Outside In Page 4

  “What will it do? I mean, what if I have a reaction?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a virgin in our midst. Nose cherry about to be burst. There ain’t no line like your first line, my friend. Insert straw, bend down, inhale, and follow the white powder road. Time to stop being Mr. Shepherd. Just be Brad.”

  I wish it were that easy. The body changes locations much quicker than the mind. I stare at the lines and push back the fear. “No more Mr. Shepherd.” Bending down, my hair falls in my face and drags across the plate.

  Cinch says, “Pull that mop back. I’ll hold it. There’s only two times when I’ll hold another man’s hair: snorting and puking. Hopefully the latter won’t happen tonight.”

  Ssshhhump. I huff the first one down. An ether smell fills my face, but I feel nothing.

  Cinch follows, inhaling powerfully. Ssshhhump. “Cocaine and alcohol are like hamburgers and French fries,” he says. “Pancakes and syrup, turkey and dressing.”

  I say, “My nose burns a little, but I don’t—” My throat swells, and the back of my neck tingles. I’m both energized and relaxed.

  Cinch laughs. “And Brad discovered the drip. Don’t you love how that medicinal flavor trickles into the back of your throat? Your life will never be the same.”

  The cocaine erases my alcohol buzz. Thoughts bubble like baking soda added to vinegar and erupt as rambling speech. I say, “I never thought I’d be doing this tonight. I mean, it’s my first time. Not like I’ve never seen it, but I wasn’t interested. It’s got to be bad for you, right? But it’s really not a big deal. I mean, I feel really good, like an intense caffeine buzz. I hope it lasts. Hey, been meaning to tell you, made a decision about my work dilemma—I’m moving in.”

  “All righty then.” He hands me the tooter. “Let’s celebrate.”

  Ssshhhump.

  Ssshhhump.

  Cinch slides the plate under the couch. “Just be cool when we go back to the bar. People love the white, but they don’t like to admit it. There’s a lot of guilt and deception with it. If you have any doubt about people, just ask me.”

  More concerned with the effect on me than others, I say, “How much was that? I mean, how much should I do? I don’t want to overdo it.”

  Cinch says, “Don’t worry. We’ll just take it one line at a time.”

  In the Round House, Whiplash charges into the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and transforms the barroom into a dance floor. Cinch dances wildly. Feeling conspicuous, I trail a modest distance behind. The frenzy intensifies my buzz. My mind accelerates: third, fourth, fifth gear. I look around. The rest of the world tries to keep up.

  Cinch bounces to the bar for drinks. Astrid, standing by herself a few feet away, winks at me. “You two were gone for a while. The night is almost over.”

  I slide over next to her, trying to be nonchalant, but inside, my thoughts shove one another out of the way to get to the front. “But we’re just getting started. I mean, the night is young. You should join. That is, if you want to. You know what I mean.”

  Astrid motions toward Cinch gyrating to the music at the bar. “Hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “No worries. I’m on vacation,” I say, reinforcing my battle cry.

  Cinch returns, bringing a cocktail for Astrid as well. “Tonight’s going to be one of those nights. I can feel it.”

  The parachute ceiling billows from the movement. I scan the room. Perched above the crowd in the front and next to the restrooms are two bouncers in lifeguard chairs. I say, “Were those chairs here before? I didn’t notice them. But they had to be, right?”

  “Yep, but no one was in them,” Cinch says. “When it gets busy, it’s the only way we can see the whole floor. You’ll be up there with a flashlight. Pretty simple: no one’s allowed to stand on chairs or tables, and both feet on the floor at all times. We use the flashlight to get people’s attention, so we don’t have to keep climbing up and down. You’ll see some unbelievable shit from there.”

  Almost on cue, the guy in the chair near us shines his beam on a young lady standing on top of her stool. Since she doesn’t respond to the light on her face, he shakes it back and forth and then raises his hand and points to the ground.

