Which is fine. It's not often you get a chance to see kids horsing around in abandoned lots these days, and it makes me grin watching the two boys as they haul ass over the fallow concrete, making their way through tawny clumps of grass and tossing their small rusted discoveries as far as their arms will allow. Their laughter echoes down the hollow lane, followed by the sharp crack of snaps tossed at each other's feet. It's Fourth of July weekend. Fireworks and Old Glory, free spirits and rebellion, hot dogs and beer.
Treasure Island seems a good place to be.
A loose string of cars, trucks, and vans drives past the unattended guard's booth, pulling into a parking lot on the north side of the island, and discharging a motley crew of holiday celebrants with a barbecue. Scouts are sent out on a reconnaissance mission, and the rest of the group is told to sit tight and smoke cigarettes. After a time, the trucks leave the parking lot, snaking toward the far end of the island. The rest of us follow a little ways behind, finding the lead trucks parked in a lot by the icy shoreline. A box truck is opened and a tangle of oddly formed bicycles is wrenched from inside.