The Drink Panther

There was this kid I knew growing up who lived on my street. She was the only one close to my age and we used to spend the summer together since we went to different schools. We rode bikes in circles in her driveway every morning, trying to decide what to do that day. Until the morning she asked me if I’d ever been to The Barn.

There wasn’t a grade school kid on our side of town who didn’t know about The Barn. Stories varied, from a prohibition era flophouse to the place where high school kids went to get tattoos and try for babies, not necessarily in that order. I never went there or even wanted to talk about it because it scared me, but when Debby told me I’d wake up with a bedful of dog shit if I didn’t go with her, I didn’t have much trouble changing my mind.

The Barn was at the back of the property that used to belong to the Wisselfitzs, whom had stories of their own, none of which I believed. It was just outside the edge of town, back a long gravel drive, with a house halfway up and another struck by lightning and burned to the foundation right next to The Barn. No one was sure if anyone still lived there, but just about anyone who went to The Barn never came near the house still standing. Lucky for us, it was on our side of town, and twenty minutes later we were pedaling down the farm road that ran parallel to the property.

As we got close, I could tell we weren’t the first to arrive. There were bikes dumped near a thicket around back, none of which I recognized. Most were Huffys, of varying age and condition, and a couple of Frankenstein jobs from kids whose families were mechanical. I was neither. My black and gold AMF was both cheap and uncool. Even Debby rode her older brother’s bike, a white Huffy with red trim and hand brakes. Mine still had coasters, and a single hand brake that only sometimes worked. I dumped mine away from the others, behind a busted up washing machine.

We could hear the others inside, laughing and carrying on. While I was careful with each step, trying not to make any noise, Debby strode right in, hands on her hips.

“I came here to kick ass and chew bubble gum-- and I’m all out of bubble gum,” she said.

I could feel intense pressure on my eardrums. A tall kid with shaggy hair and an AC-DC shirt hopped down from his perch on a rusted out tractor.

“Hey, Debby. Who’s the new kid,” he asked.

“He’s cool,” she said.

And that was pretty much it. We hung out the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon. One kid had a six-pack of Red, White and Blue with four cans left we passed around a group of seven. AC-DC flipped over a wooden crate and pulled out a big plastic Pink Panther mask he handed to Debby and she donned it without word. I shot him a look and he shrugged.

“Pink wears the panther,” he said.

Debby elbowed me in the ribs and he passed me the first beer. I didn’t know what he meant, but I took a small sip and passed it back. She titlted the mask back and took a couple gulps. We kept it up until there were mostly empty, when we all called “NO BACKWASH” and tossed them on a pile in the corner. I didn’t much care for the taste, and drank as little possible. One kid, a short, reedy thing named Kevin, drank  two of them by himself. He did impressions of his weiner dog to fits of hysterics.

Debby moved away the following year and I went back to The Barn a few times hoping to catch the gang, but every time I was alone. I looked all over for that mask, but couldn’t find it. I never saw it or any of them again.

Years later, while looking for a car wash in New Mexico, I pulled over at a rest stop. Parked next to me was the person pictured below and wondered, for a moment, if it was Debby. I half waved, but they just sat there with the radio playing Amboy Dukes.

It reminded me of home.

Sandra Lee gets a makeover.