Cooped


"He looked very Elvis-ish," says Ian overtop the smoke of a campfire. In his backyard, friends sit telling tales, smoking and watching moon beams rays poke through trees and illuminate the Little Dipper above.

"We should go to the boat," suggests Ian. Considering this good friend would be moving for New York in 14-hours, honoring his wishes seems like the thing to do. The six of us grab candles and beers before heading off into the forest to find a row boat dry-docked in a seasonal creek. Slipping on damp ferns and groundling succulents, our adventure was comical at best but our blood-alcohol level was high enough that an adventure was eminent.

We found the boat exactly where it was; its coolant-green paint flaking into the evergreen forest and we blew out our candles and let the moon shower us with light. Greg sat beside me and began screaming. Others joined in and we might have woken someone up had it not been for our location being miles removed from anything particular.

Drinking, smoking and laughing we enjoyed each others company; the same group of friends that has been around for ten years, for the last time in a while. I laid down in the boat feeling seasick and wanting to sleep.

"Let's crab walk back to the house" laughs Ian. Considering how drunk we were and how slippery the ground is, a four legged walk was an inevitability. I was planning on motoring home but I was too drunk and decided to crash in an adjacent chicken coop.

We shared a big breakfast the next morning and I wished Ian and Candice the best. "Take care of each other," I said while strapping a helmet on. Ian's too good of a person to not see again and the only one I know who would use the word Elvisish.
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