Nearly every one who grows up in a small town wants to get out.  Many have an escape plan.  Most of them get caught.  I made my break and ran with it.  Denny got caught (well at least for now, there’s always the chance he’ll go overboard and land in prison).    
    At a school as small as the one we grew up in, there wasn’t a lot of room for division.  Our school was a simple split: jocks and not.  I was a not, but only because I was weeded out of the jocks.  I can remember parts of a day of tee ball practice where I stood in the wrong place for a batting instruction.  The coach managed to hit me in the head.  I wasn’t much better at basketball, but at least I didn’t get hit in the head as often.  I was never stupid enough to try football.  Football can kiss my scrawny ass.
    The point being, I went to the same classes with the same people from kindergarten until the end, Denny included.  I distinctly remember eating some playground dirt for calling him fat back then, not because he was really that big so much as he was just the biggest.  These days he’s a larger size “good ole boy” ala Larry the Cable Guy, minus the flannel shirts.  But I think the football field is the only place I’ve ever seen him not wearing some sort of camo.  Now his nickname is Big D and he loves it.  
    Sometimes I wonder if he is the exception to the rule.  Maybe he never intended to get out.  I think of all the people in Fowlerville, Denny is the most content.  I’m not quite sure he’s ever been further out of Oklahoma than a Texas beer run could take him, but I don’t think he minds too much.  His life has always revolved around sports, hunting, and fishing.  He still has two of those to keep himself entertained.
    I spent so much time hanging out with other people during high school I must have just missed out on the excitement people like Big D create.  That is until people either moved away or settled down to the point hanging out is out of the question.  Over half of the people in my graduating class of forty nine are married, divorced, have kids, or some combination of the three.  Two have been to prison; several of them probably should be on their way.
    This leaves Denny and some people from the classes that graduated after us to find their own mischief.  I don’t remember quite how I really began to be drug into the mix on a regular basis, but I’m pretty sure it really started with a call to go on a fishing trip my first summer home from college.  I had been away just long enough to miss the simple things.
    I saw “Big D” come up on my cell phone and I knew even before I answered there had to be something fun going on.  
    “Yo, me and Oompa are down at the pump station to do some fishin.  You wanna pick up a case and come rock out with me? I think Oompa is gonna have to go pick up his old lady pretty soon.”
    “Who the hell is Oompa?”
    “Aww you remember Oompa.  Fucking old Brent Baker,” Denny paused for his classic deep laugh, “Doesn’t he look just like a damn Oompa Loompa with a buzzcut?”
    I had to laugh because he was making a great point, “well I don’t have an Oklahoma license anymore.  The game wardens still don’t go down there right?”
    “Ah hell no, just bring your brother’s four wheeler, if anybody else shows up we can cut over into Oompa’s grandpa’s land and tell ‘em to go sit on it.”
    “Ok, well I’ll strap the cooler on there and head that way then I guess.  It’ll be a few minutes though because I have to dig my pole out of the shed.”  I replied.
    “Oh hell, you haven’t been with us before…don’t worry about the pole.  We’re fishing for gar.  Just make sure you wear some shoes instead of sandals and grab your .22 and some bullets.”
    Now I was absolutely intrigued.  I didn’t even want to ask.  “Um ok, I’ll be there in about ten minutes then.”
    I loaded up the ice and some of my dad’s stash of Texas Budweiser.  Everyone in Oklahoma close enough to another state has a stash of their beer due to the higher alcohol content.  I slung my gun across my back, and took off down the dirt road.  
    The June sun had thoroughly cooked the red clay and it was becoming trapped in the light breeze, one of those summer breezes that actually feel hotter than the air.  By the time I was crossing pavement to get to the river access trail that ran next to the railroad tracks, I was caked in dust and my eyes were watering.  But as I followed the trail towards the river, I began to distinctly hear the faint sound of gunfire over the four wheeler’s exhaust.
    I arrived at the river and looked up to find Denny standing in the middle of the railroad trestle about fifty yards over the shallow river.  Everything made a little more sense and I laughed a little on the inside.  This was the damnedest thing I had ever seen.
