[stylist] sharing

[Chris Kuell]

Howdy,

Today is the anniversary of an old friend's passing. About ten years ago I wrote a story based on some of the people and parties he used to host. The story was never accepted for publication, but I did get a really nice rejection letter from the editor at Mid-American Review. Anyway, in my melancholy reminiscing, I thought I'd share the story for anyone interested in taking the time to read it. Be forewarned, at 5900 words, it's kinda long.  
 

 

 

Porkfest 99
 

By Chris Kuell

 

You Just Missed the 1999 New Jersey State Fair! 

A huge, orange billboard with cheesy cartoon chickens, bulls and happy kids screamed at us to Quick! Turn Around! I was driving south on Route 206 in northwest Jersey, hoping for an end to the obnoxious State Fair Billboards now that we were heading into Newton. The Garden State, what a joke.  The overpopulated, big-haired, asshole-driver state was more like it. 

I was with my wife and son, driving on a mild August morning. We came from our home in Bethel, Connecticut, for one of my favorite yearly events, Porkfest, at my old buddy Ron's house. A couple of college friends and I started having these parties about five years after graduation, and we have been getting together annually ever since. 

Initially, we rotated the host site every year. In '93, we had it at our place in Bethel. The smell of beer isn't yet fully out of the carpet in the living room, and I can't even mention the cat shaving incident without suffering the wrath of my wife, Kate. 

The following year we had the bash at Alex's house in Yonkers.  Nobody is certain how, but a freak accident occurred where the gas grill caught the siding of the house on fire.  The firemen were not the least bit amused by our antics. Since then we have settled in on Ron's place in Newton. He doesn't have a big yard, and the house is kind of cramped. But he does have a really mellow and understanding wife, Carol, bless her soul. So we've gathered there since '95. 

"Almost there?" Kate asked, bored and a little antsy after the two-and-a-half hour ride.

"Not much further," I replied. "How's Timmy doing? Is he still asleep?"

Timmy had fallen asleep in his booster seat shortly after crossing the New York / New Jersey border. His little head hung limply at what seemed to be an impossible angle, a half eaten graham cracker still in his clutches.

"Out like a light," Kate said. "Should I start to wake him?"

"Nah, let him sleep. It's going to be a long and crazy day and he needs to be well rested."

Turning onto Elm Street, we passed the familiar Mobil station. Gas was so cheap in Jersey, always a mystery to me. Kate pulled the invitation/directions from behind the visor to see where we were. Across the top of the directions I saw the words: It's Time for PORKFEST '99!  All Pork, All the Time!

Below the date and directions to Ron's house was a black, crudely scratched X. It was fairly obvious the symbol had been made by an adult's finger smeared with ashes. I had to smile. These guys were just nuts. The symbol signified a tradition we adopted over the years of playing Inferno-ball, a game invented in a drunken stupor while undergrads at Johnson State. In short, the game involved picking up a glowing charcoal briquette from the grill after all cooking was complete. This was accomplished best with a metal spatula, although many different implements, including an unwilling Barbie doll, had been used over the years. The contestant, who had to be at least three sheets to the wind, after having secured a burning briquette, would then throw it approximately twenty feet into a coffee can. A fairly difficult task sober, never mind after proper inebriation with cheap tequila. We put about a half-inch of lighter fluid in the bottom of the coffee can, so it was quite apparent when we experienced a direct hit.

Inferno-ball was generally a male dominated sport. Not since the summer Donna left Phil had any of the ladies wanted to participate. The wives generally kept the kids out of the way and let the gents have their fun. After all the briquettes had been tossed, whoever caused the most flame-ups in the can was declared the winner and took home the much-prized pig skull to cherish and show off for a year. Last summer Ron was on fire, no pun intended, and torched the can three times. Phil got all pissy, saying Ron had an unfair advantage, being it was his home court. After we duct taped him to the big maple tree out front for a while he kept his complaints to himself.

Heading up the hill where Ron and Carol lived I saw Phil's Cadillac parked out front. Old Phil must have done all right after the divorce to afford such a luxury car. Of course it was used, and except for an unnatural love of the Yankees, I don't think he had any other passions. So maybe the big car wasn't out of line.  Or maybe running an auto parts store was a lot more lucrative than I thought.

