Friday Nights

I know I've mentioned the parties we had out at my place Friday nights. 

A little background here: I got out of the army in 1981 and I eventually ended up in a little shack on 30 acres of pasture that was owned by a Portagee dairyman that lived down on the other side of Turlock, about 40 miles south, give or take.

It was cool. My rent was $175 a month and we had a deal where I could work off my rent at the rate of $7.50 an hour. It was mostly keeping the fences in good repair, feeding heifers during the winter if there were any there, helping to stack hay when Manual delivered a load, that sort of thing. There wasn't a lot of real work other than repairing fences if they needed it. Most months I paid full rent, a few times I paid nothing.

The best part of the whole deal was that Manual lived a good distance away, but he could've cared less about what went on out there as long as I didn't grow weed and didn't burn down the house or hay barn. I could hunt, I could shoot, I could howl at the fucking moon at midnight every night.

I'm not entirely sure why people from work started coming over to my place on Friday after we got off, hell, it might've been my idea, but it started right after I moved into my shack. It wasn't an every Friday night thing, but looking back on it, it sure seemed like it.

At the time, we were only running two lines at the ammo plant, an 81 and a 60mm mortar line, and the whole plant was on a 40 hour work week, Monday through Friday, so we all had the weekends off. 

It was cool, friends and their families from work stopping by after work or early in the evening for a beer or 10, maybe grill some meat and just pass the time. 

There were no invitations, anybody and everybody was welcome to show up, even the bosses if they wanted, although they rarely did. Maybe once or twice that I can recall.

Some folks brought guests, some were people I met in town or wherever, but the huge majority of the people were folks that I worked with or used to work with.

There were times when there were just 3-4 people and other times I'd have 40 people all over the damned place, especially on a warm summer night. Most of the time it was about a dozen.

My dad even stopped off after work a few times. The first time he came by, everybody was greeting him with "Hey, Mister Lane," because nobody actually knew him even though they knew about him. He worked in the machine shop and everybody else there were line workers who had no business over there, but they all knew he was my father. So anyway, they're being all polite and shit with the "Hey, Mister Lane," and he holds up his hands and says, "Please guys, call me Kirk."

Hell yeah. So I hollered over at him, "Hey Kirk, you want a beer?"

He whipped around and said, "Not you, asshole. You keep calling me what you've always called me."

"Oh no, I don't think I want to do that. Not if you thought Kirk was out of line. Hell no."

On the rare occasion I had to work an hour or two of overtime that day or had to run into Modesto after work for something or another, it wasn’t unusual for me to turn into my property and find people already there, my house open (a couple of my tight friends had keys) so the ladies could go pee, and a cold beer and some meat waiting for me.

During the afternoon there’d be light drinking, cooking, shooting, horseshoes, the old ladies visiting with each other, kids catching crawdads up at the frog pond, and dogs chasing each other around the pasture. A regular Norman Rockwell scene.

Nighttime was when things got a little looser. Folks that brought younger kids generally left and the rest of us started drinking more, got more relaxed and well, you know how that goes.

All in all though, it stayed pretty mellow, The sheriff never came out that I’m aware of and the Volunteer FD paramedics came out once but by the time they got there, James had already regained consciousness and resumed drinking after slipping on the porch steps and clipping his head on the rail, so he refused treatment. The paramedics had a beer and a hamburger and left empty-handed.

There were some unspoken rules though and they were generally abided by even when I wasn’t around seeing as my friends knew they had a good thing going and didn’t want to blow it. It was mostly common courtesy rules anyways – use the trash cans thoughtfully provided by your host, the music can’t be heard from the road, clean up after your dog, no fires outside the pit, police your brass, and be mindful of any young'uns around as far as your language goes. You know, act like a civilized human being.

The dogs were a mess. Okay, y'all know how I love dogs. But take 10 or 15 dogs of all breeds that normally ride around all sedated looking and shit in the back of their trucks, then bring them all together in a wide open space and turn ’em all loose and watch. It’s like a fucking tornado. Every time a new arrival showed up the pack would swarm the truck to the point that the driver couldn’t proceed without unloading his dog first, then after they’d all run back out to the pasture to play chase or whatever, the driver could safely park.

