“A man of action takes the day,” Miss Sternward declared as she wrapped up a unit on Hamlet, clearly referring to Fortinbras, that feisty anti-Hamlet who seizes control of Denmark while standing among the carnage of the Danish royal family. Suddenly Rigger Schmidt was recalled from his hormonal daydream and took note of this bold statement. It captivated him, intrigued his sense of self, gave him cause to contemplate his life, an exercise he rarely undertook. He had been fantasizing about Miss Sternward’s ample breasts, fixating on the size of her nipples, his face sandwiched between them, his fingers sliding up her pencil skirt, leaning her back onto a paper-strewn desk during her prep time and demonstrating his manhood. As she pointed to the whiteboard and implored the class to study for the final exam, Rigger needed to squeeze his thighs together to squelch an inflating erection. A man of action, he repeated to himself. I’m a man of action. The bell rang and the class exited the room, Rigger vacillating between his interest in emulating the young prince of Norway and his cliched lust for his English teacher.
“Squatter’s Rock, 4:00?”, Dallas called out to Rigger in the hallway, waving his Spanish book as he hollered. Rigger strolled to his locker, his attention now turned to a moment of rare sentimentality about graduation, just one week away, and how, exactly, one becomes a man of action in the literary sense Miss T and A intended it. He loaded up his homework, slammed the metal door, and strutted to the parking lot, stopped along the way by Shannon Sturgis, whom he had conquered junior year but had managed to stay friends with, and Brett Duerstad, who clarified that baseball practice had, in fact, been cancelled. He reached over the rumbling, escaping riot of students, and pointed to his yellow Jeep, his pride and joy, so his posse could see his plan. “Squatter’s Rock,” he yelled to a scrum of teammates as he stood on the threshold, one hand grasping the top of the door, the other gesticulating.
Rigger’s “boys” arrived almost in unison, Dallas and Horndog in an F150 pick-up, Skeeter in a beat-up SUV covered in mud, and John Scott and Savage Mike in a cobalt blue Tacoma, an early graduation gift. They slammed doors and grabbed coolers and plastic sacks filled with snacks and navigated down the riverbank and onto Squatter’s Rock, a smooth, giant remnant of the Ice Age, low and level to the river, where fisherman sat on their haunches to cast their lines. For some reason, Rigger felt a sense of ownership of this shady spot along the Ohio River. He had learned to fish here, his father and grandfather demonstrating how to select the perfect lure, coaching him on casting techniques, sizing up which catches to toss into the Styrofoam cooler and which to toss back.
“Shit, man, can you believe it: one fucking week of school left! That’s it,” Rigger rejoiced.
“Then we are freeeee!” Savage Mike, his biceps popping, gestured with his hands.
“I’ll drink to that,” Dallas, a white baseball cap flipped backwards on his head, reached into his portable Coleman and retrieved cans of Miller Lite, chucking them to his friends. Skeeter tucked a half-smoked Marlboro into his lips so he could catch his.
“Just think, five more days and then no more homework, no more shitty school lunches, and no more stupid rules,” Rigger elucidated. “So, Horndog, you bag Cassie Hammel last night? How was she?”
“Why’re you askin’ me, Rigger?” Horndog questioned. “You already fucked her back in the winter.”
“Ew, sloppy seconds,” John Scott teased and mockingly wiped his hands on his Blake Shelton tee shirt.
“That’s because I am a man of action. I see somethin’ I want and I take it. What can I say?” Rigger lectured.
“I don’t think that’s what T and A meant in class today, Rigger.”
“Well, at least I don’t go home and jack-off every night like some of us,” he glared at John Scott.
“If you’re such a man of action, prove it,” Savage Mike pressed, his arms bulging from the sleeveless, open sides of an old Cincinnati Reds tee. “I think you’re all talk.”
“Fine, you name it and I’ll do it,” Rigger answered, puffing out his chest.
They all contemplated Rigger’s boldness. Surely someone could construct a challenge that would shut him the fuck up. Sure, they were his friends, true and faithful, but Rigger could be a giant dick sometimes with his bravado and cockiness. It could be tiresome.
“Alright,” Dallas spoke up after a pregnant pause. “I’ll bet you $50 you can’t swim the river across and back.”
“Big shit,” Rigger pashawed.
“Naked,” Dallas added for no good reason.
“Deal, “Rigger said without hesitation. “Fork over the money.”
Dallas reached into his back pocket and withdrew a nylon wallet. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and two fives. “Ante-up, bitches,” he called out to the others and they scrounged together twenty more dollars and handed it to him. Dallas folded the money and held it up. “Get to it,” he sneered.
Rigger peeled off his clothes as nonchalantly as anyone else ties his shoes and tossed them into a pile on the rock. He stood, shoulders back, and revealed his massive manhood, like a bulging bratwurst springing from a black sponge. He had first become aware of his generous endowment in the eighth grade, when the gym teacher first ordered everyone to shower. “Gotta wash off that pubescent stink,” Coach Steiner had growled. When Rigger turned to enter the showers the other boys gasped, the coach turned in reaction and, looking straight at Rigger’s heft, remarked, “My God, boy, you’ve got a boa constrictor there.” From that day forward, he had been nicknamed Big Boa and had commanded respect.
