The Epic Summer

Name the most expensive personal item you’ve ever purchased

As I loaded the last of the stuff into my car, Mom hovered in the background, hands on hips. She maintained an irritated monologue.

“Darryl,” she said. “Honestly, this is asinine. At least wait until your father gets home. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

I wedged the last box into the front seat and kissed her on top of the head. That’s exactly why I’m escaping now. 

“Sorry, Mom,” I said. “Papers are all signed, it’ll be fine… you’ll see.”

My last sight of her was standing in the driveway, shaking her head sorrowfully.

###

It was my third summer break from Florida and while I was looking forward to reconnecting with my friends and home town, I was not looking forward to being shoehorned back into the role of the dopey kid in need of constant parental oversight.

The previous two summer breaks produced considerable tension. There were many exchanges about the hours I kept, and how I managed my money. Is this something I did up in Gainesville? Did I think that was a responsible decision?

This summer was gonna be different.

###

I had learned from my big brother Doug that when dealing with Mom and Pop, surprise was key. It was best to get all my ducks in a row and spring anything remotely contentious on them at the very last moment. Have an answer for everything. Never lose my cool.

I had started my campaign in March by quietly lining up another summer job with IBM in Boca, this time as a technical writer. When the job offer letter came up at UF, my eyes bugged out at the salary. I had a brainstorm and began planning The Epic Summer.

###

Rich was my best friend from High School and still lived with his folks in Boca. I got him on board for The Epic Summer by painting a fanciful tapestry: Our own cool bachelor pad, poker games, chicks night and day. No more sneaking in at 3:00 am, dirty looks, chores.

He started looking. Boca Raton is not an inexpensive place and the apartments were a lot more than we had expected. I knew many of the places he mentioned in our late-night phone calls. We started in Marvin Gardens and descended steadily; we were solidly in St Charles Place country before he found one in our price range.

###

Two weeks before finals, Rich called with a bombshell; the apartment had been rented. The only option left was a one bedroom/one bath with twin beds in the same complex. Did I want him to put a deposit on it?

My head spun. No time to look for other places; I could see The Epic Summer going up in smoke. Maybe we could work out a deal for staying away if the other guy had a date. I dunno, we’d figure it out. 

###

My first glance of the Golden Palms apartments made me think less St Charles Place and more Mediterranean Ave. The A/C was off and it was hot and stuffy. A few dead palmetto bugs lay on their backs on the carpeting. 

No dishwasher, no microwave, no cable, mismatched thrift store furniture. We walked down the hallway to check out the bedroom. 

It was tiny with two twin beds separated by a nightstand. It looked like a sit-com bedroom set from the 1960s, when censors kept mom and dad apart.

We looked at each other with dismay.

###

As a technical writer, I expected to be working in the main offices; but instead, I was told to report to an offsite manufacturing building. My new boss met me in the lobby and walked me into the work area. 

All around us, head-high machines behind plexiglass frames whirled and stamped. There were guys with tool kits here and there working on them. The hiss of pneumatic air lines made conversation difficult.

Mr. O’Donnell touched my arm as we walked and I leaned over to hear. He spoke loudly. “These are the machines you’ll be writing manuals for. They make floppy disks. We thought it’d be best to have you out here with them.”

I nodded and he pointed to a battered metal desk with a chair. It was surrounded by the twirling, hissing machines. He nearly shouted. “Supplies are in the store room. Come see me if you have any questions.”

###

At 9:45, I was tapped on the shoulder. “Coffee break,” a mechanic said. 

I followed him to the cafeteria. We all sat at a long cafeteria table and as everybody slurped and talked, I noticed a guy with a beard and suspenders sitting at the head of the table watching me. He was probably in his early 60s, a big guy.  

Finally he stood. The conversations instantly died down and everybody looked at him  deferentially. He nodded at me.

“Now listen up. This is Darryl and he’s here for the summer. He’s gonna be writing books about the machines.” They all looked at me. 

