, Dude.”

Operator:  “I am a ma'am, Sir.  Not a Dude.  Could you more fully explain the nature of the injury, Sir?”

Hysterical Friend:  “Yeah.  Like, it’s chili night, you know, and me and Jim, and Bill, and Rickster, and Rondo were piggin’ on some major beanage, ya know?  Then we were laid back polishin’ of a few brews when Rickster says ‘Gimme your lighter, Dude.” So like, I give him my lighter.  The next thing I know he bends over, blows some stink, and as this flame lights up the apartment he yells ‘eight-point-four on the Rickster scale Man.’ 

Operator:  “Is Rickster your injured friend, Sir?”

Hysterical Friend:  “No, no.  That’s Rondo.  He gets all jealous cuz Rickter looks so cool.  We all yell, ‘No, don’t do it, Man.  You’re too hairy.’ And he really is hairy; like sasquatch hairy.  Do you think he listens to us?  Not even.  He blows and sparks up.  And just as the flame starts up he hiccups.  Oh man, you never saw a pair of buns get toasty so fast.  Old Rondo dropped to floor before we knew what was happening and he started scooting along like a poodle on speed.  I don’t think the real fire got him any, but he has rug burns all over his butt from doin’ the poodle scoot.”

Operator:  “Do I understand correctly, Sir, that there are five males together without female supervision?”

Hysterical Friend:  “Uh, Yeah.”

Operator: “I see, Sir.  I believe I understand the nature of your problem.  An aid worker will be there momentarily to administer salve to your friend.  This worker will also administer estrogen shots to you and the rest of your friends, Sir.”

Hysterical Friend:  “Will it give us a buzz?”

Operator:  “I’m sure it will help to eliminate many of the problems with brain function that you are now experiencing, Sir.”

Hysterical Friend:  “Cool.”

Operator:  “Sir, I have a call that the Aid unit has pulled up in front of an apartment that has your address.  They want to verify that your apartment has a sign on the front door that says ‘No Fat Chicks.’  Is that your residence, Sir?”

Hysterical Friend:  “Ya.”

Operator:  “When the paramedic comes in, Sir.  Tell him that Marge said you are eligible for a double dose.  Hopefully that will help, Sir.”

Hysterical Friend:  “Righteous.”

Case 2:

Four young boys are hospitalized with symptoms of shock and hearing damage after they throw a cup of homemade nitroglycerin off a farmer’s barn roof. 

“I figured it couldn’t be all that bad since the recipe was in the encyclopedia,” said one boy. 

“I never knew what a mushroom cloud was before.” Said a second boy.

“What did you say?” Said a third boy.

The other boys failed to respond to any of this interviewer’s questions; or to even realize the interviewer was speaking.

After being asked what reason the boys could have had for perpetrating such a dangerous act, the first boy responded, “Well, my dad said I could have an Xbox, when pigs fly.  I guess I took care of that, didn’t I?”

Case 3:

From an article in the Appalachian Tribune Herald Gazette; The bodies of four unidentified youths were brought into county general hospital today.  The dead boys were fishing on Jacobsen pond at daybreak, during this morning’s heavy wind.  The cause of death appears to be shock and physical trauma sustained when an unexpected shift in the wind blew their fishing gear (dynamite) back into their twelve foot aluminum skiff.  Closed casket services will be held for the young men Sunday afternoon at the conclusion of the University of Minnesota vs Puerto Rico State curling match.  Time to be adjusted for commercial breaks.

            If the reader has noticed, there are certain similarities between the three cases.  First, all participants were male.  Second, there were multiple males together in a group.  And third, though not absolutely critical to the foundations of the following theory, all of the males appear to be under the age of twenty-five. 

The details of these cases, as well as my own experiences as a young male, a teenage male, a male in my twenties, a male in my thirties, a male currently in my forties, and a teacher of males in the sixth grade, as well as a general observer of the absurd, have led to the formulation of:  

The Goree Intellect Averaging Principle. 

In order to quantify this theory, the first given that must be accepted by the reader is that the average human intelligence is an IQ (intelligence quotient) of 100.  The principle states that:

            Males, when left unattended, must divide the average IQ of 100 between all males present. 

Therefore, if four males are in attendance they must divide the total average IQ by four.  This leaves each with an IQ of 25; only one IQ point higher than is necessary to continue the bodily function of breathing.

Following with this principle, if Einstein and three of his peers were left unsupervised, they would likely end up being the subjects in case study 1.

Last Tide

Last Tide

            The fog drifted in ghostly tendrils along the smooth dark waters of the Puget Sound.  Sputterings and rumblings of outboard motors, which pushed wood and metal through the dark, could be heard to mark the passing of unseen numbers of fisherman on the early August morning.  In one such 16 foot aluminum Lund, two men could be seen, illuminated by the white light of a Coleman propane lantern.  One looked on in abject silence as the other, with studied confidence, deftly cut herring at precise angles as he steered with his knee. 

