How I Became a Man on Spring Break by Joe Greco

The chill of a New Hampshire winter was lingering, and I had the same dreams and desires as many male college students of the late 1970s: spring break in Fort Lauderdale; beer; wild parties; and beautiful young ladies prancing around the soft golden-tan sand in bikinis. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a car or the money to make it happen. Flying back to my home in California for less than two weeks was out of the question. So, it seemed that I would have to spend spring break in the dorm like a hermit, leaving my drab quarters only to tramp through the muck of the melting snow for food and drink.

But just when it appeared inevitable that I’d be hibernating while fortunate souls were engaging in sun-drenched bacchanalia, fate intervened to change my life’s trajectory. Mack, my high school friend who’d been attending college in California, telephoned me in early March to announce that he’d dropped out of school. He’d decided that higher education wasn’t for him because he was going to be a writer. Even though the Beat movement was a couple of decades in the rearview mirror, I’d known that Mack had become a devoted fan of its literature. And, he informed me excitedly, he was going “on the road” like his idol, Jack Kerouac. Yes, he was going to drive his yellow Datsun 2-door sedan all the way to the East Coast to visit me. With Mack, it was hard to ever be shocked, but I certainly was surprised. I can’t remember much of what I said in response other than, “Really? By yourself?” But when the call ended, I knew he was serious.

I started pondering how this news might change spring break. When I saw my roommate, Davo, I told him about Mack’s planned odyssey. “I don’t know how long he plans to stay when he gets here,” I said. “But I assume he can stay in the room with me while you’re home for the break?”

Davo nodded his head. He was as cash-strapped as I was, and he’d been planning to spend the break at his parents’ house in Upstate New York.

“Maybe Mack and I can do some day trips somewhere,” I said. “But I don’t think we’ll be seeing a lot of sunshine.”

Then I noticed Davo’s eyes lighting up. “You know,” he said. “My grandparents live near Tampa Bay, and I’ll bet they’d let us stay with them if we can make it down there. Free room and board for a week. What do you think?”

What did I think? Thoughts were ricocheting around my brain like stray bullets: Spring break with an elderly Florida couple? Convincing beatnik Mack that was a good idea? And where exactly was Tampa Bay anyway? But as my parents used to tell me, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I shrugged, looked at Davo. “Well, uh, yeah, I guess that might work if your grandparents and Mack will agree.” The first pieces of a very unusual puzzle were falling into place.

***

Davo and I procured the necessary consents from his grandparents and Mack. Soon studying for final exams was taking up most of my time, but I found a map and began assessing possible routes to Tampa Bay. While I wasn’t a math major, I knew that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, so I started plotting out how best to stay on Interstate 95—which wasn’t as complete as it is today—as much as possible. Then Davo’s career plans intervened to complicate matters. He rushed into the dorm room one afternoon and happily announced that he’d obtained an interview for a post-graduation research assistant job at a small college—that happened to be in central Ohio. The interview didn’t have to interfere with our spring break plans, Davo assured me, because we could just stop there on our way to Florida.

I wasn’t a geography major either, but I knew that few, if any, people would describe central Ohio as being “on the way” from New Hampshire to Florida. I grabbed the map and did some quick calculations with the scale of miles and a ruler. “Davo, really? That’s like seven hundred miles from here. To the west, Davo, with little progress toward the south. What the hell?”

He looked at me and shrugged. “Well, I need this job,” he said. What he left unsaid was what I’d heard before: “Beggars can’t be choosers.” This trip was only going to happen by the grace of his grandparents’ hospitality.

“And look,” he said, clearly wanting to mollify me, “it won’t be so bad. My parents said we could have dinner and stay with them the night before. It’ll break up the drive.” I again turned to the map, and he was right: his hometown near Rochester, New York, was about halfway to central Ohio. “So,” he said, “We’ll leave my house really early. I can schedule the interview for late morning. We’ll be back on the road to the south by noon or thereabouts.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll see what Mack says.”

Mack had been hurtling eastward across the great expanse of America, and I’d spoken with him the prior evening when he himself was somewhere in Ohio. I suspected he wouldn’t be thrilled about heading back that way so soon. “And, Davo, I assume Larry’s okay with the detour,” I said, referring to the other dormmate and Davo’s friend from high school whom we’d also recruited for the trip (given that the Datsun seated four, adding another to share in the payments for gas and any needed motels along the way had seemed like a good idea).

