Josh Stadelman

It Must Taste Like a Gusher Josh Stadelman • Nonfiction

My brother, t enty-t o years old, leans against the rotting wood railing of our beach-house porch in Holden Beach, North Carolina, red Solo cup in a surf-tanned hand, the salty night breeze ruffling the short curly black hair on his head and face. I lean as well, twenty years old, staring at the patch of overgrown thorn bushes, sandburs, and brambles in the lot beside us, lit by the light of the moon. The beach-house company that owns the land tried clearing and selling it a few years back; now the thorns dominate the lot again, a weathered plastic FOR SALE sign still perched by the road.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try it?” he says. “Just a sip. It won’t do anything.”

My eyes move from the thistle to the night sky above. Dozens of stars polka-dot the night, their reds and blues outshining the lights of the beach vacationers up late enough to see them. The other stars, thousands of them, along with the Milky Way’s line of crisp apricot and tangerine, remain hidden in sight, invisible but still there. I could probably see its wispy traces if I walk out to the beach, I think.

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He claims it tastes just like a Fruit Gusher, his newest mixture, one he wanted to introduce to his work, a yacht club. He told me the mixture when he first tried it, my ignorant and uninterested mind can only remember something, alcohol, and juice.

“I can’t,” I say.

He takes a sip, letting the alcoholic fluid inside slide down his throat. Then he sets his cup on the railing and points at the sky.

“Do you know what that is?” he says.

My eyes follow the invisible line his finger creates, attempting to pinpoint which star in the cluster of four he’s pointing to.

“That’s Saturn,” he says. “You can tell because it’s a brighter orange than the rest.”

I hum a quick “hm” in response, my “I understand but I don’t know how to respond,” so common in our conversations.

“Come on, man,” he says, “just taste it. Dip a toothpick in, that’s fine.”

My eyes stay locked on what I presume to be Saturn, my head cranked backwards almost ninety degrees. My neck must look broken right now, my Adam’s apple jutting an inch out of my neck like a snapped trachea.

There’s no way the miniscule amount of alcohol on a toothpick can affect me, I know.

I give my hesitant consent. He lets loose a whoop filled with seven years of persistence and failure—he’s annoyed me to drink since my thirteenth birthday—and bolts inside.

For a minute, I’m alone with the cool breeze, the chirping crickets, the rhythmic back and forth of the Atlantic low tide. I exhale, years of restraint attempting to scramble out of my body. He’s proud of this drink, a mixture of his own creation. He says it tastes like a gusher. I only remember the candy for its chewy exterior and slimy juice-filled center.

Then he returns, lanky and tan, red Solo cup in one hand and two toothpicks in the other. My restraint returns too, like the lot of briar and sandburs, wrapping around my heart like chains of thorns stabbing both in and out. They protect me from the for-

These Fish Bite • 47

bidden, remind me of the irrational truth that I will cease to be me if I drink.

My brother dips a toothpick in his drink and offers it to me. I imagine it must taste exactly like a Fruit Gusher, sweet and juicy, like when we were children.

My eyes stay locked on Saturn, beautiful yet inscrutable. Closer than stars, yet further than the sun. One day we might acquire the technology to peer beyond its mystifying exterior, to discover the why. But until then, I’ll only know one thing.

“I can’t,” I say.

He sighs, heavy, like the crash of a wave. Then he leans over the wooden railing, throws back his arm, and hurls his drink into the night sky.

• 48 Josh Stadelman