Deaths Excellent Vacation

Orange Sunkist “Good Vibrations” T-shirt and denim cut-offs, straining to hold on to that case of Schlitz without all the cans tumbling out because, somehow, maybe from the condensation dripping down the sides of the aluminum tallboys, the cardboard bottom had become sopping wet.
    Brenda pulled a pack of Doral Menthol cigarettes out of her beach bag. Stuck one between her plump lips. Flicked her Bic and lit up.
    I guess I was gawking at her.
    “Dream on,” she sneered on the exhale.
    She ambled down to the beach.
    I followed. A safe distance behind her.
     
     
    WE scraped up some driftwood and used the brown paper wine bag to start a small beach fire.
    Not a raging bonfire, just enough extra warmth to help the beer and wine make everybody feel good ’n’ toasty. Intoxicated after chugging three tepid cans of Falstaff (the beer that promised “man size pleasure”), I became hypnotized by the fire. I saw chattering mouths and contorted faces dancing in the flickering flames, not to mention a flock of shadowy witch doctors leaping across the sand, furiously stretching out their twitching limbs to reach the not-too-distant dunes where, it seemed to me, more nefarious shadow friends might lie in wait.
    Remembering Kevin’s sage words about beer and wine being considered mighty fine, I unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill and started guzzling.
    It’s no wonder, not much later, I started seeing real phantoms. The demon in the dunes.
    I gulped the wine, because I was nervous, sitting scant inches from Brenda Narramore, who kept lighting up Doral Menthol cigarettes while exhaling her own hazy cloud of specters, adding them to the mustering swarm of ghosts sent swirling skyward by our smoky campfire. One time, when I shifted in the sand, our thighs actually brushed. I don’t think Brenda Narramore felt it, but I was extremely glad I had worn the tight cotton cutoffs instead of my J.C. Penney polyester shorts, which would not have done a very good job concealing that night’s rising adolescent fantasies.
    Then, believe it or not, Brenda actually turned, pushed a few bouncy hair coils out of her eyes, and smiled at me like she knew every secret I had ever had.
    “Ciggy-boo?” she said, holding out her crinkled Doral pack.
    “He’s a wimp,” sniggered Kevin, who was bogarting one of his dad’s Kents on the other side of the fire circle, letting the cigarette dangle limply off his lips. “Dave doesn’t smoke.”
    I reached out for Brenda’s proffered pack. “Hey, there’s a first time for everything, bro.”
    “What it is, what it is,” said Jerry, admiring my sense of adventure.
    I pulled a white, filtered tube of tobacco out of its wrinkled cellophane container. “Dorals, huh?”
    Brenda nodded. “They’re menthol,” she whispered, her voice husky and helpful.
    “Cool.”
    For some reason, that made Brenda laugh.
    Maybe she thought I’d said, “Kool.”
    “Need a light?” she asked.
    “Yeah. Thanks.”
    She found her Bic in the breast pocket of that gossamer peasant blouse, which, when backlit by the fire, was basically see-through. I could see she was round and firm and perfect.
    “Thanks.” I took the lighter. Rolled the little ribbed wheel with my thumb a few times. It sparked against the flint.
    “Smooth move, Ex- Lax,” said Kevin, my buddy the expert smoker. “Hold down the button, spaz.”
    I did as suggested. Heard butane gas hiss up from the tiny plastic tank.
    “Now flick it.”
    I flicked.
    The flame torched up six inches and scorched my nasal hairs.
    “Here,” said Brenda. She braced a warm hand on my thigh and plucked the unlit cigarette out of my mouth. “I’ll light it for you.”
    She smacked hard on the Doral she had already had going in her mouth until its tip glowed as bright as the dashboard cigarette lighter when it popped out of its hole in my dad’s Buick. Red hot, she plucked her cigarette from her lips, put mine in its place, and lit it off the end of the glowing one.
    This wasn’t just my first cigarette—it was also my first lesson in chain smoking.
    “Since it’s your first, just puff it,” Brenda said as she handed the smoldering ciggy-boo back to me. “Don’t inhale right away.”
    “Cool.”
    But I did.
    Hacking and coughing and choking, I ignored Kevin’s laughs and took another sip of that horrible strawberry wine, grimaced, and tried again.
    This time, the smoke filled my lungs a little easier. Slid down my