My hometown was just rural enough to have something like Petey’s Woods. I asked my girlfriend’s dad once about the origin story for Petey’s Woods and he said cryptically, “It’s just always been there.”
There were rules about Petey’s Woods. Be at least a sophomore to venture up there. Bring something — beer and pizza were acceptable. Hard liquor preferred. Or even a new record since one of the gear heads found a way to charge up someone’s portable white Victrola. There was always music — Carl Perkins, Gene Vincent, The Platters — as acolytes made their way to Petey’s Woods bearing gifts to gain favor with the gods.
The heirarchy was fixed: older kids ruled. High school graduates and beyond into their 20s. But not too far beyond. At that point embarrassment set it. For the 24 yr. with a seductive case of beer, for the weekend crowd that pointedly left his bottles of Budweiser sweating and untouched.
Joseph Lawrence, Dennis and I made our way up there and blended in with just the usual, ritualized harassment. We knew what to do — nods, passwords like, “Hey, man.” Slow and easy.
A local basketball star — a power forward who went to Purdue on a scholarship — ruled the place. Micah lasted half a semester at Indiana. He came home stunned by the demands of college and the sudden knowledge that though he was a good athlete so were a lot of other guys. He was living with his folks. Taking it easy, exploring some options. Potential outcomes.
Dennis and I listened from the sidelines. Joseph Lawrence was a good dancer, so he danced. First to “Little Bitty Pretty One, then “The Great Pretender.” There was always a fire, even in the summer. Two girls sat with their babies. Laurie asked, “What are you fuckers doing up here? Get us some beers.” Debra said, “Leave ‘em alone. They’re okay.” She handed me her baby. “I gotta pee. Don’t run away with Poopsy.”
The baby looked up at me with wide, blue eyes. Laurie tossed her cigarette into the flames. “You get one of your own if you want,” she said. “But take my advice and don’t.”