Helter Swelter

July 23, 1983

It’s sweltering and the Swansons have only a large window air conditioner downstairs, where both boys have been camping out since it’s gotten miserable. The mornings are ok for a sultry bike ride but as soon as the sun starts to sting Nick heads inside to rejoin his regularly scheduled funk, already in progress, and there’s nothing on TV.

This summer has been...different.

In Vacation Bible School he actually sang during the program, somehow it came naturally, there were only four sixth graders for the program Sunday, although one had rehearsed with them but couldn’t make the consummation. Two guys and two gals, for once it’s not a cacophony but actually sounds decent when their voices blend and Nick found his place and went for it, it felt right to join in this time and not watermelon through it like his brother taught him early on.

His male counterpart was the one and only Jackie Ferree, chubby, bespeckled but outspoken, recently adopted by the Ferrees from the county orphanage and never shy, neither in a class setting or with the female types. The two girls, Kendra and Marsha politely ignored him most of the week but Nick wouldn’t have that option at school come fall.

HumGrav

 It’s the year 2020 or so, and a version of Nick Swanson with silver highlights aims his HumGrav toward a small-scale garage door in his attic. Like many houses these days there is still a garage opening toward the front lined with rakes and junk and smells of Ortho and mildew, but few of them actually hold cars unless it’s someone’s classic toy. The door opens automatically upon his approach and a few lights - mostly ornamental, mind you - surround the short runway pad in front of the doorway as the floating marvel eases its way into the maw for a perfect touchdown, every time, always within microns of the X’s painted on the hardwood as calibrated when the dealer set it up.

Despite the obvious mastery of anti-gravity technology and precision control systems even on the mid range models, these vehicles are not free from sound pollution, hence the name. But it’s the only way to go. Of course once he lands that means going into the house and doing something, watching 3D TV, although that would probably give him a headache...or is there a wife and kids? Who the hell knows.

The Camp Meeting

 Summer 1985

Several times during the week of camp  meetings Nick had managed to get next to one Danielle Eversole, call me Danni, and so far found out she’s quite the runner and got her tan out on the softball field, prompting images of a strawberry blond ponytail flowing out the hole of a maroon cap (or would it be gray?). Pale blue eyes peering out from the shadow of the bill, leaving her braces to glimmer in the sun. She goes to the one protestant church school in town, the first he’d heard of someone going there without having been expelled from somewhere first.

“So what’s your middle name?” He was running dry already.

“Jeanne.”

He smiles, “that’s pretty.”

“Sure it is,” as she rolls her eyes and gives him an expectant look.

Her long, able pins are neatly wrapped in a safe ankle-length denim skirt, not even a slit, at some point she hints he’d have to come to a game to see any leg. No makeup, well, maybe some of the eyelash stuff.

Nick’s best untested moves are no match. Attempting to hold her hand yields a twisted thumb. The arm across the back of the pew trick eventually buys a slightly bruised rib, he fails to notice she’s forcing a poker face the entire time.

Danni finds a pen in her little tweed purse and starts to draw on the back of a handout, using a hymnal for surface instead of a Bible naturally, figure studies, athletes in action. He whispers “you’re good” at one point and and her lightning elbow finds that same rib, but at least this time showing some grin. She stretches her neck each way then turns to put down the hymnal. He squeezes her knee as if by looking the other way she somehow wouldn’t find out.

Caught off guard by a tingle she’d never known before, the decisive hook jab to his thigh prompts several folks to look their way. For Nick the overwhelming need to act like nothing happened somehow masks the silent scream from tissues that he didn’t even know he had until this moment. He sweats beads, ears red as a baboon's ass, and during the response prayer he doesn’t even notice as she slips outside to walk around with the other girls.

On the way home Nick stretched out on the back seat of the wagon since Tim had wiggled out of this, as he usually did, and after mostly evading Irene’s queries about the young lady he’d sat with, he just felt lighter. The summer had started out rainy and pensive, then turned cold around the time a big evangelistic event came to the fairgrounds. Nick ended up walking around with some of the youth gang of their church then disapproved of their smoking, which in turn earned their disapproval at his moral stance. And so, you can’t win.

