Despite the rain there were more kids there than we expected, but we quickly singled out Ronny Parker taking tickets over at the kart track, as he waved us over. Apparently the guy who owned the track was a dink-and-a-half, but he wasn’t there so Ronny was basically running the place.
“Well, if it’s not my favorite Mashnee boys!” Ronny greeted us with a grin.
“Listen,” he explained. “Here’s the drill; You each gotta buy one ticket, but then you can keep reusing them. You guys got that?” he asked. “And don’t be dickheads and let everyone know about it, or I’ll charge you freakin’ double next time,” he joked, because nobody (in their right mind) would threaten Tommy Bourdon for real, not even an older kid!
“Oh yeah, almost forgot, there’s a bunch of rowdy kids here from Memorial Beach, so don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he warned.
“Screw ’em,” Tommy muttered (of course).
“Yeah, screw ’em!” his Two Stooges repeated in unison (of course).
The plan for grabbing the fastest kart, or at least one that didn’t pull to one side so badly that you would wind up in the middle of oncoming traffic on Route 28, was a simple, straightforward, thoroughly proven, three-step process, never to be deviated from:
First, pay close attention to the rides ahead of you.
Next, pick out the two fastest carts (plan A and B).
Last, run your freakin’ ass off and throw sharp elbows!
Granted the process was streamlined when your buddy was the attendant and he, you know, told you which karts were baddest. Now, since this was apparently the summer of rules, rules, and more rules (see Mashnee Pool), the go-kart track had its own litany of never-ever-dos. And we didn’t care. Blah, Blah, flippin’ Blah.
Problems started shortly thereafter, as we saw five or six kids we recognized from Memorial Beach standing in line for the next ride. If they weren’t glaring at us, they were doing a real good job of pretending, as we zipped around the track, lap after perilous lap, racing each other as if our very lives depended upon it (our reputations certainly did), and occasionally careening off a tire barrier or jettisoning through the infield at top speed (Not Allowed!).
Soon we were being flagged over for the end of the ride, upon which Ronny faked giving us another ticket, so we kept our karts for the next ride, which, seeing as how the Memorial Beach crew had hopped on karts to join the fray, promised to be quite entertaining. Oh, and it was definitely that.
Needless to say, it had started to rain again. For the next forty-five minutes despite the increasingly slick and slippery conditions, we zipped around that track trying to run every non-Mashneeite either off the road or, to our utter delight, permanently disable said occupant from further competition; not that they didn’t run us off as well, which admittedly they did (but not to Tommy).
Anyway, what started off as lightly playful, turned anything but, as evidenced by the perverse quantity of F-bombs thrown between the bitter rivals at every opportunity. Some of them, ergonomically impossible.
At some point Tommy determined we were sufficiently soaked enough to head on into the snack bar for lunch. Plus, our stooge Ronny was beyond pissed off at us for causing all sorts of mayhem, and he was now threatening to banish us from the track for life, or at least the summer, whichever came last. Yeah sure, whatever...
So the three of us, Tommy, Stevie, and I were in a booth chowing down bites of cheeseburgers in between messing around, giving arm farts, and playing “table football” and other stuff kids do to entertain themselves, most of it quite annoying, when spied a blue ford station wagon pull up in front and a bunch of soaking-wet Memorial Beach kids pile out and headed to the karts, except one kid, who waved them off then headed into the snack bar.
We said nothing, and he should have done the same.
As the kid passed by our table, not a big or tough-looking kid, just average, he shot Stevie a side-eyed look, flipped him off and mumbled something under his breath, barely audible, but to his eternal regret, still loud enough for us to hear,
“Four-eyed freaking freak.”
In a blistering move that clearly demonstrated, “he may be a Four-eyed freak, but he’s OUR FOUR-EYED FREAKING FREAK,” Tommy jumped up with zero hesitation and in one lightning-fast cobra strike, the likes of which I’d never seen, punched the kid, HARD, square in the nose. I’m talking BAM, dead center, home-run, grand-slam, games ovah; call the medics.
The kid’s nose exploded!
