Towering equestrianism. (THE END)

Our spoons clink against the glass.

"You at Scorpia High now, right?"

"Yeah."

"Must be nice, man! Teenager chicks in droves just waitin' for a guy like you to swoop in."

"Yeah, right," I dig into another spoonful of ice cream. "Things have changed, but not that much. Girls are still girls."

"And Ed, Timmy, Harriett? I bet you guys all still go to watch horror movies and walk out of 'em before they even finish."

"Ha-ha. Maybe. I dunno. Some of 'em actually moved, too. Ned left like the winter after you, and Timmy goes to a different high school. Harriett too. I think it's the private school the next city over, I don't remember."

"Damn." Magne takes a drink out of his foamy root beer. "This place got one helluva makeover but its root beer floats still go down like Miralax."

"I don't think that's how it works." I pivot my chin. "By the way that hat looks grotesque on you. Are you seriously going to keep that on?"

The guy just waves a hand, and stands up. "Hey, wanna come with us?"

At least Magne's one track mind was in good health, I defer. "Where?"

"The beach, duh." He moves his hand in front of his waist as if on the Shopping Network. "You think I wear this on the daily?"

I finish up my glass of vanilla ice cream and shake my head. "I don't know, Magne, that's like going to a high school reunion to pick up chicks."

"Come on!" His arm stretches out, palm before me. With a swivel, he gestures to the convertible, parked outside. "You could get to know Getrude and Daisy and Jaz. Come on."

A nose wrinkles. "Are they actors, or porn stars?"

"Ha, good one, you should write that down." Magne lifts up his hat to press his hair out of the way. "Daisy and Jaz are. Gertrude's, well -- she's something else."

I wrinkle my brow. Wondering, as you might assume, what that was supposed to mean. "Sorry, man," I say, finally, shrugging my arms and letting them land, limp, against my lap. "I've still got some stuff to check out, I guess. Maybe another time?"

"Oh, get off of your high horse."

"You're the one that used to literally get high while horseriding, dumbnut!"

Before I even finished my sentence, Magne had grabbed his root beer and slurped a good sludge of it down. "Ah," once done, he sets it down with a swift wipe of the mouth, and grins at me, slapping his knuckles against my shoulder. "See that? How long?"

My jaw half-dropped at him. "You really expected me to time that?!" A smile, both in disbelief at his stupidity, and with youngblood nostalgia for the days in which we used to have this kind of back-and-forth all the time, nevertheless poked open a cheek or two, as Magne begins to explain himself, lamely, and we eventually break down into a loud fit of pointing and laughing; and repeat.

As we begin our way out we stop at the door, that trademark bell silently preparing for another ding-dong above our heads (you could feel it, if your hairs were spry enough). Magne adjusts his hat and chuckles, talking to the floor.

"You know, it's been good out there, but I do miss you guys."

I nod, while peripherally, and to myself, I notice a pair of girls peeking at Magne from one of the corners of the shop, jutting fingers and clasping mouths. A flip of hair for good measure. When they catch my stare, it's as if they're looking but through me, before bashfully returning their attention to my friend, who is still in reflective mode.

Smomp. "Tell the others I said hi, alright?" Suddenly feeling his hand on my shoulder, I flinch back to Magne. His cool eyes and defined jaw and face stare down at me, and I couldn't help, after so long, assessing it briefly in the wake of such an overdue reunion. They're as sharp and stirring as they always had been; a boy, now a man, of genetic gifts that most people in the world would never 'get.' Naturally, from scalp to toe, plus a pitch of effort at bodily fitness, he's the kind of guy that draws every girl's eye; that knows exactly how to make you laugh; that can point the way forward and march his way there with an army behind him, just because with his passion, you presume he might actually get that far. Fluff aside, you know the deal.

"I told you," I part-laugh, part-eyeroll, "things kind of broke up after you left, man."

"I said to tell the others," Magne repeats. Through a resigned face drop, I defer (again), and the guy dares laugh. Ironic, though, because a few seconds in, I join him.

What the hell, right?

Ding-ding.

The air kisses our cheeks with a brief, chilly contrast to the sun-flossed warmth, and we say our goodbyes after quickly exchanging numbers. The honk from Magne's convertible ride only exacerbates the notion. He walks away, sliding his sunglasses up over the bridge of his nose.

With a wave, I toss him a last gesture of farewell as he peels out of the parking lot and then revs away.

Whether he really does know the way to the beach, or his fellow carpoolers, well; sometimes, getting lost was the best kind of adventure.