            Small sharp slaps of the water, and the whisper of a fishing knife slipping across a cutting board were, for a brief instant, the only sounds that could be heard.  It was well past the hour of the dead, but perhaps death didn’t carry a wristwatch.  These were the morbid mental wanderings of one man’s mind just before he felt he must shatter the silence or go mad. 

            “I don’t know Marty, I’ve never fished with a downrigger before.” Jim Zahn said, breaking the misty pre-dawn silence of the Puget Sound.  Jim looked on the rugged lantern lit profile of Marty Shore as the man thought this comment over with the apparent depth of an Eastern Sage.  “I’ve always used Pink Ladies.  They take the bait plenty deep for the silvers.”

            As if touched by divine talent, Marty Shore spat a glistening brown stream of tobacco juice in a fabulous arch that passed out of the sphere of lantern light, more than fifteen feet from the boat.  He spoke low, and slow, as he leveled his empty gaze at Jim.  “You tryin’ to teach me how to fish, boy?  In my own boat?  I been feedin’ my family for thirty years outta these waters.  They been eatin’ well too.  Every one of 'em fat.”  The volume of Marty’s voice never changed; it never raised; it never changed pitch, but a cold dread ran all along the length of Jim’s spine all the same.  “You try givin’ me advice again, I’ll kick your sorry Bellevue ass outta my boat, and you’ll be luck I don’t tie you to my anchor line first.”  Marty leaned his compact frame toward Jim.  “Are we clear, Boy?”

            “Uh-huh” was the best response Jim could come up with.  He didn’t think now was the time for anything humorous.  He had been regretting for over an hour that he had begged Marty to take him fishing.  This feeling had just increased exponentially.  He remembered his discussion of the fishing trip with a buddy at work.  Jim had told his buddy how he was going to be learning how to fish “The Sound” from the best.  To this his friend Daryl had responded that the fish were biting so good on the Sound this summer that all you had to do was shake your dick at them and they’d jump in the boat to get at it.  Daryl had insisted that learning a few new fishing tips was not worth spending a day in a boat with the scariest son-of-a-bitch this side of the Mississippi.  Jim was just thinking that he had come to agree with Daryl and was seriously considering faking an appendicitis attack to try to cut the day short with his guide, when the master spoke.

            “Okay, your line’s ready, Boy.  I’ll hook on this weight.  See how you do it?”  Marty didn’t wait for a response.  “Then you loosen up the drag on your real a little.  Yeah, like that.  Now, back off the drag on the downrigger.  Not that much!  Okay, there.  Now, let it bail out until it reads 80.  Then you tighten it back down.  Don’t light up a smoke though.  You’ll have a fish on your line before you could dig that pack of smokes out of your shirt pocket.”

            “Wanna bet?” Jim said, taking a risk and trying to gauge his mentor’s mood. 

            “Ten, or fifty, what’ll it be?”

            “I can’t afford fifty.”  Jim said, not knowing how Marty would react to losing fifty dollars before the sun had even come up. 

            “Okay, Pussy. “  Marty spat contemptuously.  “You’re on.”

            Jim watched as Marty quickly set up his line, and noticed that he didn’t put it into the water.  “Aren’t you going to fish?”

            “Don’t want to get our lines tangled.”

            “So you say.  Here I am coming up on eighty.  There we go.  Tighten it up.”  Jim murmured “Like that?”  He asked and caught the nod from Marty.  Jim decided he’d test Marty’s mood a little farther and was reaching for his Marlboro Lights when the tip of his fishing rod began to dance.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

An hour later, Jim and Marty were setting up to catch their last two silvers.  They had been throwing back “Humpies” left and right, and were sticking to silvers for the day.  It hadn’t even become fully light and the two were about ready to head in with their limits.  Jim, not only had given up his plan to fake appendicitis, but was considering recommending Marty for sainthood. 

Marty had kept them fishing the same area since they started, but now decided to change his tactics for their last two fish.  Jim didn’t see and point, but he had long since ceased to question Marty’s expertise in this fishing expedition.  Jim figured if he wanted to keep his next month’s paycheck, he had better keep his mouth shut.  He was already close to a hundred dollars down from taking Marty’s bets.

The two were making a pass near a buoy a bit south of their previous location and Jim was letting out line.  Marty was holding back on his bait as Jim had noticed him doing all morning.  Suddenly, the tip of Jim’s pole dropped hard.  He turned to give his guide another “well done,” but noticed a strange, anxious look on Marty’s face. 

“That don’t look right,” was all that Marty said.

As he worked at bringing up his catch, Jim said, “This thing must be huge.”  He slowly heaved up on the pole.  Then he let the tip drop as he quickly reeled in, trying to keep up with the fishing line before he lost any headway. 

“No, it just ain’t fightin’ any.  Might even be dead.”

Jim didn’t know why, but he was feeling that prickly sensation along his spine again.  “Should I just cut the line and let it go? If it isn’t anything we want to keep we might as well let it go before we even bring it up.”

