Garry Boots Goes Berserk, Page 4

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  Dawn broke over the lake foggy and cool. With the exception of Andy, who felt compelled to hunt, everyone drowsily nestled in their warm sleeping bags. The sharp reports of Andy’s twelve gauge in the distance interrupted the morning calm. One by one, the campers emerged from their tents. Shelly rekindled the previous night’s fire and brewed coffee.

  As they ate what was unanimously declared the tastiest bacon and eggs of their lives, Andy shuffled into view, his dejected scowl betraying his lack of hunting success. Embarrassed, he ate quickly and dressed a single dove; the only bounty after two hours of diligent hunting.

  “But I thought,” George stated, “I heard a dozen shots fired.”

  “Well, I shot at some beer cans I found on the riverbank.”

  “No doubt!” Jerry said, with a needling grin. “You couldn’t have missed that many birds!”

  As noon approached, the sun burned away the fog and the air warmed. George eyed the glass-like surface of the lake, anticipating water skiing. He offered to “drag everyone across the water until their arms fell off.”

  Blue jeans gave way to swimsuits, and boating preparations began in earnest. George, Paula, and Shelly stocked a cooler with sandwich ingredients and beer, while Andy put a few things in a duffel bag behind the tent, out of sight from the others. Paula’s CD player belted out an upbeat country western song. She hit the stop button cutting off the singer in the middle of his crooning.

  “It’s a good thing Andy didn’t see you do that,” Jerry chided, “because he wrote that song. In fact, I think that was him singing, too!” This barbed ridicule of Andy, within his earshot, prompted the women to burst into laughter. Jerry deepened the sting by shaking his head and saying, “What a fool!”

  Andy burned inside, obscured from view by the tent. He realized his chances for any sort of romance with Shelly were slipping away. He rationalized Jerry and George both to be insensitive boors who entertained themselves at other people’s expense. This camping trip, Andy thought, would be infinitely improved if George Kasper and Jerry Kramer had never come along. Or better yet, if they would suddenly disappear. Bitterly, he stuffed a change of clothes into his bag, and he and the others climbed into the boat.

  George fired up the engine, and Jerry pushed the boat backwards away from the rocks as he boarded. They idled out into the deep green water, and George turned the boat upriver. Paula was the first to ski, followed by Shelly, Jerry, and then Andy. Each of them skied for several minutes until fatigue overcame their balance, and they crashed into the churning boat wake. They withstood three or four mishaps before exhaustion set in -- the perfect excuse for everyone to sprawl out in the boat, slosh down morning beer and bask in the sun.

  Except for Andy, they played and laughed like teenagers after raiding their parents’ liquor cabinet. The boat, floating motionlessly in the calm water, was an island of partiers intoxicated from alcohol and sun. The stupidest jokes were funny; absurdities the norm. Yet Andy, believing the others thought him to be a fool and a liar, grew increasingly depressed under his facade of laughter.

  Screw them all, he thought. There was no way for the others to know if his wild night with Garry Boots really happened. It was real enough for me, he reasoned. And what gives them the right to pump Shelly’s head full of their bullshit opinions? Andy once again found himself in the place he hated: outside and looking in. It was the place that terrified him so much that he twisted reality in the vain hope of being included.

  “Well, I do believe it’s my turn to ski,” George said. “Who can drive the boat?”

  Andy spoke quickly. “I know how to do it!” he exclaimed with false confidence.

  George glanced at the rest of the potential pilots, but they all shook their heads, shirking the responsibility.

  “I’m over the limit,” Jerry said, raising his beer. “Maybe after lunch, I’ll be okay.”

  After a few brief, but uneasy, instructions for Andy, George dove overboard and slipped his foot into the ski. He swam to the rope and yelled at Andy to take up the slack. Andy turned the key, the motor gurgled to life, and he idled forward until the rope was taut. Shelly watched the procedure with fascination. Water skiing was a rarity where she had grown up in Wyoming.

  “Go!” George yelled.

  Andy jammed down the throttle. The engine roared, but the boat veered crazily to the left, sending half-full beer cans spilling across the floor. Wide-eyed, Andy jerked the throttle back, and the boat settled back into the water.

  “Make sure you’re pointed straight ahead, you idiot!” George yelled, shaking his head.

  Angrily, Andy went through the procedure again. This time the powerful craft gained speed, planing across the lake. Andy looked over his shoulder. George was still behind, balanced steadily in the wake. The speedometer registered 30 mph, and it seemed to Andy that they were almost flying. He observed the numbers went up to 70.

  He wondered how fast George could ski. Andy guided the craft through the bends of the river, watching the shoreline and tree-covered slopes. Wherever the forest met the water, broken and weathered dead tree stumps extended into the lake, victims of the rising water during the man-made lake’s formation. For years they had tenaciously withstood the incessant lapping water, but it had made them jagged and dangerous.

  Andy remembered reading about a man who once skied into a boat dock and broke every bone in his body. He eyed a stretch of partially submerged dead trees rapidly approaching and steered nearer to them. A sharp turn to the left, as if to avoid a floating log, would slingshot George uncontrollably into the deadly obstacle course that he would have no chance of negotiating. The whine of the boat’s drive train, the rush of air past his face, and the smooth vibration of the steering wheel in his hand excited Andy, and he felt powerful.

  “He’s finished!” Paula shouted. “He let go of the rope!”

