The Fall of Two Moons

By Kipp McKenzie

His image is everything, his hormones are raging, and common sense is nowhere to be found. Combine that with his eccentric and ultraconservative family, and the stage is set for a comedic fall from grace that promises to not disappoint. The Fall of Two Moons is a fictional memoir of Steve McConnell's coming of age that will have readers begging for more uproarious and heartwarming stories. It's 1984 in the small coastal town of Portside, and Steve must juggle his ever-restless and troubled peers with his role in the conservative McConnell house, while concealing the ultimate caper from his gregarious father, the school principal. It is not an easy task living in the shadow of his seemingly perfect sister, appeasing his religiously fanatic mother, or sharing a room with his newly adopted Down syndrome brother and classmate, Andy. Steve keeps his growingly agitated father at bay from his behavioral shortcomings, his mother in the dark regarding his sexual awakening, and his peers entertained with his antics in this wildly funny tale of family, friends, and folly. Nicknamed Two Moons following an unfortunate accident of indecent exposure, Steve must stave off ridicule and bodily harm from the upper classmen and school bullies. When these same bullies are wrongfully accused of the crime Steve and his friends are responsible for, he must navigate through a web of deception that becomes increasingly tangled. Steve tries to accept his new brother, embrace his family's idiosyncrasies, and make peace with himself. He winds up in a race with time to prove his maturity to his first girlfriend, keep his friends, evade the authorities, and make amends with those left in his wake as his worlds collide in epic proportion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647016180

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The Fall of Two Moons

Kipp McKenzie

Copyright © 2020 Kipp Mckenzie

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-617-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-618-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

New Year’s Eve, 1984

Pathetic. He was a pathetic loser. Noah recovered well at school that day, but inside a part of him had died. He sat wondering if anyone would care when he was gone. He opened Steve’s journal and wrote the final entry. He made his confessions, and then he spilled his emotions onto the page. He set the journal down, open to his last thoughts, so they would be easily discovered.

He checked his watch. It was time. He had made the decision to not bring in the New Year. He placed his ninja mask on his head as the last piece of his all-black ensemble. Tonight, he would be the fourth ninja. Inside his pack, he pulled out the noose he had made in his dad’s garage. He stood, attempting to reach the main branch that extended directly over the clubhouse, which would serve as his final resting place.

Part 1

Summer of 1984

Chapter 1

It was the first Saturday of summer vacation, and a long, grueling sixth-grade year had convened at Portside Middle School. All-star baseball was still two weeks away, and in the meantime, I was headed to meet my friends, Mike and Brian, to cause a little juvenile mischief. We had arranged to meet around 9:00 a.m. at Mike’s house to take care of last-minute preparations and discuss our strategy. I was riding free hand on my green three-speed Schwinn, letting the brisk coastal breeze hit my face. That’s when I rounded the corner and saw my brother, Andy, walking our new black lab, Bub.

It had been an interesting Saturday morning at the McConnell house. My father had left early to meet a gentleman, whom he had spoken with in regard to an aluminum bass boat that he had advertised for sale. I was shooting baskets in the driveway when he arrived home driving a beat-up, rusted 1966 red Datsun pickup. It looked as if someone had driven it into a lake and then parked it behind an old barn for several years, leaving it to die. On top, a shiny bass boat was attached to a homemade metal boat mount strapped down tight with rope. Under the boat, a black lab wagged its tail and barked exuberantly. My mother promptly stormed out of the kitchen into the garage and started hollering at my father. Apparently, she was not expecting the rusted truck or the dog with the purchase. I was not even sure she had even agreed on the boat expenditure, for that matter. My father insisted that he got the truck and the dog for free with the purchase of the boat, which did not seem to make my mother’s accusatory tone any less harsh. No one could blame her, really.

Two months prior, my father had taken our family mutt, Shaggy, on a ride into the country, where he promptly ran away, never to be seen again, or at least that’s what we kids were told. The truth was that there was a twenty-dollar charge to euthanize the poor pooch, and my father, who would not hear of that, had decided to take the matter into his own hands, which meant the family was not to ask any questions.

Shaggy came by his name naturally. He looked like a cross between a golden retriever and a rottweiler. He had mangy, matted fur and a head the size of a watermelon. My mother would not let him in the house because his one-hundred-fifty-pound frame attached to his bushy, wagging tail knocked over and broke everything in his path. If you went to the backyard to pet him, you would wind up with his enormous paws around your shoulders, knocking you to the ground, with a wet tongue in your face. Shaggy was never able to be tamed to the point he could be walked properly, so his exercise regimen was to dig. It started with several small holes, and soon the backyard started to look like a landmine field. He eventually dug a fifteen-foot-wide crater under the back deck and foundation of the house, until the deck was beginning to sag, and the dog could tunnel under the house as far as his chain would take him. He would eat the huckleberry bushes for his entertainment, leaving branches strewn all over the yard. He had mauled our screen door into strips of mesh that he tore, as if to sharpen his own teeth. The glass door to our dining room was slimed with slobber to the point you had to squint to see out. The final straw, however, wasn’t until he started eating the boards on the deck, chewing through them like a giant hairy beaver in need of Prozac.