“Yeah,” Davo said. “Larry doesn’t have anything else to do. He won’t complain.”

So, there it was: The trip I’d hoped to chart as straight as an arrow was going to look more like a well-bent bow. But that, as it turned out, is what would make the story worth telling. Because when Mack arrived, he not only agreed to the Ohio detour, but said that he had an aunt who lived in a little town in Tennessee, west of Nashville. Again, it would require a detour from the most direct route to Florida, but it would provide us with a free night’s lodging and perhaps a couple of meals.

Mack made the call; his aunt agreed. Davo, Larry, and I finished our finals, while Mack hung around the dorm reading Beat poetry. Within a few days we were “on the road.”

***

The novelist Elmore Leonard reportedly once offered this pithy advice on writing a story: “Try to leave out the parts people tend to skip.” I’m following that advice and skipping over the drives to New York and Ohio and down to Tennessee. They don’t matter, and by now I trust that the reader would rather find out what the title of this story is all about. And so, I will get right to it: Late in the evening, we arrived at Mack’s aunt’s rural Tennessee house, hungry, thirsty, and tired. We were greeted by Aunt Belle, a thirty-something woman, who was trim and attractive with blue eyes and cascading auburn hair. She had an alluring southern accent, and her warm sense of humor soon became apparent.

She put some food on the table in the kitchen and cracked open beers for us. There was no husband or other adult man present in the house, but after we started eating, I noticed two boys peeking into the kitchen. “Come on in, you two,” Belle said. “You remember your cousin, Mack? He and his friends are going to stay with us tonight.” We greeted them. They nodded at us, unsmiling, then left the room. “They’re twelve and thirteen,” Belle said. “A couple of little hellraisers. But I guess the cat’s got their tongues tonight.” She threw back her head and laughed.

We finished eating, Belle opened more beers, and we went into the adjacent room to sit and talk. After a while, I noticed the boys peering in at us from a doorway to the room. Belle looked at them. “You all wanna come in and visit for a bit? Or you just gonna stand there looking like you’re lost in the woods?” They shrugged, wandered in, and sat next to each other on the floor. We tried to make small talk with them about sports and school, but without much success. Then the older boy raised his chin and looked at Mack. “What kind of guns do you guys own?” he asked.

“I don’t own a gun,” Mack replied, laughing. He looked around at us, and we looked at each other. We all shrugged and shook our heads. None of us owned a gun.

The boy’s mouth opened, and his eyes narrowed. He looked at his little brother, who’d screwed up his face into a look of disbelief. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as they stared at us. Then the younger one sniffed loudly. “Well,” he said. “What kind of guns do you like to shoot?”

The four of us looked at each other again, shaking our heads and confirming that this conversation was at a dead end. I cleared my throat. “Uh, guys, none of us has ever shot a gun.” The boys, their brows furrowed, looked down. I figured I’d try raising a defense that would make us look a little less like wimps in their eyes. “You know, my dad wasn’t a hunter and, well, I never had a reason to buy a gun or use a gun.” I looked around at my traveling companions for support, but all they could do was nod and effectively concede that they couldn’t think of anything better to say. Now the judgmental frowns on those two young faces were unmistakable.

“Okay, Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone,” Aunt Belle said, magnanimously deciding to rescue us from the uncomfortable situation. “You all get off to bed before these boys start asking you about what books you read lately.”

The two youngsters rose, mumbled good night, and went off to their bedroom. Not long after, Belle said that she was going to turn in also. We’d brought a couple of sleeping bags; she provided us with some pillows and blankets, and we settled in for the night. But I didn’t soon fall asleep because I kept pondering with amusement how those youngsters were shocked that four grown men had led such sheltered and culturally deficient lives.

***

The four of Belle and us sat at the kitchen table the next morning eating the breakfast she’d prepared. Her older son poked his head in the doorway and motioned to her. “What do you want?” she said. He motioned again. “Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, rose, and walked out the doorway. We heard whispering. Then she reappeared, shaking her head and chuckling. “Mack, your cousins want to know whether you and your buddies would like to learn how to shoot a gun.” I noticed that both boys were now at the doorway, peeking in.

