My Water Party

I was flipping through the Sharper Image catalog (motto: “Buy a nose-hair trimmer once, get mail forever") and I saw something called a “Weapons-Grade Super Soaker.” Now, I’m all for summer fun, but there is something very, very wrong with a culture that gives its children “weapons-grade” waterguns. What is wrong is that I am no longer ten.

But I was ten once, and when I was ten, I loved waterguns. For weeks, I lusted after one that looked like a Tommy gun, only to discover after bringing it home that it shot absurdly crooked. I traded it in for an orange transparent Luger, also flawed. No matter which way you stuck it into your shorts, it always dripped down your crotch.

Water balloons had their appeal, too. They were cheap—you could get fifty balloons for a dollar, and pump each one to the size of an avocado, if you were skilled enough. I learned to work the bathroom faucet like a virtuoso. There was a little lip that you had to wrap the balloon around, then turn the faucet on slowly, slowly…Sure, there was some talent there, but I loved what I was doing. Hitting somebody with a water balloon gave me a sense of accomplishment, a satisfaction that I doubt even a “Weapons-Grade Super Soaker” could match. Balloons also had the advantage of distance, essential for a kid like me, who could throw well but couldn’t run a lick.

Of course, balloons had their flaws, too—they had a habit of exploding randomly, thanks to the lax manufacturing standards of third-world countries. When that happened, or I simply wanted to enjoy life’s simple pleasures, I pulled out the garden hose. I developed several different methods of sticking my thumb over the nozzle; one was for distance, another for accuracy. I was, in my limited way, a scholar.

What can be deduced from this boyhood mania is that I grew up in a hot place: Missouri may not seem hot to you, but the whole Midwest is much hotter than, say, Phoenix. In Phoenix (cue the cliché) it’s a dry heat. There’s nothing dry about summer in Missouri. My armpits ache just thinking about it.

Phoenix is also the desert, so people look at the thermometer and think, “Screw that. I’m staying in the air-conditioning.” Places like Missouri look all right—that’s how they get you. Take it from somebody who knows: from June to September, the Midwest is hostile to human life. It’s like a planet where, as soon as the astronaut takes off his helmet, he discovers the atmosphere is chlorine, the distress call a fraud, and the naked women just holograms. Then the mantis-people slice him up for food. (There are no mantis people in Missouri, just a lot of born-agains.)

The heat always made the question of what to do for my birthday—June 14—pretty tough. For a while my parents and I went to Six Flags, but eventually none of us could take it anymore. It was like spending the day standing in line on an airport runway, interspersed by rounds of Mystery Nausea. (“Is it from what you just rode, what you just ate, or the beginnings of heat prostration?”) I wasn’t even old enough to have really interesting hallucinations.

My tenth birthday, we decided to throw a “water party” in the backyard. In some respects this made sense—cheaper, cooler, less chance of vomiting—but in others, it was an example of the touching yet undeniably foolhardy optimism my family is known for. (You’d be amazed at how often things turn out okay. I’m amazed, anyway.)

Our backyard was an irregular rectangle fifty feet wide and 150 feet long, bordered by sticker bushes. There was a single tree about halfway down which was where we tied the dog, a black lab-Satan mix named Gus. Gus was the living embodiment of that optimism, and felt obligated to show us our folly whenever possible. Gus associated the backyard with being tied up, which he naturally resented; he sincerely felt he belonged indoors with us, no matter what he had chewed up or rolled in. Gus took out his righteous anger on the lawn, digging holes and tearing around in circles until the rope caught and yanked him off his feet. One entered Gus' radius at great peril.

Faced with this onslaught the scrubby grass, never strong, gave up almost immediately. By the time of our party, about 75% of the yard—all that Gus could reach—was as bare as the surface of the moon. In case you’re wondering, I still had to mow it. I remember the mower throwing up a gray, soot-fine soil. “Soil” is the wrong word. It was really just stationary dust.

The one good thing about there being no grass was that it was much easier to see the rocks, pieces of brick, and other assorted hazards sprinkled thickly underfoot. Chief among these was a foot-high seam, which ran the entire length of the yard, perfect for twisting ankles. I was, and remain convinced that this was a far-flung arm of the New Madrid fault, which spawned a deadly quake in 1836, and was just itching to do it again.

