Follow the Sun

CHAPTER ONE

I'D THINK TOO MUCH. Thoughts cross every ones' mind, every second of every day; yet I'd still think more than they would. Thinking made me depressed most of the time, to say the least, and most of the thinking involved me in some way. I was never self-centered at all, don't get me wrong, just very self-conscious. Most people said I shouldn't be self-conscious, and most of them were right. I just couldn't help it. I couldn't figure it out. I'd get a goddamn pimple and I swear I just wouldn't go out; not even if I had a date with the prettiest girl in town. I just felt too ugly and depressed. But, that's a whole separate thing to get into. Right now, let's just say I'd think too much.

It was '96, and I had just turned fourteen. My buddies and I were a little bit of a rough gang. We all liked to blow things up and surf. We liked to surf. But mostly, mostly we liked to blow things up. Of course, we were no rocket scientists or anything like that. All we had were your standard blockbusters or M-80's, and maybe even a few Roman candles that were lying around from the previous Fourth of July. They were illegal out here on the island, but that didn't bother us one bit. 

We used to get drunk at this local campground called Hither Hills. I can remember it like it was yesterday. We were all sitting around this wood table on the grounds, just drinking a few beers and shooting some crap with one another. It was Tian, Jeremy, Topher, and me. Tian was short for Christian; he was probably my closest friend out of the whole gang. Jeremy was the kid who was bouncing off walls at times and just plain boring at others because of some bipolar bullshit that none of us had ever heard of. Topher was the seven-foot-tall Jehovah who never even masturbated. And there was me, Jacob, but most of my friends called me Keb for short because they were just too lazy to say the whole damn thing.

With a great deal of enthusiasm, Jeremy asked, Hey, Keb, wuddya say we go and take some of those M-80's from your basement and blow that big bathroom the hell up?

Yea, how about it, Keb? Come on, what's a night without a little boom—you hear what I'm saying? Tian asked. He knew the odds of two against one would work in their favor.

So, sure enough, we grabbed some of those fireworks I had lying around in my basement and decided to sneak into the camp bathroom. Topher seemed uneasy about the whole idea, and mysteriously, he came down with a sudden stomach bug that required him to return home immediately. This was nothing out of the ordinary and the remaining three of us carried on. It was summer and it was stifling hot. I couldn't understand why anyone would come to camp in a fiery, hot, wooded area, with nothing around for miles. I mean, why? Our woods didn't even have bears or anything like that. They were boring woods. We could have at least had some bears or something. All we had were dirt and worms. No fun at all, really.

So anyway, we pretended like we were on a special ops mission of some sort; we were sneaking in behind enemy lines to blow up an evil base. We tiptoed into the bathroom, giving one another hand signals as to when we could move back and forth. Our technique was flawless, and we finally made it in. It was a little after 11:00 PM, but there were still a few people that were in the bathroom taking a shower. Judging by the temperature and smell, I imagined most of them were hot and sweaty from the long and humid day; they were just trying to relax and cool off. The whole coast was clear aside from some little boy who was looking in the mirror trying to shave.

Why on earth was a little boy shaving? I hadn't the slightest idea. I suppose he was one of those boys trying to shave every day so he could grow a beard before all the other boys in high school. But this kid was far too young, and his hair was nearly bleach blond; he didn't have the slightest bit of stubble at all. Perhaps he was just trying to imagine himself as being older. He'd have to shave nearly every day before he headed off to his blue-collar job just to earn his honest day's pay. He'd probably come home to a beautiful wife where he'd find a hot supper waiting for him at the table. They'd all sit around the table; him, his wife, and his three boys. They'd all just dig in and share in some conversation about their day. A nice dream really. The kid had it good just thinking there to himself while he shaved. I almost envied him in a way.

Hey, kid, the ice cream man is waitin' outside. They have those new GI Joe pops, Jeremy whispered to the little boy. The kid quickly washed the cream off his face and ran as fast as he could outside. It was kind of mean-spirited to get the kid's hopes up, but we didn't want him to get hurt. Now the old people, we didn't care about them. They had already lived long enough and dealing with a few fireworks wasn't going to hurt them. But the kid, the kid we wanted to spare. He ran outside with a smile that had come across his face as soon as he heard the word ice cream. I knew I would never see the little guy again, so I waved to him as he ran off. Poor kid probably got so disappointed when he found out there was no ice cream man. To think, it was nearly 11:15 at night; goddamn kids are so gullible. It brings a smile to my face to think of some of the things they'll buy into.