“No!  No, we ought to see what it is, at least.”  Jim was thinking this was the first time during the day that Marty had seemed to have gotten riled up.  He hadn’t even wiped that sleepy look off of his face for the last ten strikes.  All of a sudden, a spark seemed to have been lit under him.  Jim guessed that Marty had played the same fishing scenario over and over for the last 30 years without anything out of the ordinary happening.  It must have gotten to the point of being tiresome if nothing unexpected turned up. 

“Don’t jerk up on the line like that.  You’ll snap it.  Just pull up slow and steady.  Let him come up through the water at his own pace.  There you go.”

“Can you see it yet, Marty?”

“Sometimes fishin’ is slow work, son.  Just keep at it.”  Jim wondered at being elevated in rank, in Marty’s book, from boy to son.  “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.”  Marty shouted.  “Hey, you gotta’ weak stomach?”

“No, not really.”  Jim grunted as he wrestled the weight up with his pole.  “Why do you ask?”

“Cause if you puke in my boat, you’re cleaning it.”  Marty answered, never raising his eyes from the murky green waters of the Puget Sound.”

“I don’t puke.”

“Betcha fifty bucks you do today.”

“You’re on!” Jim spat quickly before Marty could take it back.  He figured he could make back at least some of his losses on the day.  Jim leaned over the side to get a look at what he was bringing up.  He was so shocked at the sight of the shirtless corpse, which looked like it might be a young man, suspended five feet below the surface that he lost hold of the fishing pole he was using.  Through the swirling eddies of plankton and green tinted water, the man’s pants, held up by a black belt, appeared to be a pale green, though Jim assumed they were actually white.  At least, they probably once had been.  Through the imperfect light of the morning the men could not make out any more details. 

Marty sprang from the back of the boat and lay hold of Jim’s pole on the first bounce.  A bloated body doesn’t sink fast, and this one looked as though it might already have been floating up on its own, so there wasn’t much worry that it could have dragged the pole over the side in any hurry. 

“Boy, that’s a $150 setup you almost had to pay me for, alongside the other $150 you owe me.”  Jim guessed he had just lost ground on the Marty respect scale again. 

“Huh. . . $150?  Wait a second.  I haven’t puked.  That’s going to bring me back to 50.

“We’ll see.”  Marty said confidently.  Jim watched as Marty called for Coast Guard help on his radio.  “They’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I heard.” Jim responded.

“Well help me get it in.”
            “What?  No way.  What would you want to do that for?”

“Cause if we lose it before the Coast Guard gets here, they’ll think we made it up, and they might fine us.  I’m not sure you can afford that.  You’ll be eatin’ Top Ramen for the next month as it is.  Hand me that boat hook.  I’ll wrap it around the belt and yank it up.” 

“Okay, but I’m not touching him.” Jim said weakly.

“Whatever you say, Pussy.”  Marty then jabbed the boat hook toward the belt, but the body’s bloated abdomen deflected the pole several times before he got it caught up.  Eventually, Marty was able to bring the body close enough to the boat that he was able to run a length of rope through the belt and secure the body in case they lost their grip on it.  “Okay, now you can cut your fishin’ line”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Let’s stow the gear so it ain’t in our way.  I guess we’re about done fishin for the day.”  After the men had packed away the fishing equipment in the sixteen foot boat, Marty announced that they were going to bring the body aboard.

“What the hell for?”

“We keep it hanging off right here in the open, something’s gonna start trying to snack off it.  You want to tell its family, and the Coast Guard you let that happen?  Don’t worry, Pussy, we’ll loop this rope under the armpits.  You won’t hardly even get your hands dirty.”

After a few minutes, the two, men had the line around the body and were trying to lift it clear of the water.  Jim had worried about it being gross when Marty had insisted on bringing the body in.  Now he realized, it was going to be hard work, too.  The body, which had floated lightly, didn’t seem so light as they tried to lift it up and clear over the gunwale.  The boat tipped, though not enough to put it in danger of flipping.  As the men brought the shoulders above the gunwale, the head flopped toward Jim.  Hearing the clunk of the head against the cold aluminum side of the boat, Jim wondered that the body wasn’t stiff with rigor mortis, like on TV.  Frozen, he stared at the cracked and pale purple blob that had swollen to fill the mouth.  There was a wet belching sound and gas escaped past the tongue, followed closely by an insect that scurried out of the mouth and dropped into the bottom of the boat.  When the sour, sweet smell of decomposition hit him, Jim lost his hold on the body, and lost another bet.

“I guess maybe we better just leave him tied off on the side here until the Coast Guard shows up.”  Marty chuckled darkly past a smirk.  “Gotta’ hand it to ya’.  You didn’t get none of that puke in my boat.”  Tucking chewing tobacco into his lip, with dirty hands, Marty said, “I guess you got time for that smoke now, son.”

