The Autobiography of Jeremy V

The autobiography of Jeremy V.

My cousin is a jackass. I'm not talking the Johnny Knoxville variety here, I mean he's a real fucking moron. He has an uncanny ability for getting into the most outrageous situations. It's either a skill, or proof that God exists. You see, if Darwin was right, my dimwit cousin should have died a long time ago.

I was in Naples, Florida visiting my mom's brother and his wife the summer before my senior year in high school. It's something I did most summers. For someone from Michigan, it was always a treat to get to go somewhere with warm water, sunshine, and attractive girls.

So there I was, sitting around one afternoon with my cousin Steve. Being the unemployable retard that he is, it's not like he had anything else to do. His phone rang, and he answered it. Five minutes later we were in his Jeep heading for the marina, by way of the liquor store.

"Steve, where the hell are we going?" I asked.

"Going for a booze and cruise on Lester's boat."

"Who's Lester again?"

"Oh just some gu… A friend of mine," Steve lied.

Oh well, I thought. This should be fun to watch. I had no idea how much fun we were about to have.

I'd love to tell you everything that happened that day, but I can't. As an banker and upstanding member of the community, it probably wouldn't be very healthy for my reputation. I'll just say that you should let your imagination run wild with all the possibilities that could occur among a few guys, aged seventeen to twenty-two, on what turned out to be a two million dollar yacht. I will tell you, I may have got some great shots on a disposable camera of Lester, at the helm shit-faced, wearing a captain's hat. In fact, we were having so much fun, they were the only photo's I thought to take

At the end of our fantastic voyage, Lester couldn't manage to back the yacht into the slip. As drunk as he was, he did manage to get it pulled in bow-first. I thought that it looked so odd parked along the rows of backed in boats. Steve, also drunker than an Irish wedding, tossed me his keys and told me to drive him back to the house.

When we woke up the next morning, I noticed that my backpack was missing. I searched the house, then went and looked through my cousin's Jeep. Nothing in the Jeep, just a nice collection of empty Keystone Light cans. Oh Shit! I thought. I left it on Lester's boat.

I ran back in the house. After a good five minutes of poking and prodding, I got Steve up and he called Lester.

"What do you mean you don't want to go get it?" he yelled into the phone. "We'll be there in five minutes to pick you up. We're going to the marina, and you're ass is getting my cousin his bag!" Steve shouted before hanging up the phone.

The ride over was about as terrifying as any ride could be with a grossly hungover psychopath. Hungover–hell–he was probably still drunk. I had my seatbelt on as tight as it would go. I seriously doubt it would have done me any good at the rate of speed Steve was driving. Well, hopefully it'll make it easier for the police to find my body, I chuckled in my head.

We got to Lester's place. He was waiting outside with a look of nervous apprehension. Steve yelled at him to jump in the back. Lester hesitated. "Lester, if you don't get your ass in the back right now I'm gonna put my size twelve in it. Then, I'm gonna drag you down to the marina and make you get Jeremy's god damned backpack. Get in!" Steve barked. Lester complied.

The trip to the marina was quick, although Steve had backed off the throttle a bit. As we pulled close to the parking lot Lester told Steve to stop.

"What gives Lester?" Steve asked.

"Just wait here." Lester said. He had this nervous look on his face. His skin was ghost white and he was sweating. It wasn't that hot out.

"Alright, get your ass down there and bring my cousin back his bag. Don't even think of running off Lester, I know where you live and I've got plenty of time to wait for you to come home," Steve said.

"Yeah, I'm on it," Lester mumbled as he jumped out of the back of the Jeep.

We watched as Lester made his way down the driveway towards the docks. We could see the yacht from yesterday, still facing the wrong way in the row of perfectly moored boats. His walk was almost comical. It was so obviously the walk of someone paranoid and nervous. He strode in jerky motions, always looking around. After a good laugh at Lester's walk, we saw him approach the yacht.

As Lester walked up the small gangway to get on the boat, all hell broke loose. Cops came out of the woodwork. There were some on the yacht, others popping up from other boats nearby, some running out of cars in the parking lot. Lester wasn't your average MENSA member, Lester ran.

Or, should I say, tried to. He somehow made it off the docks and into the parking lot. Lester might have had a chance if the police had not brought their not-so-secret weapon: a huge German Shepherd. The dog came blazing around some cars to Lester's right. She was about thirty feet away, ears back and flying. She closed the distance in a blink of an eye. Lester had just enough time and presence of mind to turn away. The huge canine struck him in the back at an off angle. Still, the dog's instinct was true. She had Lester by the arm. So much for running.

"Seen enough?" Steve asked in an strangely calm voice.

"Yup," I replied.

Somehow, through all of this, the police had not seen us. In their all encompassing surveillance, they missed the fact that Lester had arrived by Jeep, and not on foot. We slowly pulled away. No one followed. We were safe.

I would later learn that Lester had actually 'borrowed' the yacht from a nice investment banker from Chicago, he just conveniently forgot to ask permission. He had been snooping around boats in the marina for booze to steal one night and found that one unlocked with the keys in it. Lester was no friend of my cousin's, just some punk he faintly knew through his network of upstanding associates. Who knows why Lester invited us that day? I don't really care, I'm just glad we didn't take the fall for it. After all, Lester told us it was his boat.

"Jeremy, what was in your bag? Wallet, anything that could identify us?" Steve asked as we stopped at a red light just down the street from Steve's house.

"Not much," I struggled to recall. "Just shoes, a towel, some sunscreen. The usual beach stuff..."

Oh shit!

"…and a disposable camera!"