Maine Travelogue Day Two/One Revisited: Lake Consequence
"When we remember that we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained." Mark Twain

According to the Amazon, in the three years she's known me, she has never seen me drink like I did that night. As a result, the events of that evening have been pieced together from fuzzy pieces of memory, deduction, and what others have told me.

At first, the wine and the grilled burgers made me feel better, although I was still upset. But as alcohol content in bloodstream increased, I became more vocal about my rage towards CQ. The Amazon kept trying to shush me, "He's right there" she said. I didn't care. I had spent the entire day trying to manage my anxiety about the trip, the bickering couple, the rage about the baby talk. I had been trying to be sensitive to the needs of the group and trying to keep the peace.

And I was tired of it.

And I told them all so. Unfortunately, as much as I love the Amazon, she doesn't know when to simply leave me alone. And like so many nights with the Amazon, she ended up reducing me to tears. Hysterics actually because I couldn't explain to them why I was so upset. Partially because they refused to hear me. There is no logic to emotions. You feel the way you feel and any attempt to "reason" a person out of a feeeling is sure to end in failure. And strangely, despite my love of the Marmot and the Model, the person in whom I sough protection from the "don't feel bad, it's not a big deal" harangues was Prufrock. The only person who simply offered his protection. I hid under his arm until I was suitably drunk and tired. Because of a flight delay, some of the camp owner's friends were stranded in NY, and there was a free room in the basement of the Main House. Prufrock gave me a shirt to sleep in, and I crashed in the bedroom.

Well, not really a room, but a wine cellar with a bed in it.

I slept late the next day, partially because I was exhausted from the day before, but really because I did not want to return to the pack. Lord knows what couple-y things they were up to now. I waited until I thought it would be safe to return, safe as in I would alone, not having to justify my emotional responses or having to curb my rage, but free to explore the camp as I chose.

As I walked across the grass, the Model was telling the story of what had happened the night before between her and the Tough Guy in front of the Infirmary.

It seems that while I was weeping into my wine, the Tough Guy had bet one of the female counselors 100 dollars she wouldn't jump in the lake. She had done it and then come up to us with her thick accent proclaiming, "Some asshole just paid me 100 dollars to jump in the lake." When the Model realized it was her boyfriend and that he was so drunk he was making an ass of himself, she was furious. Her anger set him off on a drunken rage, where he started to threaten to hit some of the male counselors with baseballs. The Model was deployed to talk him down, but in the end it was Big Bad who helped the Tough Guy cool down. When the night was over, and the Camp Owner brought out cases of bottled water for all the guests, Tough Guy had taken two. He was walking in front of the Model with a bottle in each hand, when he fell. Because he was drunk, he didn't let go of the water to break his fall and as result landed on his face and slid.

The Model was re-enacting his fall, but there was an edge to her story. She kept calling him Asswipe, and there was definitely an undercurrent of hostility. The Tough Guy, appropriately cowed by the story, asked if she wanted to go with him in the canoe. She refused. CQ, however, was all for it, and they headed to the lake together. Big Bad, the Model, and I sat on the porch listening to music, smoking, and just enjoying the day. The Model and I decided to take the peddle boat out. I had some trepidation about this because my lower body strength is poor, and I didn't want to end up stranded in the middle of the lake. We hadn't paddled far when Big Bad came out. We invited him to join us. After several configurations and near capsizes, we figured out if Big Bad and the Model paddled in the front, and I sat behind the Model with my feet in the water our weights balanced out. I sat with my feet in the fresh water, jeans rolled up, like Huck Finn.

The Model talked about her relationship with the Tough Guy. The Model claimed that he didn't realize that she couldn't enjoy herself, couldn't let her hair down because she had to follow him around and take care of him. And she wanted to enjoy herself. Now perhaps my re-action has to do with my personal history, but all I could think of was my mother-spending all those years of her life trying to help my father-trying to control his paranoid delusions, his alcoholism, his heart condition-and failing. All that time and effort, all those nights of tears and pleading, the hospitalization, the psychiatrists, the counselors, and for what? At the end of it, she should have saved herself. And still after all he had done to her after the divorce, trying to sue her three times, trying to destroy her reputation through rumors, trying to blame his impending death on her-even after all this time, after all the things I've told her about him because she didn't see him at the end-didn't know now crazy he really became-that I started carrying a knife whenever I had to see him because his behavior was so erratic I feared for my own safety-even after all of that she loves him still. She still loves my dead crazy father. And I don't want that to happen to the Model. I don't want to have to watch another person I love go through that. But unlike my mother, I don't try to save anyone. I'm no superhero. I have enough trouble trying to save myself. Besides, as my father taught me, some people don't want to be saved in which case your better off directing your energies elsewhere.

I sat with my feet in the water. Silently. Because the last thing she wants to hear is that story. She wants for me tell her that there is hope. That things will change. That the power of love will bring them both through this. And sometimes it is true.

We just drifted in the water. Occassionally, we could see the Tough Guy and CQ paddling away.

After some time passed, we went back to shore. The Amazon and Big bad decided to go into town and go shopping, while the Tough Guy wanted to go take pictures from the local golf course which promised beautiful views of the town. The Model would barely even say no to his invitation to her, but CQ happily jumped into the car with him. She and I stayed behind listening to music and taking a brief nap before everyone returned to the Main house for our surf and turf dinner.

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