Deaths Excellent Vacation

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    I jammed the half-empty bottle of sickly sweet wine into the sand and reached for another can of Falstaff. At least my beer had promised me “man size pleasure” tonight.
    I choked down a foamy swig and said, “Cool job.”
    “What?”
    I nodded toward her book. “Being a catcher in the rye. Standing on a cliff in a swaying field of grain, watching out for a bunch of kids playing tag. If they come too close to the edge, I’d catch ’em, too. Save ’em.”
    “It’s not a real job, David.”
    “Should be.”
    She cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “Really?”
    “Oh, yeah. Way too many people pushing kids off cliffs these days. Making them grow up too fast. Sending them off to die in pointless wars.”
    Her face softened. “So, tell me, David—exactly how old are you?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “You seem older. Wiser.”
    “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
    “Good.”
    “Far out.”
    That made her smile grow. Her lips were plump and moist. “You’re not like other guys, are you, David?”
    I laughed. “Correct-a-mundo. Most of the other guys I know are over there in the dunes making out with the other girls.” I drained my Falstaff.
    “So, Dave? What do you do?”
    “Huh?”
    “What. Do. You. Do?”
    “I go to school. Verona High. Next year, I’ll be a junior.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah.”
    She moved closer. So close, I could smell the minty smoke trapped inside her tangled hair.
    “That’s not who you are, Dave. What do you like to do when you’re you being you?”
    I had heard college girls were into philosophical discussions about the meaning of life and stuff. Could shoot the bull all night. So I thought for a second. Gave an honest answer: “I like to draw some.”
    “You’re an artist?”
    “No. I wouldn’t say that. I just like to draw. I did that clown on the matchbook cover for the Famous Artists Correspondence School. Flunked.”
    She grinned and dipped into her beach bag.
    “Show me.” She held up a Bic ballpoint pen. “I’ll be the judge.”
    “I usually work with a Flair or a Magic Marker . . .”
    “Show me.”
    Fine.
    “You have any paper in there?” I asked.
    She handed me her copy of Catcher in the Rye . “Draw inside it. On the blank pages up front.”
    “Aw, I can’t do that.”
    “It’s not a library book, Dave. It’s mine. I own it. I want you to draw in it.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “What if I suck?”
    “You won’t. Draw.”
    So I flipped open the paperback cover. Started scribbling on a blank page near the front.
    “You have pretty eyes,” she said.
    “Thanks. They’re hazel,” I said without looking up from my sketch. “They change color depending on what I wear.”
    “Fascinating.”
    She arched up on her knees with both arms pinioned between her thighs so she could lean in and watch me draw.
    Her breath was soft and rapid.
    I had always had a knack for doodling cartoons. Read a lot of comic books when I was a kid. Really did take that Famous Artist test, only I drew Binky the Skunk, not the clown. Took a couple of their correspondence classes through the mail, too. And every time I hit the mall, I always checked out those humongous Michelangelo and Da Vinci art books at B. Dalton. However, the work of art I created for Brenda Narramore was chiefly inspired by the Bill Gallo School of cartooning as seen in the sports pages of the New York Daily News .
    I drew her as a baseball catcher with a corked bottle of rye whiskey trapped in his mitt.
    “Voilà!”
    “Nice,” Brenda whispered, her voice as smoky as her ciggy-boo. “Sign it.”
    I did.
    “I was thinking about giving him a loaf of bread,” I said as I swirled out what my autograph still looks like to this day, “but the bottle was easier to draw. And how would you know it was rye bread? I’d have to dot it with seeds or something . . .”
    I was babbling because Brenda Narramore had her warm hand prowling up my right knee, slowly creeping it higher, inching up and down toward my thigh. The front of my cutoffs was a pup tent.
    Suddenly, Brenda stood and towered over me like the Colossus of Rhodes if Mr. Colossus had long tawny legs. She peeled her gauzy peasant blouse up over her head. Shook out her scrambled forest of hair.
    “Have you ever drawn a nude, David?”
    She held out her hand.
    And, just like the other boys and girls that Saturday night, we headed off toward the privacy of the dunes.
     
     
    WE slid down behind a protective bunker of