Once the boy was completely in the clear, we were ready. We arranged fireworks at every corner of the bathroom, and extras around every shower stall to make sure we gave the people still showering a little scare. Jeremy was an expert at pyrotechnics, and he rigged a fuse that would light all the fireworks at the same time. When it was finally time for liftoff, we all counted down from three. At the end of the count, Jeremy lit the fuse and then we all ran. We watched and listened from outside. We saw all the smoke drizzle out of the crevices of the doorway and heard screams from the surprised old men in the shower.

Mother fricken kids! I'm gonna freaking kill you little bastards! Where the hell are ya?! exclaimed one of the old men. The man's anger seemed to be a bit unchecked at the time, but as it turns out, one of those fireworks somehow managed to light his shirt on fire. Right then and there, World War III had been launched upon us. We decided it would be best to run once we heard the loud obscenities coming from the old man's mouth. So, we did. We ran, and so did the man.

Now, normally we would have no issue outrunning an old, pot-bellied man. I imagined that with his swelling ankles and round shaped gut, that he must have had some form of gout. But it was night, and we were in the woods. The problem with being in the woods at night is that it's dark as hell. You can't see much more than a foot in front of you. Needless to say, we had a problem. The old man continued on chasing us in the darkness, right through the woods and into town. Our town was always full of deer because of the woods that lined it, so a lot of people lined their gardens and yards with a protective, black plastic netting. The problem was it was black. Can't see black too well at night.

One by one, the three of us hopped a fence and landed onto this old woman's lawn. We landed a few steps shy of her garden that looked like it belonged on the front cover of a magazine. Boy, was her garden big; gigantic to say the least. The old man hopped the fence after us. We decided to take a shortcut right across the garden and one by one we dropped. The hidden garden netting had foiled our escape. We were caught. The man tackled Tian and started hitting him in the face. As for Jeremy and me, we jumped on his back, but the old man was so huge and powerful that he simply brushed us off and overtook us all.

He got the local authorities and we were brought back to the scene of the crime. Who would have thought lighting a few fireworks would set an entire camp bathroom on fire? I played out the scenario in my head a few times. What had really happened, was the old man was so concerned with seeking revenge on us, for lighting up his shirt, that he just completely forgot about his shirt and let it burn the whole place down. If you ask me, it was his fault. He saw his shirt burning, and he should have put it out. But none the less, we were screwed, to put it in nice terms.

We were all piled into the back of some crummy squad car and brought to the precinct. Stinking car, it didn't even have a decent set of leather seats. It was lined in complete plastic; probably made out of the same plastic that foiled our escape. No leather seats; pathetic. The car was junk. I know we were criminals, for the time being anyway, but still, can't you have some damn leather seats? Don't make us uncomfortable sitting in crappy plastic. It was unbearable. My butt got so sweaty lying on those intolerable, lousy seats. They didn't breathe at all, and by the time we got to the station, I had a case of severe swamp ass. I was just waiting, hoping I could rip a fart so the cop would catch a whiff of the sweat that was dripping from my crack. I'm sure it would have smelled like hell. But unfortunately, it never happened. But what did happen, was my parents being phoned to pick me up at the station.

I could smell the scent of liquor on my father's breath from all the way across the police station. I knew it was going to be bad. I was a dead man. I could already feel his clenched fist pounding me in the back of the head. My brains would eventually leak out of my ears and I would just plummet to the ground and die. He wouldn't even bother giving me a proper burial because he was more concerned with going on his next beer run and drinking, and then driving out on another. Meanwhile, I would just sit there rotting away with my brains formed in a large puddle. A nice old woman walking home from the grocery store with a large bag in her hand couldn't see the puddle of brains. She'd slip, fall, and break her neck. Not only was my father responsible for my death, but for hers as well. Like I said before, I'd think too much.