Shaker and Rock

Charlie Jansen could feel the cold breeze and spray of salt water splashing up against his face. Through the dense ocean fog he could see the transport boat that was carrying his buddy Aaron. They had grown up together; gone to school together; even went to basic training for the Coast Guard together, and now they were going to be stationed together on the rock, Tatoosh Island. Charlie had arrived a week earlier, and now Aaron was pulling up to the dock. Charlie could see that his lifelong friend had been making his usual amount of friends, in the short ride from Neah Bay, out to the island. One of the deck crew was roughly throwing his duffel bag onto the dock. It looked like he would have liked to throw Aaron out onto the dock, as well.

Over the crash of the waves, Charlie couldn't hear Aaron, but he could see his mouth moving while the men working on the boat rolled their eyes and turned away. Then Aaron looked up to see Charlie on the rail above and waved animatedly. Aaron's bags, and other supplies for the island were loaded in a large metal basket and brought up to the top of the cliff by enormous galvanized hoist. Aaron started up the ladder talking well before he was close enough for Charlie to hear. Charlie knew it didn't matter, Aaron would repeat everything he had said several times. It was his way

"Oh man, this rock is desolate," said Aaron.

"Get used to it, you're going to be here for a while," said Charlie.

"You said there were trees."

"There are. See, there's one over there and one over there."

"Oh man, those aren't trees, those are weeds. I mean being from the Northwest aren't you supposed to know what trees look like? Trees are big things."

"Oh, those kinds of trees? You are going to have to look over to the mainland for those," Said Charlie said while he pointed southeast, over the bluff.

"Well, at least the view is nice from this hockey puck of an island."  Aaron looked around sadly.  "I guess there aren't any girls here either, are there?"

"Not a one."

Aaron reached over the side of the giant metal basket that carried the duffle bag that was his luggage and said, “Well, are you doing to show me around this landfill?"

The men started up the gentle basalt slope toward the light house and research buildings.

"Holy crap, am I seeing what I am seeing?" Aaron said, pointing. From the top of the rise, the men looked down towards the buildings. Moving along a wall and then disappearing around one corner of the building, was a Jack Russell Terrier. With a hopping style of walk, the dog was tipped up on its front two paws, with its rear end up in the air.

"Be quiet, Man."

"What are you talking about man, did you see it, or did you see it."

"Yeah, I saw it, but shut up."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later. Just shut up."

"Fine," Aaron said, looking puzzled and annoyed.

The men walked down toward the buildings. There was a lean, tan, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, next to the door. As they approached the man looked Aaron up and down. It didn't look like he approved, or disapproved of what he saw. He also didn't look like he was very interested.

"Hey Derek, this is my buddy Aaron that I told you about. Derek Jansen, meet Aaron Blaine.  Aaron, Derek."

"Hi, Derek, it's good to meet you," said Aaron.

"Yup," Derek said. "I can already tell you were right about him, Charlie."

"I often am, Derek," Charlie said, and then putting his hand on Aaron's shoulder, he said, "Follow me Buddy, I'll show you where you’re bunking down."

Charlie pushed open the door and walked in. The room had that tight, musty, sealed-in smell that is usually reserved for junior prisons and junior high buildings. The light that filtered in through the dirty windows did nothing to brighten the heavily painted cement and cinderblock interior.

"So what did you tell Derek about me?"

"I told him you would get on his nerves pretty quick."

"Well thanks a lot, Pal.”

"I was right. That is Derek's dog, and that dog is the only thing he cares about. Don't get me wrong, he is a good guy. He'll treat you better than you deserve, but I'm pretty sure he won't get attached to you. Eric doesn't attached to anyone or anything, except that dog."

"What are you talking about?"

"How old do you think Derek is?"

"About 45?"

"Not even close, Buddy.  Try two decades younger."

"No shit, what happened?”

"Derek has seen a whole lot of hard, in his lifetime. He used to run an auto shop. Owned it, actually. They say he's some kind of genius with a wrench. I don't doubt it.  I've seen him fix everything there is around here in just the one week that I've been here. He got a shop running and open for business before he even turned 18. He got his girlfriend pregnant they got married and had a kid. Heck, they may even have done it in the proper order. Then I guess when the kid was about four, the neighbors pit bull got into the yard and attacked him. That dog broke them up and tore him up pretty bad. It probably would've killed him if it hadn't been for that two legged wonder you saw a few minutes ago. That little Jack Russell was about six months old and it took on that pit bull. Shaker over there, kept that big dog busy until the neighbor on the other side took out the pit bull with his 30-06 rifle.

That poor little kid lasted three weeks. One of his lungs had been punctured, and they couldn't get the infection under control. Derek's wife killed herself with a bottle of vodka and a handful of painkillers a week later.

