O’Farrell said, “Oh, you thought I said Mac has a mind of leather. Actually, I said he has a daughter named Heather!”

O’Farrell laughed the loudest. “Ha!  Ha!”

​

"Oh, you thought I said. . .”

O’Farrell felt chest pains. Alarmed, he guzzled his beer, like he was quenching a thirst. “Oh, you thought I called you a moron,” he babbled. “Actually, I said if you’re cold put more on.”

He slumped in his chair, exhausted.  Mac and Gilpin lit cigarettes.  O’Farrell poked a finger into his own pack.

Mac howled suddenly: “Oh you thought I said HA HA HA!”

O’Farrell laughed, made a fist and pounded the table; a stitch of pain raced across the upper left side of his back.

Gilpin sat rigidly. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room. His restlessness annoyed O’Farrell, who for years had watched Gilpin jump around, all for naught.

“You guys are crazy,” said Gilpin. He nodded toward Mac. “You’re crazy.  You’re just. . .” pointing at O’Farrell “. . . just stupid.”

                                                                                           ---

​

They had sprinted through two six-packs. O’Farrell suggested a run to the Seven-Eleven for more.

​

“Let’s go to the sinkhole,” Gilpin said. “It’s fucking hot.” He stood, flipping his chair, and snatched his cigarettes from the table. “Let’s go. Let’s book.”

The others ignored him. “Where’s your delivery?” O’Farrell asked Mac, who owned a small business.  

"Ocala,” Mac said.

“Gotta go this morning?” O’Farrell said.

Mac nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good then,” Gilpin said. “We can go right now. Right now.”

Mac and O’Farrell looked at each other and shrugged.

Gilpin yelled at Mac. “Get your towel,” he cried. “Gonna wear those shorts?  Let’s book! We gotta stop at my house.”

O’Farrell stood. He turned to Gilpin. “You wanna go? Go. Just shut the hell up.”

He shoved Gilpin toward the door. With Mac at the rear, they stumbled down the staircase.

                                                                                           ---

 

Outside, the air was heavy and still, the sun overpowering at 11 a.m. The heat rebounded off the asphalt. Haggard-looking palm trees lined the edges of the parking lot.  After the three young men had walked the few yards to Mac’s pickup truck, they were soaked. 

Mac unlocked the door and they slid inside. “Shit,” said O’Farrell. He studied Mac. “Where’s your phone?”

Mac’s hand was on the ignition key. “The hell with it,” he said. “It’s Saturday.”

Gilpin shook the front of his shirt. “I’m leaving this state, swear to God. Just watch. You ever talk to Roach? He’s stationed in Virginia now. Says it’s great in the spring. Open the windows, will ya?”

“Good for Roach,” O’Farrell said. “You joinin’ the Navy anytime soon?”

“Screw that.” Gilpin waved impatiently. “I told you about the guy in Vegas, didn’t I? Gonna give me a job.”

“Roach’ll be AWOL before the year’s out,” O’Farrell said. “That bastard thinks taking a leak is hard work.”

Mac, hands on the wheel, watched Gilpin flip on the air conditioner. 

“You, ya lazy fuck, you oughta know,” Gilpin said to O’Farrell.

Mac guided the truck to the mouth of the driveway. “Don’t be so free with your hands,” he told Gilpin.

They sat for a moment, waiting for traffic to clear. “Gotta go by the feed store,” Mac muttered.

“Seven-Eleven first,” Gilpin said.

                                                                                          ---

​

They bought several six-packs, then drove to Mac’s Feed Store. The store had been passed down to Mac by his father. It was a square vanilla-colored structure about sixty-feet long with a silo attached to the back.

O’Farrell remembered visiting here as a boy. Even on Saturdays, the store had bustled with activity. Diesel trucks pulled up to the loading dock, and burly men in jeans, spitting tobacco, tossed feed bags around and told dirty stories.

