My Summer Vacation

Like most kids, I grew up going to school for the three coolest seasons and lazing around during a mind-numbing summer vacation, in which all things that were taught in the previous school year would be conveniently forgotten. All those new words in French would be substituted by slang describing which pool or skatepark would be the next destination.
No, but my best summer vacation was following the year I had dropped out of my first year in college and I was working a minimum wage job tending to the baby-boomers with high blood pressure at the Hannaford pharmacy.
One would automatically think, working during summer, are you sure that is your best summer vacation? Oh, but it wasn'at the work I found fascinating. It was my co-worker.
His name was Johnjohn and he introduced me to a life lived on the edge.
Our first meeting was when we both got locked out of the store, having stepped through the back door to have a smoke. We knocked and we woofed at the door for a straight 28 minutes. No one came to the back door and we were already five minutes late in clocking back in after our break.
Slackers seem to stick together because from then on, we hung out before and after work.
This summer my mind was numbed by the incessant smoke inhalation and alcohol consummation that happened as we drove aimlessly on the back dirt roads of Maine.
It was a whole new world to me because I'd always said, "Drinking is for losers, for the weak." Yet every day that summer I was smashed and fucked-up beyond belief and it felt great. Not a single sober moment yet I remember it all so clearly.
The first time we truly met outside of work, I drove in circles for two hours one humid night trying to find his aunt's house. He'd called earlier and left a message saying, "Hey chick, you've got this road to here and...fuck it, its in bum-fucked Egypt. I hope you make it here." Quite the charmer, I had thought.
Eventually I found the place and we snuck out behind the house with his uncle, who desperately wished to escape his wife's wrath. In a circle we sat, drank, and chatted. A light flashed and the next thing I knew, all three of us were running into the depths of a nearby forest. "Joooohn! Daaaave! I know you guys are drinking out here! I'm gonna call the cops. You hear me? I know you've got some little 18-year-old whore with you!"
I ran past the guys as they turned around in the direction of their voice and laid flat on the pine needles that flooded the forest ground. "Hey, John," I heard his uncle say in the distance, "we could totally rape her."
"Are you joking?"
"No, once your aunt leaves ..." Dave continued to conspire.
I held my breath as I heard John defend my dignity and as his aunt and the light she shined faded back into the dark night.
Before I knew it, crunching footsteps were came toward my trembling body and John and I were headed away from his crazy relatives in my car. We lowered the back seat and slept with half our bodies in the trunk that night.
He kissed my ear and grasped my hips to his growing libido. "John, I don't want a one-night-stand with you," I said, embarassed by the fact I was on the rag and all the earlier excitement had caused high tides in the Red Sea.
The next night, however, I snuck him in through my bedroom window and when my mother knocked on the door in the morning saying she had clean laundry for me, he jumped up and ran behind the slowly-opening door. One side was Mom and the other her daughter's defiler.
How can any of this describe even a slightly pleasant summer, one might ask. The excitement of being caught, drinking, screwing, smoking pot, and all while driving was just what a girl who worked in a "pill box" needed.