Except, tonight definitely felt like a win, and he grinned at a knotted thigh muscle as a memento. 

Happy Hector's

 July 3, 1986

Nick stands behind the popup camper trying to help his dad line it up with the gravel pad just as one of the park’s owners (?) shows up in a golf cart and basically takes over, frantically admonishing Jed to stay off the sparse grass, a few wispy blades in the dusty ground, leaving Nick to wonder if he’s serious. This character sticks around for a few minutes after the camper gets into place, never offering a word of welcome as he relates his fretfulness before moving on to receive another family with the same brand of charm.

“He must be Happy Hector,” Irene offers.

They had joined a couple other families from the plant at a private campground in the next county, Happy Hector’s, who wanted to play off the word “hectare” since the property measured out to exactly 4 hectares. But obviously this needed to be more American sounding as the hectares are Metric and therefore part of the devil’s toolkit, right up there with hookah pipes and that kind of art that don’t look like nuthin.’ Tim thought he had better things to do this weekend so Vance tagged along. About halfway there Nick blurts out Happy Hookers to a mixed reaction in the station wagon.

The boys helped with the popup camper then set up their tent.

"Is this thing from the Army?"

"No it's just old. I think my brother was consummated in it.

"Boys."

"And now for the rules,"

"Rule#1: No farting"

"Rule#2: You're a dipshit"

"Rule#3: Get me a beer"

"NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES ALLOWED IN THIS FACILITY"

"Boys..."

"What?"

"Hon this is why they have their own tent, remember?"

"We got any pop at least?"

"There's cans but they're as warm as the air"

"Sounds like it's warm Pepsi time again."

So that becomes a thing, to the tune of Cold Gin...it's warm Pepsi time again-nnnnn.

"Why don't you kettleheads mosey over to the pool?"

"We'll drown."

"And?"

*****

Saturday evening found the boys watching a band set up in the rec hall around 9, after the line dancers were done. Since the quiet time started at 11 it would give them a while to get their set in. Your basic guitar/drum/bass, there's an acoustic sitting back there, who knows, maybe they won't suck.

Nick had spent the day hearing that they had seen a young male with his general description harassing the peacocks that haunt the grounds and sound off in the wee morning hours. He had no recollection of getting near the stupid things, was more fun watching a little blond ride around, but she was part of the owners’ clan so he stayed clear. They had tried more fishing at the big end of the pond, then gradually moved toward the bridge and found bigger bites there. No one in their group wanted to clean one so they just threw back in, but it was increasingly clear that Happy Hector didn't want anyone catching the big fish.

They wandered over toward the playground for a bit and mixed with the gaggle of youth standing around, for a few, then hit the swings, wondering when that band would start up after a hasty sound check. They had just started cruising back to the rec hall when there was a ONE TWO THREE FOUR, then some very crunchy electric guitar grunt to a POOM-POOM-CRACK beat. They were behind the stampede but no need to get close, the house was a rockin'. 

Neither Nick nor Vance could place the track, but a nearby veteran said "oh that's the Stones."

The beat was syncopated just right, the drums the only thing tight, but right in your face, bluesy and just right. "On a Thursday night...." the singer bawled out. It was simply electrifying, Nick wondered why some band doesn't record a hard version like this.

It didn't take long, you had girls dancing with each other, laughing, the band obviously had done this a time or two and knew how to get a crowd on the same page.

"DANCE...DANCE LITTLE...SISTER, DANCE..."

Nick had to maneuver to get a good look at the hardware, the guitar was shared between a Tele and a Les Paul, the latter was doing the leads with a beer bottle slide. Bass was a sunburst P with a huge headstock, no surprise. These guys were bearded and just the right vintage, evidently cut their teeth on this stuff heart and soul.

