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Monday, July 5, 2004

Fireflies of a different pattern

Fargo, N.D., has never been on my short-list of vacation destinations. Nor has it even appeared on my long-list of vacation destinations. Over the weekend, though, I made it within an hour’s drive of that city. But no further.

It was my first trip into the outstate region – three hours drive northwest of Minneapolis. Up there, the farmland stretches forever, the skies are unimpeded by tall buildings and houses rest alone, without neighbors. At the cabin we stayed at (me, a few softball teammates and 20-some other 20-somethings I hadn’t met before), street addresses had only arrived within the past year. Prior to that, houses were marked by fire signs, IDs bestowed by the rural fire department.

A shantytown sprung up around the small cabin as people arrived (most often in pairs of two) and pitched their tents. Along with tents came dozens of cans and bottles of alcohol. Drinking, it seemed, was the primary means of entertainment. How else can young gay men — and a few straights — expect to entertain themselves in rural Minnesota?

So Friday night, we drank. Saturday, some woke up after a long night of drinking and rocking tents only to crack open a fresh beer within 10 minutes of waking. The weather was uncooperative but we played volleyball in the rain anyway. And, of course, we drank; we drank until we had sucked up the daytime; we drank and barely noticed the twilight; and finally, in the darkness, we drank, holding cans in one hand and swatting bugs with the other.

A word here about my relationship with alcohol: It’s fleeting at best. I’ve never been able to drink to the point of puking, nor to the point of passing out. To me, drinking should be related to thirst. If I’m not thirsty, I don’t drink, and once my thirst is quenched, I stop.

So, frankly, by early evening on Saturday, I was bored with drinking.

At about 11 p.m., drinking games were the activity of the hour. Tired of swigging Bud Light, I left. My friends Adam and Justin had the same idea, so the three of us headed down the road in our flip-flops, leaving behind the stench of spilled beer and the chaos of men vying for attention.

Out in the quietness, we walked with the lake on our left, passing bonfires, cabins and campers. We walked until we were surrounded by a marsh on both sides and all human sounds were gone.

And there, when all was still, was the beauty I had been craving all weekend. Above the shadowed marshes appeared thousands upon thousands of weaving and flashing neon lights. Fireflies, it seemed, were putting on their own fireworks show. It was a sight that brought me back to my childhood in Michigan, when Fourth of July weekends ended with a long ride home from a rural cabin, when my tired eyes struggled to stay open long enough to watch the fireflies in the fields as we drove through, some hitting the windshield and smearing their glowing juice in front of my dad’s eyes.

It was a sight that has always put me in awe. Here, in rural Minnesota, the fireflies flashed with a different rhythm than in Michigan. Here, it’s nine pulses of light, separated by five seconds of darkness, when you can only hope your eyes are following their flight trajectories in the right direction so you can catch their light the next time. In Michigan, the fireflies model neon signs at trashy motels – one second on, one second off.

I could have stayed between those marshes all night long, sending Adam and Justin home and stretching out my hands to chase and capture fireflies, watching their glow seep between my loosely clenched fingers. Out there, amid the simple beauty of sex-driven insects and away from the discomfort and restlessness from being surrounded by gay men who speak to each other with veiled tongues, I felt at home. I felt connected. With what, I don’t know – I suppose myself, nature, my two good friends, perhaps you could say I even felt connected with God.

We stayed only a few minutes, though. We weren’t alone with the fireflies. Mosquitos were having a heyday with our bare legs and arms, feasting on our skin like it was their Last Supper. So we left the fireflies to their mating rituals and headed back to the cabin. When we returned, we entered the cabin where things hadn’t skipped a beat. Beer was still flowing and people were still talking past each other, now on one of the most popular party topics: Whether it’s actually possible to be bisexual. Flashing and advertising their wares, the party-goers were themselves fireflies, nine pulses of chatter stoppered by five seconds of drinking. Repeat. I reached inside me and reluctantly flicked on my own light. But, like the fireflies in Michigan, I flashed a different pattern than the rest. Steady on and steady off. Steady on and steady off. Less flashy and not as noticeable, it was nonetheless more at home for me.

Posted by Aaron on July 5, 2004 1:18 PM