Chapter I: Hop, Skip, and Go Naked

 Hop, Skip, and Go Naked

We were cheap beer, vodka, and 7-Up. And our friendship was frozen lime juice.
Seth was like Natural Light. He was always available. If I ever needed someone to go see a baseball game or go see the latest fantasy epic with me—Seth would always go.

Cameron was more like an expensive imported Russian Vodka—unlike the rubbing alcohol you’d put in Hop-Skip. She was intoxicating. One shot was never enough. She was the substance that brought us to paradise—and for me—a paradise enhanced by the dashboard light.

And I was 7-up. Bubbly, refreshing, crisp and decaffeinated.

And our friendship was the frozen lime juice that brought us three volatile liquids together and made our crew one hell of a brew.

Seth Miller’s parents hailed from somewhere in Iowa, but Seth was a New Yorker through and through. Actually, Seth probably saw himself more as a Scandinavian socialist than a New Yorker. He reminded us often that he was half Jewish, but we’d eat bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches every morning before school. You wouldn’t think “geek” when you met Seth, but you’d probably think “geek” when you met me. Seth qualified as something different. He went to Columbia to pursue writing. I edited and appraised his writing for him. It’s my guess that I was the first one to read all of his earliest short stories and novellas. I always wondered how he brought those ideas out—original ideas layered thick with satire. I wish I could read his writing for the first time all over again. I also wish I had never read it at all.

Cameron Mandalay hailed from California, but her parents were New Yorkers through and through. She moved to Hellerton when she was six, but reminded us often that she was Californian. Corona colored hair and a serrated mind. She wore glasses with black thick rims that perpetuated the intellectual stereotype. But what guy would contemplate Cameron’s mind while certain other features bombarded a man’s baser senses? I guess I was that guy. Cameron didn’t always look like a guy’s desire realized though. I guess high school and hormones have a way of changing a girl. I never complained.

Our Eighth grade year at Harold Von Tobinshire Junior High School carried on just about as long as its name implies. 180 days of classes and I can’t remember a single teacher’s name. I can remember 180 lunches that confirmed our roles’ as pariahs though. We had a good time being untouchables. The silent protesters who developed a sense of humor to combat the pain of social humiliation. That was the three of us. In the history of the school, we probably had the only table with two guys and a girl sitting down at it in order continuously joke about the President or discuss the satiric talent of John Stewart. It was a simpler, more complicated time back then. Well, I guess things haven’t changed that much.

We added a few members to our group in high school—but the triad was held sacred. The rest of them were replaceable. Good friends only. Anything serious we would deal with just the three of us. Our fidelity forged in trust and forgiveness. And none of us believed in God.

That fidelity bullshit lasted until senior year. I found it difficult to keep a three-way friendship going through junior year. That’s when Cameron changed. It’s when she fermented. It’s when she became a vintage wine—a Pinot Grigio of a sensually satisfying body, aroma, and flavor. It’s when I realized friendship would crucify me. I needed a forbidden sip—no, I needed to indulge straight out of the bottle.

Since we were in all those classes reserved for smart kids, we were naturally thought pep-rallies and homecoming dances were reserved for those normal kids who don’t have to worry about that extra thousandth of a point on your GPA that separates you from Harvard and Cornell. But normal is a relative word. Everyone and no one can be normal. We figured ourselves to be abnormal, but we were just as normal as anyone.

By senior year, even the smart kids need to partake in high school ritual. You only get one chance at it. I wish I let it go by now. But then, it was important.

One night I asked Cameron to a movie—Empire State written, directed, and stared in by Zach Crass.

(Oh, so you thought you recognized the name? I suppose I should take a moment here to explain. Yes, I have the same name as the actor/director. Please get all the jokes out now and I will answer your questions the best I can: No, I will not give you an autograph. No, I am not related. No, I did not legally change my name to match his. No, I would not make a gay porn film with him. Yes, I think he is talented.)

Notice, I asked Cameron out to a movie. Usually, any movie viewing would require me asking Cameron and Seth. This time, I just asked Cameron and I lied to her when I said Seth told me he was busy. I did not consult Seth on this decision, but it worked out well anyway.

We coupled with the vagueness and the depressiveness and the hopefulness of humor in the movie. When I was dropping her off at her parents’ house, I told her I never told Seth about the movie, because I wanted to spend time alone with her. I told her our friendship suffocated me. I told her I needed more. I told her she was gorgeous. I told her I needed her. I told her everything I wasn’t supposed to tell her. I took my first sip of forbidden wine. I awaited a response while I contemplated saying “just kidding!”

But she smiled and she sniveled and she told me she felt the same way and she told me she needed more and she told me I was handsome and she told me she needed me and she told me everything she was supposed to tell me and she let me guzzle down the rest of the bottle with our first kiss and she never thought of saying “just kidding!”