Free Piper by John E. Keegan Page B

urine. We were hunters and gatherers then, venturing into the world to see what contraband we had the courage to snag, bring back to the billboards, and ingest. Dirk brought wine cooler in a Gatorade jar once and I outdid him with a couple of jiggers of Gilbey’s in a jelly jar that he spit all over the front of his Chicago Bulls sweatshirt. We smoked our first pot from one of his dad’s pipes that was all mossy and chewed up on the mouthpiece. Holding the smoke in his lungs the way he’d seen Peter Fonda do in Easy Rider , Dirk put his arm over my shoulder and let his hand dangle against my chest. Even with the dope there was no sexual chemistry, but I let him do it for practice. His and mine.
    Dirk settled himself onto the plank with his legs hanging into the void next to mine. We had to remember to place rather than slide our hands on the boards in order to avoid slivers. Once when he was wearing cutoffs, Dirk took a sliver as long as a pencil into the back of his thigh that pinned him to the board, and I had to drag his butt the opposite direction to free him. Now, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a pack of unfiltered Camels, and tamped one out for me, which I refused. It wasn’t anything highly principled on my part. I still enjoyed a smoke once in a while, particularly with a beer, but I didn’t want to immunize myself against the few pleasures life had to offer by indulging when I could give a damn.
    He took a first, rabid drag with his eyes closed, leaving the cigarette in the corner of his mouth on the exhale. Smoking was a way for Dirk to prove his manhood without having to work up a sweat or risk physical harm. Each time a car went by, the lights washed the insides of our perch, a space that resembled a medieval gallows. I was enjoying the smell of Dirk’s Camel, but then I had always been drawn to toxic aromas. The fumes at the gas pump reminded me of the times our family had gone to the outdoor movies. The fireplace smoke that billowed into the living room when Dad forgot to open the vent was Christmas dinner. Dirk’s cigarette reminded me of those bygone days when I thought I was as normal as everyone else.
    â€œThat dork’ll make someone a wonderful wife,” Dirk said, when I told him about my meeting with Carlisle at Marge’s.
    There were plenty of theories as to why John Carlisle had never married. Some said it was because he was so well-educated he’d priced himself out of the local market so to speak. Others who were less charitable said it was because he was still whoring around. At a time when the town was losing everyone who made it past high school to higher paying jobs in Seattle, however, most people were just grateful he’d chosen Stampede as his home. Of course, John Carlisle didn’t need a job, and he had the most imposing home in Stampede, a chalky yellow Queen Anne at the top of the hill with steeply-pitched gable roofs, turrets, and a porch with turned posts and a balustrade. His house was the main attraction on the Historical Society’s Christmas walking tour of the town’s Victorian homes. Last year, there was a ribbon on the master bedroom doorknob with a sign that said no visitors allowed, but Condon Bagmore snuck in anyway and said he found a box of Trojans in the drawer of the nightstand. Considering the source, I didn’t put much stock in it. I just hoped this year the Jacuzzi would be blocked off.
    Dirk picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “The guy’s helpless. I guess that’s why I was his yard boy. I hoped somebody would kidnap me and they’d make Carlisle pay the ransom.” Dirk had always craved the idea of instant fame and complained about the guys who’d taken shots at the President or mailed pipe bombs around the country and became household names overnight. He was always dreaming of a shortcut.
    I kicked him on the ankle bone with the side of my shoe.