No Trespassing




My boy’s team is meeting at Biltmore Lake to celebrate the end of a long season. The Brownings have reserved a point, replete with fire pit, a couple of picnic tables. Two sturdy ducks with red masks parole the area like boardwalk thugs. A loose circle of parents drink beer. I watch as Bob stacks wood for the bonfire. Oh, hell, I think, I better help Bob. But as I approach I realize it’s not Bob but some lake staffer filling the wood bin. I keep walking, pretending I didn’t make the mistake. He pretends too. This is a wealthy community—waspy elite, country club, retiree, golf crowd wealthy. The wood the young man delivers is perfectly cut for the pit. The lawns trimmed to fairway length. I hate these kind of places. And, despite myself, I feel at ease here. On the surface, I fit in. Inside, I’m roiling. These are my people’s people, not mine. I am still walking away from the fire, now approaching the shoreline evenly populated with huge lake houses. There’s a trail, “for members only.” “I’m with the Brownings,” I’d say, even though they don’t live here. “I’m being put up in the guest quarters.” The dusk light, the low 70s weather, the breeze—all of it feels pre-ordered by the board. I walk until I’m out of sight, just me and the ducks and the rustling trees. I trespass until I feel like turning back. No one will know I was ever here.