There was one memorable dog though. He was a mixed breed, medium sized, and his name was Rover or Fido or whatever until it got its right hind leg injured and had to be amputated. Then Allen changed his name to Tripod. Ol’ Tripod pretty much took his missing appendage in stride (no pun intended), barely noticing it after a while. It didn’t slow him down one bit after he got used to it. He’d get out there and run with all the other dogs, just having himself a good time and keeping up with no problems whatsoever. He’d go out and run and play and then he'd come in and lap beer straight from Allen’s cup like he’d been doing all his life and off he’d go again.

Well, after awhile he’d have to piss some of that beer out. Now if that dog was sober, he’d hike his right stub up – but as soon as he started copping a buzz, he’d swap sides for some reason trying to prop himself up with his amputated foot. We’d be rolling in the pasture dying of laughter watching this fucking dog try hike his leg and lose his balance, fall over, get up, try to hike his leg, fall over….. finally he’d just fucking lay there and squirt and bark. Allen would just fill a bucket and rinse his dog off.

My dog Captain who was once described as ill tempered on his best days, generally refrained from snapping at any of the guests. The parties were just getting started when I got him, so he grew up with them.

That dog had a calendar mind though. Pull into the drive on a Friday afternoon or evening and he wouldn't give you a second glance. Any other day of the week, unless he was very familiar with you or your truck, you weren't getting out of it until I called him off. 

Cap just wasn't a people dog, not even when he was a puppy. He liked kids, but didn't tolerate most adults very well. I mean, he wouldn't go out of his way to snap, he just didn't like to be fucked with and with his fighting weight being at about 120 pounds, folks respected that. Most of the time.

Little David was the worst offender. Little David..... picture a Mexican Danny DeVito, but with hair, a Clark Gable mustache and a big booming laugh. He ended every other sentence with a laugh while holding his beer belly and his whole body shaking.

We'd all be sitting in lounge chairs or tailgates and I'd hear a snap and snarl and Little David's "Goddammit Kenny, your fucking dog just bit at me again!" Again being the key word. You'd think he'd learn.

"Did you try to pet the dog again, David?"

"Well yeah but...."

"Don't pet the dog, Little David. The dog does not want to be your friend."

A couple weeks later, I'd hear a snarl and Little David whining again.

"Did you try to pet the dog again, David?"

"No, honest, Kenny. I just smiled at him when he walked past."

"OKAY, LISTEN UP, PEOPLE! THANKS TO LITTLE DAVID, WE NOW HAVE A NEW RULE. DON'T SMILE AT THE DOG!"

Everybody else: "FUCK YOU LITTLE DAVID!!!"

There was bunch of guys over one time when we noticed Rod's truck turn into the drive. Rod was our boss, so there was a brief moment of panic until they got the rolling tray stashed inside the house.

I'm sitting there in my chair on the porch and a glass in my hand and I'm about half lit. Rod climbs out and comes over. "Mind if I pattern my shotgun?" he asks as he offers me a fine cigar.

"Try not to shoot a cow," I said as I accepted the cigar and a light. Rod smoked much better cigars than I could afford. "Come on, I'll go with you."

I went to the barn for plywood and into the house to grab some large targets while Rod got his shotgun and a variety of shells and we went out back. He did his thing and when he was done, we went back out front but I noticed there was a conspicuous absence of my friends. Their trucks were all there, my front door was wide open, but there was nary a soul in sight, not even a Mexican.

Rod grabs a beer and walks back to his truck, puts his shotgun and shells away and before he climbs in, he turns to say his goodbyes. "All right Pancho, thanks much. I've been meaning to do that for a while but you know how shit just gets in the way. I'll see you Monday. Your shed's on fire."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Your shed's on fire. Look."

I turned around and bigger than shit, there's wisps of smoke coming out of the cracks in the door. Well, that explains where everybody's at.  "Naw, you're seeing things."

"The fuck I am, you're just drunk," and he heads towards the shed, and I can hear somebody inside trying to keep from coughing up a toke.

