Mateys

"Hey, my brother's gonna see if his skiff will float, today, and he's going to fail miserably. You want to go watch?" Marc said the word skiff without pretense, as if it were lingo he used every day. That's because it was.

****

Listening to him talk, you'd never guess he was a D student. C minus at best. He'd rattle off words like "Bilge," "Transom," and "Lanyard" unselfconsciously when we were still more excited about going to the Country Store at "Bearskin Neck" than checking out girls.

My young life can easily be split into several categories: the dull moments, the entertaining, and those spent causing trouble. The latter two were, quite often, one and the same and Marc was involved in every one of 'em. His parents owned a nifty little summer house in Rockport, Massachusetts. Home of my first broken heart. Wasn't a girl that did the deed, unless you consider the township of Rockport a lady. I surely do. I loved visiting with the Sawyers, whenever I got the opportunity, at their seasonal home. Some of my fondest memories involve that little city by the sea. Especially during the summer.

My mother had been friends with Marc's mom, Eleanor, long before I was born and Marc and I became best friends in the bargain. Neither one of us aware of when or how it happened. We were born a week apart and of the same temperament; both of us spaceshots. We knew it because there was no end to the teasing we'd endure. He got it a lot worse than I because he didn't have two cool, athletic older brothers. Marc had one, uncool, anti-athletic older brother who was less popular than Marc. At least Marc had brains and was exceptionally funny in spite of the derision and shit people threw at him.

The nickname "Looney" Sawyer slammed into Marc like the Engine of a locomotive in August of 1986, coinciding with the release of "Stand By Me." The parallels between Marc Sawyer and Teddy Duchamp, Corey Feldman's character, were too close for him to sidestep. He carried that shitty nickname around as if it was embroidered on every tee he owned. People can be pretty cruel everywhere, but in Charlestown -a place where people take pride in being called "Townies"- some kids seemed to be blessed with the gift of viciousness.

****

"Bah-ul-ship!" I heard him saying as I approached.

"Say it again! Battle Ship!" demanded a kid who was six years older than Marc.

"No!"

"Come-on just say it, Looney, Say it! And I'll leave you alone."

"Bah-ul-ship!"

"Haha, you're a fucking spaceshot! OH, look, it's spaceshot number two!"

To which Marc replied, "Go Fuck yourself!"

Marc shot the older kid two bobbing, trailer-park, birds - his middle fingers at full mast while the rest bent at the middle knuckle, pumping his arms up and down as the asshole in question strolled away, in a fit of laughter.

The Double trailer-trash finger was Marc's greatest weapon; His heavy guns against the cruelty. Pick a fight with him, call him "adopted" (which he was) or "Looney", talk shit about his old man's Funeral Parlor and he'd give you the double guns and throw you a "Go Fuck Yourself!" He was my hero in that way. Whatever problems people confronted him with, he always stood up for himself. I wish I stuck up for him more.

His older brother Chris used to get it so much worse than Marc ever did. Maybe because he was a much bigger kid and about five times more vocal, effectively courting disrespect. Chris was a year older and a grade above us.

I can remember one time while we were playing red rover in the schoolyard, Chris's name was called.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, calling Chris Sawyer right over."

He ran full steam, actually chugging, as he barreled across the schoolyard. I guess he didn't see the two kids he was aiming for "double-clutch" (one putting their arm under the other's armpit) on him. When he reached the other line and collided with their arms he smashed to the ground and, somehow, slammed into the wrought iron fence behind the kids. He let loose an ungodly bellow that I can still hear tonight. It was as close to an unintentional "AWOOGA!" that I've ever heard. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

"AWOOO! AWOOOO! AWOOOO! AaaaWOOOOooo!"

