The Bay in the Lake in the Mountains

gleamed emerald and our skin glistened from its water. The cliffs rose out of the lake like skyscrapers from a boulevard. They were bald as boxers, the cliffs. I mean boxers, as in fighters. I’m just saying that it seems these days that all boxers shave their heads, and the cliffs were like that—treeless. I had dived in from a rock that stuck out from the beach like an angry zit, forgetting my wallet folded up in my pocket. Now, as we drove away, with the green bay growing into its own tiny lake in the rear view, my driver’s license had oozed and bled and I couldn’t make out my own picture, nor my name, birth date, the color of my eyes—thankfully, my weight—none of it. All gone.

Mike rode next to me. We passed a housing construction site covered up in blue tarp against the rain. Mike said, “In the construction community we call that a tarp.” He was full of redundancies and our girlfriends’ eyes rolled in the back seat. Some asshole in a jacked-up four wheeler jumped all over my ass. I could tell that he himself was the kind of guy who’d say “jacked up,” with all seriousness. Oakley Gators wrapped around his eyes.

I said, “I’m going to brake-check this jacked-up truck.” The girls complained.

Mike said, “You girls chill. We’re gonna kick some ass.”