“Hey,” I said quietly. The girl jumped, dropping the bus door so that it slammed. So much for not surprising her. She looked at Pete and me for a split second, then ran off in the direction of the other campgrounds. A groggy Conner appeared in her place, hollering after her, “What? No breakfast?”
We laughed.
And then it was time to go. Time to pack up the Land Rover and leave the dancing girl behind.
Lua
Joe, my best friend, is basically a stubborn asshat. As usual, I was standing at his bedroom door waiting for him to be “decent,” which, for any normal human being means dressed—like clothed—like not naked. For Joe, “decent” means fashionable, which he pronounces fah-shun-ah-ble; I think the pronunciation is similar to saying tar-jay instead of target, in other words, trying to make something seem like more than it really is… but that’s Joe. He’s obsessed with living a life that’s explosive, and when that’s your bag, that’s your bag. We’ve all got to dance to the beat that suits us, but Joe’s version is wow. Just wow. To be clear, explosive is not my calling. I like my life soft, rich, and kind, like folk songs, or blurry and wish-filled like a full moon right before it snows. Conversely, I also appreciate practical and useful, so fah-shun-ah-ble is not me, mostly because it takes a lot more time than “decent.”
Historically, I would have chosen to just stand there and sigh, waiting for Joe, but I’ve been impatient lately. And, for Christ’s sake, I was wearing a hand-me-down bathing suit and a ratty old beach towel. This was not an instance that required showboating. The plan was to go to the lake. The lake on OUR property. My dad and Joe’s parents were founding members of an intentional community—a commune called Community Thrives. We call it the “thrive,” and Joe and I have literally lived on the property our entire lives. So, I could pretty much guarantee that Joe wasn’t going to run into the love of his life or a modeling scout on the way to the lake. In fact, it was a million times more likely that he’d run into someone who changed his diapers, and honestly, pretty much any outfit is a step-up from poop in your pants.
“JOE!” I hollered, lifting my hands to bang my fists against his door, but instead, I almost fell into him as he threw it open.
Immediately, his hands and chin dramatically rose towards the heavens and he deeply growled, “Patience, Padawan.” His vibe came off more Gandalf from Lord of the Rings than Jedi knight, but whatever. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a hot pink banana hammock. Not kidding. I rolled my eyes and smiled because he’s an asshat, but he’s my asshat and I love him. Once he’d cleared his bedroom, aka, his dressing room, he pushed past me, heading for the kitchen. I turned to follow him, noticing that the butt of his itsy-bitsy swimsuit said, Bootylicious in stenciled font. There is no question—he ironed those letters on himself.
In Joe’s house, the kitchen is actually a great room, very open concept, which is pretty normal for the thrive because we build our own houses, so less walls means less work. Basically, the room is a huge rectangle divided by a counter/breakfast bar type thing that has three wooden stools to go with it. I’ve eaten more snacks and breakfasts there than I could possibly count. The walls of the room are mud—adobe-like, and Susan, Joe’s mom, has painted murals on them—big winding green vines. To the right side of the counter, there are all the things one finds in any kitchen, and to the left, there is a living room/art room/office, featuring an easel, craft table, desk, and a set of mismatched couches and chairs—which are all covered with Afghans and Navajo blankets. In the corner on the far-right side of the room, there is a fireplace and around the hearth are painted handprints of all kids born on the thrive—starting with Joe and I on the bottom left corner. It’s homey and comfortable and might just be the place that I have laughed the most in my life.
Like the diva that he is, Joe headed straight to the kitchen, pulled out his air guitar, and belted out a blues-y song of his own making to his mom who was sitting at the kitchen counter reviewing papers, “Good morning, mama. Dododododo,” he whipped his dark hair around and squinted at her. “I don’t know if you noticed, dododododo.” Full body toss, followed by squealing, “I oversle-ept.” The guitar disappeared and he was creeping toward her with sultry eyes and whispered singing that crescendoed to all-out madness, “Oh, tell me, mama… Tell me! Tell me you packed our lunch. Dododododo. Because Lua seems oh sooooooo tigh-iiiii-t-ly wound.”
Joe’s song barely earned a glance up from whatever Susan was working on. Pencil in hand and eyes still on the page, she said, “Joe-Joe, give Lua a break. Going off to college is stressful, kiddo.”
Joe and I had completed our AAs, and starting in September, I had a full ride to Hamilton to finish my BA. I was a little freaked out. Okay—a lot freaked out. And Joe was not helping.
“Boooooo,” Joe retaliated, heading for the refrigerator door. “Boo! Boo! Boo! I don’t think she should get to act all Grumpy McGrump Pants just because she chose to run away to one of the country’s bastions of higher learning, binge drinking, and one night stands.” He pulled the door open and leaned fully into the fridge, bending at the waist, so from where I was standing, leaning against the doorframe, he was all legs and a full moon of pink bootyliciousness rising. “Gotta make choices you can live with. Right, mom? Isn’t that what you taught us?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “What do we want for munchies, Lua-cake? Are we thinking light and luscious—like apples and honey, bebe? Ou… deh-cay-dent? Maybe a little wine and cheese?”
“Cheese.” Given the option, I’m always going to go cheese.
He finally stood and turned to me. His hands—arms really—were full, goodies tucked tightly against his chest, using his elbows and armpits as pins.
“Just cheese? Please. Where is the charm, mon cheri? The x-peer-ee-ance.” Maybe he just likes to make English words sound French. He smiled, all goofy and toothy, “If all I’m doing today is basking in the sun at the lake, then you better believe I’m preparing a foodgasm.”
It took him twenty minutes to pack lunch, and by the time we started the hike out to the lake, the sun was set to broil. I didn’t mind so much. There is something about a hot summer day that makes me feel connected to everything. It’s like my sweat reminds me that I’m just another animal—one of many that sun could fry up quick—and the thrive is so beautiful in the summer. Everything seems to be alive. So green and humid and buzzing.
It’s not a terribly long walk, but to get to the lake, we had to go from Joe’s house past the central meeting house and the farming fields and then up an uncultivated hill and through the trees. Basically, we had to traverse the entire 350-acre property from one end to the other. We walked in silence. At first, there were ambient sounds—the hellos from other thrivers in their gardens or through their windows, the tractor engine, kids playing, and then as we got closer to the lake, the only sound was the scratching of the tall grass along our thighs and the bottom of the picnic basket.
As you can imagine, Joe doesn't do silence that often, but in this instance, he did it for me and I knew it. He gave me quiet. He gifts me silence whenever he thinks I need to breathe deep and think. He’d been giving me a lot of quiet lately. He thought I needed to come to terms with leaving the thrive and going to college.