Chris, sounding the alarm of a broken arm. It was the only one I can remember, as a kid, happening in the winter months*. Marc and Chris got along well enough but every once in a while they'd get into a public fight that embarrassed the hell out of me, (yet was pretty hilarious to witness). They swore vigorously in public and were unafraid of authority figures: teachers, priests, the bus driver. They even once got me barred from the town barbershop, telling one of the most popular adults in town to Go Fuck Himself. (Which was a sentiment I didn't share.)

For two weeks out of the summer I got to hang out with these two maniacs while they were on vacation. Marc and I would ride bikes to the beach, hunt for crabs, buy penny candy, and get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. I remember one time a little Circus pulled into town with a big top and everything. Spending time in Rockport was like living, for a moment, in a Norman Rockwell Painting. It was Amazing.

One day, Marc informed me that his brother had bought an ancient Boston Whaler; a rusty old flat-bottomed boat, purchased with his savings. Marc and Chris were the only kids I knew of that got an allowance. Neither of them had ever helped their parents out with much. I think the allowance came from staying out of their parent's hair and not acting up during wakes. (Dust-ups during wake hours were far more common than you'd think.)

****

"It's got an outboard engine on it but it's still just a piece of shit. He paid Two Hundred Dollars for it. I told him it was a bad purchase... The thing is a Garbage Scow! He's been trying to make it sea-worthy for the past three weeks. She'll never make it out of the Harbor." said Marc.

Marc's diction got better -the pronunciation of his R's more articulate- when he moved to Rockport for the summer. I was smiling, always a fan of Marc's eloquence.

"So, you want to go down to the Yacht club and watch him try to put the piece-a-shit in the water?"

Some phrases, no matter how careful your diction, always come out Boston.

"Let's go," I said, already walking towards my GT Performer.

"Fuck yeah!"

The Yacht Club, which hunkered on one side of the wharf, had a bunch of boats up on racks and still more floating around the harbor. We could see Chris's "piece of shit" hanging above the pier on a crane as we approached. A small crowd had already gathered full of yacht club folks that were there to help. Standing close by were Chris's friends, general on-lookers, and various other yachtsmen. We were still walking towards the crane when Marc started yelling.

"THERE'S NO WAY THAT THING'LL FLOAT."

All hands turned.

"SHUT THA FUCK UP MARC!" Chris looked sideways over his shoulder.

A high-pitched cackle came from Marc as I tried to inchworm some distance between the two of us. Everyone returned their gaze to the boat as the gang swung the crane's arm over the side of the pier. Marc started a countdown.

"20 seconds to disaster! T-minus 20...19...18"

"MARC!"

"...17..."

They lowered the boat, stopping for a few moments so that Chris and a few other people could get into position on a dock below. Marc chattered nonstop, while they worked.

Once Chris was ready, the boat was lowered the last few feet into the water and he gingerly stepped aboard his vessel. It didn't take long to see that there was more than one hole in the hull. The wind was sucked out of our collective chests.

Marc flew into hysterics. His cackles soared to impossible Higher tones. Chris looked up at him, furious, the steady rise of water at his feet powerless against the flames in his eyes.

Inexplicably, Marc's brother -after a cursory glance at the outboard motor- sloshed his way to the back of the boat and tried to turn the engine over. Marc was almost crying with laughter. He recognized what was about to happen and he said, "wait, wait, wait..." He had one hand over his stomach; and the other gesturing "halt." It was as if he was pleading with his brother to draw the entertainment out to greater lengths. Asking his brother permission to dwell in this moment of hilarity, for all time.

The engine didn't turn.

Chris yanked on the engine's cord several more times, to no avail. He stopped, staring at the outboard, muttering to himself. With the water cresting the tops of his Nikes he started to bail the boat with a small pail, refusing to give in. Marc yelled, "ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! AWWOOOOOOGA! ALL HANDS ON DECK! ABANDON SHIP!"

Chris heatedly scrambled up onto the dock, towards the ladder leading to the pier, pushing people out of his way as he went, ready to kill his brother. All the while, Marc screamed his high pitched laugh: "Aaaaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!"

