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a
moment, then lean against this wall, sliding my back downward until my butt
touches the gritty floor.
    There
is only a bit of muscle or fat between my bones and the hardness of the cell. I
sigh. Every rustle and scrape seems loud against the silence. Even when I
refresh my mouth, I can sense tiny ‘slurps,’ as my saliva courses through the
gaps between my teeth.
    Where
my tailbone meets the floor, I slip my hand underneath my butt to futilely
cushion the impact. I am feeling weak and skinny. My body has long been
deteriorating in this hell hole.
    I
realize that even the acts of pacing and speaking into the tablet exhaust me.
There is no rest in a small cell when oppressive boredom stalks you, minute by
minute, and all you have are your own memories to entertain and torment you.
    I
pick the tablet up, and even though it is light like a full can of pop, my limp
fingers buckle under its weight. Gravity almost snatches the tablet out of my
palm, but I rescue it at the last second. Turning it on, I warily see double
images, and figure it is best to get on with it before I pass out.
    “Okay,
now for the dirty business.” I say, breathing deeply to tally some strength to
push through, “In the car, we were joking, singing, and producing fart sounds.
It was amazing what a vacation would do to people: it has an amnesiac effect.”
     
    Jason
and Travis talked quietly about something. They whispered, to evade earshot,
and the sound of psychedelic rock from the car radio masked their conspiring.
    ‘I
actually thought MJ sounded like a wimp,’ Jason whispered.
    ‘Jason,
I hate to break your heart, but that was a pre-recorded message. You didn’t say
anything. So what makes you think a professional ball player would take the
time to talk to you?’ Travis asked, with a whisper and a roll of his eyes.
Jason shrugged his shoulders, crossed his arms, and leaned toward Travis’s
face, as if about to break a sinister secret.
    ‘Your
breath smells like a cow’s butt-hole,’ Travis said, deliberately not whispering
enough.
    Everyone
heard him, and after a slight pause, we all laughed. Now, let me tell you about
what they were speaking of previously.
    See,
they snuck a football-shaped phone into Jason’s room, and they used it to call
the code nine-hundred numbers displayed on sports card packages. They also
pranked a suburban cab company twenty times. The cab company’s number was (651)
555-2222. Really, what did they expect?
    The
trip continued. After all these games of padiddle and slug-bug, I grew tired
enough to fall asleep.
    I
awoke as our journey neared the end, covered in sweat and greeted by Jason’s
armpit stench. His hand was cupped against his underarm, ripping manufactured
farts and wafting body odor in my direction. It was playful and funny.
    We
drove through the town of Taylors Falls; there were many people hauling the
necessary camping equipment. People had kayaks, canoes, fishing poles and
tackle. Excitement hung in the air. The woods were thick, and the ground around
the base of each tree was woven with ferns and other vegetation.
    I
could smell the presence of a river. It smelled fresh and brisk rather than
give off the odor of a port-a-potty. If you wanted that pungent smell,
go visit the Mississippi River on one of its best days.
    We
stopped to fuel up. I pressed my face against the window of my parents’ car to
make a face at a neighboring vehicle that also had a kid pressing his face
against a window.
    I
contorted my face to look ugly, so I took it as a win. I left the trace of my
oily skin from my nose and forehead onto the window. I then wiped them away
quickly with the edge of my shirt, because my dad hated such nonsense.
    After
leaving the station, we drove about a mile to the campsite, parked, and it was
time to unpack. My mom and dad waved us off, preferring to set up tent without
us kids horseplaying around.
     ‘Here
are the ground rules, guys,’ my dad said, even as he looked up at the