Follow Carmen, a young and deeply closeted gay teenager as he navigates the 1980's and 1990's yearning for love and trying to find where he fits in.
This story is rated M because it contains elements of death (including children), homophobia, religi...
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The rest of the school year passed without incident. I passed grade 9 and would be going into high school next year, a fresh start. I was already looking forward to it: I'd be able to pick and choose my own classes, so I knew I'd do better.
My father and I were spending a lot of time at our cottage in Georgefield, about 40 minutes north of Sackville. "The Camp" was what we called the place. They had just ran power into our road and we were doing renovations to make it so The Camp could be connected. It was a small building, very rustic, with three small bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Bathroom facilities consisted of a shithouse behind The Camp.
Rustic indeed, but I always loved going there. A 15 year old city kid with a love for nature could always find something to do, whether it be dirt biking in summer or snowmobiling in winter, or just hiking around in the woods at any time of year. Usually one or two of my friends would come up for the weekend as well. Occasionally Dad would take us out 4-wheeling in his Pathfinder, cruising all the logging roads looking for deer and scouting for hunting spots. This coming fall would be the first year that I was old enough to go deer hunting, and I was getting excited about it.
One weekend Dad and I went up alone so that he could build some tree stands overlooking some "choppings" ("choppings" is the name hunters give clear cut forests. A few years after they are cut the new growth provides a feeding bonanza for deer, which makes them prime hunting spots). I helped him drag wood and tools into the choppings and we built some stands. We found plenty of deer sign as we scouted the area, and were feeling pretty good about the upcoming season. Dad was drinking the whole day and was getting progressively drunk, so after a few stands were up we headed back to the camp.
The plan was to spend the night and head home in the morning after Dad had sobered up. Things don't always go according to plan, though. When we got to the camp Dad kept on drinking while I just did mindless things around the camp and property. There was no power yet, so it was pretty boring without any of my friends there. Finally Dad ran out of rum.
"Carmen!" He called out the front door.
"Coming", I said, and returned to the building.
"Let's go, we're going home."
I saw his empty rum bottle and was not surprised, nor was I disappointed. This would have been a very boring evening up there. Dad was drunk, but the thought of him drunk driving did not really bother me – this was the 1980's, and such things were not looked down upon then as they are now. We started gathering things up to put in the Pathfinder, and as we were doing so I noticed that he was really drunk. Really, really drunk. We (mostly I) got everything packed up and I locked the camp door as Dad was staggering toward the truck. I turned around after locking the door and was surprised to see him getting in the passenger side.
I walked over to his door and he said "Other side, you're driving."
"What?!?"
"You heard me. I'm too drunk to drive. It's time you learned how anyway."