I pulled up behind the caddy and parked. Turning to my wife, I announced, "We're here!"

The sour look on her face let me know instantly that she was not looking forward to the day with the same enthusiasm as me. Trying for pre-party damage control, I said, "C'mon honey, what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing really, Marc. It's just that seeing Phil's car made me think of Donna. You know, of all the wives she is the one I clicked with best. I'm just kind of sad that she isn't here, that's all."

"Hey look," I tried to appease, "you usually have a good time with the other ladies. Plus, this isn't a sexist gig. You're free to hang out with the guys, and of course there will be lots of kids getting into trouble. Relax and have a few beers, its gonna be a blast."

Sighing just loud enough for me to hear, Katie opened her door and brought Timothy back to the land of the living.

"Howdy, stranger," Ron said to me as I got out of the car. "You ready for a beer?"

Ron was a big guy, maybe six two or three, around two hundred twenty pounds. As far as I could tell, it was mostly muscle. Ron was a big rugby fan and player when we were in school. These days he kept in shape by doing landscaping work as a side job. He wore a navy blue tee shirt with God Bless the Freaks printed in gold letters on the front. 

"Gimme a minute, dude." I said. " Actually, c'mere and help me with the munchies."

Ron strolled over as I opened the trunk. Katie held a groggy Timmy in her arms and chatted with Carol. Carol really looked great in a denim mini skirt and a sleeveless white blouse. No one would ever guess her shapely figure had produced two kids.

"Is the pig a-roastin'?" I asked.

"Damn straight," Ron said, taking a long pull on his beer. "Got it going around 6:30 this morning. Should be ready in around an hour. What you got?"

Beaming, I pulled out a few packages of all-pork sausages and a jar of pickled pig knuckles that I'd purchased on a business trip to Alabama nearly six months ago. Two bags of pork rinds, as well as two bags of barbequed pork rinds. Lastly, a fifth of Bushmills and a sealed Tupperware bowl.

"What's in the bowl?" Ron asked.

I looked away, a little red in the face, saying, "Salad. Katie made me bring it."

"Didn't you read the sign?" Ron demanded, pointing a finger at his front porch. There I saw a computer printed banner.

PORKFEST '99 - A CELEBRATION of MEAT.

"Hey, that's great," I said. 

"Damn computer's gotta be good for something," Ron said as he took the bowl of salad out of my hands, tossed it back into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. Phil, wearing his New York Yankees hat and jacket, approached me. He clutched two overfull beers, foam spilling over onto his fingers. 

"Well, if it ain't my snobby Connecticut friend. How's things down at the Country Club?" Phil chided, thrusting a beer into my hand.

"It's been a dreadful summer, my good man," I said in a ridiculous British accent. I took a sip, trying to hold out my pinky like my beer was a proper cup of tea. "The yacht has all those blasted little barnacles on the hull. Just isn't proper. I'm afraid I'll have to get a new one." After a sticky handshake, Phil helped with the stuff from the trunk and we made our way to the porch.

 

Glancing up at the old homestead I saw Alex trying to comfort his little girl. What  was her name, Carla? The kid was very upset about something, crying and clinging to her Daddy, who looked like he was about at the bottom of his bag of tricks.

Alex was a short but relatively good-looking black guy, at least according to Kate. He worked in the graphics department of a large chemical company in Westchester, doing a lot of photography for company brochures and catalogues. He majored in history at Johnson, perhaps the best academic student of us all. But what do you do with a history degree? Photography, I guess.

"Who's here already?" I asked Ron.

"Alex, Sandy and their three bambinos. My brother Danny is in the house somewhere. I know I saw Kurt and Cathy around, but you know they have a brand new little munchkin Tabitha, and they can't get five feet from the kid."

"Tabitha?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "Another Bewitched flashback?"

"Kurt swears Cathy was set on it, no changing her mind. You know women." Ron said with a laugh.

