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“And if my son wants to do ballet, you let him, too.”
“Okay.” I still don’t know what else to say.
“Teach them to be kind, and you have to be sure they know how very much I love them.”
I immediately think this is going to be a big, morose mistake, but then Aaron belches really loudly and motions for another beer. “And I want to go jump off Five Mile Bridge.”
“Before you die?” Jake asks, but it doesn’t sound callous somehow.
Aaron looks around. “Let’s do it tonight.”
This sounds like a shitty idea. But Jake slaps his hand to his knee and says, “Hell yeah! Let’s do it.”
I get up when the rest of them do, and Mr. Jacobson motions toward the golf cart, giving his permission. Which in itself is unusual. “Better not,” I say. “Let’s walk.”
Jake fills his pockets with beers and Aaron does the same. We walk the mile and a half to the bridge, which gives everyone ample time to get shit-faced.
Five Mile Bridge is a huge bridge that stretches across one of the larger sections of the lake. The bridge isn’t actually five miles long, but someone once joked that the half-mile bridge was costing the county just as much as a five-mile bridge, and the name stuck. When we get there, the moon shines on the water, casting an eerie glow.
“This might not be a great idea,” I say. I think I’m the most sober out of all of them, and even for me the ground feels like it’s going to reach up and tackle me. And I’m the only one that has a problem with this, apparently.
Jake grabs my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Last wishes and all that shit,” he says quietly. Then we see Mr. Jacobson drive up on his golf cart and I realize this adventure has everyone’s approval but mine.
Jake empties his pockets, strips off his shirt, climbs over the railing, and then he jumps, giving out a joyous yell all the way down. He drops about fifteen feet to the water, where he goes under and almost instantly pops back up. “Who’s next?” he calls after he whoops it up some more.
I watch as Aaron empties his pockets and pulls his shirt over his head. He goes to the edge, grins at me, and jumps. He doesn’t yell going down. I watch to be sure he’s going to pop back up. And after a nervous moment, he surfaces with whoops and hollers like he’s ten years old again.
“Come on in, the water’s fine!” Aaron calls to us.
I look over at Mr. Jacobson expectantly. “Who’s next?”
“Young man, I’ll never be drunk enough to do that shit.” He guzzles another beer while I stand there.
“Drink another,” I joke. “Maybe you’ll catch up with them.”
And then I empty my pockets, kick my shoes off, and jump. It feels like freefalling until I hit the water. It’s cold, and something large and slimy moves near my leg. “Are there big fish in here?” I ask as I break the surface.
“Hundred-pound catfish,” Mr. Jacobson calls from above.
I look around, treading water, suddenly ready to get out.
“Come on, Pop!” Jake calls. “You big chicken!”
Mr. Jacobson walks over and looks over the rail. “Them’s fighting words,” he says.
“Get your ass in here!” Jake yells.
Jake splashes water in my face. It comes at me like a wall of water, making me sputter.
I splash him back. “If you drown me, I’ll die not having had sex in a long time,” I say. “A really long time.”
“How long?” Jake asks mischievously.
“Years,” I say morosely. “Decades. Centuries.” Jake laughs. “For-fucking-ever,” I add.
We look up and find Mr. Jacobson standing on the outside of the rail of the bridge, bare-ass naked. Jake slaps the water, laughing uproariously. Mr. Jacobson’s junk hangs limply between his legs, in plain sight, and suddenly he sails through the air, his arms and legs flailing. He hits the water with a splash that rocks all of us.
He comes up grinning and says, “Beat that, boys.”