  “Reminding people of the rules is about 90 percent of the job,” Cinch says. “Another 8 percent is talking to people and answering the same questions over and over, and the last 2 percent is the ugly stuff. It’s nice that the smallest part of the job is the physical side. Actually, bouncers cause most fights. At the slightest sign of trouble, they start throwing their weight around. That’s why I choose to manage my boredom by keeping a slight buzz—just enough to keep me entertained, but not so much that I lose control.”

  Astrid says, “Keep in mind that Cinch’s version of control is bedlam.”

  “You got to do something to keep it interesting,” he says. “People think the job is one long party, that you get all kinds of women. Overall, it’s monotonous. A customer trying to be clever will ask you a question, and two days later a different person will be in the same spot asking the same question. I just stroke ’em—answer like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard their smartass question, then turn the conversation back on the person so he talks about himself. It’s not like I’m totally jacking them off. People really prefer to talk about themselves anyway.”

  “Sounds like teaching,” I say. “Trying to deal with the same questions and annoying problems day after day with sincerity and enthusiasm. If it’s not the students giving you a hard time, it’s the administrators or the parents hassling you.”

  “Last call for alcohol,” Birch says over the PA. “Grab someone close.”

  I scan the room, still feeling numb. “Wow, this night flew by.”

  Cinch says, “The whole season will. From this point, bands will roll in one after another three days at a time until after Labor Day. You’ll be surprised how quickly time passes when you live in three-day cycles.”

  In unison, or at least as close to unison as three hundred drunk people can achieve, the crowd sings along with Whiplash to an original song: Hello, friends of the Bay. Thank you for coming today. Hello, water so blue. I’ll always remember you.

  Birch holds the mic out to the crowd to sing along while he stands and gazes with satisfaction. To have his words and his music sung back to him must get him through the endless covers of Jimmy Buffett tunes.

  Cinch says, “Let’s hang in the red barn and wait for Birch to give us a ride to the Skyway. Unless you’ve had enough?”

  I say, “You’re the cruise director. Tell me where to go.”

  Cinch leads Astrid and me back to my new room. “Might as well do it back here,” he says. “It’ll be the groundbreaking ceremony for Brad Shepherd planting roots on South Bass Island.”

  I go to the window. “Whoa, look at this: a room overlooking the world-famous Round House and Park Hotel. Of course I can leave out that it’s the back of both places. And is that the cooler? This is too much. I don’t want to take the luxury suite. Really, I don’t deserve this.”

  Astrid says, “Are we going to do this or what? Brad, grab some beers. Cinch, get to work. I’ll shut the blinds.”

  Like a surgeon, Cinch repeats the procedure from earlier. But now there are six lines instead of four.

  “You trying to kill me?” Astrid says. “I need half of one of those.”

  “That rail is just a suggestion,” Cinch says. “I’m sure someone here will clean the plate if you can’t finish it.” He slides the plate toward Astrid. “Here you go. Ladies first.”

  Astrid nods at his chivalry. Compared to Cinch—who attacks the plate, seemingly trying to plant the substance directly in his lungs—she allows the tube to glide over the line, pulling up only the amount she wants before switching nostrils halfway through. “I’m an equal opportunity destroyer,” she says.

  The door to the apartment opens. “Hey, hey! Bus is leaving.” Cinch calls Birch back. His eyes
instantly go to the plate. “Didn’t take you long to make yourself at home,” he says to me.

  “My first time,” I say, and I offer some to him.

  He waves it off. “Not for me. I can’t sing with clogged sinuses.”

  When we get to the van and Birch starts driving, Astrid is silent. Cocaine seems to affect people two ways. It either removes inhibitions or it increases a person’s aloofness.

  We pull into the Skyway parking lot. A strobe light flashes in the front window. “A little disco never hurt anyone,” I say.

  Astrid breaks her silence. “Fine dining during the day, disco at night.”

  The inside of the Skyway resembles a hunting lodge: one stone wall and three covered with wood paneling, but with flashing lights and pumping bass instead of taxidermic trophies. Birch whisks behind the bar, a privilege he’s probably been awarded for directing people to this spot after the Round House closes. We join the rest of our group in a narrow area between the DJ booth and the bar that Cinch refers to as the “loge.”