I guess Derek kept trying to work in the shop, but not long after the accident, he turned the business, house, and everything he owned over to his brother. One day, he climbed into his truck with his dog and headed north leaving Eugene, Oregon behind. Some friend of the family got him the job as the caretaker of this rock, and he's been here for the last two years. He isn't actually an employee of the Coast Guard, or NOAA, he works for the local Indian tribe. Apparently this island belongs to them with an indefinite lease to the US government."

"Damn, how do you live through something like that? I mean, damn! What would you even say to a guy like that?"

"For Christ's sake, don't say anything. If you ever thought there might be a time in your life to shut up, this would be it. Don't ask him about it at all.  If you just go on with your work, and keep your mouth closed, he will talk a little bit. I got the story from Steely."

"Who's Steely?"

“Luke Steele, he's one of the weather guys. He's pretty cool, not quite as dirty as the rest of them.  If you don't get on his nerves, take a salmon fishing. The guy is a fanatic."

"All right, why does that dog walk on its front feet?"

"Broken back."

"That pitbull got him?"

"No, that happened here. Some asshole from one of the local fishing tenders, got tangled up in one of the tsunami warning buoys. He tore up some of his equipment on it, and was pissed off. He broke it loose and brought it here wanting to yell at somebody. I don't know if he is going to do any really hard jail time, but the Feds don't like it when you mess with their equipment. Well, he pulled up to the dock and rolled that 200 pound float off the side of his boat and clipped little Shaker. I guess for a while, Shaker was paralyzed from the middle of his back on down. Derek took care of that little dog, twenty-four seven. At first he would just drag himself around by his front feet, then one day he realized he could get around a lot better, and a lot faster if he just walked on his front feet. It's funny, his back has healed up a bit, so we can walk on all fours again, but most of the time he just tips it up on the front two anyway. You should see that little bastard go up and down stairs." 

"No shit?"

"No shit."

Roasting by an Open Fire

          As I sit down to write this little piece, I breathe deeply and enjoy the aroma of wood smoke that wafts up from my clothing to wrap my office in a comforting blanket of scented memories. 

“What stinks?” says my daughter as she passes my office door.

“She who smelt it…, oh you mean the wood smoke?” I reply.  I find it deeply offensive when she refers to any smells in my vicinity as “stink.”  Stink? You couldn’t get further from the truth.  This is the stuff of boyhood memories.  Not all of these recollections are pleasant, but they are my past and have made me what I have become.

          I recall sharing a compassionate shoulder, when my friend’s house burned down and he thought he had lost his pet rabbit to the blaze.  Incredibly, there had been no need for all that sissy compassion stuff, because his parents had amazingly taken his rabbit to live out in the country that very morning.  Wow, can you believe the luck?

          There is a memory of playing ranch hands with my buddy Derrick.  That day I learned that if you are going to be pretending you are a ranch hand out on the range branding cattle, there are several things you shouldn’t do.  First, don’t make real fires.  Second, don’t put real metal in those real fires. Most importantly, don’t let your clumsiest friend play the ranch hand while you play the cow.  The good news about that is the doctor says that after one more surgery the branded part of my anatomy will look almost as good as new.

          I also hold closely many memories of talking with friends around a campfire in the deep woods.  Or lately, in my lazy old age, I have been talking with them around the fire pit in my back yard. 

          Last evening, as we stood around the fire, tendrils of smoke from the crackling teepee of fir and cedar wrapping around my legs, I was struck by the recollection of a long ago scouting trip along the Pacific Ocean.  This trip was on the Olympic Peninsula, on the coast of Washington State.  I was a young teen and had spent the previous two days along the beach practicing my swearing.  As our last night of the hike approached the leaders were, of course, wishing me warm thoughts, mainly about the warm place I was likely to spend eternity for all of the swearing I had been doing.

I had spent much of that day saving huge amounts of time over my hiking companions by wading all of the coastal streams instead of wasting precious exploration time walking half of a mile upstream to the bridges. 

          One stream in particular stands clear in my memory.  I knew to take off my pack and hold it above me as I waded, since I was pretty sure that the water was deeper than my waist.  I chuckled as the water reached my waist, knowing that I had outsmarted the stream.  I didn’t feel quite as smart when the water suddenly closed in over my head for three or four long steps, but upon reaching the other side I was pleased to find that my pack was still dry.  All would have been fine if gravity and that crumbling stream bank hadn’t conspired to throw my pack back down into the water that I had so bravely crossed.  That point wouldn’t be important except that I was standing in dripping wet clothes as the spare, and previously dry, clothes in my pack thirstily soaked up as much of the stream as they could.

          As luck would have it, we were scouts and well versed in the art of fire building.  At the end of that day’s hike I coaxed a first year scout into building a camp fire that would surely have my clothes dry in minutes.  Or at least before the frigid spring evening winds off of the Pacific Ocean turned me into a human popsicle. 

          Again, I used my incredible intellect to increase efficiency, and reduce effort.  I decided not to waste time removing my clothes, but instead decided that they would dry just as well on me, and keep me warm in the process. 