Today, the parking lot was empty. The pickup stopped near the front door. They jumped out, each holding a can of beer and nursing a cigarette. A gray cat sat and watched them; Mac knelt to pet it. He stood and fumbled with his keys, leaving his beer on the cement. The animal sniffed and pawed at the can, almost tipping it. O’Farrell snatched up the beer with alacrity.

Mac fitted a key into the hole and swung open the door. A deep smell of grain met the men like a physical presence. It grew stronger as they walked through the dark building. For a moment, the air was too thick to breathe.

Gilpin hacked through a coughing spree. “Shit, he gasped. He placed his hand on an old vending machine. “You fix this thing yet?”

“Get away from there,” Mac said.

They walked to the back of a large storage room stacked with 50-pound burlap sacks. Sun streamed in through cracks and holes in the roof.

“Five bags,” Mac said, squinting. “That’s it for today, maybe all weekend pray to God.” He dropped his cigarette, and his heel ground it into the hardwood.

Mac was the largest of the three. He lifted a feed bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the door in long, loping strides. O’Farrell and Gilpin slid a bag between them toward the pickup truck, grunting and cursing. The sweat ran off them in pearl-sized drops.

                                                                                               ---

​

On the road again, they were guzzling beer and smoking. The pickup truck passed the local college campus. Old stone dormitories stood among new, orange brick buildings, palm trees and a five-story clock tower. Kids wandered around in shorts.

“We’ll help you wire the room on Thursday,” Gilpin told Mac, “then we’ll get the tickets. They go on sale right then. Stephanie’s gonna loan me the money, did I tell ya?”

“We won’t be able to start ‘til ten,” Mac said. “We’re gonna need help.”

“Bullshit,” Gilpin said.

“What time can you come?” Mac asked O’Farrell.

“Soon as I wake up.”

“When’s that?” Mac asked.

“How about noon?”

“Christ almighty,” Mac said.

“Pass that car,” Gilpin said. “I wanna get to the water before it evaporates.”

“Noon,” Mac said with disgust.

“It all depends on your point of view,” O’Farrell said drunkenly. “I’m in no hurry to get a job because, um, because. What I mean to say is, you look at these students, they think they’re going somewhere. Ha, I say. Ha!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gilpin said.

“I shoulda stayed in school,” Mac moaned. “But I couldn’t.”

“School don’t mean shit,” O’Farrell said.

“I shoulda sold the store to some chump,” Mac said. “You know what the county’s gonna do with the property tax? You hear about that?”

“No,” said O’Farrell. “But let me tell you something. You look at these kids, they’re no better off than you. Not that any of you have it made. You’re ALL fucked!”

O’Farrell finished his beer with a big gulp, then began bending the aluminum can.

“Stephanie’s lending you money?” Mac said.

“Yeah,” Gilpin said.

“What does she want in return?”

Stephanie was the sister of Mac’s ex-wife, who two years ago had left Mac, taking their small daughter, Heather.

“Nothing.”

Mac rolled the window open and spat. “No such goddamn thing.”

On the road ahead a thin brown dog appeared. Mac slowed the truck, and watched it scoot into a parking lot. “We’ll go to Ocala later,” he said, “make the delivery.  ‘Course, that means we gotta leave the sinkhole early.”

“Oh,” Gilpin said. “Absolutely.”

After a couple of more miles, they left the city limits. They drove on a bumpy two-lane road with the heat steaming off the pavement. They passed small houses with automobile frames in the yards. Some had hand-written signs in front advertising live worms.

Mac blurted: “All of em don’t have to end up like your old man.”

O’Farrell looked at him. “Huh?”

“Uh, they all don’t have to work themselves to death,” Mac said.

O’Farrell closed his eyes for a moment. “He didn’t exactly work himself to death,” he said. “It was his nerves. The pressure wore him down. My point is, you go to college, you could get a job that scares you to death.”

“Damn right!” Gilpin exclaimed. “They don’t tell ya about that in high school.”