Once on the porch I said hello to Alex and his daughter. Her crying had subsided, but she still clung tightly to her daddy. Two boys came crashing out of the front door, the latter banging into me, causing me to spill a healthy gush of beer on my shorts and down my leg. Ron hollered, "Take it easy boys!" but to no avail. A hot pursuit was on; the boys leapt over the railing and were out of sight. I went inside to use the bathroom and noticed Danny passed out on the couch. He was positioned sitting up, but his head was flopped over similarly to Timmy's in his car seat on the way here. An old alternative band CD was playing on the stereo and I figured Danny must be pretty wasted to fall asleep to this noise.

I didn't know him well, only through seeing him occasionally at parties. I didn't think he had many friends, and Ron often brought him places even though he must have been aware of how uncomfortable other people were. Brotherly love, I guess.

Danny's face resembled Ron's, with the deep blue eyes and broad nose. But that was where the genetic code must have gotten scrambled. Danny was a good eight inches shorter than Ron, and he couldn't go a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet and with his pockets full of nickels. A five-day beard on his face, a trickle of drool sliding out of the corner of his open mouth, he looked pretty pathetic there on the couch.

Once at the bar Ron told me that Danny had never fit in. Back in high school he wound up hanging out with the potheads and by the time Ron hit ninth grade, Danny was already a burn out. In the past fifteen years he bounced from job to job, never seemed to have a girlfriend and was busted three times for DUI. The last time, Ron had to pay for a lawyer just to keep him out of jail. He was very lucky to lose his license and pay a whopper fine, which I imagine Ron also had to cover.

Moving through the kitchen, I ran into Kate chatting with Carol and Sandy. Several kids played on the floor, including Timmy, who was scribbling in a coloring book with a little girl. The women seemed not to notice the chaos, enjoying large glasses of red wine and deep in conversation. I said hi to Sandy and gave Carol a kiss.

After my pit stop, I made my way to the back porch. My man Kurt was stuffing his face with appetizers while cooing to a very small baby that was snoozing over his shoulder.

"Kurtman, how's it hanging?"

"A little to the right," he said, extending a crumb-laden hand. I shook it, aware of the raw strength it possessed. 

"You're looking good, pal. Still working out?"

"Everyday, my man, I open up the gym at 4:15," Kurt said with pride.

"Holy shit, man, that's nuts. How does Cathy feel about that? Aren't you needed around the ranch to take care of the little one?"

"Nah, what the hell can I do? Cathy keeps the kid in the bassinet two inches from her side of the bed. When she squawks at night it's just a matter of sticking her on the milk factory for five minutes, a quick diaper change, then it's back to sleepy land. Tabby usually gets up with me at quarter of four. I give them both a kiss, then I'm off to the gym for a few hours, then on to work."

"So being a dad is going well for you?" I inquired, running my index finger along the mostly bald skull of the sleeping newborn.

"Piece of cake," Kurt answered, "I don't know what you pansies have been complaining about. This kid thing is easy."

"Count your blessings," I warned, remembering late nights in a zombie state with Timmy crying all the time and Kate's nerves frazzed from the stress of a colicky baby. Looking at the pair of them, I just couldn't get over Kurt holding a newborn. Kind of like Mister T coddling a kitten. 

Kurt was a few years older than the rest of us at Johnson. This came in handy when the drinking age was raised. He had served time with the Navy, earning money for college. At least that was what he used to say. I actually think he had his heart set on being a Navy SEAL, but his temper kept him out. Kurt was one of those hot heads that would get into a fight faster than most people could tie their shoes. Once when he was stationed at a base up in Alaska he took on three guys in a bar. The first guy went down after Kurt clocked him with a barstool. He then started pounding the second one's face into the concrete parking lot, leaving bits of teeth, flesh and blood. The third guy pulled a knife and caught Kurt by surprise, jamming it deep into the bone of his shoulder. Kurt abandoned the mushy-faced number two, reached up with his left hand and removed the hunting knife. The pulsing blood and searing pain didn't adversely affect Kurt. In fact, it helped him to focus. He took out the stabber with two quick jabs, finishing only after he had carved the word prick across the unfortunate man's chest. This story had always stuck with me, although it was hard to imagine this gentle guy cooing to his tiny daughter ever being in such a brawl.

"So what do we have for eats?" I inquired. 