          It was quite toasty, so I had to keep turning in circles.  After a while one of the fathers asked if there was a thermometer around because I looked done to him.  I was too much better a man than him to react.

          “Hey Ken,” Nathan’s father said. “I would have thought your pants would be clean after all that walking through water you did today.”

          “They are.  If you were wearing your glasses, Phil, you’d see they are as clean as they were the day I bought them.”  I knew I had him with that one.  “Wait, you are wearing your glasses.”  Looking down at my pants I saw that the left leg was brown from the cuff up to about mid-calf.  It looked like I had walked through bogs all day rather than clear running streams.  Then I noticed something extraordinary.  The brown was moving up my pant leg. 

Amazing as it seems, a coal had jumped out of the fire and landed on the cuff of my then bone dry pants.  There had been no flame, just a gentle smokeless smoldering that crept its way up. 

“I’m on fire!” I yelled.

“Eternity’s a long time, Ken.  You might want to start getting used to it now.” Someone said.  I think it was Phil, though to his credit he was the first one to throw water.  He missed the flames and hit me in the chest with the water, but it did run down to my pant leg and eventually extinguish the flames.  Before the fire was put out, it had burned to just above my knee.  Amazingly, my shin was left unscorched.  However, in track that spring I became known as Hairless Lefty.  I guess there are worse things to be called. 

A few years ago, I went on a campout in the Cascade Mountains, with a few friends.  We hiked in about eight stinking, sweaty miles to our favorite lake.  We started out stinky, and the sweaty part of the hike just made that worse.  I soon began to express my happiness over having just purchased a pair of the most comfortable boots ever made. 

I believe those boots were handmade somewhere in the Swiss Alps, and were reputed to be the most comfortable boot in the world.  This was reputed, mostly by me.  I hadn’t actually heard them reputed by anyone else, but I surely made up for their previous lack of notoriety.  Jealousy soon became apparent, and I was forced to walk on ahead in comfortable solitude while sticks and pine cones rained down around me.

That evening at the camp fire while all the rest of my aging buddies grumbled about blisters and sore tired feet, I spent a short amount of time reputing again on the comfortable ride my new boots had given me on the hike up.

While the others whined and begged for pity I sat with my back against my pack, my feet stretched out to warm by the fire.  Then for the first time since we had begun our trek, I noticed a trace of a smile tug up at one corner of Richie’s mouth. 

“Well hallelujah," I said, “You’re finally going to start enjoying yourself.  Good, it’s about time.  This great clean mountain air and that glistening mirror of a lake have finally brought you around.”

“Yeah Ken, that’s it.”  Richie said, with a vaguely familiar smirk growing on his face.  I knew that look.  I had seen it before, and I knew it for the pure evil that it signaled.  I just wondered what had produced it.  I suddenly felt a weight develop deep in my guts, and could feel the thud of my heartbeats as they resonated through that weight.  A cold oily slick of perspiration beaded up and dripped from my forehead, and a uncontrollable trembling began throughout my nervous system.  That smirk can do that to any one.

I remembered where I had seen that look before.  I had seen it in 110 degree weather, with Richie behind the wheel of my car.  We were outside of Las Vegas, with our friend Ted running behind us for a half a mile, his hand stretched out vainly trying to grasp the bumper of my Datsun B210.    Sure, Richie had had his reasons then; something to do with Ted’s chili dinner the night before.  Richie had been wearing that same evil smirk then and I worried about why it had surfaced again.

“Hey Ken, you know, I have to say those are some really nice boots.  Maybe you want to tell us a little more about ‘em?” Richie said.  As he was talking to me, he elbowed Mel, beside him. 

“No.  Maybe later.” I murmured.  I knew something was up.  My sense of self-preservation had been put on red alert.  As it turned out, it was too late.  The rubber sole on my right boot had heated up so much that the glue attaching it to the rest of the boot had liquefied and the sole slid off onto the dry mountain soil; glue side down. 

Apparently, those Swiss Alps boots didn't have the soles sewn to the boot, as is the practice with pretty much every other boot in the world.  Someone should talk to those Swiss about that.  I leapt to my feet in a cat-like effort to save my boots.  Unfortunately, hot melted glue is about as slippery as greased Teflon, and my left boot still had a thick gooey layer waiting for me. 

I spun a graceful pirouette as my second boot parted company with its sole, and I landed ungracefully on my derrière, in the fire.  I saved myself, and surprisingly, my pants from any fire damage.  This is because of my quickly employing what I like to call “the poodle scoot”, which extinguished the fire on my hind parts as they were scuffled quickly across the campsite. 

I would have returned the boots, but my friends had stuck the soles of them against a tree while the glue was still hot.  I figured it would be pretty much impossible to heat the soles back up to peeling temperature without burning down the tree and starting a forest fire, so there they remain to this day.  I think they are listed as an attraction is several hiking guidebooks. 

I hiked out of the mountains the next day with what amounted to the world’s most expensive pair of camp fire scented slippers.

