Singling

There’s Dave and Rich and John Redd (John Redd?) hiking up the face of a mountain with too-heavy-for-carrying loads of firewood, a package of marshmallows, two Cadbury chocolate bars (because Cadbury melts quicker than Hersheys and Hersheys almost never melts period), a lighter (that cost two cents in Thailand, and yes it works), a Mexican poncho, two speaker boxes, unmarried grins, and a pocket full of phone calls. And there’s me. I’m there too. Carrying one of those ridiculous mounds of wood and worrying about getting cited for having a fire during dry season. “I wonder if we’ll get in trouble for starting a fire” I wonder out loud. Rich echoes my concern. But he’s not really worried about it. In fact, he’s not even thinking about it. There are going to be girls coming, and that single thought consumes three entire universes. My universe trails behind, balancing desperately on burning legs.

On top of Pete’s rock, we throw down our loads and half-heartedly make a fire pit. It’s 9 o’clock and the sun is dying fast, but we’re in no hurry to get started. Single people are never in a hurry, and tonight I’m single. Ellie is well taken-care-of with her grandma and Brooke is sitting by a pool in Sunny California. On second thought, let’s get this shindig rolling…I have a lot of singling to do before this night is over. I have no intentions of forgetting my wife and child, but “carefree” is plastered on the walls of my mind like indie-rock posters. I’m neurotic about losing my mind.

(to be continued...)