Rod gets up to the door, flings it open and hollers, "Hey! All you fucking potheads get out of there! The shed's on fire, ya knuckleheads!"

You gotta understand Rod. He's about 10 years older than I was, and was born and raised in Knight's Ferry, an old mining town on the Stanislaus, a descendent of some of the original settlers.  A redneck from the git-go. Straight as a fucking arrow.  He was also hard to read because he was completely unexcitable and had a real dry sense of humor.

Anyways, he's holding the door open and everybody comes trooping out and his jaw's dropping lower and lower. "Richard? Real Pancho? Bobby? Rex? Oh no, not you too, Little David. Really?"

Little David hung his head. "I came back from Vietnam a changed man, Rod." Then he couldn't resist. "Ho ho ho!"

Rod shuts the door and is standing there shaking his head. "Un-fucking-believable. With the exception of Kenny here, I catch every one of my lathe and press operators in a shed smoking pot. Wait, where's Skidmark? Good, at least I have one strai...."

"Wait a goddamned minute, I'm coming out," Skidmark says from inside the shed where he was perfectly safe. "I dropped my lighter."

So they're all lined up out in front of the shed trying to look all guilty and shit but they're stoned out of their fucking minds and can't keep those silly ass grins off their faces, and Rod's walking back and forth shaking his head between gulps of beer. I handed him another to mellow him out and clucked, "Well, I never... Y'all should be ashamed of yourselves, each and every one of you."

Rod turns to me and growls, "Oh, shut the hell up. If I hadn't been here, you'd have been in there with them."

Little David pipes up and says, "Uh, Rod? If you weren't here, none of us would've been been in that shed. Ho ho ho!"

Rod just turned, walked back to his truck and went home, still shaking his head. We never heard a word about it.

One especially memorable day I had to work a rare couple hours of overtime and when I got home there were 15 or 20 people there, and I saw Dana standing in the doorway of the house. Cool, she's off schedule, maybe she'll spend the weekend. I hadn't seen her in a while.

Me and Dana dated off and on for a couple years back in the '80s. It was fun, even after we both realized about 2 months into it that we couldn't stand each other.

Well, maybe I shouldn't put it that way. Maybe I should say we couldn't stand to be around each other for any period of time. We got along just fine as long as it was a dating thing, but as soon as we started seeing a lot of each other, we were at each other's throats and would have to take some time off until we cooled down, usually a month or two. Then we'd start the cycle all over again.

She went back into the house, then came back out with a cold beer for me. "Hey cowboy, you look tired. Rough day?"

"Rough and long, darlin'. You're a sight for sore eyes," I said, taking my beer.

"Maybe I can help. Would you like to bury your face in my ample yet firm bosoms while I rub your neck?"

"Hell yes I'd like to bury my face in your ample yet firm bosoms while you rub my neck. Get yourself on over here," I said as I sat my suddenly rejuvenated self in a chair. My day was looking up already.

"Good, because me and Tammy have a 20 dollar bet going that I can't kill a man doing that. Hey Tammy, he said he'd do it!"

Tammy came sashaying over with a big grin on her face. "You might as well pay her right now," I said to her. "I'm familiar with those titties. I'm a goner for sure."

Dana looked disappointed. "So you're pussing out?"

"Did I say that? Come here, woman." 

The crowd started gathering as Dana got an evil little grin on her face and unfastened a couple buttons on her shirt. I saw the look in her eyes and thought, damn, she looks like she's serious. But what the hell, I can think of worse ways to go, plus people will talk about it for years to come.

I can see it now, 40 years from now two old retired paramedics will be sitting in a bar and one says to the other, "Say, you remember back in nineteen and eighty three, that kid that smothered himself on some girl's titties?" and the other will say, "Yup, Kenny Lane. Fucking legend."

"Don't I get some last requests? I need another beer." Jimmy the Hat handed me a cold beer. "Thank you, Jimmy. For that you'll sit on my right side in Paradise."

"How about a last cigarette while you contemplate your demise? " Dana asked.

