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- 04/18/2015
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Broken - 13. The State of Confusion
New Years was a good time. Brian got one of his friends to get us some cheap wine. We spent forty bucks and got an ounce of weed. One dude was selling ludes for a dollar fifty a piece but the guy was just too shifty. Brian didn't trust him and I was skeptical about pills in general. Some dude tried to sell us some mushrooms but Brian wasn't buying. He said never buy shroons or do them unless you picked them yourself. Besides, with all the pasture land up near Clark's Pond, we didn't need to spend any money on mushrooms.
We scammed our folks into thinking that we were going to a big lock in party at the church gym up the street. Sure, we went but we ducked out before the doors were locked. It was a sweet scam. As Shiloh Baptist Church had lock-ins once a month for their youth group, it was scam that we would be making use of with regularity. Our parents thought that we were at a church function and were delighted.
We had our whole crew piled into the fort before dark. Well, as much of our crew that was left anyway. The absence of Doug and Nick left a gaping, sensitive hole in our tight little circle. We all felt it but tonight was for fun. We weren't going to go there and bring everybody down.
As if by mutual consent, we preferred to keep our circle tight. We had all been through a lot of shit together and we trusted each other. We didn't have any secrets from each other. None of us liked the idea of partying around people that we didn't know. There was a steep price for admission. The only dues were loyalty.
Mark and Clay Hudson brought their big assed jam box and vault of tapes. I was glad to see them. It was the first time that I had been able to hang with them since summer. I had neglected to get to know them as well as I should have in scouts but truthfully, they had kept almost everybody at arms length. They had been “heads” for a couple of years. Musicians! What are you going to do?
Brian and Scotty had made a store run before dark. We had an ice chest full of loot and were ready to rock.
Inside the fort we got in a circle. Brian and Mark were obviously the most experienced heads in the group. Mark pulled out a strange looking thing that reminded me of a small vase. He put a little tray down and Brian dumped a pile of weed onto it and started cleaning the seeds out of it.
Clay had assumed the duties of acting DJ. He put the on the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Jamming Jimi's version of All Along the Watchtower began to play.
A bottle of Maddog 20/20 started making the rounds of the circle. When it came to me I took a swig. It tasted like a combination of grape cool aid and gasoline.
Mark loaded some weed into the little vase looking device and handed it to Brian. He told me to watch him hit it so I would know what I was doing when it came to me. He fired a lighter and pulled air through the vase catching some weed on fire.
Scotty noticed that I was watching this with interest and he said quietly to me, “It's called a bong. You'll love how smooth it makes the smoke.” Oh. I had never smoked weed in any form other than a joint. I made a mental note to reward Scotty for saving me from an embarrassing faux pas.
The bong made its way around the circle. Brian, Clay, Scotty and finally to me. By the time it gotten around to me, I had figured out its operation by observation. The smoke was cool by ice water from the cooler and not nearly as harsh as a joint. I took as big a hit as I could manage. When I had finished burning the bowl, I passed it back to Mark to reload and pass on.
The bong and the bottle made its way around and around the circle.
It was good to be together again. It was even better that the barriers between Mark and Clay and myself had come down. We didn't have secrets anymore.
Both of the Hudson cousins were quiet and unobtrusive. Physically, they were smaller than average and favored each other as cousins often do. The biggest difference between two was that Clay had wavy blond hair but Marks was strawberry blond, long and strait. Clay was elder of the pair by a few months. It occurred to me that I had never seen them separately. They reminded me of the way that Scotty and I had been before our folks decided to split us up.
Of the two, Clay was the easiest to get to know. He was quiet and reserved but not really shy. Put a guitar in his hands and he became the center of the room. He had an excellent voice and could sing anything from bluegrass to heavy metal.
I had always liked and been somewhat intrigued by Mark. He was an exceptionally sensitive person and prone to be very shy. His mother had died when he was quite young and his father, like many of the men in the area, worked off shore. While his Dad was offshore, he stayed with Clay's parents. When his Dad was home, the three of them would play together. Mark's Dad was also a musician and had played with a rockabilly/zydeco band down in Baton Rouge when he was younger.
Mark wrote his own songs and lyrics and was really quite good at it. His voice was soft but thin and clear with a sweet bell-like quality that was innocent yet moving. He was able to hit high notes that most singers would choke on.
He was sitting right beside me the entire time and while he was very polite, he only conversed when necessary. After the brain damage that I had inflicted on myself with the weed and the wine, I was burnt. I resolved to drag Mark out of his shell.
As midnight approached, we went outside to watch fireworks. We were close enough to the park to get a good look at the display. Great blooms of red, white and blue blossomed, sparkled and boomed over the canopy of ancient oaks and pines.
We stood there and watched for twenty minutes. It was cool that night. I put my arm around Scotty. Our friends chanted, “kiss, kiss, kiss!” We needed little very little encouragement. We embraced there under the light of the fireworks and tenderly kissed each other. It wasn't a sloppy kiss or a showy kiss. In fact we held back a little so we wouldn't gross out our friends. Mark, Brian and Clay smiled as they looked on and clapped. We congratulated each other. It was 1977.
After the fireworks display abated, we went back inside the fort and got settled. A new bottle started making the rounds. Mark started loading the bong again.
I slapped Mark on the back and said, “Before tonight, I didn't even know what a bong was. I think I can say with great confidence that you load it very well.”
Scotty overheard me and said, “I second that. As James and I are the masters of this keep, I hereby name you the greatest Bong master in all the realm.”
Mark smiled and played along, “My lord, what pray tell is the name of this realm?”
I couldn't resist. “Gentlemen, oh come now! Art thou so fried that thou forgetist where thou art? Why the great and sovereign state of Confusion of course.”
Maybe you had to be there at that particular time, at that particular place, in our peculiar little universe but I think we must have laughed for an hour. We laughed hard, we laughed long, and we laughed until tears rolled down our faces. Unto this very day should you mention it to anyone who was there, they will howl with laughter.
When we tired of smoking out and had finished off all the wine, Clay pulled out his guitar. He looked at Mark and asked, “What song do you want to do?”
Mark replied, “You know the one.”
Clay smiled knowing and started strumming a bluegrass melody.
Mark began singing in his sweet but sad tenor voice:
Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky
One by one the seats were emptied
One by one, they went away
Now that family, they are parted
Will they meet again someday
Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky
Before Mark was done, every eye was wet and we were all singing with our arms around each other's shoulders. After all that we had been through, we had learned to really appreciate each other. Born in the innocence of childhood, tempered by the fires of hate, forbidden by parents that didn't know us, the bonds of friendship and fellowship between us were stronger than ever.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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