He addressed me. “I’m McGranahan but call me Mack.” He nodded at the guy to his right and they went around the table introducing themselves.

Mack spoke again. “Now there’s three shifts here and we’re number one. We start at 6:30 am. You with us?”

My toes curled. Six-thirty? I wasn’t a morning guy and my other IBM summer jobs started at 9:00. I’d have to get up at 5:30, which would severely cut into my bachelor pad time.

“Well, uh, I’m really working for Mr. O’Donnell and he gets here at around 9:00. I kinda thought I, uh would…” I trailed off as everybody’s eyes narrowed. I could feel Mack staring at me. I had a split second.

“…but I can get here then, sure.” The eyes un-narrowed and the atmosphere lightened. Mack stuck out his hand. “OK, then.” 

He started to turn, then stopped. “Oh—Saturdays too. But it’s a half day, 6:30-10:30.”

###

That night, the first dinner in the cool bachelor pad was a can of Dinty Moore beef stew. We didn’t bother to heat it up. As we ate, we compared schedules. Rich’s warehouse job also started at 6:30. We both groaned.

When the alarm went off the next morning at 5:30, I turned on the light and flopped back onto my pillow. I opened one eye to watch Rich, and I saw him doing the same. Neither of us wanted to get up, but neither did we want second place and a cold-water shower. 

Finally, one of us made a convulsive leap, the covers were thrown off and we both dove for the bathroom door. This became our morning ritual.

###

As The Epic Summer suffered one setback after another, I began to wonder if Mom wasn’t really right, maybe this was asinine. I was hemorrhaging money and precious time.

My hard-earned paycheck was going into rent and utilities. I began to understand why Pop got annoyed if he found the A/C set below 70.

I had to do my own shopping and cooking. Our dirty pots and plates piled up in the sink until we had nothing clean left. Then we took turns doing everything by hand.

Instead of throwing my dirty clothes in the hamper and finding them magically washed and folded on my bed, I sat in the apartment coin laundry at 10:00 pm, swatting at mosquitoes.

We’d been in the bachelor pad for a month and neither of us had yet had a date, let alone our epic party. Unlike the main site, hardly anybody worked in my building or the warehouse; certainly no college-age kids.

We finally picked a weekend and I made up a party flyer. I snuck over go to the main site on Friday and walked up and down the aisles, giving them to any young people I saw.

Party night arrived. Doug dropped by and the three of us sat in our mismatched chairs drinking beer, eating our own snack food, watching the clock. Around 10:00 pm, there was a knock on the door. Finally!

Four guys in Navy seaman uniforms stood outside. One of them held up a flyer. “Is this the right place?” he asked.

For the next two hours, the sailors drank our beer and rehashed Navy stories. They lit stogies and as the beer can level in the cooler dropped, the volume and hilarity of their stories rose. Now and then, a few other guests showed up but one look inside sent them running.

The sailors finally left with beery farewells when the cooler was empty. Rich and I look at each other in abject disappointment. What a stupid idea this was.

###

I had never quantified how much The Epic Summer cost me, but I did some rough calculations for this post. Rent, utilities, food, gas, booze… all in, about $11K, adjusted for inflation. Invested with 7% return, about $55K now.

As I repacked my car at Mom and Pop’s to head back to Florida, they peppered me with questions and advice. I dodged them and simply said I’d made some good inroads at IBM, wrote a manual, and had fun in the apartment. I could see the skepticism.

“Dar,” Mom finally said. “Don’t you think you would’ve been wiser just to stay here?” There was a trace of hurt: Are we really that bad?

I softened and hugged her. Her hair spray made her hair crinkly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. That would have been the mature thing to do.” She looked up at me, deeply gratified. 

And as I drove away, I could see her hands again on her hips as Pop waved. Two beloved people, growing older, doing the best they could.

How I wish they were here again for 15 minutes to tell them the real deal. 😎

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