Kurt took his beer off one of the wobbly card tables where a variety of munchies had been set out.  "Let's see," he started. "Over here we have some fine maple bacon fresh from my in-laws in Vermont, then over here we have some Cajun-spiced pork chops. Then there is pork chili in this Crock-pot. Carol made it. For the kids, we have pigs in a blanket."

The next bowl had some really gross looking mixture, like worms and vomit in brown gravy. "What the hell is that stuff?" I asked, not getting too close.

"Pork chow mein, I am told. Phil made it, and personally, I'm steering well clear of it."

"Did he make it or find it in a dumpster somewhere?"

"Dunno. This stuff is smoked pork, I've had a few pieces and it's fabulous. This stuff Sandy made, it's curry pork medallions and very spicy.  I haven't worked up the courage yet to try this one, it's apricot pistachio rolled pork. Finally, my contribution to the smorgasbord, pork and beans ala king."

"Thanks for the warning," I muttered, grabbing a handful of spiced peanuts and taking a swig of beer. A pretty impressive spread actually.

I also noticed a bowl of corn chips and a platter with celery and baby carrots on it. Basically though, the theme of the day was pork-related products. 

I walked with Kurt and Tabitha into the back yard, approaching Ron and Phil as they tended to the huge barbeque. Little Tabitha had puked on Kurt's back but I wasn't telling him. Ron and Carol built a huge stone barbeque in their backyard the first year they hosted Porkfest. A slow and rhythmic turning sound came from the rotisserie motor as it gently turned the honey brown pig over the smoldering orange-gray bed of coals. 

"How's Porky coming?" Kurt asked.

"After having this big ole spit stuck up his ass, I seriously doubt ole Porky will ever come again," Ron said. 

A burst of fire erupted and sizzled from a drip of fat off the simmering beast.

"I call the ears," I said.

"I don't think anyone will fight you for them," Ron said, painting a thick layer of seasoning on the meat as it turned.

"Hey, where's Fat Tony?" I asked.

 "Oh, you know Fat Tony, the son of a bitch is always late. I told him to be here at ten. It's almost one now, so he should be here soon," Ron answered. Kurt, Phil and I nodded. Tony was always late for everything. He even missed a final in college once, some silly excuse. But you know, Mr. Smooth charmed his professor and she let him take a makeup exam. Tony was like that, a real talker. But so friendly and personable that people let him get away with stuff even though they knew he was a bullshitter. Probably why he did so well in sales. He'd have to be pretty damn good to make a living selling burial plots, which was what he did. In Brooklyn, no less. Where the hell could you even bury people in Brooklyn? Maybe in the subways or just dump them in the Hudson. I had no idea how, but he seemed to do OK.

Phil returned with a fresh round of beers and we all drank a toast to Fat Tony. Tabitha began to squawk so Kurt brought her inside to dump off on Cathy.

I chatted a little with Ron about work while Phil took a radio and headphones out of his jacket pocket. He turned it on and began fiddling with the controls. 

"Whatsa matter, Phil?" I asked. "We boring you?"

"Nah," Phil replied. "I'm just catching the score of the Yankee game. They're in Minnesota this afternoon playing a doubleheader with the Twins."

"You can tune in Minnesota?" Ron asked, amazed.

"No, you dumb shit. WCBS out of the city is carrying the game. Minnesota, Jesus. How many years did you go to college there, doctor?"

"Shut up, you, or you'll get what porky here got," Ron warned.

But Phil was already slipping away into the sounds of the game, walking towards the front of the house in search of optimal reception.

"So how old is Timmy now?" Ron asked as he applied another coat of sauce on the pig.

"A little over three. He's a pretty good kid. Certainly has his moments, and I admit I'm pretty easy on him compared to Kate, but he's doing good."

"So when is number two coming along?" Ron asked . "I noticed Katie sucking down the vino, so I'm assuming there ain't a bun in the oven at the moment." 

This was kind of an awkward subject. Kate and I were trying for a second, but for some reason we just weren't hitting. I think we conceived Timothy the first time we had sex after Kate stopped taking the pill, so it sure seemed that we were plenty fertile. Shortly after Tim's second birthday, we steeled up our nerves and started trying again, but so far - nothing. The last couple months Kate was buying those kits that supposedly let you know when you were ovulating. I wasn't even sure how accurate they were, but if it kept the peace I wouldn't object. However, I think that may be part of the problem. With Timothy, we just had sex and figured we would see what happened. Bingo! Prego in no time. Now, we're trying to have a kid, to plan it, in fact. Hence the ovulation kit. No entropy, no spontaneity, no luck.

