The Cinnamon Apocalypse

You shaved with your father’s vintage Gillette Super Speed razor and immediately sliced the tip of your chin. A small crimson droplet formed—a blood-signed pact with manhood. You showered, scrubbed away the dried blood, threw on jeans, and topped it off with your prized Larry Csonka Miami Dolphins jersey.

When you stepped into the living room, your mother was parked on the couch, Carly Simon lamenting through the speakers as she ate raw hamburger meat with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, her fingers slick and red like she’d just committed a low-grade crime. She stared forward with the calm of someone contemplating Earth’s pending expiration date.

“Mom, can’t you cook that?” you asked, half-gagging, half-pleading.

Without looking at you, she speared another bloody hunk and took a bite.

Then came the honk. You bolted outside to find Gutierrez in his orange Karmann Ghia, a discount rock star with his bushy sideburns. Susan Bowman, the blonde British exchange student, sat next to him. Crammed in the back were Rick Galia, Cheryl Atkins, and Liz Murphy, packed tighter than socks in a suitcase.

“I can’t fit,” you said.

“No problem,” Galia said. “Cheryl and I will get in the trunk.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“We’re creating a mobile make-out den. McMahon, close the trunk.”

You did.

In the back seat with Liz, you caught the scent of strawberries and ginger from her hair and cinnamon gum on her breath. She looked like a holiday ornament come to life in her green sweater. Your hands were sweating like you were mid-squat with a barbell.

You thought about that puberty film in biology—the one where a guy lifts his arms to reveal industrial-grade sweat stains. Not helpful.

At the pizza parlor, you all hit the salad bar and settled in. Galia whipped out a wad of cash like a game show host. “Dinner’s on me.”

Turns out his dad’s shark-bitten surfboard sold for two grand. You doubted the story until you remembered Galia could sell sand at the beach.

You hated the pizza, said so, and earned your first dose of “Greenridge snob” accusations.

Afterward, at the theater, Shampoo was sold out. So was The Apple Dumpling Gang. You all opted for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but had 40 minutes to kill.

Truth or Dare began. Your confession? You had a cousin who dated Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Weak. Then came the bionic beach vision fantasy. Stronger, but still humiliating.

Liz, amused, asked if your muscles were bionic too and squeezed your bicep. You were melting inside.

In the theater, she rubbed her boot against the metal chair in front of her. The sticky sound made you want to crawl into the floorboards. She did it again.

“Please stop,” you whispered.

She grinned. “Conditioning.”

The other couples were busy kissing. You were busy dying inside.

After the movie, you all piled back into the car. Cheryl sat on Galia’s lap. Gutierrez drove you home.

Outside your Eichler house, you turned to Liz and mumbled something about a good time. She responded by popping her gum and planting a cinnamon tsunami of a kiss on you.

And that’s when you snapped.

With a caveman scream, you launched upward, tearing through the convertible’s soft top like a hormone-fueled jack-in-the-box. You stood half-exposed above the car as the others gawked in stunned silence.

“What the hell, McMahon?” Gutierrez shouted.

“I don’t know. I think I’m stuck.”

Liz was laughing like a lunatic. Neighbors came out filming. A Great Dane named Thor barked in chaos.

Then your dad appeared with a flashlight and a robe that looked like it had survived Woodstock. “Jeff?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ve got a hacksaw.”

He sawed you free. You climbed out, brushed off the canvas bits, and said, “I’ll pay the deductible.”

Gutierrez waved it off. Galia said the kiss must’ve been nuclear.

You retreated to your room, tried to decompress with bodybuilding magazines, and realized your mouth still tasted like cinnamon.