"I'd rather have a chew instead, thanks," I said digging my can out of my shirt pocket.

"Oh no you don't, you're not smearing tobacco spit down my cleavage in your death throes!" She lit a smoke and handed it to me.

"One last request. I want some music to die to. Is that cool?" I looked towards the folks gathered around as they discussed it amongst themselves and then Real Pancho piped up, "Depends on the music. You ain't making me sit through no goddamned disco shit you'd play as a final fuck you to us."

I didn't even have to think about it. "Lighten up, bro. You know I don't allow disco on my property. I want Bury the Bottle With Me. Don Curless. It's in the cassette rack. Somebody put it on." Murmurings and smiles of approval abounded. I made a good choice. I stubbed out my cigarette and motioned to Dana. "I've said my prayers and I'm ready to meet my Maker. Kill me dead."

She straddled me and started giving me the promised neck rub when Little David's head popped up over her shoulder. "Uh, Kenny? I just wanted to let you know I volunteered to do this in your place, but Dana said I was creepy."

"Well, you are, David."  I wasn't telling him anything he hadn't already heard from all the women there over the years. "Thank you though. You're a true friend."

I waited until the song started before I faceplanted right in that cleavage. Timing is everything when it comes to theatrics.

There's a stone in yonder graveyard

With my name carved in it deep

It don't tell my life story

These things, it can't repeat

She applied enough pressure to the back of my head to make it look like she was trying and to be honest, I was experiencing a little difficulty breathing. Then she pulled me in a little tighter and what little air I was sucking before was suddenly cut completely off. I tried to twist my head around for a quick gasp before I got back to my motorboating, but suddenly she clamped down. Holy shit, she must've been working out. Between her biceps squeezing her titties together and her hands holding me tight up against her, I couldn't draw a breath. Motherfucker! She really is trying to kill me! 

In my struggles, my ears were breaking free and I could hear the crowd, but nobody seemed very concerned. I was picking up shit like "Holy shit, his neck is turning purple! Hahahaha!" and "Dibs on his truck." Some friends.

Suddenly I remembered her sweet spot, right below her armpits. Just prod her there and she jumps, every time. I jabbed her with my fingers and she squealed and let go, leaving me there gasping for breath.

So bury the bottle with me

For it's what tore me down

So I won't be alone tonight

When they put me in the ground

When they lower my body down

 When my vision finally cleared up, I saw Dana with a satisfied grin on her face and Tammy looking defeated. I motioned to Tammy to pay up.

It took me a little longer to get my breath back enough to talk, but when I finally could, the first words out of my mouth were "You know, we really should get married."

"Marry YOU? What do you have to offer me? You live in a tarpaper shack. Your refrigerator has never seen a vegetable. You drink out of Mason jars. You talk to cows through the bedroom window - while you're still in bed. You own more fishing rods than plates. You keep a pet rattlesnake. You shoot at ground squirrels from inside the house. Don't get me started on that fucking dog. Did I mention the Mason jars? You have a shot up alarm clock displayed on your stereo cabinet....."

I grinned. I was proud of that shot up clock. Solid proof that a man can only take so much. "I'm getting bored," I announced. "Hurry up and get to the bad parts."

"Oh, Jesus."

Her claims weren't exactly baseless. Hell, I owned more fishing rods than plates for each species I fished for. As far as the cattle thing goes, I only did it one time. It just happened to be the first time she spent the night. And I wouldn't exactly call that snake a pet. I did feel she was a little judgmental on the whole ground squirrel deal though. There was a large colony of the little bastards that was undermining what was left of my driveway starting about 25 yards out. They were out in the bright sunlight so it only made sense to move my easy chair over to where it was a straight shot and shoot from inside with my 22 where they couldn't see me in the shadows. 

One evening just before dusk, an unfamiliar Jeep turned into the drive as me, Mexican Bob, Johnny Jones and Stony Joanie were getting ready to fire up a doobie on the porch. Now my driveway was a once gravel road, right at 150 yards long, and rutted as hell most of the way down. Anything over 5 miles an hour and you'll lose a filling, but this woman was moving right along, hair flying everywhere.

