THE BROWN PAPER BAG

The following story is complete bullshit.

There were differing stories regarding the origins of the brown paper bag.   My friend Jackson and my next door neighbor Randy both laid claim to it's contents - a half-full bottle of Mad Dog and an issue of Lesbian Fire.

It was June 1990 - the first week of Summer Vacation.  Jackson and I had just completed fifth grade and Randy was going on to middle school.   All three of us were at various stages of being eleven years old.   As you can imagine, a half full bottle of fortified wine and a spank mag made for an epic discovery.

"I bought them at the Big Apple yesterday!" exclaimed Randy. "They must have fallen out of my backpack while I was riding home."

"Why would they sell you porn and wine?" asked Jackson.

"Because I'm cool."

That was a good argument.   Randy was pretty cool.   He was a year ahead of us, after all, and he had his own table saw.  One thing bothered me though.

"So let me get this straight." I said. "They'll sell you anything you want, so you went with Lesbian Fire?"

Randy paused and looked at the two harsh looking women on the cover.   They looked angry at each other and even angrier at us.  This was some seriously gonzo shit, mind you, more of a Tijuana bible than a magazine.  I distinctly remember thinking the two women resembled Markie Post and Amanda Bearce (Marcy from Married With Children) after nervous breakdowns and several years of hard drug use.  It depicted what heterosexual idiots in 1990 assumed big-haired lesbians did with cool whip, sailor hats and riding crops.  

"Lesbians are cool."

Atticus Finch couldn't have argued with that one, either.

Jackson's version of events was a little more down to Earth.

"Remember when I told you I had to mow the lawn before I came over this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Well, as I was mowing, a Trans Am pulled up next to me."

"What color was it?" Randy snarled, skeptically.

"Yellow. The guy rolled down his window, and spat.   When I looked over at him, he yelled 'Eat Pussy!' and threw the bag at me.  He then peeled out and sped off."

Randy proceeded to tear Jackson's case to shreds.  "No one who is smart enough to drive a Trans Am would just throw away a bag full of porn and booze.  That's insane."

"That's what happened!"

"Pfft.  Bullshit."

The argument over the hobo wine and porn quickly escalated into a small scale civil war that engulfed the preteen male population of Vallejo Drive, Franklin and Pierce Street and several outlying neighborhoods.

Kyle Logan and Dewey LaChance, eighth graders we all normally regarded as bottom-feeding scumfucks, allied themselves with Randy and spent the next few days menacing Jackson.  They eventually got bored with it and decided to huff gas, instead.  Randy just spent a lot of time by himself building dead falls and Punji sticks in the woods like Rambo.  He'd occasionally emerge from the woods, daring us to chase after him.  

Jackson, Spencer Garnier from Pierce Street and Sasha Doak from up on Burton Ridge began making regular BMX patrols of the neighborhood.    My younger brother and his friends Frank and Dwight Osajima and Scott Seltzer formed their own little clique that switched sides like Afghan warlords.   I mostly tried to remain neutral, though at one point I nearly got into a bat fight with Kyle and Dewey because they wouldn't get off my lawn.

In the end, Jackson and Randy reached a truce when a new kid moved into the neighborhood and started stealing stupid shit like bike pumps, dodge balls and old hammers from people's garages.  After we all threatened to beat the fuck out of the new kid if he stepped off his lawn, it was time to divvy up the spoils or war.   Jackson got the booze, and Randy got the porn.  Both precious relics had sat in a tree house in the woods behind my house for nearly two weeks.

The Mad Dog had spilled in the bag, and what was left had bugs floating in it.   Jackson proudly downed the remaining swig,  describing the taste as a mix of victory, cold medicine and orange crush vomit.  We smashed the bottle on the train tracks running alongside Main Street later that afternoon.

Lesbian Fire had gotten wet from what I really hope was condensation.   The last time I saw it, Randy had cut the magazine up and placed choice pages in a 3 ring binder with other bits of porn, which he referred to it as "The Dossier".   I have no idea why he felt the need to show "The Dossier" to me, but he seemed genuinely proud of it.

Eleven year old boys are fucking weird, man.