"We are starting to try again," I told Ron.

"Good for you, Marc. You guys are great parents."  As if he would know from our once a year visit. But I smiled, then we both walked up front to be social.

On the front porch I refilled my beer from the keg and went over to Kate. She was busy helping one of Alex's girls with a doll related problem. Kate was very patient and involved with all the kids, and they all flocked to her. Most parents, myself included, kind of ignored the friends' kids, using what little attention we were willing to give to our own children. Kate was often offended by the guys' talk, and sometimes just didn't fit in with the other mothers at the parties. So she found her niche by playing with all the kids, and they all loved her for it. As I walked over I ran my hand lightly across her jeans and said, "Hello ladies, what are you up to?"

The little girl looked up at me and stated, "Missy's hair clips falled out and Aunt Katie is helping me put 'em back."

"Can I help?" I asked.

"No, silly!" the little girl said vehemently. "Dollies are for girls, not boys."

Before engaging in a dialogue with a three year old about the role of men versus women in imaginative play, I heard Carol exclaim, "Well, look who's here."

Out in the street, Tony, his wife Mary, and their three little ones were getting out of a mini-van.

"Oh shit, there goes the neighborhood!" Cathy said. 

Across the street a dog yapped at the intrusion of the newcomers. We all made a habit of poking fun at Fat Tony, but he really was a great guy. A never-ending source of fun at parties like this, Tony always had a story that would make you laugh so hard your sides ached and you had to fight back the urge to throw up. 

"Are we late?" Fat Tony asked innocently. "Mary here made me stop so she could look at some friggin' antiques or something."

"You are so full of shit, Tony," Mary said as she slapped him lightly across the shoulder. Addressing the crowd on the porch, she explained, "Mister sense-of-direction here got us royally lost, and yes, I did make him stop - to ask directions, which the dumb oaf refused to do until we were driving somewhere in a god damned corn field in Pennsylvania, I swear."

Tony grabbed his small wife around the waist and tickled her so she dropped the soda she carried.

 "That was just a diversionary tactic I was employing so I could get a little action," Tony explained as he tickled Mary to her knees.

"Stop it!" she screamed. "I'll get you, Tony, mark my words."

Tony stopped tickling her, picking her up like a small child and throwing her over his broad shoulder. We all got a quick peek at her underwear as her skirt rode high. Fat Tony began spanking her lightly, saying, "Confess, Fraulein, confess!" 

Phil, who seemed to be playing the part of the official greeter, handed them both a cup of beer. 

Tony put a red-faced Mary down and we all made our greetings. His three kids joined the pack of ruffians already taking control of the castle. 

Fat Tony was an immense man of huge appetite for all of life; food, drink, women and fun. He was on his second beer by the time he got around to saying hi to Kate and me. Being polite, Kate remarked that he looked like he had dropped a few pounds. Where this came from I have no idea. Fat Tony was that kind of large, so outside the norm that one had no experience with guessing that kind of weight. Could it be three hundred pounds, or four hundred? Is there really much of a difference? 

"Well, I did get a haircut recently." Tony said as he wrapped those log arms around my wife and gave her a hug. Kate disappeared for a second, but before I got nervous she reappeared, a little out of breath. Next, he turned to me, saying, "Marcus my man, que pasa?"

"No speakin ze anglish" I replied while shaking his mammoth hand.

It was a long-standing gag between us. Fat Tony and I had somehow ended up senior year needing a foreign language. So we both signed up for Spanish, and barely managed to cheat our way through it. Hence, we both now remembered about 14 words altogether. 

            "So, I see you all finally took the plunge and got a mini van, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tony said, his feet shuffling on the front porch as he looked down. "You know, with the three kids, even that space shuttle isn't big enough, I swear. If the kids bring along a friend, forget about it. We gotta strap 'em to the roof rack. I told Mary we should have gotten one of those little school buses. You know, the ones for the handi-kids?"

