Gatorade Mike batted away the offending bottle of green liquid perched on the rain of his porch. The joke had been funny in the beginning. He would walk outside and find a bottle of Gatorade perched on the hood of his car, checking the mail he would find another bottle hidden inside the metal box – the mailman stuffing his mail around it as if it belonged there. At work he would walk away from his desk to go to the copier or run to the break room for more coffee, upon his return there would be another bottle of the green Gatorade sitting there. Mike took it all with a grin and rolling of his wide brown eyes for the first week. The second week he began to dread seeing the bottles. He was running out of room in his refrigerator and the humor in the joke had faded. By the third week, the dread had turned to irritation and he began stashing the bottles in the trunk of his Nissan. Now, four weeks in, the sight of the bottles actually angered him.
Mike opened up the door of his bungalow home and closed it quietly, despite the fury that was rolling inside of him. He trudged over to his refrigerator and opened it, his eyes assaulted with over sixty bottles of the original flavored Gatorade. His least favorite kind. It was this green-yellow beverage that had led to great misconception that he was some sort of an amazing athlete that chugged this electrolyte enhancer on a regular basis. The misconception meant being invited to football games, long talks in the break room about the weekly game and quoting of stats of any player that may have done something great, horrible or bone-headed. It was about locker room talk, assumptions that ladies were flocking to his side and that any outdoor activity was something he was doing. He had been taken on countless camping trips in the wilderness, canoe trips, white water rafting, rock climbing and of course the occasional game of baseball, football or soccer in the lazy days of summer. Standing six foot three with wide shoulders and taunt biceps, Mike even looked the part.
In truth, Mike hated the stereo-type and grimaced inwardly every single time anything to do with sports was mentioned in his presence. He hated the talk about stats and the time and energy people put into spouting off numbers like they were going to get a prize for whoever remembered the most. Time for him was better spent getting lost in a good detective novel and puttering around in the various flower beds he had surrounding the cottage; time that was never allotted to him because of one foolish bet.
Mike picked up an empty cardboard box he had used to carry home groceries in from the Bag-It grocery store four blocks down. With great patience, he began methodically putting the Gatorade bottles in the box, taking slow and steady breaths to calm the fire within him. His heart began to beat normally again and he let out a pent out breath. One box wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start. He filled it up and pushed it to the side. There was now room on the top shelf for the bottle of 2% milk he had stopped for on the way home.
Picking up a second box, he filled it as well, making room for the package of hamburger, the block of cheese and some bologna. Feeling satisfied, Mike shoved the second box up against the first one and closed the refrigerator. He leaned his bulky frame up against the orange Formica countertop and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes of brown stared down at the white linoleum floor as he thought about the day he took the bet. A full two decades had passed since the rail thin thirteen-year old Mike Banks had entered that convenience store with his best friend Kyler Ross. It was a hot summer afternoon and the gravel roads of Georgetown spat out tufts of brown dust from beneath the tires of their Huffys’. Hardly a breath of wind passed through limp green leaves of the Cottonwoods and Aspen and dogs sat beneath the shade of the porch, tongues lolling out as they panted and ignored the boys riding past. Kyle was complaining about being thirsty and they had come up with $1.47 between the two of them. It was enough for two sodas at Henry’s General Store. Once they went inside there was no relief from the heat, the two ceiling fans churned slowing doing nothing to stimulate the air. Henry’s son Paul was working behind the counter. He was seventeen and went to the big school in Idaho Springs. Both middle school and high school combined, it was a frightening and exciting adventure they whispered about in the dank halls of Georgetown Elementary. Mike and Kyle would be going to the same school in the Fall. Paul waved at them when they came in and Mike grinned. When a high school boy waved at you that meant you were one of the cool kids. No other customers were in the store and Paul was leaning with his butt against the back counter and spinning a pencil with this fingers.
“What are you guys up too?” Paul asked barely glancing at them as they headed towards the cooler.
“Riding bikes up at the pit.” Mike said trying to sound mature. The Pit was a ravine that had been taken over by motorcycles, the dirt paths steep and dangerous and a constant draw to every kid in town.
“No kidding?” Paul gave him a look of admiration, “Man, you’re brave, I wouldn’t go up there, not with the mountain lion they saw there last week.”
“What mountain lion?” Kyle blurted out.
“Didn’t you hear?” Paul stopped twirling his pencil, “Carrie Panduit was walking home from school and she saw it. Said it was carrying a rabbit or something in its mouth. Her mom freaked out and called the Game Warden and they walked all over the place looking for it.”
“Did they find it?” Mike asked wondering what he would do if he saw a mountain lion. Probably run or do something dumb like that. Mike knew his limitations and he wasn’t above giving into the instinct to flee when danger approached.
“Nah…” Paul shrugged, “Probably holed up in some cave or something.” He pointed at them, “I’ll bet they couldn’t find him because they were all drinking Gatorade, you know that mountain lions hate the smell of that stuff.”
“No they don’t.” Kyle said disbelieving, “We’re not stupid.”
“I’m telling you true.” Paul held up his hand in a Boy Scout salute, “They get all confused when they smell it. Something about the chemicals they use for the flavoring. But it has to be the original flavor, not that new orange or red stuff.”
Mike stared at him doubtfully, “No way. They would’ve told us that in school.”
“No, man, they just figured it out like a few months ago.” Paul persisted. “I’ll bet you twenty dollars.”
“Where are we gonna get twenty bucks?” Kyle asked.
“Mow some lawns.” Paul shrugged again, his broad shoulders looking as if they would split the fabric of the white t-shirt he wore.
Mike had a better idea. He knew he would need an in when he went up to the high school, someone to watch over him and let the other kids know he was cool. “Instead of $20, how about you let us ride with you instead of the school bus for the first month of school.”
“What if I’m right? What do I get?” Paul asked rubbing his already tousled sandy brown hair. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then let his eyes of green drop back down to them, “I know.” He placed both hands on the counter and grinned, “When I win, you two will be my personal slaves for one whole month.”
Kyle gave him a dubious look, “What would we have to do?”
“Anything I tell you.” Paul grinned again, “Carry my books, wash my car…”
“How do we prove it?” Mike asked, “Don’t we need a witness or something?”
“Tell you what, “Paul grabbed two Cokes from the cooler and slid them across the counter, “You boys meet me at the Pit tonight at seven. I’ll bring Sheila Miles with me. She can be our witness.”
Mike gulped as he reached for the Coke. Shelia Miles was the hottest girl in town. With long wavy black hair and eyes that shone like bright sapphires and smile that would dazzle even the brightest star in the night sky, Mike was totally smitten. A chance to show off for Shelia was too good to miss, no matter how much he doubted Paul’s statements.
The Daily Rambling 