Rigger stepped to the edge of the rock. “Here’s goes nothin’,” he said and dove into the muddy brown water. The afternoon sun cast bright twinkles across the river as he emerged, found his awkward stroke, and began to move toward Kentucky.
“That dumbass,” Dallas laughed. “A barge’ll prolly come up and kill him. Or a speedboat will slice him in half.” They all laughed.
“Or maybe he’ll get caught up in seaweed and drown,” John Scott chimed in.
“You’re just kidding, right?” Skeeter asked. “There’s no seaweed in a god damned river.”
“Ya never know,” Mike teased then added, “He’ll be fine. There’s an actual event each summer up in the city where a whole bunch of people race across to Kentucky.”
“There he goes, like a sick fish,” Dallas said. They stood and watched and drank beer. “Hey, Mike,” Dallas spoke up after a moment. “When you gonna tell Rigger you accepted that scholarship to play baseball in Arizona?”
“I’ll get to it.”
“He’s gonna be pissed.”
“I’ve decided to go to Purdue after all,” Skeeter chimed in. “I really don’t think he realizes we’re all blowing this hell hole.”
They fell silent for a bit, then Dallas called Hillary Steuerwald on his cell and invited her to come and watch the spectacle. Then they stood at the rock’s edge with hands to their foreheads to block the sun and watched Rigger’s arms pop in and out of the water, slowly progressing across.
At first Rigger concentrated on his stroke. He had taken the required swim class freshman year and was actually an athlete of considerable ability. He was a powerful left fielder who could rocket the ball to home plate like no one else in the area, not enough talent to capture the attention of college scouts, but then again, his grades would not make him an attractive prospect anyway. Suddenly, his mind drifted to his future. His dad’s connections had secured him a job at the casket factory, making a decent wage with good benefits, and his parents had already begun the process of converting part of the basement into a comfortable apartment. He would work hard, enjoy his free evenings and weekends with Dallas, Horndog, and Savage, Skeeter and John Scott, save some cash, and make a good life for himself. But with who? Sure, he was renowned for his prowess with the girls at school. He had “nailed” at least a dozen, probably more, not counting the blow jobs behind the football field house on Friday nights. But he’d treated most of those girls like shit and his reputation as a jerk had flourished.
His arms began to grow weary, and he slowed down, kicking more to give his arm muscles a rest. How much farther, he wondered. Maybe he would just float for a bit. No one had set forth any strict rules about how he swam across. He thought about his mom and all the preparations she was making for his graduation party. The garage had been cleared out and swept and the black and gold streamers, balloons, and banner were scattered across the dining room table ready to be hung. His aunts would help prepare the potato and pasta salads, macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, and deviled eggs. A cake had been ordered from Kroger, the drinks were in the refrigerator, and the freezer was stocked with hamburger and hot dogs. It would be the best day of his life, he imagined, with his family and the guys on hand to play corn hole, darts, and volleyball.
He revved up again and pushed into the middle of the river. He could clearly see the Kentucky bank now, treelined and wild, but he was slowed by passing detritus. Yes, graduation would be his crowning achievement: he had fulfilled the dream, finished the race, sealed the deal.
Hillary arrived with two friends and Kyle Wier answered Dallas’ text to come and “Watch the shit show.” A throng milled around the rock drinking, snacking, and taking bets on whether Rigger would make it. An earthy-sweet aroma wafted from behind an open SUV door. Someone began to blast Ed Sheeran from their car speakers, but cut the volume when, suddenly, someone shouted, “There’s a coal barge coming!”
“Shit,” Dallas whispered under his breath. He thought about waving his arms in warning, but Rigger was swimming AWAY from them and would not see, and he was too far to hear their shouts.
“OMG!” one of Hillary’s friends gasped.
But Rigger seemed to sense the approaching danger. He stopped, waved his arms as the barge, piled with chunks of midnight blackness, passed by, and then began to move on. He fought the barge’s considerable wake, bobbing like a buoy, expending a considerable amount of energy and gulping too much river water. The Squatter’s Rock party cheered.
“What, exactly, does this prove?” Kyle asked, tipping back a Coors.
“Not a damn thing,” Mike interjected. “But it makes him feel like, what did he say, ‘a man of action.’”
“Well, it is an impressive feat,” Kyle admitted. “But still.”
As Rigger’s arms continued to stroke one after the other, a few of the guys made a run to Taco Bell. Hillary and two other girls wearing short-shorts and tank tops retreated to their car to paint their nails. “Call us if anything interesting happens,” she directed no one in particular. Horndog announced for no real reason, “I gotta take a leak,” and wandered off into the underbrush.
“He’s made it to the other side,” Dallas proclaimed, and everyone cheered but no one stopped to admire his success. “I think he’s sitting on the shore resting,” Dallas commentated. Then Kyle remembered he had binoculars in his back seat, and they focused them on Rigger’s pale body, lithe and muscled, now red and splotchy, sitting on the opposite bank. He sat with his knees up, his head dropped between them as if meditating, his body heaving to catch some breath. “I don’t know if he can do it,” he confessed and began to regret the bet.