I saw the look in my father's eyes as he came toward me. I was expecting a beating as soon as I got in the truck. He talked some things over with the policeman and then grabbed my hand quite firmly. It was like one of those handshakes you give your girlfriend's dad to show you're a real man; a nice, big, strong one. Only thing was, I was fourteen and his hands kind of crushed me already when he gave the weak handshakes. Man, did it hurt. I can still feel it today. My knuckles were red when he let go, but I couldn't say anything. I knew if I said anything to him, the beating I would catch would be twice as bad.

We got in his Ford pickup truck. Pretty nice truck except for the front bumper. My parents had gone away for a trip, so Tian and I decided it was best to take the keys and go out for a spin. The only problem was there were lots of deer in my town, so you always had to be careful about driving around during the night. I was still pretty short. I was only fourteen. I swear I didn't see it coming, but it made no difference. I caught a licking I would never forget when my dad came home. It was bad. That's what I was expecting this time, the same thing. But instead, he didn't do it. He didn't do anything. He drove to the bar and said, Come on in, you knucklehead.

He was always calling me a knucklehead in the morning when he wasn't drunk. He was a lot nicer in the morning. This was the first time he had ever said it when he was blasted. Man, was he blasted too. You could always tell with my dad. His nose would get red like a cherry, like Rudolph the goddamn red-nosed reindeer, except he wasn't nearly as nice. My dad bought me a couple drinks and I was left completely puzzled. I couldn't understand what was going on. He liquored me up and then he brought me home.

When I got home, I went straight to my room hoping my mom wouldn't catch me before I got to sleep. Only one problem, she was like a goddamn hawk. She could sense you from a mile away. She could have her headphones blasting with her eyes shut and still hear me creep out my window. I swear the lady must have been on some sort of special amphetamines or something to have senses like that. Needless to say, she caught me.

She didn't mention anything about the incident that had brought my dad down to the station. All she said was, Is that liquor I smell on your breath?

No, Ma, I wasn't drinking at all.

Henry! my mom yelled at my dad.  He's been drinking! Our son is fourteen and he's been drinking!

No, did he? You've gotta be shittin' me, he said, acting all surprised as if he wasn't the one who gave me the damn drinks in the first place.

Well, hun, my mom said, I think you better teach him a lesson then. We won't be tolerating any underage drinking in this house—understood, Keb?

I cleared my throat and raised my voice a bit, Yes, Mom! Understood!

Now just watch that tone, you sonuvabitch. That's it—put your hands on the couch. I'm gonna paddle ya. It'll be over as soon as you cry, my dad said.

The old bastard played a trick. I thought I had gotten away with murder by the time I had gotten home. I was seconds away from dreaming and being in my own little world in my bedroom, but it was a setup. He purposely liquored me up so my mother would find out, that way he could justify beating me senseless. See, my mom was always kind of soft with me. She always got mad when my dad hit me and shit like that, but the one thing she couldn't tolerate, was liquor. She had dealt with it consuming my father for over twenty years, and I don't think she was prepared to deal with it for another four-plus from me. Naturally, she wanted me punished for it, and my dad knew it ahead of time. He was drunk, but boy was he no dummy. He still had some wits cropped up in that half-way-fried brain of his, he sure did. I kind of respected him for tricking me like that. I'm usually not fooled that easily, me being a thinker and all, but I was, and so the beating came.

CHAPTER TWO

I WOKE UP THE NEXT morning and it was hot as hell. It was late June and all you could hear were the cicadas buzzing outside; it sounded like I was in the Amazon or something. No one could sleep with that kind of racket. My ass was kind of sore from the beating I took the night before. My dad took the oar we had for our canoe and struck me in the ass until salty teardrops rolled down my chin. Now that I took my beating, everything was back to normal. That was the great thing about beatings in my house; once you got it, there were no more dirty looks or getting mad about it. Getting a beating solved the problem in my household, although it only worked that way for me and never my older sister. Sue got off pretty damn easy with everything. She was never even scolded. I started thinking more into it and seriously began wishing I had been born with breasts. I probably would have never seen that damn oar and life would be so damn easy. I was starting to get stir crazy just sitting around inside thinking and talking to myself, so I ran into the kitchen to call for the local surf report.

