11.

At Barton Springs, I invented a new game called Left Finger, Right Finger. You know how girls have that subtle way of adjusting their swimsuit bottoms when they get out of the pool? She usually uses her left or right index finger. Little Chris took left finger. I took right finger. Motherland Mark just laughed. Then he got into it and took left and right finger top. Meanwhile we sat on the grassy knoll and let the sun cleanse us. The tweet of the lifeguards, the splash of the cold water, the shouts and screams of delight, the whizz of Frisbees, the strumming of guitars, the occasional whiff of acrid weed, the lounging bodies, multiple piercings, multiple tattoos, it was all of a piece and excellence had returned. We were alive and well and taking the best that Austin had to offer. Clouds piled up like frosted cakes, beautiful people, well-crafted beer, a green oasis in the bitter badlands of Texas.

Left finger. Right finger. Left finger top. Right finger top.

We were leering but only so much, never staring directly at a girl’s soft spots, never inhabiting a predator’s face. No, instead we celebrated all things woman and all things feminine, how ladies should rule the world; after all they have half the money and all the ass. No, we loved and were loved and treated our women well. Or at least we tried to. Little Chris’ wife wouldn’t take his phone calls. Crazy A. was officially another man’s woman. Motherland Mark had a string of waitresses and strippers. In general we were beautiful losers. But we didn’t care.

Left finger. Right finger. Left finger. Right finger. Right finger. The daily double.

We stretched on the grass, our muscles hard, our abs flat, Motherland as tanned as a Polynesian, me red as a pink rose, Little Chris ghostly white. Already the life was draining out of him, a mental pool of plasma leaking onto the grass. Seeing his old friends had bummed him out. No woman, no money, down to his last pack of American Cancer cigarettes, a last few cups of good coffee and then what? Who knew? Hopefully the trip to Mexico would reap the profits of old, when his phone never stopped ringing and he had the good shit shipped to him from San José California and the money was flying and his friends were many. Where were they now? Nowhere to be seen. He had me and that was it. Motherland had taken one look at Little Chris and shook his head. No way. That dude was bad news.

Left finger. Right finger. Left finger. Left finger top. Right finger.

So when you can’t save the world and you can’t save your friends there’s few things left to do besides try and purify. So get up off the towel and walk down to the water you strapping young dude with your hack peace sign tattooed on your shoulder like something done in jail and the purple rose on the other shoulder for another woman gone years ago, left on the Oregon shore. Always leaving. Always moving on. Young Gabe, young Gabe, when will you ever grow up, settle down, become something more than a traveler through life?

I stood on the edge of that long, spring-fed swimming pool. It was cold and deep and 300 yards to the other side. The eyes of God upon me, I dove in and swam across as if my life depended on it. Which of course it did.