  Cinch asks, “How’s the Lady treating you?”

  I say, “Awesome. I lost track of time hours ago. Today has had so many different beginnings and new experiences that it seems like several days.”

  Cinch puts his hand on my shoulder. “On the island, the recipe for an entertaining evening is drink this, smoke that, snort this, eat that. How do you feel? Well, try this and some of that.”

  “Don’t you worry about overdoing it?”

  “I’ve made my share of blunders, but another opportunity always emerges to apply what I’ve learned. A night of partying is like a night of sex. All the rising action is foreplay leading to a peak high. A person can’t be in too much of a hurry but also can’t wait too long, because if he does, everyone else will be spent by the time he gets there. He then has to party by himself, which is never a good idea, mentally or physically.”

  I say, “That’s not an option this summer.”

  Cinch points to the man talking to Haley at the end of the bar. “Come meet Stein, the chef at Kelley’s restaurant.”

  A thin, braided goatee sprouts from Stein’s distended face like a string hanging from a balloon. The light ricochets off his cobalt eyes, and although he’s looking directly at me, I don’t feel like I’m getting closer as I approach.

  Stein says, “I hear we got a newbie in our midst. Let’s go swimming afterward to christen Brad in the Lake Erie waters.”

  “Ride with us in Birch’s van,” Cinch says.

  Stein shakes him off. “I got my bike. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Cool, you ride?” I say. “We should go sometime.”

  “There aren’t very many good trails. My bike’s more for transportation. I can get around faster on my bike than I can in a car. Plus, with the way I abuse my body, I need all the exercise I can get.”

  Birch drops off three Jell-O shots, giving one to Cinch, Haley, and Stein. Each person removes the cap, pops the alcoholic red gelatin in his or her mouth, turns to a person close, and embraces as if kissing while thrusting the shot into the other’s mouth. Haley grabs Birch, Stein grabs me, and Cinch goes right back to Stein.

  “Again, again,” Stein says with a mouthful of spiked gelatin.

  I pull Astrid from the dance floor and deposit the substance in her mouth, enjoying the contact. Her skin is like silk, especially compared to Stein’s scratchy chin. Stepping back with a scowl, she swishes the 2 ounces in her mouth, looks me in the eye, and swallows, releasing a satisfying, “Ahhhhhhhh.”

  The overhead lights come on.

  Haley says, “Time for West Shore. Birch, you get alcohol, and I’ll stop at home and get towels.”

  Cinch turns to Stein. “Throw your bike in the back and ride with us. There’s a lot of idiots out there.”

  Stein says, “Something tells me I shouldn’t refuse.”

  Now there are five.

  Inside the van Cinch asks, “Who’s up for one? Birch, you got anything to chop on?”

  “Grab one of my CDs from that box back there. At least they’ll be getting some use because they sure aren’t selling.”

  The negative comment surprises me. Birch is usually so upbeat and positive. It’s probably just his way of dealing with the poor sales. He might have assumed that once the album was finished, everything else would take care of itself. And why wouldn’t he think that? Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen when someone pursues a dream?

  “The recording is awesome,” Cinch says. “It doesn’t even sound like Birch.”

  Astrid refuses this time, passing the CD to Stein. “I’ve had enough. You take mine.”

  Stones hit the underside of the van as we turn off the road and travel down a dark driveway. Stein says, “We’re at West Shore, which is technically the whole west side of the island. Years ago, this concrete ramp was a launching spot for boats, but now it’s just a convenient walkway for a late-night dip.”

  Astrid’s soft voice tickles my ear. “Stay close. I’ll show you the way.”

  Her words shoot straight from my brain down my spine to my groin and travel back up carrying a different interpretation. I grab her hand.

  Others make the plunge. Water laps against the rocks, calling me. Astrid and I disrobe. The darkness provides convenient cover. The water is the safest place for me now. Even if we were alone, in my heated state I’d probably just end up doing a lot of apologizing.

  Moss covers the rocks like fuzzy ice. I plant my foot, but I still slide clumsily into the water and scrape my thigh. I’ll have a souvenir from this excursion.