After the tragedy of the burning boots, I decided that American made was the way to go.  A was able to find a pair of fireproof boots which were made in Detroit.  They seemed just the right footwear for me. 

The next year, the same friends and I made the second annual trip, to the same lake as the previous year.  I thought this strange.  The annual trip was supposed to visit new destinations each year, but for some reason, the rest of the gang insisted.  Apparently, they had such a good time there the year before, they wanted to go back.  They said it was a place that was good for the sole.  They are an odd bunch.

The trip progressed in pretty much the same fashion as the year before.  There was one notable exception. My fireproof boots were fireproof.  Unfortunately, they were not insulated. The steel toe and shank turned out to be great conductors of heat.  Though the boots were fireproof, my feet were not.  Luckily, Richie had brought along a king sized first aid kit; known for some strange reason as the “Ken Kit.”  As I mentioned, my friends are an odd bunch.

For the record, I think it is rather childish for a grown man to name his first aid kit. 

The hike out the next day wasn’t too bad.  The guys carried my gear, and I got to wear my world’s most expensive campfire scented slippers on my blistered feet.

          Some of my fondest memories have been created around a camp fire.  To this day I keep a one legged pair of jeans stapled to my garage wall by my workbench.  The sight of that one amputated leg with the blackened fringe at mid-thigh, and the slightly charred smell, never fail to bring back memories of the good old days.  Hanging next to the pants is a pair of highly campfire scented slippers. This display often reminds me to make it to church on a fairly regular basis.

Costa Rican Firewater

Costa Rican Firewater

by Ken Goree

         “Here, Señor Goree, take this,” said Don Juan.  “No do not bite yet.  We all bite together.”  The short Costa Rican man, reached up to hand me a tender blue-green leaf he had stripped from a shrub.  He then continued handing out leaves to the rest of our group, children and adults.  With a flourish Don Juan held his leaf aloft and proclaimed, “Uno, dos…and for the Americans, three.  Now we eat together.”  He then put his leaf into his mouth and motioned for the group to do the same. 

         A shower of masticated green pulp sprayed instantly in all directions.  A chorus of spitting, retching and other assorted sounds of disgust accompanied this.  Don Juan and I continued to placidly chew our leaves as the group of twenty around us spat the gooey remains of some mysterious Costa Rican plant into the bushes. 

         “Mr. Goree, are you going to swallow that?” one of the children asked.

         “I will if he does,” I said, jerking a thumb in the direction of Don Juan. 

         “Si, of course I will Amiga,” Don Juan said and made a demostrative affair of swallowing.  “It is very healthy for you.  This plant is why I am so, strong, smart and oh so muy guapo!”

         “How long is it going to take to work on me,” I asked.

         “Oh, sadly, I fear you started much too late in life for that, Señor.  It will not hurt you, and it will definitely get rid of worms, if you have any.”

         “How long does this taste last?” my daughter asked.

         “Until you are eighteen,” I said.  “And, if you kiss a boy, he’ll taste it, too.”

         “Dad!”

         “Only until you replace it something else, Chica.  Try this,” Don Juan told her.  He kicked at the ground and uncovered a root just under the surface.

         “Dad, what is it?” Carly whispered to me when Don Juan was turned to talk to another child. 

         “I think it is ginger root.  Do you want me to try it first?”

         “Uh, huh.”

         I scraped away the surface of the root with my pocketknife and cut loose a piece of its light amber interior.  The aroma of ginger became strong.  After taking a bite to make sure it was really ginger.  I cut off a piece and handed it to my daughter. 

         “Watch out, it’s spicy,” I told her.  She seemed satisfied with a nibble.

         “Come, My Friends.  I have many more plants to show you.  And my cooking cows; you must see my cooking cows.”

         As the tour of Don Juan’s Organic Farm continued, we saw the cows that cooked.  The cows didn’t really do the cooking, but the end product of their cud chewing did provide the gas that was used to cook the dinner.  Each day a boy from a neighboring farm would shovel the cows’ end product into a biodigester.  This biodigester was an enclosed tank, with a 5000-gallon capacity.  The boy would open a valve to release excess pressure.  Then he would open a hatch and shovel in the dung.  He would then add enough water to keep the “stew” moist.  At one end of the enormous tank was a hose fitting.   A hose ran from the fitting to the house.  Don Juan explained that the flammable gas produced as the dung decomposed, was piped to the house and used for everything natural gas would be used for in the United States. 

         “Wait,” Richie said, “My mom cooks with gas.”  The same notion had struck me, and I knew something the kids didn’t know yet.  We were going to be having dinner with Don Juan. 

         “Eeeew,” Richie and I chorused.

          Eventually the sounds of disgust died away; the same way the tide goes out, surging in and out but eventually fading away all together.  The excitement over the gassy cows finished and we moved on rather quickly.  The next thing that Don Juan showed us was a small tree.  All over the branches hung what looked like papaya-sized pineapples. 