"She better slow down or she's gonna bust a bra strap," Mexican Bob observed.

Johnny Jones glanced up momentarily from the joint he was rolling and said, "She ain't wearing one. She's sportin' a pair of 34s, I'd call 'em a heavy C, light D cup. Kinda hard to tell with that shirt." Shit, she was still a good hundred yards out. He inspected his joint, fired it up, spat out a crumb of weed and added, "No kids."

She came sliding to a stop almost running over a dog or two, grabbed the roll bar and swung herself out. I turned to Johnny Jones in awe. Damn, he's good. She stomped past us and over to a half dozen other people standing there bullshitting under the only tree within a mile, pushing people aside until she was standing face to face with easygoing Jimmy Pearl. "YOU BASTARD!!! YOU'RE FUCKING MY SISTER???" she screams as she starts pounding poor Jimmy P in the chest. 

Jimmy P takes a step or two back with an utterly bewildered look on his face and asks a question that we all later agreed was fairly reasonable, "Well, I don't know. What's her name?"

She lunged at him, but was held back by 3 or 4 women who escorted her to her Jeep and deposited her in it with a warning to leave and not come back, which she did, driving out as fast as she did coming in.

It happened so fast my little group hadn't budged. I hollered "Hey, Jimmy P, who was that, a new ex-girlfriend?" and he tells me with that same bewildered look that he was going to wear on his face the rest of the night, "Man, I don't know who she was. I ain't never seen her before in my life!" 

Everybody broke up laughing. Fucking PsychoChicks...

I felt a tap on my arm and as I turned to take the joint, I said, "Damn, Johnny Jones.  I'm impressed. You called them breastworks for sure."

"It's a gift," he says as he glances over at Stony Joanie who instinctively crosses her arms over her chest and then says, "Perky li'l 34Bs. Left one hangs about a half inch lower than the right."

One Friday afternoon found us drinking and shooting the shit when one of the guys looks over my shoulder and says, “What's that on that fence post out yonder?”

I turned around and looked and it was one of those goddamned barn owls that keep me up all night screeching and shit. What he was doing on a fence post in the middle of the afternoon was beyond me but there he was, about 3 fence lines out, about a hundred yards or so away. I walked over to the truck and got a pair of binoculars and checked him out. “Great big motherfucker. Back’s to us. Ain’t moving so he must be sleeping.”

Rex got all excited. Now it didn’t take much to excite Rex anyways, he was a short stout guy, pigeon toed and had a pair of eyeballs that operated independently of each other. And the boy was slow – real slow. But he was a good dude, just a half-witted country boy. He worked hard and was head over heels in love with his wife who strangely enough was college educated and a hottie to boot. We always figured Rex must've been hung like a goddamned stallion.

Anyways, Rex snatched up a fresh beer and a metal fence stake that was laying next to the shed and said he was going to kick that motherfucker’s ass. “Naw, don’t do that, it ain't bothering you none,” Pete said. But Rex climbed the fence and commenced to walking out there, all of us laughing and giving him advice as long as his mind was made up to do it.

I was watching it through my binoculars. I saw the whole thing. Rex got up to within about 4 feet of it and hefted that stake over his shoulder and was fixin’ to take a powerhouse swing at it when that owl’s eyes popped open. Oops, he didn’t have his back to us after all. My bad. That startled poor Rex and he recoiled back just as he swung causing him to whiffle right through the owl. See, when you’re looking at an owl, mostly what you’re looking at are feathers. Owls ain’t as thick as they look, they’re just fluffy. Rex found that out that day.

Anyways, the owl seized the opportunity and attacked. Rex flung down his only weapon and turned tail, his legs pumping and bawling for his mama. He made it about 10 feet before he tripped over a furrow or a cowpie or something and faceplanted. That big ol’ owl followed him down and for a few seconds all we could see was wings flapping around just above the grass tops and then Rex was up and running again and then him and the owl were in the grass again. Man, I was laughing my ass off. A couple of the boys ran to get shotguns from their trucks to help Rex out, and then I’m running around hollering, “Don’t shoot, you’ll hit Rex, goddammit!"

