Mike found a long stick and probed the water holes to try and gauge their depth. Marty showed him the different spots on the rocks from which he’d seen long-haired, naked acrobats leap to pierce the center of the pool 20 feet below. Mike grinned at his new little brother sideways to let him know that he knew his leg was being pulled, but Marty insisted, “No I’m serious! You have to be in just the right spot to avoid scraping your nuts off on that rock,” he regaled, pointing to a jagged protuberance.
Later that spring, Mike turned 16 with just over a month left in the school year, and was taking Driver’s Ed classes to get his license. He complained that the films he had to watch were stupid, and Marty suggested asking Marge to teach him how to use a clutch in her Toyota. She offered to teach both of them on the back roads of Pt. Reyes, where the eager students took turns lurching and stalling, lurching and stalling, until they got it figured out. The placid dairy cows stood knee deep in green grass and chewed their cuds ponderously as they watched the spasmodic white pickup truck buck its way down the road. Mike impatiently prepared for the driver’s test, and Marty studied along with him, to make it easier about six months later when he’d be old enough to get his own license. Mike passed the test as if performing a boring work routine, and was now officially privileged to drive Marge’s truck to school.
“I would climb any mountain… sail across a stormy sea…
If that’s what it takes me, baby… to show how much you mean to me.”
“What album is this?” Marty shouted as loud as he could after a few bars.
The driver’s mouth moved in reply, but Marty couldn’t hear anything except the music. It rattled in his bones, and made his teeth vibrate. Casually, the dude pulled a joint down from behind the visor, and lit up. They all shared not just a doobie, but a perfect, scintillating moment together; one of the brain’s colorful photographs, pasted into an album to be remembered forever. The most excellently cool dude dropped them off at the library, and they watched the Charger disappear down the road, returning to the dream world whence it came. They virtually floated down the street to Mike B.’s house on a cloud of bliss.
Then Fred popped their soft balloon by answering the door.
“Hey F-Fred,” Marty stammered, “Uh, who – I mean, what are you doing early so home?” His tongue wouldn’t cooperate with his brain, and sloshed around in his mouth like a tuna in the bottom of a fishing boat.
Fred cracked up. “Your eyes look like the taillights of a T-bird, my man! Are you guys stoned? You been smokin’ that reefer?”
The natural impulse was to deny it, but Marty loved everything in the world at that moment, including Fred. He just grinned with squinted eyes, put his thumb and forefinger together, and squeaked, “Just a little.” Behind him, Mike was snorting into the back of Marty’s jacket in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle the giggles.
“Mm-hmm.” Fred eyed them suspiciously from head to toe. “Yup… y’all been smokin’ some good shit all right, and didn’t save none for me!” The two boys were shredded to the tops of their heads, and about to pass out from embarrassment. They clumsily stumbled into each other on the porch as if getting ready to run. Then Fred quickly assumed a boxer stance and punched Marty playfully in the arm, bellowing, “Mike! Get yer butt down here! These fellas need coffee, or CPR, or somethin’!” The huge man shook his big head in mock admonishment as the boys recovered and scrambled past him sheepishly.
“Do you think he knows?” Mike S. whispered on the stairs.
“Are my eyes really that red?” Marty tried to see his reflection in the family pictures that hung on the walls. He saw a photo of a young and very fit Fred, holding an infant who must have been Dennis, with little Stew on Shirley’s lap. In a flash, he saw him as a young man, full of vigor and assurance, and was touched. He really was a great guy.
That year they spent a lot of time at Mike B.’s house near the park, which had one of the only big redwood groves left in Fairfax. This was convenient for Mike because Annie lived up in the hills nearby, and she and a couple of friends would sometimes meet the three would-be studs near the jungle gym. Annie brought her cohorts as a way to present at equal strength, but also to torment Marty and Mike B., neither of whom had a girlfriend yet.
The high school prom was fast approaching, and the freshman class had their little get-together planned as well. Marty and Mike B. weren’t very popular with chicks, and were certain they wouldn’t have dates, so they commiserated that there would probably be nothing but sour grape punch at the dance. Mike S., on the other hand, was subjected daily to ever-increasing pressure from the female predators that prowled the bleachers, all of whom were focusing the lasers of their collective hunger at him with one burning question in mind: Who would he ask to the dance?