For the sake of time, I won’t talk about our neighbors, except to say that one was an alcoholic and the other were pot dealers. Speaking of criminality, a final strike against our backyard as the site of a child's birthday party was that it was right next to the Missouri State Penitentiary. Perhaps somebody out there is saying, “Come on, Mike—that wasn’t the pen. That was just the employees’ parking lot.” To which I say, maybe so, but it’s a lot closer to a prison than you’ve ever lived.

To sum up: if my guests and I didn’t mind getting a little dirty, could avoid getting jumped on by the dog, didn’t fall on a sharp rock, escaped twisting our ankle on the seam, kept a sharp eye out for escaped convicts and survived any minor earthquakes, we stood to have a pretty good time. My parents were convinced this was a great idea, and sent me out to mow the lawn for company. I sifted the dust a little and tried to think about presents.

Anyone who grew up with an insane relative in their cellar will understand why none of my invitees had ever seen my backyard. The invitations my mom drew up did not let on; as an abstract painter, she was used to fudging the details. As usual, my parents were convinced everything would work out. As usual, I expressed my grave doubts, then tried to be as cheerful as possible.

Everybody I invited showed up, in trunks and/or goggles. There was my best friend Ross, whose Dad had an incredibly thorough (and highly organized) collection of Playboy; and my friend Larry, a really, really quiet guy with a filthy mouth that sprang to life whenever adults were not present, and my friend Kurt, whose main claim to fame was being able to replicate John Travolta’s dance from “Saturday Night Fever.” I still remember watching him do it for me—even at that age, I realized there was something creepy about a fourth grader doing pelvic thrusts. While Ross, Larry and I occupied pretty much the same social strata, Kurt’s family was much better off; his dad was a dentist. I remember at his birthday party, Dr. Name-Withheld-to-Avoid-Lawsuit gave everybody laughing gas.

Temporarily out of laughing gas, we issued everybody a squirt gun as soon as they walked in the door, along with a stern warning not to tease the dog. (Some did anyway, and got what they deserved; Gus was crazy, but he was fair.) We had positioned zinc tubs all around the yard, some filled with soda, others with water balloons. These were dutifully replenished by my mother, who was not a master of the art like me, but nevertheless did her best. She even tried to keep her sense of humor whenever she got wet. (Just the sight of her doing something as naughty as making a water balloon was a tiny little birthday present.)

My dad was manning the Slip ‘n’ Slide, bought especially for this occasion, which we spread out on the most grassy part of the lawn. There were still rocks and bricks under it, however, so after a few times through, all of us looked like we’d gone a couple of rounds with Ali. We didn’t care, but eventually there was a question of internal injuries, so Dad switched to the grill.

As he cooked hot dogs, we all ran around like small animals of every species, stalking and surprising and ambushing each other. Alliances were formed, broken, and reformed in the twitch of a trigger finger. We were all soaked within the first five minutes, and spent the next couple of hours in serious, if not exactly solemn, investigation to see if we could discover some way to get even wetter. From the first drop of moisture, the backyard turned to muck; when you added soda to it, the mixture got truly foul, so Mom set up the sprinkler for us to stand over. The mayhem didn’t stop when the hot dogs were done; I remember eating a hot dog with one hand, and squirting with another. We threw so many water balloons that the yard became covered with scraps of rubber, which Gus promptly ate. Then threw up, then ate again. Gus could eat anything, and did. He once ate a bee, but that’s another story.

There was no prison break. There was no earthquake. (I doubt we would’ve noticed either.) Even the dog had a good time; Gus always enjoyed it whenever things got crazy; that’s when he felt most comfortable, I think, not so judged. Sure, some people stubbed their toes, and even more stepped on grasshoppers (not painful, just gross, imagine crunching a Funyun filled with mucus), but there were no serious injuries. Only one kid Rory, got scratched by the dog. Rory always spilled fruit punch on the rug whenever my mom hosted my Cub Scout troop, so we all felt he had it coming.

Dusk started to fall, and the mosquitos came out (yet another thing they don’t have in Phoenix). That didn’t stop us, but the heat-lightning did, we everybody trooped inside to open presents; I don’t remember what I got—Star Wars stuff, probably, given the time. Maybe that was the year I got the little stormtrooper (they were out of Luke and Han and Darth, and Leia wasn’t allowed by my Y chromosome). Just as everybody’s parents came, there was a fierce, rip-the-siding-off summer thunderstorm. Perhaps God was celebrating my birthday; all I know for sure is I was the one that had to go bring in Gus.