  Andy looked behind him to see George sinking into the water, spent. He turned the boat around and pointed it at George’s head protruding above the surface. As he neared, Andy pulled back the throttle to slow the boat. It came out of plane and settled into the water. Still, he closed the distance quickly, the rumbling engine and churning propeller pushing the boat towards the swimmer. Andy erratically over-steered, first to the right then to the left, and the boat passed George, afloat in his yellow ski-vest. Andy turned the boat sharply around and headed back. The boat, designed for high speed, responded sluggishly, and again Andy had difficulty controlling its direction. He lost sight of George, who was obscured by the bow. The passengers heard a muffled chunk and felt a bump as the propeller effortlessly cut through something.

  “Andy, kill the engine! You just ran over the rope!” George shouted from the water.

  Andy turned the key, and the motor died. George climbed into the back of the boat, discarding his dripping vest. He pulled the severed pieces of the ski rope out of the water and threw them on the floor.

  “I thought you said you know how to drive one of these things!”

  Andy, lips pursed, said nothing, staring only at George’s intact head.

  The day waned, and the boaters had satiated themselves on skiing and beer. George navigated back to the campsite, docked the boat, and tossed the key into the glove box. They stumbled out of the boat, and Jerry said to Andy, “Do you think we can split your dove five ways for dinner?”

  Instead of laughing with the others Andy’s eyes lit up like last night’s Coleman lantern after George had pumped it too many times. Andy stomped to his tent, threw back the flap and disappeared inside. George tied the mooring rope from the bow of the boat to a scrubby tree near the shore. He was chuckling until he heard the clicking action of Andy’s twelve gauge as he pumped a shell into the chamber. Andy burst out of the tent and stormed past George, who nervously eyed the shotgun. He marched into the woods, still clad in his damp swim trunks, t-shirt and a pair of worn out tennis shoes.

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nbsp; “Jerry, I think we’d better lighten up on Andy,” George said. “He seems pretty wound up.”

  “That guy is so full of shit.” Jerry replied. “To hell with him if he can’t take a joke. What does he expect to shoot at this late hour, anyway? There’s only a few minutes of daylight left.”

  An evening chill began to settle over the lake. Shelly rekindled the fire as Paula picked through food in an ice chest.

  The sound of a single shotgun blast shattered the stillness of dusk, echoing off the cliffs across the water. A long minute passed, and no one said anything.

  Shelly finally spoke, “I wonder if he got anything?”

  George said, “I’m going to go check on him.” He threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed a flashlight, and walked into the trees toward the direction of the shot. The birds were nesting, and the night insects were eerily silent. The stillness was broken only by George’s footsteps scrunching across the forest floor.

  After a few minutes of walking, he reached the clearing with the burned-out oak stump. George squinted, trying to sharpen the dim images before him in the dusk. He stepped into the openness and saw Andy on the ground, his torso propped up against the fallen top of the tree. His shotgun lay beside him. George slowly approached. In the dim light it was impossible to discern any features. He raised his flashlight and flicked on the switch.

  Andy bellowed, “Can’t you see I’d like to be alone?”

  Startled, yet relieved, George jumped back.

  “I was afraid you’d shot yourself -- accidentally. We were kind of worried about you.”

  “I figured you’d be glad to get rid of me,” Andy said hotly. He paused, thinking for a few seconds. “I hate Jerry. I hate his big mouth. He takes everything I say and twists it around to make me look bad, and you all think he’s so funny. It’s people like him -- always taking potshots at me -- that make me so… so mad. Just when I get to be friends with someone like Shelly, he’s got to open his big mouth and ruin things for me! If it weren’t for Jerry, Shelly and I would’ve been able to get pretty friendly this weekend.”

  Andy stood up, cradling his shotgun in his arms.

  “I don’t think you can blame Jerry for not hitting it off with Shelly, Andy.”

  “Bullshit!” Andy raved. He paced around the clearing. Even in the poor light, George could see the muscles in Andy’s jaw bulging as he clenched his teeth. “Just when things were starting to go right, he makes some crack about me.”

  “It wasn’t about you, Andy. It was about your story with Garry Boots. That was pretty . . . incredible.”

  “How do you know that wasn’t the way it happened? You weren’t there. None of you know squat. Not about that -- not about anything.” Andy was livid, shaking. “Why doesn’t he just call me a liar to my face? Why don’t you just call me a liar?” he screamed at George.

  Andy raised his shotgun and waved it around frantically. George’s adrenaline skyrocketed, and in a panic he raised his hands.

  Andy jerked the trigger, and the blast split the night air. Chunks of wood splintered from the stump as pellets ripped into it. George stood petrified, fearfully watching the wild man vent pent-up frustration and rage. A few uncertain moments passed, and then slowly Andy lowered the shotgun.

  His demeanor transformed. He had snapped.

  Andy said in a silky, calm voice, “I’m going to tell you and everybody else in this camp one time, and one time only, that Andy really did help me write Lightning Strikes. I couldn’t have done it without him. And, I’m not going to stand by while you or anyone else accuses him of being a liar.”

  Andy’s voice had changed. The pitch was higher, and it emanated from him with a smooth richness. He looked around at the clearing. George, mouth agape, said nothing.

  “Damn,” Andy said. “I seem to have lost my cowboy hat. Oh well, I’ve got plenty of them.”

  George, regaining some of his composure, finally was able to speak, “Andy, you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. Something has happened to you.”

  “Are you talking to me?” Andy glared at George.

  “Andy, listen to me.”

  Andy cut him off. He said, “Andy has gone. It’s just you and me here now. I don’t think Andy is coming back. He’s gone away. I’m Garry.”

  “Jesus, Andy, get ahold of yourself! You’re not Garry Boots!” Andy whirled, eyes livid in defiance. In one motion he raised the shotgun and blew George’s head off above his nose. His body crumpled in a heap at the edge of the clearing. Andy reloaded and headed for camp. With perfect pitch he sang Lightning Strikes as he walked through the dark woods.