They were really getting it going at the Duncans’. Going at it presumably as hard as good people felt they had the leeway to go in the presence of children. Bobby and his wife said they had dispensation from the Duncans themselves to call Mick in Lexington an hour away to ask him to bring more “to drink.” Hell, Mick would have brought more than what he had in the cooler in his trunk but he didn’t want them to think he was grandstanding. Grandstanding wasn’t the best word. But he would stand by it. Shit. He only had two hands, you know?

There must have been twenty cars parked out front. The noise carried all the way down by Turner Road. Mick got his tequila and twelve-pack of Heineken out of the Jeep and crunched up the gravel driveway. A muggy July Fourth. Somehow there was no rain forecast. He needed to strip down to his swimming trunks and take his rightful place in the hot tub, a place whose mixture of splashing and whooping he could already detect.

He heard this above the blaring of one newish song on the stereo with that weird foreign electro siren noise mixed in. The kids were going: “Whoo-oo-oo-ee-oo-oo-oo-oo. Whoo-oo-oo-ee-oo-oo-oo-oo. I saw the sun! I saw the sun! I saw the SUUUUN…”

He heard the hot tub and his true peers above the sound of children huddled down in the red mud creek parallel to the drive screaming, “Crawdads! Crawdads!” They had built a dam out of creek rocks and some were splashing around in the reservoir behind it. Good kids. The Kinsley-Douglas boys. The Ramsey boys. The builder instinct. Their parents were probably drunk as skunks right now.

He could see the mahogany-brown stained stairs to the hot tub beyond the sight directly before him of a girl dancing under the basketball goal in a grass Hawaiian skirt and a black D.A.R.E. t-shirt. The Murphys’ girl, looking seventeenish: her ridiculous conviction or else instinct that made everything worthy of a giggle reminded him of the sanity of declaring teenagers “off limits to adults.” Mick took four more steps past these teen dancers and squinted through the smoke from the grill and saw the crew up in the jacuzzi with beers in their hands. He came to a cooler, dropped the Heineken bottles in it. and pulled out a Corona Light that made him shiver. A lady’s beer—but there’s no bad beer. Only better beer.

He felt something buzzing around his bald spot and reached up to slap it with his free hand, which was pulled in toward the porch.

Mick twisted around to look at the porch and Elias Charlotte, who turned the grab into a handshake.

“Mr. Mick, put her there. We’ve got plenty of doctors here hootin’ and hollerin’ and carryin’ on. What we don’t have is a lawyer to sue them. That’s where you come in. Observe closely and build your case.”

“I’m on the clock now.”

“I’m sure you did the right thing and started billing the hours weeks ago.”

“Heh. We’ll see. We’ll see. This is also my first beer. There’s a reason I’m late.”

Elias asked the boilerplate questions. How were the kids? How had their trip to the beach been? How went practicing law?

“Whoo-oo-o! Honey! In the flesh!” his wife hollered, which allowed him to feel saved.

“Uh-oh. The wife’s calling. I’ll have to attend to her.”

He craned his neck up toward the light. Mary, wreathed in hot tub fog, was waving from the deck. “Mick. Come on in. This hot tub is per-fec-to. Bring up the tequila.”

He felt saved. At no point so far in his “moment” with Charlotte had he believed that the doctor meant to speak to him in a personal way, and that was even if he honed in on the warmth of the voice rather than the idiotic words themselves.

“You’re coming in fast for a landing,” Randy shouted.

“We’re gonna do, what, the layin’ of the hands. It’s baptism by fire, baby.” Bobby Russo firing sass.

A round of laughter passed like they all had a clue what Bobby’s drunk ass was talking about. They were starting to turn pink even with the bottle of sunscreen in arm’s reach.

Elias gave him a knowing goodbye back slap and Mick climbed the stairs to the place he deserved. “How long’ve y’all been drinkin’?”

“Ha-a-a-a. Long enough.” Bobby said.

“Sounds like you had a day’s headstart.”

Mick made his way into the light, pulled off his shirt, kicked off his loafers, and eased into the hot tub. There was a reassuring mini cooler parked by the steps within reach of the tub.

The crowd started whooping.

Mick leaned over toward the driveway, resting his beer on the sill of the tub. “What’s the big idea?”

