Meanwhile, in the far distant past

 Near the end of July, Jeff announced he was having a party at his parent’s lake house to celebrate “graduation, the end of summer, going off to college, and the last high school fling.” The first weekend in August, Sarah and I piled into the back seat of Tim Flynn’s car. Jenny Moore was in the front chattering away with excitement. Tim was driving his mother’s new Pontiac Bonneville. Rock music exploded through the stereo speakers as we flew down the highway. A faint smell of corn and dirt seeped through the open windows.

We pulled into the yard at the lake house and parked beside several other cars. Sarah and Jenny went inside to change, Tim and I went around to the back. There was a tub of beer on ice on the deck. The Bee Gees were playing at high volume while Jerry Schwartz tried to imitate John Travolta’s solo dance steps from Saturday Night Fever. He was not good at it.

I reached into the ice and pulled out a beer. “Turn that crap off!” I shouted. “Disco Sucks” echoed Tim, pulling the tab from his own beer. Sarah walked out of the house wearing a strapless red bikini. She looked stunning. I promptly gave her a wolf whistle.

Sarah struck a pose and asked, “Buy me a drink, Sailor?” I asked her what she wanted and she said beer was fine. Jenny was pouring vodka into a plastic cup half-full of orange juice. She watched Jerry for a minute and shook her head. Some people were splashing in the lake and jumping off the dock. There was a group of kids playing volleyball at a net set up in the grass.

Jeff appeared around the corner. “Get over here, Wyatt” he shouted. Sarah and Jenny walked down to the dock where several other girls were sunning. Tim and I walked around the corner. The Anderson brothers were throwing horseshoes. “Come on, let’s play,” said Bill. Tim grunted that horseshoes was an old man’s game. “Not if you make it into a drinking game,” laughed the elder Anderson brother. Someone finally turned the radio to a rock station.

Later in the afternoon someone went to town and brought back buckets of chicken and slaw. I sat with Sarah and Rachael Morris on the edge of the dock. Jeff plopped down and spilled half the coleslaw from his plate onto his lap. We all laughed. He slipped into the water to rinse off. “No Problem,” he said.  Asked him if we could go skiing. He said his parents had forbidden use of the speed boat.

As I walked to the garbage bin to throw away our collected plates, I spied a canoe upturned by the house. I chugged my beer and grabbed the canoe and dragged to the water’s edge. I went over to my clothes and found a cigar and stuck it in my mouth, unlit. “Sarah, my dear, shall we go boating?” I asked with a terrible British accent.

Sarah shook her head. “You do not know how to paddle a canoe.”

I straightened to attention. “I will have you know I earned my Canoeing Merit Badge as a Boy Scout. I am an excellent canoer, uh, canoeist, um, canoe driver, ah, canoe captain. You will accompany me, woman,” I ordered. Sarah laughed and followed me to the edge of the lake.

I pushed the canoe in and held the stern while she climbed in. “Hold the gunwales, that is the sides, and walk straight up the middle one foot behind the other,” I instructed. Sarah reached the bow and turned and sat in the seat facing me.

“I hope you are not planning on me helping paddle this thing, Mr. Expert,” she intoned. I told her to have no fear. I was in command and control.

I pushed the boat off and jumped in. I paddled a few strokes to get us past the dock and then turned the canoe parallel to the shore with expertise. “You might really know what you are doing, even if you are half-wasted,” she said. I assured her I was highly skilled. Sarah leaned back.  I couldn’t help but admire her body.

“You look ravishing, My Dear,” I told her, still staying in character. The water sparkled with reflected sunlight. Sweat droplets ran down my back. I stuck the cigar back between my teeth and rocked the canoe side to side.

“Stop. You will tip us and I do not want to get my hair wet.” I rocked again, laughing. “Stop it, Sam,” Sarah said sternly. She gave me a mock angry look. I do not know why; at that very moment I deliberately tipped the canoe over.

Sarah came up from the water sputtering and spitting. “Sam Wyatt you are an asshole,” she shouted.

I dog paddled a few strokes to her. Using my best Dudley Do-Right impersonation, I shouted “I’ll save you, Penelope.” I reached across her chest, pulling her onto her back, life-saving style. I took advantage of the situation to grope her breast and began to kiss her in mock mouth-to-mouth breathing. She pulled away and swatted at me. At this point she was laughing. She told me I really was a jerk. I stood up. The water only came to my chest.

Sarah swam around and put her arms around my neck and wrapped her legs around my waist. I supported her bottom as she kissed me. “You are really a jerk,” she whispered, “But I love you anyway.” She gave me a quick peck and a crooked smile. I could only grin.

Evening came. The sun painted the horizon with orange and purple hues. The drinking tapered off as we helped clean up the mess. The girls changed and we all piled back into Tim’s car for the drive home. We had the windows open, enjoying the cool breeze after the day in the sun. Jenny was pretty drunk from the screwdrivers. She swayed a little in the seat as she tuned through the radio stations looking for something that pleased her. She looked over at Tim, her face pale. “Honey, I think I am going to be sick.”

Tim started to slow the car looking for a safe place to pull over. “Do not puke in the car!” he ordered. Jenny promptly reached into her bag and threw up into her damp beach towel. The car was still moving fairly quickly down the highway, there was no shoulder, only a ditch beside the road. Tim accelerated trying to find a pull-off.

Jenny took the towel and shook it out the window. Instantly, the slipstream grabbed the mess of half-digested chicken, chunks of slaw, and alcohol and splashed it into the backseat and directly onto my face. I promptly vomited all over the floor. “Not in the car,” wailed Tim. The odor of vomit engulfed the back seat. Sarah took one look at my vomit-splattered face and promptly threw up on her lap and all over the floorboard. “Not in the car, not in the car,” cried Tim. Jenny turned to see what was going on and promptly puked again, this time all over the front seat. Tim found a place to pull over. He put the car in park and held his head in his hands. “Not in the car,” he moaned.