“Heart attack city,” O’Farrell said.
                                                                                          ---

Branches and leaves rubbed against the pickup’s windows as Mac drove slowly down a dirt road near the sinkhole. He steered the vehicle into a clearing, and parked on a patch of grass.  The men left the truck, carrying six-packs and towels.

They tramped through the woods. The air smelled of plants and dirt. Gilpin hurried ahead of the others. He turned back toward them and said, “I read where the band’s carrying an extra guitarist. Can you imagine?”

“I can imagine,” Mac said. “But watch out for Stephanie. I think she’s as crazy as her sister.”

Gilpin snorted. “Crazy?  You were going out every night. Getting blitzed. “Whaddya expect?”

“Maybe I used the wrong word,” Mac said.  “How this:  she’s a cunt.”

“Hey,” Gilpin said. “It’s no big thing.”

“She used to buy the booze,” Mac said.  He paused and ripped a limb from a bush.  He swished it through the air like a sword. “But she never bought enough. So I always had to go out and buy more.  Sometimes I never made it back.  She was crafty that way.”

“Gimme that,” Gilpin said.  He snatched the stick from Mac’s hand.  “She’s crazy?  You’re a lunatic.”

Gilpin flung the stick into the woods. He dropped his six-pack and bent to retrieve it.  

“HAW HAW HAW!” Mac brayed. 

They reached the end of the path and looked at the sinkhole. It was a lake about 200 yards in diameter. Foliage grew out to the point where the water began, producing a lush and exotic atmosphere. Mac, Gilpin and O’Farrell walked to their favorite spot.

They stood on a large white rock, about six feet above water level. They stretched their arms and took off their shirts. Each revealed the same general build -- thin, with expanding white bellies. As the largest of the three, Mac had the roundest stomach.

“I wanna tell you something right now,” said Gilpin.  “We’re only friends.”

“Good,” O’Farrell said. “Then she can lend me money too. We’re almost friends.  We may’ve even met once. I wanna go to the concert, but my mom won’t give me a dime.”

“I told ya,” Mac said. He sat with his feet dangling over the water. “Help me wire the goddamn storage room, and I’ll buy your ticket.”

O’Farrell grunted, and began climbing a rope ladder that hung from the top of a tree. A cigarette jutted from the corner of his mouth.

The ladder swayed pendulously. O’Farrell looked down at the lake.  There were a couple of rubber rafts drifting along; the land near the water was scattered sparsely with people.

O’Farrell climbed higher. Terrified of heights, he relied on drunkenness to do stuff like this.

Birds flew around him. Just above, he heard the hard flapping of wings.

Startled, O’Farrell looked up. He expected to see the nearby head of a fowl, but saw only branches. His heart was banging. He hesitated, hugging the ladder, his bare feet digging into the damp rope.

Suddenly, O’Farrell experienced a sharp taste of nicotine. He felt a tug in his chest. Pretty soon, he told himself, he was gonna be as old as his father was on the old man’s last day on earth. O’Farrell wheezed in the thick, hot air, and took another step toward the top.

About thirty-five feet up, O’Farrell reached a wooden platform. He placed his right leg on top of it, and hauled himself up.

The water looked to him like blue-tinted glass, distant and abstract. The sun glinted off the surface in silvery flashes. People seemed very small.

O’Farrell wondered: if he fell and cracked his head open, who would give a damn? He felt a wave of nausea, and spat out his cigarette.

It dropped between leafy branches, landing not far from Mac, who was guiding a rope toward O’Farrell. The rope hung from the branch of an adjacent tree.

Mac looked up, shielding his eyes. Behind him, Gilpin sipped a beer and perused the lake.

O’Farrell shouted at Mac. “Hey!” he yelled. “About that ticket!  Forget it!”

Mac blinked. “Huh?  What?”

“I have my pride!” O’Farrell yelled.

Mac grinned and tugged down on the rope. “Can ya reach it?”

