The Fort

Kenny and his friend George (aka Chuck, not the other George) built a fort in the back yard with borrowed materials and decorated it with appropriated street signs and such. It was two-stories, fully carpeted with a tar-paper roof, total height maybe eight feet, having a rear annex with an angled roof in the back, with a bar. Just like dad. The upstairs was plastered with Hustler, Oui and Penthouse. Occasionally we little kids would spend the night below while Kenny and his buds would stay up top, with a hinged door closed between us. Later I inherited the fort when Kenny got a car and had better ways to be a menace.

Spiders were a serious problem as was the potential for fire, for arachnophobia was somewhat alleviated with a lit candle. “D” cell flashlights would last for only so long, usually dimming to a sickly yellow after a while of looking at smut. Smoke from waxy smoldering carpet would sometimes wake us in our sleeping bags, which along with the smell of Black Flag permeated our sinuses. The candle-under-the-bug-spray-nozzle flamethrower was in full force. We ate raw cookie dough purchased at the 24 hour Kroger across town and, good reader, I am getting nauseous describing these sensory experiences. The bug spray/toxic smoke/refined sugar moments we all savor. We would spend the night and go off on nocturnal exploits which sometimes made the paper, this not difficult in a town where tobacco prices make the front page.