“Woo Hoo!” Mike screamed above the Deep Purple 8-track tape that the former owner had thrown in as a bonus. That chrome-and-red beast tore up White’s Hill as a lion seizes its prey, and the hills around the Woodacre stretch of highway were passing in a blur.
“Smoke on the water… fire in the sky!”
The popular album on the radio at the time was Rumours, by Fleetwood Mac. The smash single, Dreams, played on endless repeat every five minutes, but it was such a good song that Marty didn’t mind. The rest of the album was a gut-wrenching magnum opus on the spectrum of relationships, from wild infatuation to dismal breakups. In this gift of musical genius, from a group of adults that never learned how to be emotionally mature, those who were just learning the game finally had a voice.
“And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again…
I can still hear you sayin’ we must never break the chain…”
It didn’t take long before Marge was back dredging the Slodge, and she came home with a very atypical specimen (for her). He was much older, and dressed as if he lived in his work clothes. “I’m Dirk, the Duct Man,” he introduced himself proudly, with a hearty handshake. Marty learned later he meant “duct” as in heating and air conditioning, and was disappointed that he wasn’t actually a duck. His arms were long, skinny, and wiry strong, with fingers yellowed from years of smoking. A meager remnant of black hair was slicked straight back, on top of a long, sloping forehead. His Ben Davis shirt had a pack of Camels permanently installed in the breast pocket, and he smelled strongly of nicotine. There were always two or three cartons of cigarettes in the cab of his truck, which was more like a rolling recycling bin, with all the junk piled on the seat up to the windows. There was just enough space where the driver could sit, and no room for passengers. He and Marge drove home separately, where he sat cross-legged at the kitchen table with an ashtray and a cold Budweiser long-neck in front of him; spewing out carcinogens like a creosote plant.
His toxic presence made Marge smoke more, too, so the kids spent more time outside, which was fine with them because the woods were starting to dry out again. Lagunitas was always prettiest in the early summer. Mike drove Annie and Marty all over, and often Mike B. would join them, too. It didn’t matter where they went, Mike just loved to drive and be seen in his Mustang. It naturally turned heads everywhere he went, and Mike perfected that ‘yes, I know I have a nice car’ nod to other drivers who honked and waved. Annie was always in front, of course, which left Marty and Mike B. in the back, with rock & roll blasting new holes in their skulls. But no matter how loud the music was, Annie was louder. She could be heard over any background noise, and would sometimes cause people to duck and cover when she really had to yell. Her voice was a weapon she wielded expertly and often.
They all had jobs, too, because money was just so damn useful. Mike B. worked at a pizza place, so they often had leftover munchies. Annie ran the take-out window at a fast food restaurant, and never had to use the microphone. Her boyfriend, Mike S., was a bucket monkey at a local bar and grill, bussing tables, washing dishes, and filling the ice bins. Marty still worked at Red Hill Shell, and often helped out at the pet store, too. He found that trading his life for money was a pretty good deal, because he had lots of life ahead of him, and the money bought a higher quality of life during the times when he wasn’t working.
Just before the July 4th weekend they all had time off, and went on a road trip up to the Russian River. There was a green metal bridge about 50 feet over the water from which daredevils were fond of plummeting. They laughed as several lesser gargoyles leapt and flailed in the sun after too much beer and sun on the beach; flashing their red-and-white skin, and making clumsy splashes. The new, would-be divers weren’t too sure if they would attempt the plunge, but Annie liked to goad people into doing things, and was diabolically persuasive. Her ‘man’ had to be first, Mike B. insisted on going next, and Marty waited to see if anyone would die before he tried it. When it was his turn, he just stepped out into nothingness before he could think about it too much. Part of him hoped he might hang in midair like Wile E. Coyote, but instead he dropped like a sack of cement. The brief airborne time was awesome, but hitting the water wasn’t so much fun. It went up his nostrils, ripped his cutoffs, and would have smashed his nuts into peanut butter if he hadn’t covered them up and hit the water just right with legs locked and toes pointed, as he’d seen the smarter jumpers doing.
One of the reasons Annie was so fun to hang out with was that she genuinely loved all of them as brothers. She was madly in love with Mike S. of course, but genuinely enjoyed Marty’s sense of humor, too. And for some strange reason, she thought Mike B. was hilarious. She couldn’t look at him without cracking up! She loved getting stoned, which suited them all just fine, and when high she’d get uncontrollable giggles every time she looked at Mike B. He didn’t have to say anything, but she would fall over and gasp for air uncontrollably.
“You can’t be ‘Mike,’ too,” she said abruptly one day, biting her lip in a vain attempt to be serious.
“What do you mean?” he asked, and sent her into another conniption fit of laughter. They all laughed along, because she was so silly.
“This is Mike,” she kissed her boyfriend and cuddled for two and a half seconds. Then she straightened up and stamped her foot dramatically at Mike B, “You can’t be Mike, too. You need a nickname.”
“How about ‘Stinky’?” Marty suggested, and ducked when an empty beer can whizzed past his ear.
“No, you’re something else.” She was peering intently at Mike B. the whole time, divining the appropriate moniker while trying not to snicker (and failing often). “I’ve got it!” she bounced with glee, “Boobers! You’re Boobers!!” She laughed insanely. Mike B. tried immediately to brush it off, but unfortunately it stuck on him like a wad of gum to the bottom of a shoe.
“Boobers! Boobers!” Mike and Marty chanted in chorus, between guffaws, and more empties flew in their direction.
The Boobers formerly known as Mike B. was decidedly unhappy about his new name, but it didn’t matter. Annie had labeled him as irrevocably as an entomologist names a new species of bug, and it was written in the natural history books forever. Of course, they informed everyone they knew about his new name, and so the new “Boobers” took his rightful place in the bleacher ecosystem. Eventually he shrugged, and embraced his newfound Booberness with the placid acceptance of a monk. What was a name, anyway, but an artificial label bestowed upon a person by someone else, usually at birth? A name means so much more when it is conferred after understanding a person well, like Raccoon… or Grunion… or Boobers.