Imagine

Imagine, if you will, four friends sitting around a picnic table at the edge of a lake. They all have different levels of relationships. Two are brothers, two are best friends, two went to high school together twenty years ago, two just met, two went to war together, two are married, two are divorced. Different people, different histories, all from Louisiana, all confident enough that they aren’t afraid to just hang out, relax and enjoy good company. The ones that can, talk about old times. The ones that can’t, talk about things that are happening in the world or their peripheral relationships to the other’s stories. On the table are two empty bottles. One of Captain Morgan Private Stock Rum; one of Appleton 12 year old rum.

Many of the old stories revolve around those empty bottles and hundreds… maybe thousands more like them. There are two other bottles there. One a fifth of Captain Morgan Silver Rum and one of a no-name bottom shelf rum. One is half empty; the other unopened. They’re on the way to joining their voided cousins. Occasionally a fifth of cheap mexican tequila will appear from a nearby cooler. A toast to friends new and old is birthed from its amber depths and it’s returned to it’s icy cradle for later. A beer or two slide around the table to wet the thirst that heavy drinking brings. Empty cans litter the table.

On a nearby park grill a pork loin wrapped in foil cooks slowly over an open fire. There’s no work to do here tonight. The pork will simmer in it’s own juices and cook through. It doesn’t need to be touched or turned. Just left to occasionally release tiny bursts of steam that disperse and float lightly on the almost still breeze to remind them that something good awaits. It’ll be hours before it’s done but they’ve tasted it before. They know it’ll be first rate. These boys are all from Louisiana… it would be a shock if it turned out less than spectacular.

A radio plays quietly from a nearby camp chair. From it pours gold from a different era. Rebels music for men beyond trying to impress one another with rebellion. The music reminds them of a harder life… and an easier one. It prompts as many stories as the bottles do as random bits of music break through purposefully fogged minds to remind them.

A light, warm rain starts late in the evening. The rum soaked men sit for a few seconds not wanting to leave the warm embrace of too much rum and good company. The rain sizzles as it lands on the nearby foil but the fire remains steady and warm. As one, they decide that it’s not worth the effort of setting up the canopy that one of them has brought along. Perhaps another night when it’s cooler or the rain is harder but not tonight. Tonight it’s warm and the rain freshens minds. It prompts stories of it’s own. One of the men pulls an empty trashbag over the radio and others tuck away cigarettes or pipes… keeping them dry but handy. The rain will stop in a few minutes, it always does this far south on nights like this. For now though, it’s nice.

The night grows long with friends talking. The rain becomes a memory, another story to tell. The pork is sliced and left to lay on it’s opened foil allowing for little pieces to be pulled off and tasted almost if one need prove again throughout the night that it was really that good. It was.

Another drink is passed, another shot of tequila raised in toast. Crickets provide melody almost in time with the music. Frogs croak in random and stark contrast to it. A bass jumps into the still night far out on the lake.

One by one the men stand and fade away into the night. They’ll take a few Advil and drink down a big bottle of Gatorade to top off the night. They’ve done this before. They’ll wake without hangovers… barely tired from the night. Years of practice have brought them here. Years of learning, yearning and pain. For now, it’s enough to be happy and free.

I am the last one left this night. I don’t want to leave my chair near the fire. It is comfortable and warm but another day awaits. Another night like this one will come tomorrow. I turn the radio off and smile quietly as I lift the shade on the oil lamp and blow it out. The night fades to black and I fade with it.