Tenakee Springs

We took the summer after graduation to kayak up the Inside Passage then ferry ourselves back stateside. We were about three quarters of our way up the Passage when we put to shore one evening at dusk in a small sheltered cove about five miles north of a small village we had paddled past earlier in the day. By dark the kayaks were tied up above the tide line and we were nested down beside the fire, passing around a matte gourd and whiskey flask and watching the stars come out. Our tongues were thawed out and loosened by the whiskey, and our lungs, after inhaling the warm smoke of the fire, exhaled laughter that would freeze in a crystal mist in the crisp air.

We had all been friends since freshman year in the dorms. The second night since move-in, Brad and James, roommates by random assignment, managed to buy a keg and sneak it down the hall past the RAs and into their room, but got themselves caught when a line formed outside their door that stretched all the way down to the commons. They got written up and sent to the same alcoholic and drug awareness workshop as Lindsey and myself, who got written up when the girls’ floor RA walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth and found Lindsey holding my hair out of my face as I puked up vodka and fruit from too much spoadie. Friends ever since.

Laughing over the good times, the sober and the faded, such memories drove our journey onwards just as hard as the paddling. Our bodies were cold and ached to the marrow, and each night when we turned in, our sleeping bags became like a Chinese water torture device that kept us on edge anticipating sunrise just like the next drop of water. With the acknowledgment of the inescapable morning we bid the fire adieu and crawled into our bags, and as we were preparing ourselves for sleep, we heard the rocks along the shore begin to shift.

Footsteps from about a hundred yards away traveled closer and at an unsteady gait. My racing heart pounded over our panicked shushings of one another, as we listened and waited to see what wild Alaskan creature was coming and whether or not we could defend ourselves from it. Through the shadows of the moon, a figure could be deciphered. It was a man, an old fisherman type, stumbling drunk along the shore all the way from that village, I’d assume. The moonlight followed him like a spotlight. His bones were made of driftwood and saltwater ran through his veins. He continued his stumbling stroll until he stopped and stood directly between our camp and the water. He turned to face the sea, oblivious to our observing party.

Dumbfounded isn’t the right word for our reaction, and the word processor thesaurus offers up no better choice, but to continue on. In his left hand was a bottle of whiskey he lifted to his lips and took an Alaskan-frontierman sized swig. He cleared his throat, smacked his lips, and then let out a cry to the sea, “MMRRROOOAAAHHH!” that dissolved into the sounding crash of the waves.

We tried to stifle our laughter, but what did escape our throats, the crackling fire consumed. He seemed out of place here outside of civilization, like maybe he wandered too far from his tent-city downtown. But this drifter was strikingly different from the packers loitering outside downtown bars. We watched, waiting to see what he would do next, but he stood still, bottle by his side. And then from the silence, so far out that the beams from our headlamp couldn’t reach, there was a violent spout of air shot up through the water, as if Poseidon had surfaced. And then the creature called back to answer the old man. For several minutes they called back and forth to each other, like old friends. We sat there with mouths agape and swallowing smoke. Then there was one last “MMRROOOAAAAHHH!” come out from the sea, the violent splash of a breech, and a silence as deep as the Pacific. The old man turned, took a swig, and stumbled on down the rocky shore back towards the faint village lights.

Reality Show Cinderella

Her name was Shaquela. Her parents were big Lakers fans. Every time she talked she'd smack her mouth open and say "Umm" before starting on with her sentence. And then usually followed with "Excuse me Miss," in an attempt to coerce a hall pass and a trip to the bathroom out of Ms. Jennings. God, I hated her. I never could take her loud teasing. It was the mom jokes that really got me. I'd pretend like I had to get something out of my cubby in the coat closet so that no one could see my eyes starting to well up. So every time new seating arrangements came around, I'd pray like a plea-bargaining atheist at the Pearly Gates that I wouldn't have to sit next to her.

Come to find out, she has her very own cable reality show. How I came to find out was flipping channels this particular hung-over Saturday morning. Apparently, and it scares me to wonder how they would find this out, but she spends more time checking her Myspace than anyone else in the world. The world's number one biggest Myspace snoop. Some producer found this intriguing and gave her a reality show.

So it's a dating show where she pairs up a participant with another Myspace member based on their profiles. She says there's a magic number based on the output of a formula that inputs number of profile views, birthday, and number of profile friends. Then, if the date absolutely crashes, which they always do, the unlucky reject gets "deleted." Sure enough, Shaquela still smacked her mouth open and cleared her throat with "Umm" every single time she said anything.

I grew up in Mobile, Alabama where my father was an engineer for an oil company drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. When I was a freshman in high school he got transferred to the company's Fairbanks, Alaska sight. It felt like we were just working our way down the list of states in alphabetical order, moving every few years to make sure we spent time living in each an every one, right down to Wyoming. I can still sing the song my fifth grade teacher made us learn to remember the order.

I went to elementary and middle school with Shaquela. Then, sometime during the end of eight grade she got pregnant by a high school basketball player. Whether or not she had it taken care of, she came back to start ninth grade at the high school in August with the rest of us, and very much not pregnant. The prayer bulletin at Aunt's church said it was complications with the pregnancy that took her baby back up to heaven.

When the television show cut to the first commercial break, I shook myself out of my comatose disbelief and grabbed my cell phone to call Gabe. He was my only childhood friend from Mobile whose voice still recognized. We actually call one another to say happy birthday instead of just leaving a comment on Facebook. Every other three hundred sixty three days of the year we chat online. Unless it's a special occasion, such as needing bail money wired...or this one.

Three rings and I was preparing in my head the message I would leave on his voicemail.

"Hey how's it going?" he answered, taking me by surprise.

"You won't believe this. Turn your tv on Vh1"

I watched the rest of the episode with Gabe on the other line. The only time we spoke was during commercial breaks. I wanted to make fun of her like I would make fun of girls on Los Angeles's Angels and my roommates for watching it.

But this wasn't entertainment. It was tragedy. It was a grade-school classmate who at recess shared her fashion magazine she would buy each month with her petty change allowance her daddy gave her out of his disability check. She said after high school she wanted to go live with her cousin in the A-T-L and they were going to open up a boutique. She said if we were still her friends, she'd give us free clothes. I never flattered myself that she would give me free clothes, I wouldn't wear her ugly clothes anyhow. But even during commercial break, I couldn't bring myself to laugh like I would at the Los Angeles's Angels. This wasn't reality entertainment. This was exploitation.