I could feel the warmth upon waking, even smell it, although I suppose it’s not actually the temperature I smelled, but the catalyzed reactions to it: The awakening of the barnyard odors of shit and hay and bovine flesh, the oily-sweetness of the tarpaper stapled to the exterior of the house, one of those nostalgic smells to me, recalling construction crews and in particular, the summer I spent roofing on Martha’s Vineyard for a hard-charging lunatic named Ken. He smoked pot from dawn to dusk, screamed at me with impunity, and made me work sock-footed, so as not to damage the sun-softened asphalt shingles we installed. At 16, I was living a six-hour drive and a ferry ride away from my parents and making $15/hr under the table. I shared a one-bedroom apartment with three friends. I had a motorcycle I’d bought literally out of the weeds that had grown up around it after the previous owner had dumped it and decided not to push his luck. It leaked oil like crazy, but had four cylinders and 750cc and would do 100mph in third gear. I think I gave $500 for it. I had a wealthy girlfriend who was at least as crazyily stoned as my boss and who let me drive the brand new sports car her father had bought her. On Friday afternoons, me and my underage roommates would call for a home delivery of Rolling Rock cases from the local package store; then we’d leave a check taped to the door and hide in the woods so we didn’t get carded. Thinking back, I can’t believe this scheme worked, but it did, over and over and over again.
I hadn’t thought of any of this in years until I smelled that tarpaper this morning. Funny how stuff like that works.