“Well boys—Tommy giving a nod directly toward me, Cousin Owen, and Stevie (thanks a bunch!)—looks like you three don’t have to hide after all. We’re gonna need ya’s!”
Then he bent over in mock hysteria enough to shoot a few shrapnel’s of slime out his nose, clearly, not worried ’bout a thing. Not a damn thing.
Of course, the smart thing to do would have been to run away. Obviously. We still had time. And who could blame us? It was a thousand to one. At least that’s what it seemed like, my scared-as-hell inner voice now in direct conflict with my tough-guy-wannabe persona.
Look, we bargained for a fight not a slaughter; we’d have to be beyond crazy to confront them with these numbers, right?
But there were two problems with chickening out: First, this was the summer of being tough. We had (tried to) convince ourselves we were tough; we even had tough girlfriends, and turning tail now wouldn’t do much to enhance that carefully crafted reputation. And secondly, this was OUR ISLAND. We lived and breathed it every day. It was, I realized right there on the spot, just about the most important thing in my life, and goddammit, as much as I really, really didn’t want to get punched out, caution be damned, I wasn’t going anywhere.
That’s when Tommy grabbed me aside, startling me out of a fixed trance,
“Listen, Jimmyrocket, I know you’re not much of a fighter (damn, does everybody know that?), but I also know you’re faster than shit, so I got a special job for you, dude.”
“You do? (My voice shaked) Umm, what’s that Tommy…?”
Then he whispered some very specific instructions, or I should say directives, into my ear, quietly, insistent that the assignment be carried out exactly on his cue, “once the shit hit the fan,” which, judging from their approach, was any second now. Although the assignment was fraught with actual danger and a low probability of success, it was an honor to be singled out by our commander in chief, and no way was I gonna let him down—against my better judgment, throwing all caution (and probably my facial features) to the wind.
So, sweaty palms, nauseous stomach, adrenaline-fueled pounding chest and all, I looked him straight in the eye and confidently replied, “Count on me, Tommy.”
And he could.
They all could.
But man, was I scared.
Their boats were tying up to the dock now, some strapping to each other for lack of proper dock space, and a tons of kids were jumping up on seats and hopping over side rails, and onto the dock, to a repetitive thud, thud, thud, the dock’s wooden floor boards audibly moaning with every overly emphatic jump onto it. In all, there must have been forty or fifty kids, maybe more. We recognized some of the kids and three of their boats from repeated offshore run-ins, but it looked like they recruited lots of big brothers to the party. Once unloaded, dozens of them came marching down the dock ramp with a purpose.
That’s when we heard the squealing tires coming from the parking lot.
The brigade of cars were led by Mary Ellen Kramer, the same Mary Ellen who was always thinking and saving our necks. The one who would go on to graduate from Harvard University, and take a sabbatical and travel to Indonesia in an effort to feed the hungry, and the same Mary Ellen who would deservedly be the last of our gang to inhabit the island, that girl, her, shouting and running and making that crazy half-dead bird-call screeching thing of hers, with an angry horde of Mashneeites filing into the parking lot right behind. It was simply beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. In my entire life.
Now kids were jumping out of cars and slamming doors left and right. More were flying over hedges, hustling in from every corner of the island and cutting through the ball field, to help. All of them. How did they even…? Including every older kid we knew. Tony Dupré and Ronny Parker and Howie Kauffman and Adrian Best, and Bruce Fontaine and Darren and Buddy Billings, and that kid we called Haffenreffer, and even Stoner. Every last kid. Mostly kids we knew, but even some we didn’t. Our posse had arrived.
Even our girl pals showed up, Christine and Sally hopping out of their friends hot yellow sports coupe and letting a mouthful of expletives fly. Of course my sister and cousins were there too, bringing some off-island help they had quickly recruited. Kids just kept coming. From every possible direction. Droves of reinforcements pouring onto the beach and ready to rumble!
Right.
Along.
Side.
Us.
The trashtalk was flying. Both sides hurled F-bombs like torpedoes, increasing in intensity with every salvo, primarily focused on one’s mother, body parts, or a creative collection of unnatural and downright impossible physical acts. To say tempers were hot would be misleading. It was “flipping insane, man.”
Everybody was losing their shit.
Then, Tommy, looking cocky as ever, sporting a ragged, white muscle shirt with his Popeye biceps fully exposed, took a few steps out from the crowd, a half-smoked Tarrington 100 cigarette casually dangling from his smirking lower lip, chortling as always, steps that were equaled by that big, dumb loaf, Rusty Jackson, the older of the two asshole Jackson brothers, can of Budweiser still in his grasp and an “I might be alive but nobody’s home” look on his acne-infested face, sporting not only a huge size advantage but a couple of years as well (if they want a fair fight we’ll rumble them right…), leaving the two leaders to face off…
As two worlds collided, Tommy, of course, got right into the bigger Jackson’s face.
But the big meathead spoke first.
“Hey, prick, your island sucks big fat wet ones!”
“Whatda you say? Your momma wants my big fat wet one? Zit-face!”
“Listen, prick. I heard your momma is the Mashnee whore. Mr. Not-So-Tough Guy.”
On it went steadily increasing in voracity…
“Listen, shit-for-brains, you’ve been messing with the wrong dudes. We don’t take shit from assholes. Jumping our boy Stevie was your last, bad move. Moron.”
It continued back and forth like that for what seemed like the longest five minutes on record. There were no cuss words left unsaid, nor insults unspoken, both combatants mutually spewing saliva shrapnel at each other, and the top was about to blow!
Tommy’s tattered muscle shirt, per plan, was just long enough to hide the stiletto switchblade knife residing not-so-comfortably but readily available in his waistband. While each of us had makeshift weapons on our person, and a few more within easy reach just under a nearby beach chair. It was crazy. The crowd was squeezed tight. Mad, sweaty bodies inched up against opposing mad, sweaty bodies, pretty much all of them inebriated, infuriated, or both. Feeling bold.
Then it went down. Tommy had enough and caught big fatso mid-sentence with a good, hard shove that sent the hulking brute stumbling backward. The Jackson kid then took a bull run at the much-quicker Tommy and mostly missed, spinning back around with his fists cocked, as were Tommy’s.
Instantly, Tommy’s green eyes turned hard, looking like the marbles we used to shoot when we were bored, a perfectly fine shade of color, but lifeless, stoic. dead. Cold intensity replaced his smirk, focus replaced the sarcastic chortle.
In that moment he was fearless, and I thought,
So that’s what it takes to be a tough guy.
He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care at all.
As serious blows were about to be thrown, one of the Memorial Beach jamokes, a tall skinny blond kid around our age who I recognized from the gas docks, came charging out of a crowd and headed directly for Tommy, brandishing a rusted pipe in one hand and a beer bottle in the other.
