Now in-between panic and shock, all the kids including ‘Haff’ (quickly-thinking to first unscrew the license plates from his well-worn, ancient truck) fled the scene, leaving the well dented vehicular evidence to fend for itself. Being dark and very late at night in such a sleepy village, you might expect the situation to take time to travel, but a certain Snitch, somehow at the scene of reckoning within a half-hour, with his (bullshit) amber lights flashing, joined shortly-thereafter by the real men in blue from the Bourne Police Department, with a tow-truck not far behind.
When questioned, all the kids, including my sister, pleaded innocence and ignorance, and not one of them was believed. My sister was grounded for two weeks (an entire lifetime in summer terms), and forbidden from ever going to that long-haired-hippie-freak’s Shack’ again, not that she or anyone else listened.
Needless to say, word of ‘the flipped-over truck wreck with beer cans spewed-about,’ traveled faster and more furiously than you can say “Let’s Hire a Security Guard to be stationed from Sundown to Sunup at The Bump” and control these wild degenerates, and unwanted off-islanders!
Thinking the way teenagers think, Tommy Bordon and The Stick viewed this ‘distraction’ as a great opportunity to fly under the radar, and the rest of us, of course, followed along. After all, we were doing the exact same things as the older-kids were, we just hadn’t been caught, and we planned to keep it that way.
Which is precisely when Rick the-ever-loving Stick turned to a large group of us hanging-out on The Club’s front-steps as usual, and came up with the single most brilliant idea I had ever heard, or would ever hear; an idea so incredibly spectacular and monumentally life-changing, that a full fifty-years later, I decided to write a book about it. His idea was shrouded in simplicity.
“Hey gentle souls of suspicious human origin; (That’s not the idea!) I’ve got a thought and it’s a damn good one (eyeballs rolling). How about we build our own super-secret hangout? You know, way, far down the beach.” Let’s build a,
Hut!
Chapter 28
Digit
It was a severed finger.
Have you ever seen one?!
It’s gross. And way beyond weird, I assure you.
And, it wasn’t fake.
Ok, at first we thought it was just a small piece of hot dog, or sausage, or maybe a razor clam the seagull had started to nibble, but no, it was a detached finger, and it was just about to be eaten by said seagull, lying right inside the entry of The Hut, Our Hut, as we quick-as-hell shooed the feather-flapping bird away, thereby preserving the unsightly digit. Tommy was certain it was pinky, so, naturally we thought so too. A fairy thick one. With guck on it. And it stank.
“Holy effin shit!” yelped Stick.
“Who the hell would hack off someone’s finger ’round here?!” I queried, trying desperately not to barf up my lunch. “It can’t be real, can it?”
“And leave it in our claimed territory? Our Hut. Are you kidding me?” Stevie added, sounding insulted.
“What. The. Fuck. Happened?!” I was looking for unknown answers.
“Hey, maybe the rest of the body is hidden nearby!” Patrick Flaherty, added excitedly, his freckled face now flushed a bright red, as he practically shouted, “Guys...” all heads snapping toward Tommy where he was bending down to more closely examine the appendage,
“Don’t touch it!” Stevie yelled.
“Why the hell not?” Patrick asked, earning a unanimous eye roll.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem smart,” Stevie (son of two PhDs) whimpered.
“Bird Turd, you know what? You’re a clueless seagull-screwing moron!” Stick snapped irritably.
Then upon thorough examination, determining it was indeed the Real McCoy, an actual human finger, with bones and blood and guts and not some five-and-dime store replica, Bourdon chimed in as only he could: “Boys, we’ve got ourselves a crime scene.”
“Are you shitting me?” Stevie queeried, echoing everyone’s thoughts. “Who knows. Maybe someone was murdered here! We should search the area!”
Personally, I wasn’t yet convinced it was a murder scene, but it was most definitely weird, and assuredly a crime scene, or one helluva practical joke.
But, before I tell you more about the severed pinky finger,
…you’ll need to know about The Hut.
Chapter 29
Ours
Building it was a labor of love.
Crazy Eddie had the connection for some leftover crappy, substantially weathered and partially rotted plywood from an old construction job site near his home, and he owned all the tools we would need, hammers, nails, a small hand saw, a measuring tape, even old door hinges, and a large piece of rusted tin we used for the roof.
Our buddy Brian’s house resembled a fishing museum. His father owned just about anything and everything connected with either fishing or weather gear. So thus, he had the perfect size waterproof tarpaulin, easily large enough for our needs, which mysteriously disappeared from his father’s shed one night, under the cover of night.
Rick the Stick, the mastermind, chipped in with a pile of perfectly shaped large stones he apparently confiscated from a local foundry (“Just browsing for my rock collection, sir.”) the intent of which was to build our fire pit.
Being totally unhandy, all thumbs, and no clue what a tool or building supply even was, I contributed the best alternative use item I could think of, a telescope. One capable of looking at the stars at night, along with spotting any observable activity down the beach. It was in our cottage’s refuse room when we got there. So, hey, I scoffed. The lens was slightly cracked and the tripod a little shaky, but it was still way cool.
The Flaherty Brothers donated a large, Schlitz Malt Liquor beat-up ice cooler they inadvertently procured from a certain clubhouse’s periodically unlocked storage room. As Sergeant Schultz would say, I know nothing!
Of course the geographical positioning of The Hut was critical to its long-term survival and short-term viability, especially in light of the natives being riled up and restless and presumably looking and happy, to enforce the law at our expense and set a lesson for all future generations of island teenagers.
Anyway, we constructed The Hut as far down the stretch of beach on Phinney’s Harbor as possible, pacing off a spot far above the high-water mark, deftly making allowance for potential tidal surges created by full moons (Stevie’s input). It was partially hidden by the contours of the sand, with thickets of tall seagrass bordering two sides and a generous supply of poison ivy thwarting any infiltration from our flank. Naturally, being the rightful inhabitants, we had learned the precise locations, far away from the itchy ivy where it was safe to pee. The girls however, did not particularly care for this arrangement, insisting upon flashlights and guided tours to the “bathroom” area amid threats of never returning should they go home itching one damn thing!
Rick the Stick explained he had one more brainstorm to ensure our privacy.
“Listen up, you teens of supreme ugliness and foul odor. If someone happens to walk by this place and look over we want them to think this is just an old pile of crap, right?