After a couple verses they dropped to drums for a singalong, and quite a crowd had crawled out of the woodwork.

At one point the best part were about a dozen little kids all wiggling around, people couldn't stand up for laughing. Nick also saw his folks way at the fringe checking it all out, hell they're probably old enough to know some of these tunes.

Vance observes, "Most of the campgrounds must be here, hope no one gets the idea to rifle through our tents and campers."

"Jokes on them, I took a huge shit in your bag."

"Good, that's where I put your shoes."

The first number wrapped up with a double-stick snare hit. "Thanks for coming out, we're Ten Pen Alley, good rockin' crowd here tonight!"

Then the familiar opening riff to Night Ranger's You Can Still Rock In America from the Les Paul, which was as well done as could be, then they brought it down with Skynyrd's Simple Man, and so on. 

At one point there's a different blond hanging around, Nick says "Hi" and she fires back a loaded "HI" with all kinds of sauce on it. He walks away.

Around this time he hears a newly familiar riff to a four-floor beat...BREEEM...BREEM-BREEM-BREEM-BREEEM...now that one he knows, Timbutt has a crappy dub of the tape, were they really gonna do Big Balls? It's happening.

There's a tap on Nick's shoulder and there stands a female, around his age, dark curly hair and smiling. "Can we talk?"

He turns to Vance who responds with a chin-out expression then motions him on.

Her name is Jo, her family pulled in this afternoon and she's wondering if he can show her around. They go to the pond, which is locked, then over by the swingset. They swing on the swings a bit then she wants to crawl through the tiles. They sit in there and talk a bit then she kisses him, on the mouth, then makes the little swirly things with her tongue. She senses he's' not interested, calls him a fucking jerk then storms off.

Nick returns to the concert scene to the tune of Yesterday with just an acoustic guitar, finally finds Vance leaning on a tree not far from where he'd left him about 20 minutes ago.

"So?"

"She didn't get my jokes."

"Sure. Did you wanna stick around?"

"We can go chill by a fire."

*****

The final morning of the trip was graciously free of peacock noises. Irene treated to hotcakes on the grille then they headed over to the worship service in the rec room, definitely a multipurpose deal there. Thankfully that Jo was nowhere in sight, but at the end of the service they were asked to join hands for prayer, Nick was shanghai'd by some family man next to him. Next time he vowed to sit by that shorter blond.

After this it was time to start tearing down. They got the tent undone and slowly packed into the wagon. Then the camper, pretty soon it was about lunchtime but they were gonna stop on the way.

At some point Jo rides up on a bike. "Nick I'm sorry about last night. I don't know why I get like that. I hope you don't hate me."

"I don't."

"Good." She hands him a folded note and rides away.

On the way home he checks it out, it basically has the same apology, some biographical data, and her phone number.

Vance asks, "You gonna call her?"

"You can."

Vee BS

Summer '85

After the school year ended but before the week of nonstop rain there was VBS. The pastor’s wife wanted to try something different so these two middle-aged women came to do a program and they managed to get on Nick’s bad side from the first few moments. They sat at a desk in the foyer signing up the “kiddies” with little registration forms, and it turns out, even though he’s just there to help, they want to sign him up because he’s not fourteen yet. 

Not that he knew the word “patronize” just yet, it should be the Twelfth Commandment, the unodeca having been claimed of course by Don’t Get Caught.

The summer itself was spacious with an off-the-record kind of sense, a time for planning yet no goals in sight.

Bike rides around the town, ball-cap donned farmers going places in their pickups, leggy Jolene Connor mowing in orange shorts, otherwise not usually in any mood to stop in on anyone. 

One of the Danville channels ran Gidget so a fresh Sally Field is ripe with the strawberries. 

Top 40 still rocks for the most part, at least there’s guitar solos to air to. Vance wasn’t around much so the media has a way of either becoming one’s conscious or just a background to it. 

Live Aid was on most of that one Saturday, and wow, there’s Sally doing the donation pitch, she sure has aged well, still cute as a button.