Day Sixteen (Monday, July 12, 1971)

I opened my eyes to a deep blue sky above the trees. I turned in my bag and pulled up a thick layer of dirt. My face was smudged. My hair was greasy. The lines in my hands were caked with grime.

Jill and Erica were fully dressed. Otto was not only up, but immersed in frenzy. He came stomping over from his post in the roadway and stood over me with heavy eyelids. “Did you see those wild pigs?”

“Wild pigs?”

“I swear to God. All these wild pigs and raccoons were creepin’ around the campsite starin’ at me all night. I couldn’t get no rest.”

“You’re in la-la land. A ruckus that size would’ve woken me up.”

Neither of the girls believed Otto, either.

“I’m not dreamin,’ nincompoop!” He directed his fury at me. “It happened! You’ll get yours, Winans, you don’t believe me!” I shook out my filthy sleeping bag. He’d get over it.

Breakfast was being served at 127. Arnold was captivating his family with a story; his sister right in the thick of it. I felt sad for the lack of conversation inherent in my own family, our lack of filial affection. You never saw regular, honest talking at my house. Nothing merry or exciting. Just shadows moving. Pretense. Never from the heart.

“. . . ’n I’ll wake you up tonight and prove it, big ass,” Otto said in my ear.

“By the way.” Jill stepped in. “What are you guys’ plans for the next couple of days?”

That stopped Otto cold. I didn’t like the sound of that question so early in the morning, either. She added, “You’re destitute, aren’t you?”

Otto replied, “How many nights have you girls signed up for?”

Jill hesitated and looked at Erica. It seemed like a mini-standoff. Finally, she said, “Well, we’ll be here another night. You’re welcome to stay if you’re still hard up.”

“That sounds good to us,” Otto said. “We’ll stay.”

Breakfast was raw English muffins with margarine and orange juice. Erica made instant coffee and spilled the dented pot into the fire before the water boiled.

“I volunteer to rinse out the juice mugs!” I jumped up. That’s because the closet water spigot happened to be through the brush and down the footpath from 127. A table hockey game was in progress under their canopy. They all looked so content and family-orientated I could’ve screamed. The girl kept her back to me.

129 was tidied up when I came back. Otto was twiddling his towel and washcloth.

“You want anything from town?” Erica juggled their car keys. Jill stood next to her in a leather jacket so new the price tag could’ve still been on. I leaned against the picnic table and watched them leave.
“What a ruse! They come to the most rugged place in the United States to go shopping. So silly. So preposterous.”

“You got invited to spend another night with them, Winans. What more do you want?”

“Nothing, from them.”

“That suits me. Jill and I don’t need you around nohow.”

“I won’t butt in. I assure you. That operation is dead.”

“You know what? I’ll make you a deal. I won’t bother that girl at 127 if you promise not to bother Jill.”

“You’re going to screw yourself, but fine. Deal. Thank you making it easy.”

My father’s words during my phone call back home echoed through my ears. Dad saw it right. Otto was getting on my nerves. His chronic selfishness was annoying. Our friendship was spinning off in a new direction, something less predictable. It was the realization that we each had to weave our own decisions and live with them, not as conjoined twins, but as independent human beings. The situation at 129 wasn’t going to improve. I was glad I bailed out.

Finally . . . the girl at 127 gave me a chance to introduce myself. She started down the footpath, bucket in hand, to fetch a pail of water. She wore a blue bikini underneath a see-thru white shirt, hair pinned up. I leaped off the table, chugging up beside her.

“Hi, remember me from last night?” She glanced fancifully—once. She looked away and kept walking.

Everything I wanted to say vanished. How did girls have the ability to do this so easily? In one instant they gained the controlling position.

“Er, how you doing?” I tried to smile, still catching my breath.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was carefree and lyrical but equally noncommittal. Without altering her pace she swung the bucket down, knelt in front of the spigot, and turned on the water.

“Need help?”