Mack’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, well,” he said, looking around at us. Why not? I thought. I began nodding. So did Davo and Larry. “Sure,” Mack said. “We’re game.”

The boys smiled. “We’ll go get ’em ready,” the older one said.

We finished our breakfast and then headed out the back door with the boys. The younger one carried what he announced was a rifle, and the older one told us he was holding a twelve-gauge shotgun.

The six of us started heading toward a wooded area about fifty yards away. Belle was grinning and shaking her head. “Make sure you don’t shoot the neighbor’s cow,” she called after us.

When we arrived in the woods, the boys told us we could shoot the rifle or the twelve-gauge. “But, let me tell you,” the older boy said with a knowing smile, “this old shotgun’s got quite a kick to it.”

I immediately wanted the shotgun, figuring that I would look more macho by choosing the gun with the “kick” warning. But I wondered exactly what that might be, so I let others choose first, figuring that I’d first see a demonstration. Unfortunately, Davo and Mack chose the rifle, and Larry just remained silent. “Okay, I’ll try the shotgun,” I said.

Davo and Mack each got their instructions, including to aim at a big tree, and then took their turn shooting the rifle. I stepped up. The older boy handed me the shotgun. He instructed me on how to place my feet and distribute my weight. He told me to place the buttstock firmly against the inner portion of my right shoulder and to press my cheek firmly against the stock, keeping my eye looking down the barrel at the target tree. Next, he said to place the pad of my index finger on the trigger. “Now, you holding that gun tight?” he asked. I nodded once. “Okay,” he said. “Pull that trigger nice and steady right back toward you.” I obeyed and—bang! A loud crack pierced the silence, and I felt the sudden heavy push of the stock against my shoulder.

Both boys nodded and grinned. “There you go, man,” the younger one said. “And it didn’t knock you over,” the older one added, laughing. I smiled broadly; I’d done it!

Everyone now looked at Larry. He chose the rifle. When he’d shot and the lesson was complete, we headed back to the house to thank Aunt Belle for her hospitality and resume our trip to Florida. Before we climbed into the Datsun, we said goodbye to Mack’s cousins, whose faces exuded pride and contentment in a mission accomplished, a job well done. In their world, a man knew how to fire a gun; that’s just the way it was. And they were not about to let four grown men go through life without being able to say they had done so. When I shook hands and thanked them for their teaching, I made sure that my grip was firm and strong. I wanted them to know that I understood, and by their smiles and confident nods, I’m quite sure they did.

***

We made it to Florida and back, but again there’s not much worth telling about it. Davo’s grandma was a wonderful cook, and his grandpa had some great stories. We visited a couple of beaches and went to a nightclub. But Tampa Bay was not Fort Lauderdale. In fact, the grandparents’ home was not even in the city of Tampa Bay; it was on Anna Maria Island, a tranquil barrier island at the mouth of the bay. Their backyard lawn was bordered by a seawall where we spent most of our time sitting out in folding chairs and fishing while we drank beer, smoked cigars, and listened to Grandpa’s stories. So, having been initiated into the ranks of grown men by Mack’s cousins, we essentially spent most of the break steeped in the pleasures of old men. C’est la vie. Beggars can’t be choosers.

***

As I’ve grown old, I’ve often pondered the irony of this brief but remarkable episode in my life: It wouldn’t have happened but for Mack’s decision to emulate his Beat heroes’ rebellion against societal traditions and conformity and to set off on a cross-country journey. But by firing a gun, I ended up handling one of the most important icons of traditional Americana—an indispensable tool of hunters and pioneers, a part of history I could study on a college campus but otherwise never would’ve encountered in real life. Because despite the enthusiasm and expertise of my young tutors, I’ve never again shot a firearm of any kind.

In terms of practical knowledge or skill, the detour to that little town in Tennessee yielded nothing. And who knows what adventures may’ve awaited me if I’d had the funds to spend spring break in Fort Lauderdale or Daytona Beach or some other sunny paradise filled with exuberant young revelers? But when I remember the twelve-gauge’s loud boom and the strong kick of the stock against my shoulder and the sound of the buckshot whistling through the trees, I still feel the excitement of that first and only time, and I’m very grateful that I have this story to tell.