Rhonda laughed. “The kids are excited. They’re doing the ‘Macarena’ one more time.”

“Maca-what?”

“A Mexican dance. They wiggle their hips. Put their hands on their heads. And spin around. Wiggle their hips. Put their hands on their heads. Spin around. Like the Electric Slide. But Mexican.”

“C’mon, Grandpa,” Bobby said. “They’re doin’ the god danged ‘Macarena’. Have you been under a rock?”

“I’ve been at work.”

“Honey, you’ve heard this before,” his wife sermonized. “They were playing it down in the Bahamas when we were there.”

“It didn’t sink in, apparently.”

“Watch them,” Bobby said. “They just keep doing the same hand motions and turning ninety degrees.”

Mick had once been a kid doing “The Electric Slide” falling down drunk, sobering up, and realizing that he had never really done “The Electric Slide.” He couldn’t discern any mistakes in anyone’s “Macarena” moves. Maybe they were all geniuses. Or gay. Or both. Kids needed something to keep them busy. All that crack cocaine and marijuana going around. He didn’t put it past his son Tyler to be up in the woods right now smoking reefer. And he was fifteen. A bad age.

“Where’s Tyler?” Mick asked.

Mary shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno.”

Bobby clapped. “I love it. C’mon, Mom and Dad. It’s 2 PM. What’s the worst that he could be up to? Last I checked, a lot of those teenagers were camped out in the living room playing video games.”

Mick felt so good he chugged his beer and took a shot of tequila. “That’s good enough an answer for me,” he argued.

“Honey,” Mary laughed. “Ease up. We’re just a little buzzed. Not that we aren’t driving back together. Remember?”

“Party Mexicano style!” Bobby shouted and grabbed a yellow rubber duckie from the corner of the tub. He latched onto Rhonda’s shoulder and slipped it under her bathing suit.

“Ahhh!” Rhonda screamed and pulled the rubber duckie out from where it was pinned to her chest. She launched herself at Mary, and her hands went under the bubbling water.

Mary giggled. “I usually leave those parts to my husband and doctor. Gracious!” And giggled some more.

Time for Mick to have another drink. Tequila for sure. He had nowhere to be until Monday. Property transfer completely ready to go for his client.

Something beautiful and imaginary swelled inside of him as it went down. Like the idea of America or love.

They clinked glasses in the center of the tub, where there was a steaming zone of calm.

Mick looked around to see who was listening to Blues Traveler.

“Bobby, beer me,” Mick shouted. “This song. This is sacred music. You could play this at my funeral and I wouldn’t mind. This is rock. This is country. This is gospel. This is soul.”

“Amen.” Bobby shouted. “A… men.”

There was silence. Then a familiar beat started. The “Macarena.”

“Boo…” Mick and Bobby moaned. “Booo… “

“You kids are brainwashed,” Bobby yelled. “I don’t think they hear me,” he told the hot tub. The Blues Traveler song had not even played all the way through.

“They’re havin’ too much fun with this dance,” Rhonda said. “Look at ‘em go. My God. You’ve gotta be agile.”

The spirit was moving through Mick. He needed to show these kids something. “I call fives.”

He slipped on his shoes, ran off the deck, and started gyrating on the edge of the big pack of kids doing the dance. He was a step behind everyone’s moves. But he didn’t care. He needed to get down there and have a bratwurst anyway.

He shouted along to the music. “Macarena! Macarena! Macarena! Macarena! Macarena Macarena! Macarena!…”

He jumped in the wrong direction and was swiveling his hips and staring right at the crowd of them.

They were laughing. Kids not thinking they knew right from wrong.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Mick shouted. And stepped away. You’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.

“Ow! Ow!!” Bobby shouted. “Yer a damn fool with the best of them, Mick.”

Mick shook his head and walked to the front porch with a brat in his hand. His Heinekens were nice and ready for him. Don’t mind if I do.

The crowd on the porch was decidedly less drunk, going on about antiques and some movie. They were all in pairs and Mick was the odd one out.  He tried easing in on a conversation about an antique mall in Harrodsburg and when they did look up at him he found he had little encouraging to say about the tired premise that all of them were antiques. Some folks lacked soul.