    “Man, grab some of them cold beers and get up here, these fuckers are all over the place.  Oompa already smoked four of ‘em before he left, I got two and a big ass snapping turtle,” he yelled.  “Wait, what kinda beer you bring?”
    “I got some of my dad’s Bud.”
    “Ah hell, I don’t need none of that barley water, get me a Keystone from my cooler.”
    I grabbed a couple beers from my cooler anyway and starting climbing the steep rock hill to get to the tracks.  He was gonna drink Bud and he was gonna like it.  Once I got to the top I could feel the heat coming off the treated wood under the rails.  I looked down each side of the tracks.  I could see for several miles, but everything was distorted from the heat.  I looked over at the pump station building next to the river and listened to it for a moment as it pumped who knows how many gallons of water the eight miles to the paper mill in town.  
     Its true purpose was to pump water to cool the machinery in the mill, but the seclusion down such a decrepit dirt road and the external lighting around the building made the area the perfect spot for kids to hang out, drink, swim, and do everything else it is that small town kids do (smoke weed and get pregnant being the most common).
    As I walked past a “No Trespassing: Private Property” sign (full of bullet holes), I began to think about what I was getting into.  Looks like I’m minor in possession, trespassing, transporting a loaded firearm on public roads, and…wait, am I fishing without a license or hunting without a license?  Either way I’m pretty sure shooting fish is illegal.
    Stepping across the cross ties made me nervous, there was definitely enough space between them for my scrawny ass to fit through.  When the water’s that shallow, any distance is a long way down.  Then I started to wonder how fast I could move across them in a panic if a train was coming.  That didn’t help ease my feelings any.  But eventually I made it out to where Denny was.  
    Denny saw the Budweiser cans in my hand, “What the fuck did you bring that for?  I told you I don’t want that damn…”
    I cut him off mid sentence, “Quit being a pussy and drink it.  You said bring beer, not piss in a can.”  Hanging out with Denny just wouldn’t be the same if we weren’t bitching about each other’s beer at some point.  Even on the rare occasions he would spring the extra cash for Coors Light I had to give him hell about that too.  More than anything, I was just jealous he could pass for twenty-one at the gas station and I couldn’t.  I thought he was abusing his privilege by buying crap beer.
    He let out another deep laugh and took the can.  He popped it open and turned it up.  It was gone in four big gulps.  He chunked the can down into the river before shooting it several times so it would sink.  By the time the can was gone the only remnant of the beer was the scent of Denny’s proud belch.
    “Alright, let’s get back to some fishing,” he proclaimed with a sense of duty in his voice.
    I looked over the edge of the trestle and sure enough, from this height with the bright sunlight the water actually looked clear (which is just a hair short of being a miracle for Little River).  Then I saw a foot long silver sparkle moving from a shadow near the bank into the middle of the river.  
    Denny gave me a friendly punch in the arm, “Aww hell yeah, there’s one.  I’ll hold your beer and you waste him.  I wanna see some shit fly too, you better make it look like that fish was storming the fucking beach in Saving Private Ryan,”  he tried his best to continue talking through his own laughter, “Let’s see some God damned sushi in the water.”
    Normally something just wouldn’t seem right about shooting fish, but gars are probably the most worthless things swimming in any natural Oklahoma water.  I smirked and chambered a round before putting my sights on the damn thing.  It was still swimming around and the first shot made it swim a little quicker.  I knew my chances just got a little slimmer so I led it the best I could and tapped off the other nine rounds.
    The silver bulge rolled in the water and surfaced, still flopping for a moment before becoming still.  Victory.
    I heard Denny laugh again, “Yes sir, I think he felt that one.”  He pulled a .44 magnum revolver from behind his back and I covered my ears as tight and quickly as I could.  He fired three rounds into the floating corpse to thoroughly devastate it.  “Wasabi bitch!”
    I tried not to laugh long enough to drink some of my beer and thought to myself, it’s nice to be home.