She almost laughed. “No, I can manage.” I fought for every piece of information I got, though collectively it sounds like a lot:

1) Laura Gwynne
2) 16
3) Santa Barbara, California
4) junior in high school
5) two-week family vacation

She asked me none of the correlating questions.

Giving it my best shot, “Would you like to go for a walk in a little while?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. My family is going to the ocean.”

“How about, then, when you get home?”

“We’re hiking out to the Gorge.”

“Uh, you wouldn’t know what time you’d be getting back from there, would you?”

“Sorry, I won’t have a chance to do anything. We turn in as soon as it’s dark.”

“—And I see you’re just about to do the dishes now.”

She gave me a fair, prideful look. We seemed to come to an understanding about where this was leading. She needn’t bother with Roger Winans, an unknown wildcard. We observed a moment of silence.

“Well, okay then.”

“Sorry.” She sounded cheerful, even grieved to a small extent.

I bolted out of there and headed for 129, using a roundabout route.

“I’m not surprised.” Otto evaluated the details.

“George, she made me feel like I was a jerk.”

“You were askin’ to be let down. You set yourself up for failure. Anyone can see that. It was preordained.”

“Her eyes danced. I could plant a thousand kisses on her ears and neck. She really is the most beautiful girl on the planet.”

“She knows she is, too. That’s why you’re better to leave that type alone. Things with me and Jill’ll come out much better. You’ll see.”

The Gwynne family left in their car. Otto and I went for another long hike on one of the park’s many trails. We hiked along a steep, rocky ridge where we got a good view of the Ventanna Peaks in one direction and the Pacific Ocean in the other. It was breath-taking—“almost” enough for me to forget my failure.

“At least I got her full name.”

“Ain’t you grand.”

The girls didn’t come back to camp until after the sun’s descent behind the mountain. The air reeked of marijuana. The music was loud. The girls “went for a drive to the Carmel Bay Brand-Name Outlet Mall.” Pity on them. It was dispiriting to listen.

Just then, two older, clean-shaven guys strode in from the back campsite, 135. Steven and Don toted a large package of hamburger meat, and proposed a giant cookout for the six of us. It sounded great. Otto and I contributed footwork and labor, and spent money for ketchup, lighter fluid, and paper towels at the campground store. I volunteered as chef.

“Let Otto the Obscure back up his words with action if he wants Jill,” I thought, ripping open the charcoal. The group was chatting about horseback riding, figuring saddle sizes, and joking whether equestrian showmanship meant hiding or showing one’s “bulge.”

My hamburger, baked beans, and cole slaw made for a tasty outdoor meal. Otto stood next to me, eating in pain. Those four guys hogged the picnic table. Steven and Jill. Erica and Don. It took a second for the impact to hit. Cookout nothing. This was a pickup!

I swallowed a hunk of roll and rested my paper plate on a rock. Look at those matchups. A professional job. Right under our noses. I not only witnessed the takeover, I participated in it!

Otto shoveled in his food, completely unlike him. There wasn’t much happiness in his stare. He and I were suddenly on yet another perimeter walk to the outer reaches of the park.

In the moonlight close to the park exit, I scurried out of the way of a cream-colored Volkswagen bug. “Damn—the girls’ car.” Steven was driving, with Jill cuddled up next to him. As for Don and Erica, they nuzzled up inside 135’s large green and white circus tent. Their shadows silhouetted against the canvas, knocking about in the faint lantern light.

“It’s humbling. Especially when the magic trick is done in front of your eyes.”

“I ain’t gonna be intimidated by no wild pigs and raccoons tonight,” Otto announced. He unrolled his sleeping bag on top of the picnic table and sealed the flap completely over his head without saying goodnight. I stayed down in the dirt, trying to curb thoughts of being in the Gwynne camper, and inching up Laura’s nightgown.

No doubt there would be more lessons to learn, none of which I’d know about ahead of time. You never collect the wisdom until you’ve already stepped in the shit.