Have I mentioned that Tommy Bourdon’s arms were bigger than Popeye’s? I believe I have. Have I mentioned when he threw a punch his freakish cannon balls of pure muscle only grew larger? Well, they did. Did I add that I certainly didn’t want to fight a slew of Memorial Beach kids? That too.
I gotta admit, I’d never seen anything like it, in person anyway, and if it were on TV I would’ve turned away because in a split second the kid went from normal-looking average teenage Joe Schmoe to an unsightly horror scene worthy of Friday Night Creature Feature.
Blood exploded out of his nostrils with surprising force and trajectory, covering both his never-to-be-worn-again “Cape Cod Whale Watcher’s Do it at Sea” yellow t-shirt, as well as two-thirds of our dining table, dousing a perfectly good plate of never-to-be-eaten-again fried onion rings, that were, eight seconds ago, crispy and delicious.
My initial reaction was shock. Then I actually started feeling really bad for the kid. I mean that’s an awfully tough price to pay simply for just being an asshole. But since Stevie and I were anything but tough, with one quick glance at each other, and with similar thoughts of big trouble running through our heads, we bolted out the door and skedaddled for the car leaving the bloody turmoil behind.
It took several moments before Tommy came strolling out at his own, relaxed, tough, nonchalant pace, lah-de-dah. He had no fear, either of that kid nor the hoards of Memorial Beachers who could easily have joined the fray.
Of course once we were back in the car Stevie and I acted tough too. Real tough. After all it was our Tough-Guy Summer, and we wanted to be card-carrying members of anything and everything tough, that is, as long as Tommy was there to protect us. Both of us secretly knew, eventually, we’d have to step up too.
The incident did not help our already strained relationship with the boys over at Memorial Beach. In fact now, we were sworn enemies for life. Not that we cared.
Chapter 27
Flipped
My sister and older cousin Laura were both entering their senior year of High School, and in addition to being outstandingly pretty, they were each positioned on the social fast-track which, needless to say, included being totally obsessed with all things boys, especially older boys; the older, with more facial hair, and the deeper the corresponding voice, the better!
There was a group of older, and cooler boys, who worked in and around Mashnee, who my sister and her hipper friends were infatuated with, and I might add, visa-versa, just not quite as obvious.
The common-denominator for their infatuation seemed to be some sort of rugged male persona, which translated into either maintenance or construction as their summertime incumbency.
Their jobs would typically range from Lifeguard (of course), to Landscaper, to General Laborer, to Otis Air Force base recruits, and so forth. Each would be easily definable by the self-assured swagger in their walk, and the grease under their fingernails.
Of course Tony Dupre’ and Howie Kauffman were cardholding members of this lively crew, as were a few other Off-Islanders’ known exclusively by elaborate handles such as; “Thumper,” “Zig-Zag,” “Big Jumbo,” “Haffenreffer,” and most-notably, “The Midnight Avenger.” Pretty cool, huh?
That’s not to say some of the older girls couldn’t hold their own when it came to the nickname game, but most of theirs had been assigned without invitation let alone consent. Safe to assume most girls wouldn’t assign themselves frisky tag-lines such as Luscious Lisa, Betty Bod, or the Boobsie Twins, and other equally inappropriate catchwords.
So they were just normal guys doing what normal guys do, showing-off and flirting with the cute and statistically improbable girls by day, and, presumably, trying to take them to a dark spot on the beach by night, and failing that, there was always a party to be had. So that’s precisely where ‘Stoner’ comes in.
Stoners’ full name was Steven Gregory Stone, but that’s not the reason everyone called him Stoner. Suffice it to say the actual reason for the nickname was betrayed by his beautifully blue, but chronically bloodshot eyes. Stoner was in his mid-twenties, a great big jolly guy with hippie-length hair held in place by a multi-color braided headband. He was pretty much always in a good mood and he had a smile wider than Phinney’s Harbor. He was everyone’s favorite-uncle kind of a guy and fun to be around. He lived just a stone’s throw from the end of the Dike, down a pothole riddled dirt road marked by a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. His home was a fairly dilapidated cape cottage almost completely hidden from view by a large mass of overgrown thicket.
The only reason I knew it was there was because I’d jogged down that road a few times out of curiosity, and I knew the far end of it would obviously lead out to the water.