Elias Charlotte materialized. “How’s that lawsuit coming?” A woman’s cackle added to the song “Macarena” as it replayed and seemed to confirm that this was a joke, as Elias Charlotte took it as his cue to laugh at his own jibe.

“I’ll be suing you for tampering with me.” Mick said. Score one for the good old boy who knew everything. He wasn’t drunk at all. He was one of those who just got “high on life” and plaster their smile all over the place.

“Splendid,” Elias said. “Splendid. Splendid.”

Mick tried and maybe failed to tap his shoulder in brotherly fashion. He stomped up the stairs of the deck to the hot tub after scarfing his brat.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bobby said. “John took your spot.”

So Mick just stood there soaking up the heat as they talked about the major truths. Drained that Heineken. Then another. An hour went by.

Bobby said: “So a man goes to the doctor. He’s come back for a followup after they’ve done some tests. The man says, ‘Will I live forever?’ And she—it’s a lady doctor—says, ‘You’re doing well for a sixty year old. Do you smoke?’ ‘No,’ he says. ‘Do you drink?’ ‘No, I haven’t done that in years,’ he says. ‘Do you wear sunscreen and avoid the sun?’ ‘I always wear a floppy hat and cover myself.’ ‘Now do you have sex?’ she asks.”

A few chuckles followed.

“‘I haven’t had sex in twenty years.’ The doctor just shakes her head. ‘Then why do you want to live forever?’”

Mick roared with laughter. “Bobby, you’re a regular stand-up act.”

“I’m not that country.” Bobby said.

“You’re a rebel born and bred,” Mick twisted around to see who was in ear shot.

“Some comedian can only be who he is because he’s a redneck. But I can’t go all the way to deep country.”

“Come on,” Mick said. “You’ve gotta feel it. We’re all rednecks when we’re drunk.”

“Drunken lies that telleth the truth,” Bobby clucked his tongue. And kept talking. But Mick was distracted. He had just spotted Tyler.

That boy ain’t right. His son’s shorts were pretty much down by his knees. What did they call it?  Showing off his boxer shorts like a fool. Had something to do with skating in California and unsafe sex and something like Calvin Klein models and as proof the boy was rolling down the driveway in sunglasses.

“Hike those pants right back up,” he shouted above the din.

Tyler looked around and zeroed in on the noise as he screamed. “No.”

“Now. Goddamnit.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my shorts.”

“I see a big problem. You think you’re really something. Some kind of rockstar for the midnight skaters.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Mick,” Mary said like she was ready to lecture. “He bought a size too big last week and said he was gonna grow.”

Mick shook his head. “That does it, Tyler. You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”

Mick eased his way off the deck and down to eye level as elegantly as his legs would take him. “Ease your fuckin’ pants up, son.”

“No.”

“What did I just say?”

“Pull your pants up. But you’re clearly wast-ted.”

“When did you develop your little attitude?”  Mick reached toward the silk shorts and Tyler jumped backwards.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got some lip.”

For reasons that weren’t entirely clear, “Macarena” started playing again.

“How many goddamn times are we gonna listen to the ‘Macarena’?” Mick cried.

“I dunno.” His son shrugged.

“But enough about that. I can handle. I. Can. Handle. It. Let’s talk about your shorts and your attitude. You hike those pants up and you won’t get your Sega taken away.”

“Which Sega?”

“All of them.”

“You’re making a scene. Notice how everybody’s left the yard and gone inside.”

Mick looked around. The driveway was empty. The hot tub was still full but they were suspiciously quiet and still. He looked back at the front door. Some little kids were standing there staring doe-eyed at him. He saw movement in the window next to it and some more kids were in the process of ducking down and creeping back up to gawk.

“This is the way people dress, Dad.”

“One.”

“Fuck you.”

“Two.”

Tyler pulled up his pants. There was still a ring of boxers showing.

“I said all the way up and tie them.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, I meant it. You want those Segas taken away?”

“No.”

“Well, pull up your fuckin’ pants.”

He wanted to call Tyler spoiled but didn’t want to give him any ideas.

“Dad, everybody’s inside ‘cause they’re afraid.”

“Nobody’s inside ‘cause they’re afraid. People are still up in the hot tub. It just got too hot.”

