We Don't Need No Water
"No! You're the devil! The devil! The devil!" -- J screamed as her boyfriend tried to pull her into the fire.
The fire was of Seussian quality. The foundation was formed from logs that glowed orange inside a white and crumbled shell. The rest of the fire was a tall and delicate tower that defied gravity. A sofa balanced on its side. Chairs with ripped padding and oil cloth teetered on top. Then there was an old wooden school desk, the metal frame slowly bending. All stacked with long sheets of styrofoam. Amber beer bottles. Hay. Paper. Fabric.
This kind of destruction is typical of skydivers. Everything is burnable, drinkable or smokable.
It was a chilly night and there was a mess of us around the fire. Music blared from someone's car stereo. An endless supply of beer -- Miller Lite, Coors Light, Bud Light, Bud -- flowed from coolers. A few people transformed into fire dancers, leaping back and forth across the flames. I was too close to the blaze, and one half of me would burn while the other half froze, so I had to keep spinning, spinning, spinning.
I love nights like this at the farmhouse.
The sky is neon with stars. And there's not a worry in the world. Someone always scounges up pizza. Someone always has a case of beer. Someone always has extra clothes, matches, pillows, contact solution. We make do.
I feel safe at the farmhouse. No matter what we throw, drive over, wreck or set on fire, the police never intervene. We're as loud, giddy, messy and crazy as we want. And best of all, nobody outside of this Indiana farmland ever knows what we do.
It's our secret playland.
There's also a certain comfort that comes with being in a pack of skydivers. Tragedy can't single an individual out when we're all being so overwhelmingly stupid. We hump fate to protect each other.
At the party, I sing "Pass the Dutchie" at the top of my lungs. I smash my beer bottle into the fire as flames lick my hands. I dance a little reggae jig into the night.
Nobody even cares.
The fire was of Seussian quality. The foundation was formed from logs that glowed orange inside a white and crumbled shell. The rest of the fire was a tall and delicate tower that defied gravity. A sofa balanced on its side. Chairs with ripped padding and oil cloth teetered on top. Then there was an old wooden school desk, the metal frame slowly bending. All stacked with long sheets of styrofoam. Amber beer bottles. Hay. Paper. Fabric.
This kind of destruction is typical of skydivers. Everything is burnable, drinkable or smokable.
It was a chilly night and there was a mess of us around the fire. Music blared from someone's car stereo. An endless supply of beer -- Miller Lite, Coors Light, Bud Light, Bud -- flowed from coolers. A few people transformed into fire dancers, leaping back and forth across the flames. I was too close to the blaze, and one half of me would burn while the other half froze, so I had to keep spinning, spinning, spinning.
I love nights like this at the farmhouse.
The sky is neon with stars. And there's not a worry in the world. Someone always scounges up pizza. Someone always has a case of beer. Someone always has extra clothes, matches, pillows, contact solution. We make do.
I feel safe at the farmhouse. No matter what we throw, drive over, wreck or set on fire, the police never intervene. We're as loud, giddy, messy and crazy as we want. And best of all, nobody outside of this Indiana farmland ever knows what we do.
It's our secret playland.
There's also a certain comfort that comes with being in a pack of skydivers. Tragedy can't single an individual out when we're all being so overwhelmingly stupid. We hump fate to protect each other.
At the party, I sing "Pass the Dutchie" at the top of my lungs. I smash my beer bottle into the fire as flames lick my hands. I dance a little reggae jig into the night.
Nobody even cares.
This entry was posted on
Saturday, June 04, 2005 at 12:58 PM.
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By
Joe Wessels, at
9:25 AM
Where were the marshmallows? Were they even discussed?
This is ridiculous. I have to go.
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