That same monotone, computerized, male voice picked up as always and said, Seas—seven to ten feet. Nearshore—six to eight feet. Small craft advisory for the following Counties...

At that point, I hung up the phone. There were waves, so I called Tian as quick as I could.

Tian, brah! Six fucking footers!

Six fucking footers, man? You gotta be fucking kiddin' me!

Fuck no, man! No bullshit! Let's hit it up!

Meet me at the 'dega in five.

We lived in Montauk, an old fishing town on Long Island that was walking distance to the ocean no matter where you lived in town. I met up with Tian at this bodega on the corner of Main Street and Cavit's Road. The Bodega, as it was so aptly named, was the only place that a boy from the age of five and up could buy a beer. The place had a public bathroom around back. Its floors were covered in feces and lined with beetles, flies, and whatever else lived on shit. To put it plainly, it stunk. Inside the actual store could have easily been just as smelly. These two Indians ran it and they always referred to us as their friends when we entered the shop.

My friends—ah my friends! What can I get you, my friends? asked one of the Indians. I could smell the guy's breath from across the store as he spoke. The Indians looked like they hadn't invested in a shower since they moved to the country. They kind of smelled like a cross between rotten mayonnaise and diarrhea. They both had dots in the middle of their foreheads, signifying some Hindu mumbo jumbo. Whatever floats your boat I guess; we were just there for the beer. A nice six before we hit the waves definitely made the surfing session a little more interesting for two lightweight, fourteen-year-old surfers.

We continued on down the boulevard, slamming our sixes and stumbling down to the beach. It was still early in the morning and the water was a little brisk, so we needed to throw on our wetsuits. We were already drunk by nine o'clock, and our perceptions were altered. We didn't care much about anything by that point, so we just dropped our pants right in the middle of the beach to get changed. Both of us were so uncoordinated that we had to help each other zipper our suits up. We were jumping around almost completely naked as we tried our best to force our limbs through the form-fitting, damp rubber. The worst part was getting the feet through the suit legs. It was especially tough for Tian since he hadn't clipped his toenails in what seemed like forever. I imagine a crowd had formed to stare at the two of us make asses of ourselves. An old lady whistled as she saw us half-naked putting our suits on.

Boy, I'd like to hit that! Tian shouted.

You're gross! Man, she's got to be past forty-five!

Exactly, man! Past forty-five—that means post men 'o pause!

Hmm...which means?

Which means post rubber, dude. No condom needed, man. Just skin on skin. How sweet is that? Plus-fortyish is sexual prime in women!

Dude, she's forty-five! You're sick! I yelled. We kept battling about whether or not it was wrong to want physical contact with a mid-forty-year-old woman. Tian wouldn't shut up, so eventually I just gave in and said, Yea, you know what? Why not? I'd do it!

He was excited when I finally said it and we both jumped into the water with a great lack of balance. We tried to surf, but we quickly established our decision to drink beforehand was not smart. Every time we stood up, we'd just slide right off our boards as if our feet and toes were covered in oil. We couldn't do it, so we decided just to go down the road to McDermott's; it was a little luncheon and diner toward the eastern end of town, and it was a real hole in the wall.

I walked in the door. The floor was comprised of red and black tiles and it looked like a checkerboard. There were a few blue tiles mixed in to replace the cracked ones and it looked just plain awful. Mr. McDermott was pretty broke so he kind of threw whatever he could down on the floor to make some ends meet. We were his greatest customers; we were there every day. Of course, we had very little money, so we had an ongoing tab. Come to think of it, so did a lot of customers at the luncheon, which is why old Mr. McDermott was probably so poor. Regardless, he smiled as we walked in the door and I think he was happy just to see some familiar faces.

Up to trouble this early in the mornin' ey, lads? Mr. McDermott asked with a smile. Why ain't ya boys out there surfin'? You're young boys—should be followin' the sun, boys.

His voice was deep, raspy, and sounded somewhere in between Irish brogue and straight up pirate. He was always saying that