“People went inside ‘cause you’re screaming.”

“People are tryin’ to tell you, you something. You messed up. You hear?”

“I’m innocent. I’m just having a good time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You been drinkin’?”

“I haven’t drunk anything.”

“Let me smell your breath.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Don’t make me ask you twice.”

“Smell it then.”

Mick eased in. And smelled deep.

“That was barely a breath.” The words tumbled out of him before he could think to do the countdown clock. Shit.

He smelled Doritos, Coke or Pepsi. Something meaty. And something else. Something rancid. Like he wasn’t brushing or flossing.

“I can’t tell if you have. I’m not a professional,” Mick said. “Your breath is gross. You ever heard of dental hygiene?”

His son was drunk. He knew. Goddamn it. There were just too many smells coming out. So much food he could have been gobbling down to mask the smell. The whole place, the driveway and yard, smelled like alcohol now. Plus he was pretty drunk himself. But he wasn’t complaining. It just complicated things now.

They needed to leave very soon. He wheeled around on his feet and climbed up the steps to the front porch. “Mary,” he said.

The house was completely quiet except for the TV. He couldn’t help but peek in. People were standing there, speechless. And as soon as he looked around , there was James. He looked at his feet and then turned to Amanda. “I’ve completely lost my train of thought.”

“Does this mean we can go outside, Daddy?” some random little girl whispered in the not-so-secret way of a small child.

Another business associate of the host, Biff, popped his head in from the kitchen to see what was going on. He made eye contact with Mick. “Yes, honey,” he smiled.

“Don’t let me ruin the fun,” Mick shouted. He probably needed to feel ashamed of himself, but the world still felt warm and bright and he thanked the hosts, whom he found at the grill once he collected himself and used the restroom. Harvey Duncan protested that Mick could simply wait and get sobered up and relax for a while and then after many protestations offered a “Yes, of course, of course, come back for it, if you’re really in a hurry to move things along with your day” upon hearing Mick’s plan to leave his car at their house until he and Mary could come back for it.

Mary appeared as this conversation was trailing off to remind Mick that she had ridden down here as a passenger with Tyler in the Wilson family’s car. Mick held up his hands as though praising God that she could drive him. “Whope, never mind.”

As though too polite for “all of this,” Elias Charlotte had reappeared at the grill alongside the driveway as Mick’s family exited. His extremities were a little pink and he now had on a mocking sombrero that seemed to have been distributed by someone unknown as party favors. “Welp, welp, welp” he said, meeting eyes with Mick. “Another day.” With the benefit of another split second, Mick discerned a pun: “Whelp, whelp, whelp.” He understood that if he refrained from acknowledging it, he would avoid some awkwardness. On the other hand, he was angry and the word was so old-fashioned that Tyler would barely have a grasp of it.

“Yep, I’ve got the whelp right here,” he ended up saying.

“All is well that ends well,” Elias Charlotte laughed.

Tyler was already a full house-length down the driveway. The saucer-shaped foam earpieces of his headphones were clamped down on his ears and he was clearly listening to some hateful music. God damn it!

 

That night they watched the fireworks from the end of their cul-de-sac. Mick had let the alcohol completely wear off and he wanted to sleep. But the neighbors would ask questions if only his wife were outside alone watching the colors explode over the fairgrounds across the highway.

“Honey,” Mick wanted to say, “God damn what a day can do!”

He didn’t want the lecture.

Tyler still had his Sega and other devices back in five days. But couldn’t go out and see friends. They had decided that in the car. The new generation wasn’t right. He had to make peace with that. He just had to draw the line somewhere.

Mary leaned in to kiss Mick with no lipstick on.  “You should spend more time with Tyler.”

“I should,” he said.

That was the answer. The two of them needed to bond. Go fishing. Fight off snapping turtles like they used to when he was growing up. The terrible thing was his son, after all. Every young generation is evil. (The fucking “Macarena”.) Mick was evil once, stealing road signs for kicks, and he was still trying to get it out of his system. He wouldn’t even drink much on the trip. He would show Tyler how to be responsible. And when they got back to the hotel room, after they shouted a few times, he would watch cable news or CMT or VH1 and make him wish he could be a dad someday. Or, you know, something like that.