  I paddle out away from shore. The waves splash against my face, carrying a message: Welcome, you belong here. The undulation of the water rocks me. The silence wraps around me like a grandmother’s hug. I do belong here. Floating, I drift from the others.

  Astrid swims toward me, breaking my trance. “You sure don’t look like any teacher I ever had. Probably drove the young girls wild.”

  I splash water at her. “Good thing you weren’t in my class because I may have gotten in trouble. What brings you to the island?”

  “Summer job from Ohio State. I decided to stay in the US and work instead of going back to Norway for the summer.”

  “Norway? How did you ever end up at a university in the middle of Ohio?”

  She dips underwater, then surfaces immediately. Slicking her hair back, she blows the water from her lips. “My father got a finance degree there, so I grew up with Buckeye stuff all around me. Seemed like the logical choice. Now it’s just one more year before I finish my master’s in psychology.”

  “Figure me out and they may give you a Ph.D.”

  Haley’s voice booms from shore. “Jesus, Shep. Are you guys okay out there? It’s too cold. Let’s go.”

  Astrid laughs. “Uh oh, your girlfriend is getting jealous. The last thing I need is Haley mad at me.”

  “Don’t even go there,” I say. “We’re just friends.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” She floats on her back and kicks toward shore. “Follow me. I know an easy way out. Just try not to stare at my ass.”

  “No promises. It would be the perfect ending to the perfect day.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MOST SIGNS OF THE REAL WORLD ARE MISSING ON THE ISLAND: THERE’S NO STARBUCKS, NO MCDONALD’S, NO WALMART. But the ubiquitous beer signs remind me that not everything is made here. The corporate filter is just stricter. Why not? If a person doesn’t like his options, he can’t drive ten minutes to the next town and have different choices.

  Satisfaction is a powerful sleep aid, and after the day I had yesterday, how could I not be content? Uncertainty has returned to my life, and I welcome the possibilities.

  I leave the hotel and make the short walk to the Round House. On the porch Cinch sits on a stool sipping lemonade. Judging from his eyes and his level of excitement at seeing me, he must’ve started the day ripping tubes of smoke. “You ready? Nervous?” he says. “We could really use you tonight.”
/>
  “I think I can work it into my schedule. All I have planned is to meet Stein here to go for a ride and check out the monument at some point.”

  “Take this.” He hands me the lemonade. “I’ll go get us another.”

  I replace him on the stool and take a pull from the drink. Wow. Stiff and strong. I hold up the cup to the light. There’s hardly any color. I take another drink. Or tartness for that matter. It must be all the vodka.

  Golf carts pass us at regular intervals. The periodic motion of children on swings in the park hypnotizes me. My eyes follow the straw-shaped mandolin player I saw yesterday as he picks his spot for the day. He’s meandering, but he knows what he is looking for, and occasionally he stops to check the angle of the sun and scan the four directions. Eventually he chooses the ground in front of a pyramid of cannon balls constructed as a memorial. He lays his backpack on the ground along with the mandolin, spreads out the blue, white, and black Navajo blanket, removes a container from inside the backpack, lights the contents, and marks the ground around him. He then digs out his tip jar, places it in front of the blanket, and positions himself directly in the middle.

  Cinch returns with another lemonade. “Another beautiful day.”

  I motion toward the mandolin player. “What’s the deal with that guy?”

  “Caldwell?” Cinch pulls up another stool. “No one knows. He first appeared on the island in the winter of ’78 during the blizzard cleanup and helped dig out the school so classes could resume. Some say he’s an ex–Vietnam vet; others claim he’s just an ordinary burned-out musician. And of course there are those who worry he’s a fugitive from the law. As far as the government is concerned, Caldwell doesn’t exist because he never takes a job that requires him to pay taxes.”

  “Being here for so many years, people must have asked about his past.”

  “He just always says, ‘It’s past,’ and no one really questions him. He lives day to day—camping at the state park all season and during the winter, looking after people’s houses until they return in the spring.”