Finally Rex is almost there but so is the owl. We all figured that once it got close to the crowd it would fly back to its fence post but this owl was pissed. It kept coming. So Rex is about 25 yards away from safety and every damned one of us turned and stampeded for the house screaming like schoolgirls. Fuck Rex. Fuck that owl. Beer was flying everywhere.

Okay. I was like the third one through the door and once I got through I kept on traveling at a high rate of speed all the way into the bedroom. I don’t know who was last in and I don’t know who slammed the door and locked it behind the last person. I don't even know who that last man in was, but I do know it wasn't Rex.

Poor Rex….. now think about this….. okay, 5 minutes ago he was having a great time partying with his bros, somebody spots an owl and he’s going to give everybody something to laugh at. Then his whole day went to shit. Not only is he getting his ass beat by a four pound bird, but just as he’s reaching his friends and safety, we all run into the house! And then somebody locked the fucking door! He was right about one thing though, he did give us something to laugh about.

Rex is on the porch and he’s pounding on the door and I swear to God, we can all hear that owl’s wings thrashing on the door too. We’re rolling on the floor, we’re fucking helpless we’re laughing so hard and we couldn’t have helped him if we wanted to.

Rex leaps off the porch and runs around to the side of the house where the bathroom is and we can see his hands slapping at the window as he’s jumping up and down for it and then the owl’s shadow as it swoops on him again. More laughter. He makes about 3 trips around the house shrieking and screaming before somebody opens the door and yanks him in on the next pass. What’s the first thing Rex does when he gets up? He locks the fucking door, I shit you not.

The goddamned owl kept us hostage for another 10 or 15 minutes. Nobody wanted to poke their head out long enough to locate and take a shot at him. When we finally calmed down and quit giggling long enough to assess Rex’s wounds, we saw that owl got him pretty good. There was a long scratch to his face,  a gash in his scalp and a couple on his hands from trying to ward that fucker off that might require a stitch or two. We applied liberal amounts of hydrogen peroxide and under an armed guard, fearfully looking towards the sky, we escorted Rex to a vehicle and to the Oak Valley emergency room to try to explain that tale to the ER doctor.

The only Friday I wouldn't let folks come over was the first Friday after pheasant season opened which was the second Saturday in November as I recall. There was a good reason for that, too.

A couple properties over, the farmer raised pheasant to shoot, turning them loose the weekend before the season opened and charging Bay Area hunters big bucks to shoot his property. Well, when they did their drives, it was in the direction of my place. Most of the birds settled in on the property in between my place and his, but quite a few kept on traveling before squatting on my place.

I didn't hunt Opening Day nor the week after. I needed those pheasants alive and unsuspecting to help me knock out my yearly good deed. The Saturday after pheasant season opened was Kid's Day.

Saturday morning would find a shitload of people there with their kids - dads and sons and moms with sons and even a couple women would bring their daughters. Adults could hunt as long as they had a kid under 18 with them. I didn't give a fuck if it was even their own child. Hell, bring a neighbor kid, I don't care. Expose 'em all to some good clean fun.

It was cool watching the kids that got their 2 birds helping out those that hadn't got one yet. They'd start driving from the sides, pushing the birds towards the hunter until he finally got one. What was really cool was that it never was an adult's idea for them to do that, one of the luckier kids always came up with it.

It cost me a fair amount of money that weekend because I was supplying all the after-hunt refreshments and food - coffee, tea, beer and cokes, steaks and hamburgers, hot dogs, storebought potato salad, shit like that. But I gotta tell you, it was worth every damned dime to hear those kids laughing and seeing the smiles on their faces as they're getting their picture took holding up their first pheasants, their folks prouder than hell.

So yeah, those were our Friday nights - for a while until the ammo plant landed a grenade contract and about half of us went to an 84 hour a week work schedule. That put the skids on that shit real quick.

Oh, people still stopped by after work on Fridays, but they'd only stick around for a couple hours before heading home and to bed so they could be back to work at 3:30 in the morning.