I remember my dad venturing out onto the porch surveying the damage. His once semigroomed, indigenous backyard looked like it had been hit harder than the beach at Normandy. My father headed for the beast with a leash that had almost been completely chewed through in several spots. He chased Shaggy round and round like a cowboy trying to rope a steer, while muttering and heaving out of breath. I could see Shaggy wearing him down, as my father finally attached the choker chain, pulling to cut off the air supply that was fueling the animal’s rage. My last memory of Shaggy was when my father called for my help to shove the wildebeest into the new family van. With my face mashed against his hairy butt, I shoved with all I had. It was like he knew he was heading to his execution. My father shoved the door closed, catching Shaggy’s tail, eliciting a pained howl. I’m taking the dog for a walk, my father cried as he quickly got into the van and sped away.

You could say I was glad to be heading to Mike’s while my brother, Andy, walked our new dog, Bub, waiting for the fireworks to end between our folks. I rolled up on the cracked, rain-beaten driveway of the Hilbert home. I ditched my bike next to the retired truck camper, which was perched atop the handcrafted Douglas fir saw horses amid the tall ocean grasses and a hodgepodge of weeds and wild foxglove. I approached the door and knocked three times, until a deep, raspy voice beckoned me in.

I entered the living room; it was gloomy and dark. The blinds were pulled to block out the morning sun. Books, magazines, and papers were strewn on various tables. As accustomed, Mike’s dad sat alone in the shadows in his black leather chair. I could smell smoke and stale liquor, but the tobacco was sweeter in quality than the pipe my grandpa Baron smoked. Mike’s in the kitchen, Steve.

I turned left toward the outdated kitchen and dinette set to find Mrs. Hilbert swinging her keys in her right hand while sorting mail with her left. She wore a burgundy-red Safeway checker’s uniform, and her hair was tied tight in a bun. This was her second job. During the weekdays she was the hygienist for our dentist, Dr. Payne, down on Front Street. I figured she worked a minimal of sixty to seventy hours a week, and I was pretty sure Mr. Hilbert was not actively helpful in Mike’s care. Mike was the baby of the family comprised of two older sisters and one brother, all grown.

Mr. Hilbert had a reputation as an abuser of alcohol and of his family. He had lost his job as a supervisor at the Portside Mill approximately four years earlier, and he had not held consistent employment since. He had a personalized stool at the Wharf Bar and Grill across from the Marina, and every so often Mike, or his mother, would appear with odd markings or a shiner that you didn’t dare inquire about. For Mike, the topic of his father was a dead subject.

May I fix you a nice, hot breakfast, Steve? I have eggs and bacon if you like. She smiled warmly at me as she spoke. To Mrs. Hilbert, I represented the one normal family influence on her son, and she would often treat me as if I were her own child.

Leave my friend be, Ma. You’re embarrassing me. Mike rifled through her purse as he spoke, in his usual effort to grab change or get a bill if he could. Just before Mike emerged with the mother lode, Mrs. Hilbert reached and snatched the purse out from under his grasp. What the hell, Ma? You can’t show your son a little love? Giving in out of guilt, as usual, she reached in and handed him a five, instructing him to share with his friends and to watch his language. She had the appearance of a woman beaten.

I will be home around six o’clock for some dinner, and I expect you to be here. Steve, you are welcome for dinner, too, as always. She promptly headed out the door and left us to the stellar supervision of Mike’s dad, who was either passed out or did not care that his thirteen-year-old son cursed like a commercial fisherman or that he had just taken advantage of his wife.

For me, the emigration from the ultraconservative McConnell house to the Hilberts’ was like crossing into a third world country, but the longer I stayed, the more easily I was able to embrace the local culture.

What’s up, you big pecker head? Mike crowed, giving me a wide smile and a long middle finger. I returned the favor, feeling immediately penitent. I followed Mike down a long hall of bedrooms filled with boxes, assorted exercise equipment, and a variety of odds and ends that would make for a notable yard sale. Mike’s room was the last on the left and had its own private bath that featured pink fixtures. I noticed Mike had been sorting his prized collection of baseball cards on the dresser. I plopped down on his bed and made myself at home. I prepared for the long-haul primping session that was going to take place by reaching back and pushing play on his boom box, revealing the uplifting sounds of AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. I cranked the volume for added effect and stretched out as Mike began to vigorously brush his teeth and tongue and would soon begin his hair prep and muscle-flexing routine in the mirror.