I'm about to take my own leave when, suddenly, a "Hey!" shoots my way. I turn. A big-boned dude, blessed with buoyant, bountiful hair, and with an almost slow-motion stamp to his gait, stops by my side and begins to talk, only to chortle out something indistinct and enter an episode of pants. In courteousness, I let him catch his breath until he seemed a little more like a human with lungs. "D-did you know that guy?" He points at the stop light, as synecdoche, I wager. "The one who just drove away in the red Camaro?!"

"Yeah, we grew up together."

"THAT," oh, spittle, "was Charlemagne! Charlemagne Chalice! And you're telling me you know him!?"

I lend an awkward smile. "It's a long story."

"Star of who knows how many Vick shows, gold album seller, soon-to-be-in-that-one-big-supehero-movie, Charlemagne Chalice!! He's like my idol! And my sister's." Quickly he wipes a bead of sweat off his brow. "Name's Keith," he offers his hand, and, in spite of myself, I take it.

Shake.

"John Doe."

"Did you know," the gab springs right back to where we left off, "that he got to meet with the President of the United States? And that he basically lives in a mansion with TWO pools? ALSO, any time he's on stage doing one of his songs, girls throw their panties at him. They even grope his balls when he gets close by, and secretly suck him off backstage just because of how cool he is!!" The fan briefly hesitates, "And for the money too, the skanks."

"Yeah, I hear."

"Supposedly he even gets nudes from a bunch of girls claiming to be his biggest fan. Oh man, imagine? A mob of girls just bending over for you at the snap of your finger? Being able to nail any chick you wanted!?" Even though this conversation has taken a turn for the creepy, the words somehow rattle through my ear canals. "How would that feel like? Being so famous like that, I wonder. To be so crazy influential you had basically the world eating out of the palm of your own hand..!! He coulda gotten that damn root beer float for free!"

"I bet," following a wince of the eye, I conjure a pair of sunglasses in my hands of my own and twirl it around between my fingers, "it's like being a king of the entire world."

While Keith isn't able to pick up on my double meaning, he readily agrees. Our mostly one-sided exchange is cut short with a swing of the ice cream parlor door, however. Along with a shrill of a scream I most definitely am not primed for. "Where'd he go, Keith!? Keith, where'd he go!!?"

A younger woman who looked more like a girl, considering her size, runs up to Keith and slaps him in the arm with a dangling object she's holding. "Ow!" cries the man. After rubbing his arm numb, he looks back up. A dead stare awaits him. With one wayward finger, he scratches his cheek. "Well, he left alrea--"

"WHAT!? NO!"

"I TOLD you not to take too long in the restroom, sis! I told you!"

"Nooooo.....why....hmp....hmp-hmp.....waaaaaaaaaahhhheeeehh!" As tears begin to fall down the sister's cheeks, Keith looks to me with a **** chuckle. Then, somehow, some way, he resolves to appease the young lady -- at least, before noticing what she has in her hands, and even used to wipe off a perspiring lash at one point. "K-Kayla, is that--is that your underwear!?"

Suddenly, in a blush of red, Kayla draws her hands (and her presumed undergarments) behind her back. Her gaze shifts to the side, aimlessly. Probably at that bush over there. "Um... no?"

This time, Keith shoots a dead stare. Kayla swallows, dry.

I end up watching, unsure how to defuse things, as the two transition into a sordid scuffle that could've slid perfectly into a WWE promo. It's intense, and fiery, sure. But nevertheless, I find myself laughing at the silliness of it all. And at the fact that Magne (he hates his full name) has such passionate fans.

Through the scratches and the headlocks, I set my eyes on the girl, her hair tied into a fittingly cute brunette ponytail. She really does look young for her apparent age (as evaluated from a biometric scan from my personal readings). Without so much as a click, a shift runs through the air. Suddenly, in an almost comical halt, she stops resisting. Behind her, Keith falls flat on his face in a missed tackle, and is rendered (safely, and non-permanently) ****, as she meets my eyes with her own, and smiles wide.

"Hi there sir," with a raise of her arms, she meekly posits, "do you want to smell my bra and panties?"

Before me, her underwear sits in her soft palms, presented casually to me. I look at her eyes and give her a friendly smile. "Yeah. After I'm done, wanna fuck?"

Kayla beams, flashing a toothy-white grin. A couple I hadn't noticed was even there politely excuses themselves as they come down the steps to the parlor and cut right between the two of us, heading to their car. "YES!" she jumps up and down excitedly.

Satisfied, I lift her worn fabricks up to my nose. Kinkily, I soak in their girly scent. Sniff.

Sniff.

Ahh.

Let's be honest, Magne, I think to myself, in the curmudgeons of my mind, as Kayla watches me with twitching thighs alongside an over-delighted smile that might just be capable of powering a house of lightbulbs. Nothing beats a horse this high.