RAT TAIL SUMMER

This story is dedicated to my friend and döppelganger, Max. 

We were conceived as you all sat under the porchlight in fateful April. 

Someone said: “Guys. This year, it’s gonna be Rat Tail Summer.” 

“Rat Tail Summer?” said another voice. 

“Yeah. We’ll all grow rat tails and have a Rat Tail Summer. You can’t define it! Rat Tail Summer’s a feeling.” 

We shivered with glee and put all our energy into growing! Our time was nigh! 

It was true: None of you knew what Rat Tail Summer truly meant, but we had our ideas, and as you slept that evening, snug in your beds, the wind blowing outside and cold rain lashing, we imagined for you.  

We pushed our dreams into your minds through the bases of your skulls and you dreamed them too. 

In our dream, we were fully grown, reaching past your collars, slender and long. 

We imagined you waking up with drool crust on your lips and walking out on the back porch, bleary eyed, in baggy underwear and construction boots to meet the sun. Cicadas droned as you inhaled the day.  

You drank tepid water at breakfast and toast went cool on your plates, butter soaking and congealing inside as you plotted and figured out your days. 

Your mothers and fathers shook their heads and spoke to one another in hushed voices. 

“Do you think they’re okay?” 

“Okay’s got nothing to do with it. They’ll be 30 soon. It’s time for them to wake up and get a real job.” 

But you didn’t mind for now. Rat Tail Summer necessitated unemployment. Rat Tail Summer was your job. 

In the afternoon, you roved the hot pavement in rowdy packs of bicycles, standing on your pedals, weaving like sidewinders. You monopolized the asphalt, drivers honking their horns, frustrated by your bliss. Who knew a haircut could have this much power? We were like lifelines, tethering you to whatever world you envisioned. 

A quick veer, and you were path-bound, speeding through gnat clouds, past tiger lilies and chicory, and the fog of creek stink. We adorned your necks beautifully, lounging there in the sun, streaming in the breeze, tickling your napes, a reminder of the freedom you’d captured in our pleats. 

When you tired of biking, you luxuriated in the heat, sweating in denim cut-offs and stretched muscle tees. You browned and burned and fell asleep. You gasped awake and drank to bursting, pulling your bikes from the grass to peddle lazily home. 

In the evening, you flung the house’s windows open wide and gathered around bowls of beans and mason jars of flat beer to conspire about spreading the good word: 

“An avantgarde band?”  

“Sure, but we need something with more umph, you know?” 

A rave, we whispered in unison. A rave by the river. 

“I’ve got it!” one of you said, snapping their fingers. “Let’s throw a rave!” 

“That’s perfect,” called another. “A Rat Tail Summer Rave. Perfect!” 

And that’s what you did. 

You dispersed under the cover of night, to stick posters to telephone poles, electrical boxes, and garbage cans. You slipped flyers under doors and whispered your invitations through keyholes and into the tailpipes of parked cars so that when their owners started them in the morning before work, your voices rumbled: 

HAVE YOU HEARD? IT’S RAT TAIL SUMMER! 

Another night, all of you, dozens now, swarmed to the river, slinking in the darkness through the underbrush. You congregated under a bridge scrawled with graffiti and whirled IN deep techno with the fervour and urgency of religion. Eager converts, in oxford shirts and pleated slacks and professional looking dresses, lined up waiting for all their hair but the select few to be shorn, punching their ticket to freedom and ecstasy. 

You basked in the reverberating bass. You pierced your ears with potatoes and ice cubes. You swapped clothes with strangers, regardless of fit, fabric, or gender. You danced with concentration and earnestness. Your faces twisted with honest expression, ugly, and thus beautiful in their ugliness. You started experimental and secretive love affairs, leading each other by linking fingers into the shadows beyond the ring of twisting dancers and firelight.  

And all the while, we were there, dripping sweat down your spines, whispering encouragement, and whipping in the cool night air, hallowing your heads like you were all angels. 

In the morning, you all woke up from our dreams, touching the napes of your necks and finding them bare. All of you were giddy with excitement. April to June? Plenty of time to grow your tails. You reconvened, eager to discuss your visions, eager to spread the word. 

Many of you cut your hair that day, leaving lone curls to be braided. All of you invited friends to enlist. 

As the temperature rose, and we grew in preparation, so did your excitement. 

And then the bubble popped. You disbanded. You got jobs, took trips, fell in love, and moved on. Those of you who grew rat tails snipped them off and offered them to the birds for nesting. Your cut braids unraveled and blew away. 

Rat Tail Summer was a feeling. It was a state of mind. It was the temperature of the soul. 

Rat Tail Summer was exquisitely grimy. 

Rat Tail Summer never happened. 

But the dreams still lived, and they are beautiful.