No season can be spent without trouble being bought, even in the days before sex and drugs and rock & roll. One day, David discovered a spool of party-favor paper, printed with blue balloons and teddy bears all over. It was the leftovers of a birthday party held in the cottage where the New York people lived. We knew them only by sight, exchanging hellos when walking along the shores of their beach while heading for the swamp at the north end of the cove, but nothing more than that. Our parents may have held deeper conversations but never shared any of them with us. The only way we knew they were from New York was the golden Empire State license plates on their automobiles.
Their driveway was almost at the beginning of the Gold Coast Road, which began at the state highway and followed the properties along the waterfront of the cove, past all our cottages, until it reached the county way. The New York people kept their trash cans near it at the end of their driveway, and the roll of paper was lying on the ground there. We had been walking down the road toward the highway when David spied it reflecting the late evening sun. At first, we tore some pieces off and waved them like streamers behind us. Then Joey had an infamous idea. “Follow me!” he shouted running off for the end of the way.
There was a large pine tree with wooden signs of the names of those who lived along the lake. It was at the corner where the dirt road met paved highway beneath a street lamp, and Joey was tying an end of the roll of paper around it when we caught up to him. His evil genius was apprehended by us almost immediately. David grabbed the spool at the finish of the knot. We waited with him as cars rolled past us, speeding north and south to destinations other than this summer country one. When the coast was clear, we bolted across, and David tied the further end of the long span of paper on another tree. We then ran across the highway again and waited from a secure place on the side of our dirt road.
Joey heard a car approaching from the north. “Here comes one!” he howled. There was a short stretch of straight highway in that direction before it passed our road. The paper glowed softly in the twilight, and then flashed as the headlights of the oncoming car picked up the traces of its length about four feet above the black pavement. Suddenly it appeared like a solid silver chain stretching across a mysterious thoroughfare. God knows what the driver thought. But brakes squealed! A white car came to a stop and a man almost flew out its door.
By then we were laughing uncontrollably. “Roadblock!” Joey screamed. “Identify yourselves!” I roared. “Hands-up!” David barked out an almost scripted order. The man looked over at us as something registered in his eyes. He hollered out something and another man got out of the passenger side. They exchanged words and then came running at us. “They’re after us!” Joey screamed out the obvious. “Run!” I echoed. “Follow me!” David cried and went running up the dirt way.
It was nearly dark now but the surface of the road reflected the remaining light that lit the cobalt sky and it glowed before us with high adventure. David turned off at the driveway of the New York people, threading his way in-between several cars towards the shadows of the right side of the cottage. We heard angry voices behind us as we followed him into the darkness and out the other end of beach, free shore, open lake and clear sky.
The New York people were all inside. We ran for the freedom of the water and waited. The two men must have given up the chase, or were knocking on the door of the cottage waiting to ask New York people whatever two irate men who left their car in the middle of a state highway at twilight in late July would ask such strangers from New York. We knew we’d never find out and we laughed about it amongst ourselves as we headed for the safety of our swamp.
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