“Bonfire?” Mike asked, pointing to the empty parking lot not too far from the front of their cabin.
“We’ll need to ring it with something.” BT and Mike were sitting in their camping chairs, enjoying their burgeoning buzzes.
“There was a stack of cinderblocks next to the office.”
“Is this going to be one of those moments we look back on tomorrow and wish we hadn’t done?”
“It’s a fire,” Mike said. “What could go wrong?”
BT grunted.
“Yo, neighbor!” Mike had gone over to Paul and Errin’s cabin.
“You ready for that game?” Paul asked.
“Umm, we’re going to build a fire pit; gonna need wood.”
“I don’t think open fires are permitted on the campgrounds.”
“Whose going to stop us? That Trip guy?” Mike rethought his stance when his words sounded more like serious anti-authority as opposed to just wanting to have some fun. “Plus, there’s no one here.”
“Errin, I’m going to go hang out with my friends!” Paul smiled as he stepped out and pulled the door closed. “Oh wait, almost forgot.” He ran back inside and put on his front-facing fanny pack.
Friends? Mike thought. I’ve had burritos I’ve known longer.
A half-hour later, they had a fire pit some three cinder blocks high and four across built. Paul, to his credit, had gathered enough wood to easily get them through the night.
“Should we get our wives?” Paul asked as they began to put some wood in the pit. Mike and BT stopped what they were doing to look over at him. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“How long have you been married?” Mike asked.
“Little over a year," he answered.
“Aw, that’s cute,” BT said.
“You don’t ask your wife anything that she has veto power on,” Mike said as he lit some tinder on fire.
“Which is basically everything,” BT added.
“But we tell each other everything.”
“He really is cute, isn’t he?” Mike asked BT.
“Like a baby rabbit in the forest, cute.” BT lightly cuffed Paul’s chin. “I just want to take him home and squeeze him.”
“Now you’re just getting weird,” Mike said as he stood back up. The tinder had caught, and the small dry branches followed suit.
“Mike, what are you doing?” Tracy was at the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand.
“Watch and learn, grasshopper,” Mike told Paul. “There’s a chill in the air hon, I thought you might enjoy a little campfire.”
She stood there a moment longer, an internal monologue happening, then she pulled her open sweater together.
“Got her,” Mike whispered from the side of his mouth.
“Damn, you’re good.” Paul pulled out a small notepad from his fanny pack and wrote something down. Mike and BT clinked the tops of their beer bottles together.
Within a half an hour, the small campfire designed to keep the chill at bay was some fifteen feet high, and anyone closer than twenty feet was sweating profusely. The college kids, having seen it, were immediately drawn, unprompted. They brought two coolers of beer and a bottle of Fireball that they were all too willing to share.
“You guys are so cool for old people,” Max Chilton, he of the dreadlock hair and scratchy mustache, said as he received back the bottle of Fireball.
“I think you need to work on your compliments, but thanks,” Mike told him as he took a sip of his beer to wash away the harshness of the alcohol.
They learned that there were eight college kids, all from Arizona State University, on extended Sabbatical. Only six were present at the bonfire; according to Max, Lila and Jacob were busy bumping uglies.
“At least someone is,” BT ribbed Mike.
“Laugh it up, funny guy, but just know I have absolutely no boundaries and will gladly open your bedroom door while Linda is doing some unspeakable act to your backside.”
“I knew I should have sprung for a second cabin.”
Max went on to introduce Blaire, Porjie, Diaz, Trish, and Chaz, though he hadn’t pointed to any of them, just rattled off names like it was a multiple-choice exam. Blaire was a tall redhead, her hair pulled back to show the line of studs that dotted both ears. Mike had quipped something about going through a metal detector; Blaire did not find it funny. Porjie’s clothes were so loose-fitting, and the hoodie pulled so tight around their face that it was impossible to tell their sex, and Mike figured that was the way they wanted it. Diaz was the "hold my beer" individual of the group, and Mike was sure the kid could be mentored-up. In fact, if Tracy hadn’t been next to him, he would have gladly taken the kid up on a fair number of dares and dished out progressively more challenging ones. Trish was blonde and the unspoken leader of the group, though Max wrongly believed that he was. Chaz hadn’t said more than two words, and his gaze never traveled far from Trish. Mike felt bad for the kid; unrequited love was a bitch. As the impromptu party began to roll, Mike caught a glimpse of a very frantic looking woman quickly breaking down her tent and strapping her child into her beat-up VW. He figured she was worried about the riots that were sure to follow the festivities. From the RVs, only one person showed up—a Mrs. Bennilli—a short, low centered, older Italian woman from the Bronx. She’d come to yell at them for being too loud, though she’d brought a bottle of Sambuca to sip on as she did so. Once she was done saying her piece, she stayed.
“What is it with any Italian woman over the age of sixty and wearing all black?” Mike asked BT.
“Ask her,” BT said.
“Hell no. I bet she has a rolling pin hidden in that thing somewhere. She’ll pull it out like a mugger does a knife.”
“Tracy, your husband has issues.”
“Don’t I know it,” she sighed.
“Fine. I’m going to ask her.” Mike stepped away took another swig of his liquid courage. “Hello Mrs. Bennilli, I have a question.”
“I’m married.”
“Umm, what?”