“Is he- naked,” one of the girls asked?
“Yeah,” Dallas laughed.
“Why?”
“Just to mess with his head,” Dallas admitted without remorse.
“Don’t count Rigger out,” John Scott butted in. “He has a lot of sheer willpower. Always has. I say he makes it.”
Soon a red speed boat zipped into view and appeared to be heading straight for Rigger. Several concerned partygoers stepped forward to watch. Rigger was approximately halfway when the boat coasted to a stop. Kyle refocused his binoculars.
“Looks like they’re stopping to help him,” he narrated. “He’s pulling up to the wooden lip at the back of the boat and some guy, looks like the dad, is reaching down to lift him up.” He paused. “No, Rigger is just leaning in but not getting onboard. I can see his white ass shining in the sun.”
“Let me see,” Dallas grabbed the binoculars. “A girl is handing him, looks like a bottle of water. She’s hot. Damn, really hot! Look at that pair of puppies!”
Kyle took back his spy glasses. “She’s handing him some goggles and-and kissing him. That lucky son of a bitch.”
Rigger hung on the back of the boat and rested a bit, careful not to lift up and expose himself to these good Samaritans, then he released it and the Mastercraft pulled slowly away, the beautiful young woman waving goodbye to Rigger, her breasts dancing a jig in the slant of the sun.
“Have ya ever met a luckier guy in your life?” Skeeter asked.
Rigger tread water for a few moments to allow his swelling member to deflate, then attempted to find his stroke again but became keenly aware of how much his manhood was dragging him down, holding him back, impeding his progress. He began to tire, and his arms softened into pizza dough. He stopped for a moment to regroup when he suddenly felt a tug and a sharp pain. “What the fuck?” he called out as he felt a fish brush against his inner thigh. He realized it had bitten the tip of his dangling dick. He floated for a couple of minutes, wondering if his shaft was bleeding, and chastised himself. What was he thinking taking on this challenge? Why didn’t he think before he acted? Why was he so impulsive? Then his mind wandered off again as he resumed his course, flipping through images of the baseball sectional victory junior year, deer hunting with his dad and Uncle Ted, riding his first four-wheeler. He plotted how he might be able to bone Miss T and A before next Friday. Maybe he could go to her room after school and ask for some tutoring. Maybe he would accidently rub up against her. Maybe she would feel his excitement and her curiosity would overwhelm her, just for a few minutes. It could happen. It’s not that improbable. Teachers are sexual beings just like everyone else, he reasoned.
As Rigger approached the shore, everyone gathered for his big finish. Numerous phones thrust into the air as people prepped for a YouTube or Tic Tok video or an Instagram or Facebook post, maybe some Snapchat or Marco Polo or Reddit action. It was fun to be part of a “happening.” Finally, pushing himself as hard as he could, Rigger reached the shore. Dallas and Savage reached down to pull him up, a couple dozen cameras capturing every moment. He looked like a Tsunami survivor or a newborn in an alternate universe being birthed, unable to crawl onto the rock under his own power. They placed him face up in the center of the rock and the partygoers encircled him. The fading sun washed over him, beads of water rolling away from his skin, which was covered with abrasions and small cuts, weeds stuck between his toes and his soft dark hair, his eyes bloodshot and heavy, his massive manhood lolling to one side like a drained firehose.
He had expected wild cheers. He had envisioned a plethora of congratulations. He had anticipated some pomp, some circumstance in recognition of this amazing feat. But what he got was Dallas admitting, “You win, dude. Hell of a swim. Here’s your fifty bucks.”
The spectacle now complete, the show felt somehow underwhelming. It would have been more exciting, perhaps, if the coal barge had digested him or that speed boat had sliced him up a bit or someone had notified the coast guard. Still, it was a genuine demonstration of athletic prowess and determination. They all had to admit that it was pretty cool. As the watchers turned and headed out to their Friday night adventures, they congratulated him, at least one person commenting, “You’ve got a great story to tell.”
Antsy all weekend, Rigger could hardly wait for Monday, the last Monday of high school, to arrive. He spent his unoccupied moments planning for his triumphant entrance, for the throngs of kids who had heard about his wild, Beowulf-like exploits and seen the videos to mob him. And sure enough, when he burst through those doors, a clutch of kids stood in a circle near his locker chatting excitedly. He puffed out his chest and swaggered into them, high fives ready.
“Shit man, can you believe it?” one boy exclaimed.
“I know, he climbed all the way to the top in the middle of the night. Must be a mile high.”
“Spray-painted Rhiannon Schwing’s name across the front of that damn thing,” another boy marveled.
“That’s real love,” one girl intoned.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rigger interrupted them. He couldn’t believe this shit. Why weren’t they talking about his heroics, his Olympic conquest of the mighty Ohio River, his moment of glory?
“Didn’t you hear,” John Scott placed his hand on Rigger’s back. “Jordan Smits climbed the Hill Valley water tower Saturday night. It’s all anybody can talk about. What a set of balls!”
Dallas clapped Rigger’s shoulder. “Yep, I guess he’s a real man of action who took the day!”