I sat staring up at a six-foot poster of Heather Thomas, star actress and apparent swimsuit model. I couldn’t help but gaze at her long legs and sizeable breasts as she pulled ever so slightly at a well-placed string holding up her bikini panties, not leaving much for my adolescent brain to process. She stared back at me with a yearning that never failed to arouse my probing curiosity.

I heard a series of loud steps as our friend Brian swung through the door. Hey, Steve, tell Mike to quit playing with himself. We have some serious business to attend to and discuss before the big showdown. Brian liked to obsess about the smaller details of life, and getting Mike out of the bathroom was a recurring pet peeve. He seemed particularly wired as he shuffled from heel to heel as if he had to take a leak or had a bad case of hemorrhoids.

Tell him yourself. He’s standing around the corner with little peewee in his sweaty palm right now. I made a crude gesture with my closed fist as an indication of the time that had elapsed since I had been there, and Brian nodded, smiling.

Hey, how many times do I have to tell you to watch your filthy little mouths when there is a lady present? Mike reached around the corner with his toothbrush and used it to point up at the poster of Heather in all her unclothed glory. As Mike returned to his hair care, and out of sight, Brian hopped up on the bed and pressed his face against Heather’s and pretended to make out with her in an effort to poke fun of Mike, as I looked on snickering. He did a two-part monologue in which Mike professed his devotion for Heather and she told him how much she desired his rock-hard body.

Brian Hall lived across town where the affluent half resided. Brian was a type-A personality with an intelligence quotient higher than I could count. Brian was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps as a surgeon at the local Catholic hospital. We would often spend the night at his house to watch cable TV or HBO on his large twenty-seven-inch color TV. His mother would let us rent rated-R action movies from the Family Video Store along Highway 202. This was a big deal for me because my conservative mother would limit my TV watching to an approved list of shows, and parental guidance suggested her presence in the room while I watched. My mother had a habit of turning off episodes or movies at the height of the plot due to a foul word or sexual situation. I still to this day am wondering the conclusion to hundreds of movies and shows that never came to fruition under my mother’s fervent watch. I may be the only American alive in the eighties still not sure who actually shot J. R. Ewing. Mrs. Hall, however, would leave us completely alone other than to come in and offer us sugar snacks and colas. His parents were well-respected amongst the who’s who in the community and were regular patrons of the local Our Lady of the Dunes Catholic Parish. This made it slightly easier to get my parents’ clearance to stay over. You could say that most of my informal pubescent training took place away from the McConnell residence.

Out front, after Mike had blown a hole in the ozone emptying an entire can of hairspray on his head, we hopped on our bikes, heading left onto Twenty-First, when Noah materialized out of his driveway on a skateboard. Hey, where are you guys heading?

Noah Tarpley lived directly across from Mike. Their mothers had fostered their play together from an early age. As time passed, though, their friendship had taken a turn to the slightly more awkward. I noticed that Mike was sympathetic to Noah’s plight in life and often showed his more sensitive side around him, a side that that was usually only reserved for Heather. It was like he wanted to shield Noah from the torment that he faced every day as an outcast. I often wondered what connected this seemingly odd pair.

We’re heading over to the creek behind McConnell’s house, Mike responded.

Cool! Just a second, I’ll let my mom know where I am going. He waddled back inside to his modest ranch home. Both Brian and I gave Mike the Way to go! look as Noah disappeared inside.

Noah was that kid at every middle school who wore a target everywhere he wandered that was impervious to his own vision or common sense. He was a nerd beacon to the cruel world known as Portside Middle School. It could have been his Michelin Man physique, the Coke bottle glasses, or his delayed social skills, but one thing was certain, Noah had survived this long on the well-known fact that Mike would take to task anyone who aimed to bother him. As time wore on, not even Mike was able to shield him from daily torture and ridicule. Mike was impressive in size and strength, however. I personally could attest that he hit puberty in the fourth grade and never got carded trying to buy tobacco at 7-Eleven. He had chiseled good looks, and his biceps could crush anything in their way. Bottom line, I was pleased to call Mike my friend, and he saved me from the ridicule of the upperclassmen, who feared his wrath.

What are we supposed to do with Noah? We don’t even have any equipment for him. This is never going to fly with the Barbion brothers. We agreed to three against three, I pleaded with Mike, to no avail.

Look, Steve. Both Tristen and Denny are a year older than us, and Roy is crazy like his older brother. Besides, it’s not like we are adding Conan the Barbarian to our team. Noah can help carry supplies and equipment.

He’ll have to take the oath. We don’t need another liability. I will be grounded until the end of summer if my father gets wind of this, and Noah is not known to be restrained, Brian tried to make a compelling argument.

I can get Noah to agree to the oath, and leave Denny and the Barbion boys to me. It was settled. Noah appeared from his house ten-speed in tow.

