weekend-warrior buddies
from law school. We had separate tubes for the sandwich basket, and for
the Point beer and Tahitian Treat coolers, the gooey Canada Dry fruit punch I
was addicted to for a few years. Most everyone got sunburned to death,
but me and this young stoner (that Dad hated) who took up law to figure out how
to break it (Dad's description) were the only ones with enough balls, or
stupidity, to sail through the rapids at the end. I was actually pretty
scared, but I was determined to show up all the future shysters, even if I did
almost drown myself in the process.
Of
course, I'll always remember my collection phase, when it seemed like I
collected collections. We went hunting for sea shells in Miami ,
man-o-wars be damned, and took pictures next to every spacecraft at Cape Kennedy .
We scoured the undusted corners of the country in search of small breweries and
beer cans. I had to have every Hot Wheels, Johnny Lightning, Matchbox,
Dinky, Corgi, and Solido car ever produced. Then I moved on to
matchbooks, just so Dad had to spring for dinner at every high-class restaurant
downtown.
I
drove Mom and Dad nuts one summer, demanding to see the White Sox play at every
American League team's home park. They saw me so little, they agreed to
split the difference and take me to see the whole American League visit the Sox
at home. Most of the games were at night, all the better to see our
scoreboard explode when the White Sox rustled up a home run. We sat at
third base side upper deck railing seats provided to us by old Congressman
Kasza, who became the grandfather I never had in those days, lavish and
affectionate, sizing up every player and every pitch and every swing as we sat
next to each other with our eyes locked toward home and our arms crossed over
the railing.
Papu
would let me run from aisle to aisle at Bargain Town on my birthday, picking out whatever I wanted,
until the cart was full. He got off easy the year I went for Tonka
trucks. He got hit pretty hard the year I discovered board games.
He
would take me and Mom and Dad for weekend trips up to the Playboy Club in Lake Geneva .
Mom liked to go horseback riding, while Dad studied in the lounge. I
still wonder if it had anything to do with all the illuminated pictures of
Playmates behind the bar. Papu always went fishing, winter or summer,
rain or shine, while I hung out in the indoor pool. One time, Dad and
Papu bought me a leopard-print silk bathing suit and had two young bunnies
cuddle up to me on top of the game room's pool table for a picture that never
fails to gall my buddies or Uncle Alex.
I
know I cried more than anyone else at the funeral home when Papu died a few
years back. I was too distraught to go to the funeral. I wish he was
still here.
A
couple of winters ago, when the sniping started, I got shipped off to Uncle
Alex's Minnesota farm for Christmas. I hated it at first,
because Uncle Alex had moved from gin to LSD by then. One morning, two
older teenagers saw me ice fishing from across the lake. They rode over
on their snowmobiles, introduced themselves, and invited me to go sledding with
them. We went out every day for a month after that, tearing the lake and
the nearby golf course to shreds, before coming back to spend the evening
playing with Unc's pinball machine while he tripped out in the privacy of his
bedroom.
I
was sent back the following summer, as things continued to get worse with the
parental units. This time, I didn't mind. Unc was dried out, had
sold a painting, and decided to spend a lot of his money on me, that is,
whenever I wasn't playing baseball with Kevin, Joel, and the rest of their
friends, all of whom were pretty nice to me, considering I was barely fourteen
and they were all pushing eighteen. You know how the age caste thing
works with kids.
It
was even fun running away from Dad and getting lost on Danger Island on my first trip to Disneyland . I cried a