         Don Juan pulled one of the fruit down and explained, “These are Noni Fruit.”  He held the object up and continued, “The scientists, they are experimenting.  They say this fruit will help stop cancers.”  The group went silent, and became focused.  One of the fathers that was along had lost a daughter to a brain tumor, the year before.  Don Juan did not have specific information, but everyone in the groups listened intently to every syllable. 

         “Try it?” Don Juan questioned.  After the earlier taste test, there were very few volunteers from the crowd.  I stepped forward, as did one other father.  Don Juan held the fruit toward me, “Go on.  Push your finger through.  The flesh, she is soft.”  He was right.  The skin of the fruit gave way easily.  I dug my finger in and pulled out some of the cool pasty flesh.  I placed the teaspoon-sized glob on my tongue and restrained the urge to gag. 

         “Mmmm!” I said, nodding to the father next to me.  Most of the kids started to move forward until the gurgling sound of a barely controlled vomit geyser was heard from the father by my side.  Thankfully, the rumbling sounds eventually faded without the actual appearance of vomit.  I don’t think Margo’s dad, Brian, is going to trust me ever again. 

         I still have trouble describing the taste, to this day.  A blend of soured milk, rotted crab entrails, egg salad sandwiches and the scent of sixth grade boys after the last recess on a hot, late, spring afternoon.  There was something else too, but I couldn’t identify it.  The really amazing thing was, not only did the taste not fade away; it seemed to intensify, with time.  I eventually started chewing up raw black pepper berries, straight from the plant.  It was a slight improvement.

         “Hey, Evan,” I called.  “Come here.”

         “Ya, what for?”

         “Smell my breath,” I said, and breathed into his face.  “Hmmm…I guess the pepper didn’t help, huh?” I said to another parent as we watched Evan flop around on the ground, clawing at his face. 

         “No, I guess not.  What are you going to do if the smell never goes away?”

         “I guess I’ll have one more tool in my kit for dealing with misbehaving students in my class next year, won’t I?”

         “I guess you will.”

         Next, we all gathered in an enormous tin roofed carport.  The kids used a press to squeeze sugar cane, and everyone took a taste.  It was all right, I guess.  The sugar addicted kids, who had been going through withdrawal symptoms for the five days we had been in Costa Rica, lapped it up like it was the nectar of the gods.
         “Other than kids with cuts on their hands playing with poison dart frogs, not much else happened between the sugar cane shed and Don Juan’s outdoor kitchen.  I don’t think there is an anti-toxin, but we did a lot of crossing our fingers for the next half hour.  Don Juan said we’d know by then if we need the medical examiner to drop by. 

         The kitchen was a delight.  It was a huge open-air cabana built out over a ravine.  The kids, and most of the parents spent some time making the tortillas for our dinner.  Then as we were finishing that up, Don Juan exclaimed, “You parents!  I think you made the kids do all the work today.  Now you have to help get the firewood.”  First of all, eating that noni fruit was work, and who needs a fire?  We were in the warm tropics, for crying out loud.  The cows do all the cooking.  Remember?  I kept my mouth shut though, because I was sure that little Costa Rican leprechaun was up to something interesting.

         We all dutifully followed Don Juan back out to the sugar cane shed.  “See all of this firewood?” he said pointing to stacks along each side.  “Do you know what kind of wood this is?”  Don Juan began to recite the different types of wood that were stacked around us.  “Do you know what burns the hottest, in this shed?  Do you Señor?” he said pointing at me.

         “Uhh…, no.”

         “This burns hottest,” he said holding up a sugar cane stalk, one of the stalks the kids had squeezed the juice out of earlier.  “But not like this, like this!” he said and produced from behind the stacks of wood what had once been a two gallon apple juice bottle.  It now contained a mysterious clear liquid.  Several parents nodded knowingly, me being one of them.  Next, a tray of shot glasses was produced.  Don Juan filled the glasses and walked around the circle of parents.          

         “Sure,” I said when a glass was offered to me.  “One shouldn’t hurt.”           Of the twelve of us, one mom didn’t drink, because she is allergic to alcohol.  Everyone else tried the Costa Rican moonshine.  Two of the dads said, “I don’t drink, but I’ll give it a “shot.””  One of those two dads, left with an extra quart jar of the “firewood,” that night.  Don Juan was right.  It was hot.  I think my stomach lining is still on fire.

         Shortly after this, a happy group of parents (some happier than others) returned to have a lovely dinner.  In our absence, only one child was cut chopping dinner ingredients.  Happily, there was no need for professional medical treatment.  The small strip of duct tape that I keep handy in my backpack did the trick. 

         The evening with Don Juan wound down quickly after dinner.  The parents stumbled back aboard the bus and made the short trip back to the hotel, in Fortuna, where we were staying.  A quart jar full of some mysterious clear liquid made a final quick trip through the over 21 crowd, and then 12 very happy and sleepy parents led their children back to 12 tile floored rooms for a well deserved night’s rest.