A Good God-Damned Weekend

When someone yells "There's a bear outside!" it's better you don't have a bottle of beer in your white knuckled grip. It's best if that one beer hadn't been preceded by seven or so of its kin. Either way, be sure to watch your footing as you make your way down a steeply-graded flight of wooden stairs - because when you miss the last two steps and collapse in a confused heap on the unsuspecting kitchen floor - someone will laugh at you.

But you must get up off that floor. You must see that bear. You also must be a polite house guest and mop up the beer you spilled flopping around like an up-ended turtle. The front of your black T-shirt will do the trick nicely; no need to waste papal towers. Now get up to see that god-damned bear.

As you make your way to the deck, you notice you've spilled the majority of your beer. You slug down the rest and weave a path to the refrigerator for another brew. Pick the one with all the hops. Yeah, you know you want it. Now try to impress your friends by opening it with your teeth. Shit - you cut your lip on the cap. These things happen. Your friends are somewhat impressed... that you are bleeding so profusely. You pour table salt on the open-lip wound thereby solidifying your pedestal in the Pantheon of testosterone fueled, moronic behavior. But at least the bleeding has stopped and you can fire up a cigarette. Swill your beer first to clean out that salt. Now light it because you got it. Good. On to the bear.

You throw open the sliding glass door, trip out on to the deck and bellow "We're out of cheese and an ornery cat just bit my shin!" You stop. You're silenced by the scene unfolding in front of you. There it is. A giant black bear sits only 50 yards away. It must weigh at least 400 lbs. The bear paws at the ground, scooping up sunflower seeds, and makes a soft huffing sound as he chews. In your head, you name him: Thaddeus McFoppenhump. Majestic and surrounded by the natural glory of the pine forest, Thaddeus looks up and -

Suddenly you're hit in the face by a hot, hard and sticky object. Laughter erupts to your left. You look at the ground and see a steaming chicken wing and the god-damned cigarette you just lit, still smoking but covered in a garlic-olive oil mess. You look to your left for the culprit only to see your two friends take flight around the corner. You do not take chase. Instead, you sit down to watch the bear, light another cigarette, swallow more beer and wait for a peace offering. You do not wait long. From around the corner come you friends - meek and blessed with a joint made from a powerful combination of weeds. They offer the stupid-stick forward, along with a light.

Four hours later you find yourself and your friends in a hot tub wearing nothing but boxers. You're all laughing like a group of drunk yet oddly dexterous hyenas, while sipping from giant bottles of $10 Belgian ale. The water is almost too warm and you wonder why you float so readily. Perhaps the carbonation from the beer has floated to the front of your stomach in a daring attempt at escape. You maneuver back to your seat, suck your chin in to your neck and belch out the theme song to Three's Company. You no longer float so readily. Come and knock on our door, indeed. You start to fade. Time to jam. Your friends share the sentiment.

You cross the pebble driveway in your bare feet, jeans and a black T-shirt that smells vaguely of chlorine and Miller High Life. Your friends enter the makeshift studio behind you. One of them starts up the keyboard. The other plugs in the electric guitar. You pour scotch's all around, pick up your acoustic and turn on the microphone. You all launch in to an extended and solo-filled rendition of T.B. Sheets. You close your eyes and let go with the first verse: "Now listen Julie baby, it ain't natural for you to cry in the midnight..." Off in the dark, beneath a pine veil, you imagine Thaddeus thumping along with the downbeat - his big bear paw pounding the peat.

The walls hum with the dim, purple light of a lone neon cat. The ceiling echoes with the tune. The checkerboard floor floats in rhythm beneath our feet and as we swing the neighborhood sleeps.