O’Farrell nodded and reached out. His eyes scanned upwards. Way above, thick treetops jostled together. The sky was a deep blue. O’Farrell took a breath, and released air in spurts.

O’Farrell squeezed the rope with both hands. A wave of dread passed through him, leaving his body exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment.

O’Farrell stepped off the platform. First, he noticed there was nothing under his feet. Eyes wide, he watched the water slowly rise to meet him. O’Farrell forgot that he held the rope; it was like he was flying. The air rushed past him. His surroundings became a blur. His mouth was stretched into a distorted grin. It strained his face, but he wasn’t aware: the sensation was one with the vivid excitement that coursed through his body like a torrent.  

The rope carried O’Farrell at an angle toward the water, then lifted him as it swung upward. O’Farrell let go when he sensed the rope was fully extended. Momentum thrust him forward. His arms fluttered for balance.

Then he was still, like a cartoon character who has run off a cliff, and hesitates before he drops. O’Farrell felt the discharge of adrenaline, blowing away every other feeling, annihilating his drunkenness. His scream of glee began just as he started to fall.

He saw the water rush upwards. His ears exploded, as if he’d lost the top of his head. “OHHH…YOU THOUGHT I SAYYAAHHH…”

Mac and Gilpin, watching from the side, looked at each other and rolled their eyes.  

O’Farrell hit the water with his knees pressed tightly to his chest, a perfect cannonball. The splash was impressive. The water, clear and cool, felt wonderful.

                                                                                                ---

​

O’Farrell swam to the rock. He climbed up, panting. Gilpin’s pale, freckled face broke into a grin. “Holy shit!  It’s Steph! It’s Steph!”

Gilpin shouted and waved. “Hey!  Hey!”

O’Farrell looked back at the water. Mac’s former sister-in-law, Stephanie, lolled by on a rubber raft near the center of the lake. Another young woman rode with her.  Both girls wore bikinis.

O’Farrell grabbed a towel. “What a coincidence,” he said.

“I had no idea,” Gilpin said. The three men stood, staring at the raft. Gilpin shook his arms to loosen them, then he dove off the rock.

Gilpin broke water and swam toward the raft. “Wait!  Wait!” The girls watched him with mild smiles.

“Who’s the other one?” O’Farrell asked.

Mac shrugged. “I’ve seen her around.”

O’Farrell cracked open a beer. “I don’t know who’s the bigger sap,” he said, “him or her.”

Mac stared at the water, his eyes very still. He lighted a cigarette. “I don’t think there’s any doubt,” he said softly.

They watched Gilpin approach the raft. He climbed clumsily aboard.

“His trouble is,” O’Farrell said, “he thinks people actually give a damn.”

Mac scowled, then eased himself down to a sitting position. Yawning, he said, “Why don’t you join them?”

O’Farrell considered for a moment. “No way.”

Gilpin was sitting on one side of the raft, the girls were on the other. Mac and O’Farrell watched Gilpin talk, illustrating points with emphatic arm gestures.

                                                                                           ---

​

Five hours later, O’Farrell and Mac trudged back to the pickup truck. The late afternoon sun was still bright, but the men were drunk, tired and sunburned. As Mac unlocked the door, Gilpin, whom they hadn’t seen in hours, was yelling at them. They turned and saw him approaching from the path. Both men waited outside the truck.

“Where ya going?” Gilpin cried. “Wait!”

Gilpin was hurrying, saying something neither man could understand.

O’Farrell sighed with annoyance. His skin was red and raw, and the sun continued to beat down. His drunkenness was exhausting. Mac was slumped against the truck, his eyes looking like pools of blood.

O’Farrell looked inside the truck. The feed bags, slated for delivery to Ocala, were piled behind the seat. “And those?”

Mac just shook his head. He was watching Gilpin approach. O’Farrell looked at Mac, staring at the side of his face.

​

He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

​

                                                                                          THE END

​

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