Marc saw the red in his brothers eyes and yelled, "RUN!" while his brother angrily started up the ladder. We took off towards our bikes.

Over his shoulder, Marc yelled, "Got a great deal on that submarine!"

****

A couple of years later, Marc and I got into a fight because I had called him a "Headbanger" when we were still newly teenagers. He had gotten into Metallica and bands of that nature. He'd tape "Headbanger's Ball" and lend them to me. I guess that's what clued me in.

I don't understand why he took exception to the moniker. Truth be told, he was the coolest kid I knew. Maybe it was because we lived in a town that allowed zero self expression. Maybe it was because I said it in a less joking way than I intended. Either way, we didn't talk to much after that. And I missed borrowing the tapes.

****

When we started High School I would hear things about Marc. How he had become a "Warlock" or hung out in "The Pit" in Harvard Square, a place where the freaky kids were always welcome; a safe haven for the odd, spookey, and tortured souls. I also heard once that he had, supposedly, been living in a T Station Tunnel. In one of the walls. My response to that was "if that's true that's crazy." But I wanted to know more.

During trips home from High School, on the 93 bus, the kids of Charlestown were unmerciful. They produced fresh insults at a breakneck pace. Marc received no reprieve (especially when he wore his cloak.)

I regret not being cooler to the guy. I wish I had spoken up more and laughed less. Even if it meant my undoing.

****

A couple of nights after the incident with the boat, Marc and I were out on the roof stargazing, wondering whether we'd die if we fell off. All the while we were crunching our way through a family sized bag of Lays potato chips. We climbed back through his bedroom window and discovered that Chris had fallen asleep in Marc's bed. We tried to wake his brother up by imitating Darth Vader's voice by shouting into an antique box fan.

"LUKE! Wake up, LUKE!" I said in my best James Earl Jones, my face smooshed against the fan.

Marc followed with, "WAKE UP! MOTHERFUCKER!"

He drew the sentence out like he was the hero in a slow motion action sequence. He then reached his dirty fingers into the bag, pulled out a chip, and crunched it next to the fan as we both laughed. He found an especially large chip and -just before he ate it- looked at me and paused, grinning ear to ear, then stuffed it into the back of the fan.

"Ftttttppppp!" The chopped-up chip, now dozens of tiny chips, flew out of the fan and onto his corpselike brother, still fast asleep.

We were on the verge of uncontrollable giggles but recovered quickly, recognizing the business at hand.

We popped another chip into the fan. Others followed suit: "ffffttttppp! fffftttttppppp!" One after the other, potato chips met their death, small pieces of their bodies crashing all over Marc's brother and his bed.

As is often the case with adolescent boys, we got a little out of hand. The one funny- sounding chip that quickly turned into several presently morphed into the whole bag.

Marc upended the entire crinkly goddam bag, dumping every last chip into the fan with relish. He smirked like the Grinch.

The fan, now on high, sounded like a tiny little wood chipper. In a moment his brother and bed were covered in an oily yellow blanket. We lost our hold on sanity and fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

As we were catching our breath Marc said, "Let's go get the Doritos."

****

When his brother finally did wake up, he instantly noticed something was amiss. "Muthrrrrfuggging assholes..." he muttered in his sleep, brushing salty dust off his shirt as he stumbled back to his own bed.

Behind him, on the bed, he left behind the most perfect silhoutte.


-Chris



*A Lie. Michael Christopher broke both an arm AND a leg on a ski-trip to Wildcat Mountain over Christmas break one year. Everyone on the bus had to wait for him while his cast was set. He entered the bus on crutches, to cheers of "Mogul Mike." I had to smile. The last time I had seen him was at lunch.

"Walshy come down the Double Black Diamond with us!"

I'm all for danger but I don't have a death wish.

"Yeah, let me finish this hot chocolate and I'll meet you guys at the top of the hill."