by M. L. Larzelere

Created on: February 08, 2010   Last Updated: May 17, 2011

For Mike the rite of passage into the Rialto gang was all he lived for. Being the only one on the two streets straddling the woods not initiated into the bike club made Mike feel like an outcast.  Mike had decided his time had come. This summer was going to be different.  To be a member was simple, just accept the dare and perform it without flaw and you were in. Mike knew members never dared anyone to do anything they had not done first. Taking a drag off mom’s Tarryington cigarette was no dare at all. It was just a prelude for more challenging dares to come.

It was a hot sweltering day and everyone in the gang, Dennis, Steve, Kenny and Mike’s younger brother, Rick, sat around shirtless watching Popeye on the Zenith while Mike and Rick’s mom ironed. They all nodded at Mike. Mike reached for the cigarette, took one long puff, coughed, gagged and turned three shades of green. While everyone else howled and laughed, Mike felt like puking. “Serves you right, next time swallow the whole damn thing, that will teach you to try and smoke my cigarettes,” yelled Mike’s mother over the din of laughter.

Two nights later Mike and Rick’s dad was playing poker with his buddies. It was a regular Friday night ritual five men sitting around the kitchen table eating New Era Potato chips, smoking cigarettes and raunchy smelling cigars and drinking Scotch Whiskey, Vodkas, and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Mike was now up for his second trial.

“Okay Mike, when somebody asks you to bring him a beer, pop the cap off, drink three big swallows, then fill it back up with water and put the cap back on so he won’t know,” said Dennis.

“Seems easy enough,” said Mike. Sure enough, no sooner had Dennis given the order when Bruce, a brick laying man with the built to prove it yelled, “Mike bring me a beer.”

Mike gave Bruce a Pabst. Bruce opened his beer took a swig reached into his back pocket, pulled his hanky out then spewed the rancid beer. Coughing and sputtering he cursed Mike’s dad saying, “Where’d you get this skunk water, Charlie? It’s worse than swallowing your own puke.”

“Give me that,” said Mike’s dad as he reached for the dark brown bottle. He took a drink. “Yuck. Open another bottle,” he said to Pat, a rough in carpenter.

Pat opened a bottle and took a drink. “Tastes okay to me,” said Pat. “Must have been that bottle.”

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