Muddin

When the truck first hits the mud, it feels like the direction of the earth changes. Like your whole life you’ve been going forward, just straight ahead, but then the wheels find that patch of dirt so soaked through with rain that there’s nothing for the tread to grab on to.

And that’s when it starts.

The tires spin and the engine screams and you aren’t driving anymore, you’re floating. And you’re going sideways – or backwards – or in a circle – and it doesn’t matter how you turn the wheel or stomp on the pedals, you and your friends are crammed into the tiny cab of your stepdad’s F-150 and you’re shrieking and giggling and holding on to each other, praying that the truck won’t flip and loving every second of it.

Fernando

We lived so close to the border that THE thing to do, if you were a total badass, was to sneak out in the middle of the night and go to this tiny little town in Mexico, Sangre de Cristo. And once you made it there, you had to get your picture taken in the cantina with Fernando.

Everyone knew who Fernando was – they had all seen his picture and heard stories about him. He had dark eyes that had sunken back into his skull, a wide lipless smile, and a skinny face like a horse. He was a legend. Everyone who came back from Sangre de Cristo had a Fernando story and a photo to go with it.

And, of course, everyone had a story about who he really was. He was a CIA operative. He was a former revolutionary. He was a rapist and a murderer, he was a drug lord, he was the guy who originally wrote La Bamba.

No one talked about the other possibility: that Fernando was some guy who drank at the local bar every night, hoping for one of those nights when a gaggle of giddy, elated American teenagers would swagger in, breathless with their own stupidity and daring, their pockets bulging with beer money and disposable cameras.

BOY!

He needed a job. An occupation with a title. Something distinguished. Matthew Campbell, Boy ________.

Matthew Campbell, Boy Detective hadn’t lasted long. For his first case, Matthew had selected The Case of the Sobbing Sibling to find out why his sister Anne, who was in 9th grade, cried so much. Matthew’s dad looked at the notebook where Matthew had begun charting his surveillance and interview prospects. He whistled. “Boy, you’re tackling the heavy hitters, there,” he said. “Listen, buddy, good luck with that one.”

As it turns out, boy detectives got told too often to mind their own business. So that was done.

Matthew Campbell, Boy Scientist was axed when his microscope broke, and Matthew’s brother Andy advised him that if he was really set on being Matthew Campbell, Boy Dancer, he had better not let anyone at school know about it.

That’s when Matthew Campbell, Boy Narcotics Officer made his debut, but the 4th grade didn’t really seem to need a Narc. He tried expanding to the high school, but that ended badly.

It just… ended badly. Matthew would not care to elaborate, thank you.

But this one – this one would be different. This was the one. Matthew Campbell, Boy Chef. This was going to be IT.

No I Will Not Be Your Friend

All I know is that I came home, turned on my computer, and I get this message telling me that 47 users have removed me from their Friends list, and I am blocked from viewing their pages. Just like that. The only 2 left were a girl I met at camp and my cousin, who lives in Wichita Falls. At first I thought something was just wrong with MySpace, so I blew it off. I told myself it would go back to normal any second. Whatever. Not a big deal.

But it didn’t change. All night.

I went to bed feeling terrible. I even got up once in the middle of the night and checked.

And the next morning it was still like that.

I kept reloading the page, my stomach churning. I didn’t want to go to school. This hadn’t ever happened to anyone before.

Tahiti

There will be a straw hut built over the ocean, small (but comfortable) and round. That’s where we will sleep. It is only accessible by a footbridge, 50 yards over the water from land. You can sit on a little porch outside and watch the fish in the water, but only nice harmless fish. All the terrifying ones will swim in another part of the ocean and you won't even have to look at them.

The people who live there will be grateful for the commerce, but able to continue their culture and lifestyle without having to alter it to accommodate the tourism industry. They won’t resent our presence in the least, but will regard us as pleasant curiosities.

I will wear unusual but highly flattering dresses. My relaxed demeanor will alter my facial features to make me look serene and filled with love and peace at all times. I will not be jumpy. I will forget all insecurities. I will devote a significant part of my day to meditation and prayer and, as a result, be filled with tolerance, patience, and a gentle nature.

Tahiti.

Midwestern winters breed this type of lunacy. French Polynesia mocks you, beckoning; a grass skirt that hints at wonders below. Damn you, Tahiti. Damn you, Bora Bora. Damn you.