Kate slugged Tony in the arm and the impact sent a wave of jiggling across his torso.

"Whatsa matta?" Fat Tony laughed. "The family could be like a movin' billboard. I could paint on my business slogan." Tony held out his broad hands like a true visionary. "Difazio Burial-We won't rest until you're dead."

            Everybody was busy socializing, catching up on what was new with whom, places visited on family and business trips and children's medical problems. Apparently Danny was revived inside the house because the music changed and got a bit louder. I was chatting with Fat Tony about their recent vacation at Cape May when a black and white pulled up slowly in front of the house. It paused for a second, and then parked in the driveway. Both doors opened simultaneously.  A heavy-set cop sporting a silver-gray crew cut got out of the driver's seat with a grunt. Leaving the door open, he adjusted his pants as he walked towards the crowd of partygoers. A younger, leaner cop sprang from the passenger side of the cruiser. He glanced around, mentally photographing each member of our group. 

Alex, who was filling his beer at the keg asked, "Would you officers like a cold one?"

Stern, cold looks from the policemen were his answer. The older cop addressed the gathering.

"Afternoon, folks. Who is the property owner here?"

Without answering the question, Ron asked, "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

The younger cop took a turn, "There's been several complaints from the neighbors about the noise and excessive drinking."

"Aw, c'mon." Ron said, glancing up and down the street to locate the squealers. "Who called? They ain't got the balls to come over here and say something." Ron's cheek twitched as he glared at the cops. 

Always the diplomat, Tony emptied his beer, crushed the plastic cup into a little ball and crammed it in his pocket. He stepped up to the younger cop and extended his hand." My name is Alfonso Black, I'm an attorney. And your name is.?" Reluctantly, the cop shook the big man's hand, saying, "Officer Carlson. This is Sergeant LeBlanc." Tony moved over to the older cop and shook his hand as well. "We apologize for the inconvenience officers, hate to take up your valuable time. We will reduce the volume of the music right away, and of course, we promise to be responsible with the alcoholic beverages." 

I could tell the cops didn't know quite what to make of Fat Tony. By the looks they gave him, they obviously knew he was bullshitting them, it was just a matter of deciding if they cared or not. The Sergeant eyed Fat Tony. 

"Are you the homeowner here?" he asked.

"We are all friends here, and, of course, you boys are welcome to join us," Tony began. 

The cop interrupted him, "Can you turn down that music?" Mild irritation accented his scowl.

 Ron shot a look at his older son, who immediately ran in the front door and turned the music down. Alex's daughter Carla stepped forward and pointed an inquisitive finger at Officer Carlson. 

She asked, "Is that a real gun?"

A sly grin crept across the officer's lips. He answered her, "Yes, it is."

"Are you gunna shoot somebody?"

The tension of the moment crumbled. The others shared the release and laughed along with the cop. I think everybody took a much-needed breath at that point. An amused Officer Carlson said, "Not today, Miss." Then the devious bastard asked, "Can you tell me whose house this is?"

Carla looked around, and then spotting Ron on the steps pointed an all-knowing finger. Ron stepped down off the porch, saying, "I'm Ron Sukovich, this is me and my wife's place."

As Ron began talking with the policeman, the metallic screech of the front door opening interrupted them. Everyone looked as Danny stepped out onto the porch and joined us. His hair was unkempt, and he held his hands up in front of his face as if the sunlight was scalding his corneas.

"What's with the cops, man?" Danny asked.

In hushed tones Carol explained to Danny that the cops were there because the neighbors complained. 

"For what?" Danny said, bewilderment in the bleary eyes. 

Clenching her teeth, Carol said, "Just keep quiet." 

Our attention returned to the pow-wow on the front yard. Some of the kids had gotten curious and were looking carefully at the policemen's badges and guns, and a couple of others wandered over to look at the cruiser. Timmy was one, so I tried to keep an eye on him. 

"Sukovich.  That name is familiar." The older cop looked hard at Ron, trying to place his face among the thousands of thugs he had run across. The cop tilted his head back as a spark of recognition seemed to register. 

"Su-ko-vich.  Did you get caught about fifteen years back breaking into the post office with Gary LeBlanc and a few other high school kids?"

