Steve never meant to lose Linda in the forest. It was just that he was so excited to reach the high alpine lake that he ran up the mountain like a billy goat and left her behind. Once he turned to check on her while standing on the trunk of a massive Douglas fir that had uprooted over the trail, and she hadn’t been more than twenty yards back. He then scrambled up a steep incline littered with scree and in five minutes turned to look again. At least it seemed like five minutes. She wasn’t in sight, but as he was almost to the lake, he simply kept going and waited for her on a boulder by the edge of the clear water.When another five minutes or so passed and she still hadn’t arrived, he became worried and backtracked to find her about halfway up the steep section, where he offered her a hand. She pushed past him and after reaching the top fell against the nearest pine, gulping from her water bottle.

(read on…)

The whole class went fishing, last day of third grade. This was 1980. I remember the rods lined up along the blackboard like skinny kids hoping to be chosen for kickball. My father had lent me a light-weight black rod, spinning reel, three-pound-test line. Perfect for lake fishing. Red-and-white bobber, slices of Wonder Bread for bait. Alex Meltzer had forgotten to bring a rod. His mother was too busy and father too not around to remind him. He cried silently at his desk, kids skidding their chairs away from him, until Mrs. Connor told him, “You can fish with Joe.”
(read on…)

Berta’s cure for everything is some old-school hip-hop, a bottle of Brass Monkey and a trip to the Cactus Club. Beneath the bleeding Jesus picture on the wall, the stereo is crackling out a song I can’t understand until Berta starts rapping along, party after party, same ol’ shit. She struts out of the bathroom with dark maroon lips and a pointy helmet of brown hair. She’s had the same hair-do since our sophomore year of high school. She’s had the same car too, a white ‘73 Monarch with green trim.
(read on…)