THE HOTTEST SUMMER ON RECORD

It was so hot. July hot. You couldn't find a dog in the daylight. Women protected themselves with umbrellas as they crossed a street. Weeds under the dripping air conditioner were the only thing green in the yard.

"You know what I hate about you," Sammy said, pressing his foot onto the accelerator. "I come out the water red as a tomato, and you look like a damn Mexican field hand."

The cab of Sammy's rust bottomed truck smelled like Wilson pond as we spit gravel down country road. I dried my hair in the dusty breeze from the window. We were on our way to Camp Doughboy with a bottle of Wild Turkey I had procured from "Dilly" Miller. Dilly was my shoe factory foreman. He may have called me "kid," "youngblood" and "babyboy," but he didn't give a damn that I was just 17. The whiskey was a motivational tool he used on Fridays. If you filled all your orders by 3 pm, you not only got the whiskey but you could Cadillac pass the rest of the line and get a head start on the weekend.

I ceremoniously twisted off the cap as we pulled into the Doughboy arena parking lot. It was monster truck night and the lot was starting to fill up with bloodthirsty fans and beer guzzling teenagers. We never actually went into the arena - the kids I mean. We had gathered at this particular spot, on this particular night, because the sound of crashing metal provided the perfect ambiance for teenage rebellion.

I was listening to a funny story about how Jessie Michaelson peed in the women's bathroom sink at the Burger Barn when some girl jumped on my back and wrapped her legs around me. She crawled over me like a squirrel might gyre a tree trunk. Then she dropped off, her face red with embarrassment as she slapped me on the chest and apologized, "Oh God, I thought you were Peanut. I'm sorry."