Burke woke to the sound of an aluminum can rattling along the pavement. He looked at the clock. Three o'clock and time to motivate. It was hot. Too hot. When Burke had fallen asleep this morning he had forgotten to put the air on. He felt horrible and had hoped that he would not meet up with any mirrors for at least a few hours. Downstairs in the house he could hear transient passages of the song Getting Agitated by a local band called "Going Postal."

He slowly dragged himself out of bed one sorry leg at a time. There was no need to get dressed; he slept with his clothes on. Real economy. Through the open window Burke smelled a bar-b-que. Mmmm-mmm burgers. Now wouldn't that be quite a tasty breakfast? He wondered if he should take his chances in the refrigerator. NO, MAN-what was he thinking? The refrigerator was like one huge biology experiment.

He looked around for his shoes. Now where could they be? His mattress was on the floor so they could not be under his bed. His closet still had the padlock on it. Burke seriously doubted that anyone would have unlocked his closet, thrown his shoes in, and then locked it. Burke looked out the window. Nope, he didn't throw them out the window last night. Perhaps they were downstairs.

He opened the door to a magnificent breeze. The whole-house fan was cranking-as it always was; summer and winter. Everybody's door was closed, which meant that they were either sleeping or out already. Some of those who did not work nights got up relatively early. Burke was not one of them.

Like a drunken scarecrow in a morning haze he ambled to the bathroom. The toilet was located right next to the window and his attention wandered out. Not many people were on the street. Most were probably cooling off in the bars. A dog trotted diagonally down the sidewalk, then crossed Campus Drive Avenue; probably thrown out of one of the bars by the owner. Bet he wished that he was back in where it was cool.

As he turned to leave he noticed that the bathtub was full. It was an old cast iron tub, the kind with the lions' feet. It was wonderfully deep. The tub was filled and waiting for someone to pollute its clean water.

As Burke headed downstairs the music got louder. There sitting Indian-style in the space-room, eyes closed, head bopping sat Jak. Burke noticed the bottoms of Jak's house slippers. Sporting multiple cigarette burns in them, and a wad of used chewing gum stuck to one sole—they were result of numerous late night field excursions to the bar next door. The music Burke heard from upstairs was from Jak's head-phones. He walked over and pried off one of the earpieces. The music shot up twenty decibels: "Gettin' real agitated, want you bad inebriated...."

"Better turn it down, Jak" Burke shouted.

"Whaaa?"

"Better turn it down, the music-I can hear those damn phones all the way up in my room!"

"No-really?"

Burke could tell that he did not believe him. "TURN IT DOWN MAN! Any louder and there will be brains dripping from you nose!"

Jak pulled the phones from his head and stopped the record. He smiled at Burke. "I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No," replied Burke. "The heat was getting to me--who's cookin' burgers?"

"Mostly-Bob," said Jak. "He cooking medival."

Mostly-Bob. He could always be counted on for entertainment. Burke wondered who he was today. Mostly-Bob was many people at once. His most engaging 'split' was that of Shakespeare, not William mind you, but "Richard Shakespeare--Bill's' Brother...." as he sometimes proclaimed.

"There is coffee in the kitchen" Jak offered. "Somebody made it last night, but I think it takes a couple of days to mold. I warmed a cup on the stove. It wasn't that bad."

"Nothing like a raunchy cup-a-joe to get things going. The nastier the better" he replied heading toward the door. He wisely decided not to check the 'fridge. "Anything happening today?" Burke asked.

"Wanna go to the lake?" He replied.

"That sounds real good to me" Burke said. They were not alone; Mostly-Bob, who had crept up behind Jak, had overheard the plan, and like an excited child he ran off to gather the remainder of the guys. In the distance Burke could hear him bellowing like a psychotic town crier: "Burke says that we are going to the lake. Burke says that we are going to the lake!"

The day was beginning to take shape.

Mostly-Bob found TJ, and Francis Flukely (called Fluke) and promptly recruited them. They were ready and raring to escape the heat at the lake.

The company traveled light in those days, a pair of cutoffs, a few packs of smokes, and of course their air mattresses. They were the dime-store bargain bin variety; usually coming in one of two color choices: blue, or light blue. Made of shoddy material they did not last long. Razor stubble would sometimes puncture them. But they were their FLEET! The ELM STREET ARMADA.

So off the group piled into the Piscataway Mobile ready for escape and adventure.

The Piscataway, was Jak's car. It was named for a faded decal adhered to the real window that read: My student is an honor roll student at Piscataway High School. She was a beat up--but faithful old junker that was probably once a silvery blue. The car hadn't had a shine in years and between the rust, the primer, and the road spray, it looked like perhaps it was painted with children's water colors. To put it more eloquently, it looked like shit. The Piscataway It had a push button transmission and by Wakefield standards, it was a damn fine vehicle. She wasn't pretty, but always willing-to whisk them off to the next lake, the next bar, the next adventure.

They were flying down the road now, radio blastin', bald tires singing. Fluke's head was hangin' out the window like a dog in hog heaven breezing through the sizzling summer afternoon. Wakefield faded in the rear view mirror.

A couple of blocks or so out of town the world got quite scenic. There were gently rolling hills; the road meandered up and around the lush green landscape. In the distance were fertile valleys, with breath taking rock formations rising triumphantly out of them; wandering streams, and private farm ponds probably loaded with fish. Jak always admired the scenery here. Whenever he thought about the Biblical promised land, a land flowing with milk and honey, that radiates life, and exudes abundance, Jak pictured this land.

The road twisted, and turned, and circled around but finally they were there. A twin forked lake called Devil's Tongue Lake. Devil’s Tongue was a dangerous lake. Just about everything besides fishing was prohibited. There was a subliminal danger present. At one time the lake was a canyon. One end was sealed off with a concrete dam called the spillway. The lake was rumored to be ninety feet deep in spots and Burke did not doubt it. The hidden danger though was the trees beneath the surface of the water, the submerged forest of the canyon. It's been rumored many people lost there lives while swimming, or boating, or like them floating around on plastic rafts. Swimming and rafts were prohibited at Devil's Tongue, but it was OK, as long as they never got caught....

They drove around the north side of the lake; their favorite side. Their side was usually quiet, most of the swimmers were on the other side. There was a home-made rope swing that swung over the water on the other side. The swingers were usually quite obnoxious.

Soon they found their spot on the unpopular side. Jak opened the trunk of the Piscataway and they began removing the water craft. Look! Burke spied one of his shoes. Halfway there now, all he needed was the other one and he would be able to go to work tonight.

All mounted their vessels and took to the lake. The water was a fantastic remedy to the heat, as they knew it would be. There was nothing quite as relaxing as lounging on a raft in the middle of a picturesque lake, looking up at the clouds, and pondering life, or at least where breakfast was coming from. The water was calm, barely a ripple. Overhead a lone bird flew. Across the lake one could barely make out a woman's laughter. It sounded musical in the distance. Burke scanned the perimeter of the lake but no one was in sight.

What a beautiful place it was. Devil's lake had a rocky rim, sandstone, probably the top of the canyon way back when. The spot they always went to had a natural "raft dock," that is, the rocky ledge was just about at water level. One could sit on that ledge in a couple of inches of water and sunbathe in comfort. Three feet out and the water dropped about thirty feet straight down. It was a remarkable place. The Elm St. Armada had drifted toward the middle of the lake now. One had to be careful not to fall asleep lest his raft drift toward the spill way. That would be a one way ride.

The day was perfect. Perfect for drifting. Perfect for dreaming. And that's just what they did for a while. Drift around; dream. Not a sausage to do. They spoke little. It was just them and the lake; there was really nothing to say.