The winner of the conjugal lottery was always going to be Annie, and she knew it. All the others never had a chance. Marty and Mike B. exchanged knowing glances whenever she giggled and flirted. She really has her hooks in him, their eyes agreed sagely, with a hint of wistfulness around the corners. Despite their frustration during the rutting season, they had to admit that Annie was actually a lot of fun to be around. She loved to laugh, with a big toothy smile that stretched her lips wide. Her hair was straight blonde, hanging over her eyes, and cut in the helmet shape that was the current fashion. She had a nice figure, and was very physical – often touching someone when she spoke, or moving her body unconsciously to accentuate what she was saying. Annie talked and giggled a lot, so her lovely body was constantly in motion. Her sense of humor was just like theirs, and it didn’t take long until she switched her allegiance. She took Mike S. for her man and joined their tribe naturally; without a formal invitation, while her female minions melted awkwardly away.
To say Mike & Annie were made for each other would be an insult to puerile pop song lyrics everywhere. But they were clearly destined to be with each other all the same. From that day on, everywhere they went they were in constant physical contact (except when using the bathroom because that would be gross). They kissed excessively and fondled each other with a sweaty veneer of barely-controlled restraint. It really didn’t matter where they were: at school or the park, in a car, or standing in line at the store, they’d be spontaneously cleaving like famished sailors. Marty had to develop new and creative ways to be in their presence and yet ignore them. It didn’t matter how many people were around; they fused from hip to mouth at the drop of a hat, and groped each other shamelessly. Old folks stared at them in horror, young dudes laughed, and girls got red. Marty implored them to please apply a modicum of discretion appropriate to their surroundings. If left alone for more than five minutes, they’d be fornicating brazenly and frightening the children. Sometimes Marty had to escape beyond earshot to have a hope of retaining his sanity.
It wasn’t long before Mike & Annie cooked up an elaborate scheme where she and her friend April joined the “math club” after school. They were both very smart, but their intelligence was focused on doing whatever they wanted to do and getting away with it. Annie told her parents she was staying overnight at April’s house to study algebra, when she was actually out at the Rusty Bucket Ranch practicing multiplication. She and Mike spent the night in the old tree house, and frightened the wildlife all night. They were lucky not to fall off the platform, but resembled accident victims in the morning; with their hair messed up and clothes all askew. They carried on with their clandestine carnal engagement while the weather was nice, and Annie cleverly maintained her high grades, so her mom and dad were none the wiser. Her parents were both very creative artists, but were putty in her hands and no match for her guile and determination.
Marge was aware and open-minded about the underage sexual liaisons. She pointedly handed a box of condoms to Mike and said, “Don’t ever run out. I can always get more.” The problem with this policy was that nobody consulted Marty, who happened to sleep in the same bedroom. She gave him a few condoms too, just to be fair, and shrugged apologetically, knowing he wasn’t likely to need them. That unprecedented frankness was the high point of sex education from his parents to date: a handful of condoms. He sincerely hoped he would get to use them… and that they came with instructions!
Emboldened by having official permission for conjugal visits, Mike and Annie moved their passion play indoors. Unfortunately for Marty, Mike’s bed was on the opposite side of the half-wall, so for him it was like having a room next to the newlyweds at a cheap hotel who were fucking their brains out all night long. No, actually, it was like being in the same room, which was really weird. The sensual sound effects were not at all conducive to sleep, and were uniquely disturbing when awake. Pippin was sleeping on the couch in the main room every night, so he must have heard it, too. At times the bed started banging against the wall, vibrating like a coin-operated mattress, and Marty had to yell at them to knock it off!
The first time they debuted their indoor performance, Marty hoped it was a one-time fling. The second time, he hoped it would be a brief trend. After the third, fourth, and fifth time, he was ready to sleep on the roof! It was time to say something about it, but the problem was deciding what to say. Those teenage trysts were clearly (and most audibly) the peak experiences of their existence as living beings, and it was hard to voice a complaint about that in any way. Marty considered that just because he wasn’t getting any didn’t mean that he should limit his brother from getting his. Still, it was a playing field they shared, and the non-participants hadn’t been asked if the nocturnal games were acceptable. Marty finally decided to tell his new foster brother it was bothering him. The nightly calisthenics were pushing the limits of his tolerance, and he wasn’t going to sleep outside! Mike looked sorry but confident, as if he’d been waiting for Marty to say something and had already worked out a solution.
“Hey man, no problem. If it bothers you, we can just do it quietly.”
Marty gaped at him in utter disbelief, as if Cap’n Hook had sworn an oath of silence. “Do it quietly?” he intoned in a high pitch, like the Monty Python skit about the dead parrot. “And I suppose you’re going to float in mid-air to keep the bed from thumping on the wall?”
Mike looked thoughtful, as if considering the mid-air possibilities. “Don’t worry, man. Get yourself a girlfriend, and we can do it in stereo.”
Marty was screwed. Or rather, not screwed at all. Maybe that was really the problem.