“I’ve seen you looking over at me. I don’t want you to get any dirty thoughts in that greasy head of yours. Just thinking those things is a sin in God’s eyes.”
“I, um, what?” Mike tilted his head.
“I knew this dress was too short; you can see most of my ankle.”
Mike thought about pointing out that you really couldn’t, thanks to the thick black stockings she was wearing.
“You’re moderately decent looking, not my type, though. Now that I have repelled your advances, you should leave me alone and ignore the temptation I offer. If you’re Catholic, and not one of those heathen religions, like Protestant, you should go back to your cabin and ask the holy Mother to forgive you and give you strength.”
“I, um, what?” Mike walked away, confused.
“Stupido,” she said as she performed the Holy Trinity upon her chest.
“What’d she say?” BT asked.
“That it could never work out between us,” Mike told him as he scratched his head.
“I hope no one tells management about this.” Trip had walked up next to Tracy. He was smoking a joint. “I don’t think they let the guests have fires in the parking lot.”
“Aren’t you the management?” Tracy asked.
Mike shook his head at her and mouthed no.
“Me? Would you put me in charge?” He took a large drag, burning nearly half of the stick. “That’s funny,” he said on his exhalation.
“What a weird night,” Mike commented as he looked around at the eclectic group having fun, laughing, smiling. The dour-looking Mrs. Bennilli was finally relaxed and almost smiling as she was in the midst of the reverie.
“Strange,” Mike said to no one but himself. “About the only thing we all have in common is the fire and the alcohol.”
“You say something?” Tracy leaned in.
“I think I might have discovered the recipe for world peace.” Before he could clarify, Max shouted across the fire, pointing at Trip.
“Hey, I know you!”
“Me?” Trip pointed at his chest and looked around. “I think you have me confused with her.” He grabbed Tracy’s shoulder.
“Yeah, the similarity is uncanny,” Mike replied. “I almost brought you back to my bunkbed.”
“Bunkbed?” Trip looked at him. “What are you, seven?”
BT sprayed beer out of his mouth.
“You!” Max had circled around and was looking on his phone. “You’re him!” He was pointing at his phone, Trip was looking anywhere but.
Mike had to look, figuring it was some quirky news story about a man that lived among the squirrels in Detroit. He’d not at all been expecting to see Trip’s mug plastered on the cover of Forbes.
John "Tripper" Stephenson was worth billions in the tech industry, according to the magazine, anyway.
“Twin or a doppelgänger?” Mike blurted out.
“What are you talking about?” Tracy asked.
Mike pulled the phone out of Max’s hand and handed it to his wife.
“Yeah, sure, you can take my phone," he said. “This guy’s a legend!” Max had wrapped an arm around Trip’s shoulders. The stoner looked wholly uncomfortable in the embrace. Mike watched as the man grabbed a small device from his pocket, pulled it free, and pressed a button. Almost instantaneously, the door to his rickety RV opened up, and a woman better suited to Norse legend stepped out.
“Fuck me. BT, she looks like she came from your family tree.” Mike had to shoulder his friend, who was chatting it up with Porjie, who was actually pretty funny, once they relaxed.
“What, man? Can’t you see I’m having fun without you? Oh…that's the problem, isn't it?” BT turned back to Porjie. “He gets jealous when I’m not focused on him.”
“What? No. I wanted you to look at Trip’s wife.”
“Does Thor have a sister?” he asked when he finally looked up.
“Two, I think....there's Freya, and an older one, Hela Odinsdottir, but she’s his half-sister and the ruler of Hell. She looks nothing like that,” Mike replied.
“How do you know that?”
“Hello, honey,” Stephanie said as she came over, deftly moving Max away from her husband. She towered over everyone except for BT; they stood nearly eye to eye.
“Does he let you carry his hammer?” Mike asked.
“What my socially awkward friend is trying to say is, it’s nice to meet you.” BT extended his hand. She looked down at the offered appendage and then back to her husband.
“Charmed,” she told him. The smile was nearly as sincere as the one sharks give before attacking.
“Proves she’s of Nordic descent,” Mike said. “They’re pretty icy. Or if he’s that loaded, maybe she’s an android.”
“Are you ready to go home, dear?” She looked down on him and wrapped him with her arms, protectively, like a mother will her child after a bullying schoolyard encounter.
“Maybe that’s a good idea," he answered. Stephanie gave Mike the stink eye over Trip’s shoulder as she led him away.
“Are you sure that’s the same guy?” Mike asked Max.
“Yeah, he’s supposedly very eccentric.”
“Me too!” Mike exclaimed.
“Only rich people get to be eccentric, Mike; you’re just crazy,” BT told him.
“Eccentric is one thing, but he’s driving an RV from the Stone Age and working the counter at a tucked-away campsite. No billionaire is that eccentric,” Mike replied.
“Look.” Max had flipped the pages until he came across the article. Trip was sitting in a plush purple chair, wearing a green velvet dinner jacket and holding a tobacco pipe Mike was positive did not have tobacco in it. Standing behind him in all her icy beauty was Stephanie, her hands upon his shoulders. “That’s Stephanie Bridgeport, creator of the Bridgeport make-up line. She might be worth more than he is.”
“People are weird.” Mike grabbed another beer and, a few moments later, had moved on.