Puzzled, Ron answered, "No, sir."

Filling a beer at the keg, Danny snorted, then began on a conversation with himself. He often did this, sometimes even referring to himself in the third person. Grinning like an unbalanced street person, he muttered, "Radiator, damn!"

Everybody looked at him, nervous about what might be going on in his pickled brain.  Since no one hushed him, Danny continued. 

"I remember the post office. Man, me and Radiator, Blitz and Eddie, we got off easy that night. The pigs busted us red handed." He laughed deviously at the long forgotten memory. The rest of us just wondered what the hell he was talking about.

"We weren't doin' much," he went on, " just looking for checks and credit cards. We wasn't messin' up the place or nothing. The cops bagged us and brought us in. Then, all of a sudden, they just let us go! It was unbelievable, they just said to stay outta trouble and let us go. Not even a beatin'."

Specks of spittle flew from Danny's mouth with his excitement. He focused his wandering gaze on the older cop. 

"Was you one of the cops that caught us?"

The expression on the cop's face shifted. All the bravado he had arrived with drained into pudgy, nervous hands. The tense, ready for action muscles were flaccid now; the steel-belted radial deflated. In a smaller voice tainted with shame he said, "Gary LeBlanc was my son."

"No shit, man! What a trip. Old Radiator never told me his dad was a cop." Danny's face came alive.  Rather than a nuisance, he was the center of attention. Not brushed to the corner and ignored, he could participate. He had something to say, so he was rolling with it.

"How is old Radiator, errr, Gary? I haven't seen him around in a long time. Last I heard, he was movin' out to California or Colorado or somethin'."

Sighing, the Sergeant shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Unconsciously, stubby fingers ran through the silver crew cut. "Gary died ten years ago from a drug overdose." Watercolor eyes stared long and intently at Danny. I wonder what he saw, or who he was looking for. 

Ron began to say, "I'm so sorry."

His sentence was interrupted by an incredibly loud shrieking noise piercing the somberness. A howling Waaaa-waaa! filled the air. The headlights of the cruiser blinked off and on, the red flashers on the roof danced, shining brightly despite the afternoon sun. Small hands began to clap gleefully; all the adults stared with concern at the car suddenly bursting alive. Inside the dim interior the eyes of Ron and Carol's youngest son bulged with panic. The kid slapped at the dash, flipping every switch.  Tears blurred his vision until he closed his eyes and covered his ears with his small hands. By this time Ron's long strides brought him to the driver's side of the vehicle. He scooped up his son with one broad hand, reached into the dash and shut off the sirens with the other.

Clutching his son like a football, Ron approached the Sergeant. The cop was grinning, but he looked like he might lose it at any moment. Ron put his arm around the man's shoulders and asked, "Ready for that beer now?"

The affectionate gesture from the young man seemed to break something inside Sergeant LeBlanc. Through moistened eyes, he looked first at Ron, then at the gang on the front porch. Finally, he glanced skyward and for a second I thought he was going to pray. 

Perhaps he was reflecting on the fragments of his own lost future, of picnics that would never be eaten with grandchildren, horseshoes that would never be thrown, fly-casting lessons and pull-my-finger jokes, no more than the dust of possibilities. Maybe he let go of a bitterness that no human should have to swallow, I can't really say. I can only imagine how I would feel if I were in his shoes.  I watched as he rubbed the scalp of Ron's captive son, whose buzz haircut was very similar to his own.

Officer LeBlanc surprised us all when he asked his partner, "Well, Jerry, what do you think about clocking out for an hour for some voluntary community service?"

Officer Carlson didn't hesitate, saying, "Well, I'm due to go off shift at three o'clock anyhow. I think it might be both useful and appreciated if we stuck around awhile, make sure everything remains orderly." 

Ron walked towards the porch with his arm still around the policeman's shoulder like they were lifelong pals.  "You hungry, Sarge? We've got plenty of chow."

Sergeant LeBlanc wiped the corner of his eye with the tip of his finger, as if he had a speck of dirt or a bug in there. Then he smiled, looking pleased with the world. Almost re-inflated, he answered, "Sure."

After a slight pause, Ron said, "I hope you're not a vegetarian."