I was unnerved when my seventh-grade girlfriend’s gay grandpa started to talk over the Kurt Cobain documentary.  It was the one about the Courtney Love conspiracy and the self-righteous effeminate British guy whose sole quest in life was to resurrect Jesus Cobain so that he might strum another angst-wrenching power-chord to soothe his gentle British soul. 

Mira was my seventh-grade girlfriend.  I found myself in her basement (which I didn’t know she had) watching this film with her, her brother, and her obviously homosexual grandfather.  I had no idea how I got there.  I hadn’t spoken to Mira in years.  It was dark except for the light of the TV and a red-orange glow coming up from behind the bar in the corner of the room. 

Her grandpa would not stop talking about the neighbors.  He had obviously had some sort of disagreement with them that afternoon and he was still worked up about it.  I had a strong urge to leave.  I got up and started to walk out the door to the garage when Mira yelled, "Lawnmower race!".  She bounced out of her chair and ran past me into the garage.

I followed her and her brother followed me out into the garage where there were three rusted red push-mowers.  She grabbed a mower, ripped the starting cord as hard as she could, and started it up.  Her brother did the same.  They took off pushing the mowers out of the garage and made a quick left toward their backyard.  I grabbed the only mower that was left and followed.

When I got to the back, I saw Mira mowing a path down an enormous hill behind her house.  The hill leveled off about half a mile down and turned into a meadow.  I could see the path she had cut from above and her brother’s running just to the left of it.

I ditched my mower and started running.  I ran down Mira’s path to the bottom of the hill.  They were a few hundred yards away.  I could see her swatting at something down in the grass.

When I came up to them, Mira handed me a 5-iron and plopped some golf balls down from out of her pocket.

"Swing away" she said.

They were hitting golf balls at a house in the distance, and had broken every visible window.

"Whose house is that?" I asked.

"Bam Margera’s dad’s".

"Really?  I didn’t know he lived out here."

Then I woke up and got a glass of water.

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