Chapter 2

We rode down Twenty-First for about a block and a half until we reached the playground of Franklin Elementary School, where we hopped off our bikes to sit on the weathered wooden play equipment. On the southeast corner, I noticed my father’s old classroom, where he taught my fifth-grade language arts class. I was daydreaming about the play we had performed, called Billy Bart, Scourge of the West, in which I played the sheriff and Wendy played the beautiful damsel in distress. I had wasted many a night dreaming about asking her to go steady.

Mike threw a red rubber dodge ball, apparently left on the playground, at my head, bouncing it off my temple. Hey, we thought we lost you there, Space Ranger. They all laughed at my expense. They had apparently been filling Noah in on the strategic operations for the day as I was reliving my role as Sheriff Wiley, protector against all evil.

A few minutes later, we ditched the bikes behind a large blackberry bush just shy of the bridge and foot trail that connected my house to the school grounds. We bought the house so my father could walk to work and save the family money. The house was also built as part of a class at the high school, and my father had negotiated a bargain price that appealed to his penny-pinching nature. We darted right at the bridge onto a less-traveled foot trail that we had worn down playing games along Stony Creek. It was the divide between my neighborhood and the undeveloped forestry land the school district owned for future development. It was a mixture of spindly pines, salal, and huckleberry thicket. At the fork in the creek, we took a sharp right and stopped at the sandbar that had been created by the decreased water flow and the sandy soil that was the trademark of Portside.

Zzzzzt! A large clod of hard-packed sand and clay whizzed past my head, hitting Noah hard in the torso and knocking him back against the jagged branches.

Who’s the prom date? It was Denny. Falling in behind their assumed leader, the Barbion brothers, Tristen and Roy, hopped out from behind the cover of the fallen log they had been hiding under. Apparently, the last winter storm had left many fallen trees in its wake, providing excellent cover.

Denny was what you could call the school bully and, of course, girl magnet of the grade above us. He was tall and athletic with wild-feathered hair and a sturdy jaw. He was the kid that you never could trust and might turn on you like a snake at any given moment. The Barbion brothers were more the poor-white-trash-street-thug types. They were a little slow in school, and their parents were frequently in and out of county lockup for use and distribution of pot or hallucinogenic mushrooms. They themselves were on one year of probation and court supervision for stealing a case of Dr. Pepper from the local King’s Market. They successfully outran the cops and were hauled up at their house drinking their spoils when the fuzz knocked on their door. Apparently, or so the rumor had it, Roy had accidentally left his wallet on the counter next to the cooler. We knew one mention of the subject would send both brothers into frenzy, and we made sure to reserve it for opportune moments.

I thought we were operating under the same rules as last year. All three were dressed head to toe in fatigues, and Denny removed his Daisy air pistol with walnut target grip and adjustable rear sight, admiring it as he spoke.

I spoke up, feeling secure standing behind Mike, Are we going to stand here and makeout, or are we going to get down to business?

Mike’s girlfriend over there seems to be the business. He pointed to Noah, who was picking thorns out of his slightly undersized T-shirt.

Hey, I don’t see how adding Lard Butt to their team is going to make any difference. We stole their flag last year pretty easily. Tristen held up our pirate flag with crossbones we had created on one of our sleepovers at Brian’s house. Noah’s eyes dropped as we spoke about him, and I often wondered why he was so eager to submit himself to such torture just to hang out with people who didn’t want him around.

Last year was the first annual BB Gun Capture the Flag War. The flag he held had been taken from us last year, and our goal was simple. We would recapture our flag and inflict as much pain as possible in the process. After a year of taunting, we wanted some serious payback, and we had spent the last several weeks strategizing.

Denny and Mike attended to the business of swearing Noah in, as Brian and I retrieved two large duffel bags from behind an old stump that we had stashed three days earlier to avoid suspicion from my folks on the day of the war. I began to pull out the gear that consisted of a barrage of hunting clothing, air guns, and three metal slingshots made from surgical tubing we had lifted from Brian’s dad, and metal forks we had welded together using my father’s welder and some old copper tubing. My grandfather had taught me how to weld a few months back, and the newfound knowledge had proven to be dangerous. I grabbed a dirt clod from the bank to test a slingshot out and landed a clog just shy of Roy’s head, hitting a coastal pine with great velocity.

I see you boys brought some new toys and are ready to play this year. Denny motioned to Mike, who joined him, facing the group.

Denny spoke first, The rules are pretty simple, so listen up, peons. If you break any of the following rules, your team will forfeit the flag. Last year each team had their own flag. We took your sissy flag last year, and now it serves as the prized trophy. As of now, this flag is ours. If you want it back, you will have to be ready to take it from us. As the owner of the flag, we will head into the forest first and hide it in plain sight at a spot we have already determined and where the rest of our gear is safely stowed away. You ladies have exactly two hours to grab it and bring it back here to plant it in this circle. He drew a four-foot-wide oval in