The Spirit of '76

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

As much as I enjoy the freedom that comes from listening to no one but me, there are times when I appreciate the white noise of company. Certain snippets in life are enriched through shared experience─things like bars, ballgames, sex. Oh, and camping. Definitely, camping.

On Friday, I got out the tent and headed out to Malibu Creek State Park for some independence weekend camping. It has been a tradition with my college friends since graduation. We make sure no matter where we are with our lives, we are at that spot on July Fourth. It started off with just a few friends, but over the years has grown to include friend’s spouses and children. And as much as I try to see the doting father in my freshman roommate, all I see is the guy who puked on my head spring semester.

One of the few other single people in attendance was Tracy. Although two “sleepover” weekends in a row was a bit trying on our patience for each other, we nonetheless decided to do it anyway. Hell, I crashed for free at the Palms with her last weekend, the least I could do is share my Target tent.

It is a bit tougher for Tracy and me to hang with our college friend group than our entertainment friend group. That’s because our college friend group doesn’t understand our relationship, and I guess neither does our entertainment group. To sum it up, college thinks, “We love Rob, when are you two taking this to the next level?” Entertainment thinks “We like Rob, but you could do so much better” It’s a strange phenomenon that adds to our sometimes esoteric dynamic.

Because of the closeness of our relationship, signs of caring are sometimes mistaken for signs of budding love to the casual observer. As cavalier as I try to be framing Tracy as always being, “A drunk dial away,” my feelings for her are much more profound.

I’ve had much better success with girls that are friends rather than girlfriends. When I had moved beyond friends, it always ended badly. Our biology got in the way of our better judgment, and the next day we lost everything. I would go to bed with a friend and wake up with a stranger. But my friendship with Tracy has persevered through a fundamental yet derelict part of our lives. She is a luminous connection to my past and a safe portal to my future. Screwing her would no doubt close more doors than it would open.

It’s not easy to make that choice, especially when you are drunk and staring at a romantic campfire. Tracy is smart, cool and one of the hottest girls I know. Truthfully, she is way too attractive for me. And I think that’s part of her motivation. She no doubt loves me as a friend, but a large part of her must wonder why every guy wants to bang her but Rob. I would wonder the same if I were her.

“The fucking bartender gave me a bottle of Jack just to get the fuck out. So, it was 2:30 and I was walking down the middle of street with a fucking bottle in one hand and a fucking glass in the other.”

The voice came out of nowhere like an intoxicated foghorn and was followed by laughter.

Looking around we found some RV’ers two sites away letting off a bit too much steam. As the words began drifting over to the site, I noticed some of the parents getting a bit uptight that their children were within earshot of having part of their childhood taken away in that brief vocal instant. The wives gave a look, whispered to their husbands and stared angrily into the darkness.

Finally, someone spoke up.

“Those guys need to keep it down. There’re kids all around,” said my friend Isabella. “Jack, go say something.”

I jumped up from my seat. “Let me handle it,” I figured I was the best man for the job. I didn’t have kids, so I wouldn’t get as emotional as the dads would. Plus, a few other candidates in our campsite would simply go over and try to fuck the guy up. I was a good alternative to emotion or violence. My strength was distance.

I walked over to the campsite. The man at the helm was wearing a NASCAR tank top that screamed (909). He was visibly more intoxicated than the rest of his crew.

“Happy fourth,” I said as I approached their circle. I looked soft. They stared at me like I just walked in on them having sex. Maybe even to say to their dog was dead.

“Hey guys, we’ve got some kids over there and were hoping you could just keep the swearing down a bit. You can get as loud as you want, that’s cool. We just, you know, with the kids.”

Everyone nodded and seemed to understand, except NASCAR. He walked over, with something to prove.

“What are you going to do about it, big man?” He said.

I was hoping his friends would grab him, but they just let him talk.

“Uh, exactly what I am doing, walking over here and politely asking you to stop.”

There was a mile-long pause.

“How about if I politely kick your ass back to faggot camp.”

“Well, not sure if you can use ‘politely’ in the same—"

It came like a dagger out of the dark. At first I was not sure if I was shot, stabbed or punched. The pain was beyond rational. I lost all oxygen and hit the ground. Seconds later, my brain told my body not to die, that it was just a punch. A very fucking hard one, but a punch, nonetheless.

My friends were watching, and they all came over to my rescue. But his own group grabbed him and pulled him away. He started fighting with them.

So, with help, I made my way back to camp and into my tent. Tracy followed and together we shut off the violence and profanity of the outside world. She made me laugh, fed me shots and got me back in the spirit of things. The Spirit of '76.

She curled up next to me, more striking than ever. At that moment it was abundantly clear, Tracy was more than a beautiful woman. She was a beautiful friend. And she was exactly what I needed.