He stormed off the site in a huff and drove to the beach cottage to find the PI and tattle on me. Report me. Do something about me.

This was intolerable. I had disobeyed him. I had flaunted my disrespect. I was an offense to good order and discipline, I must be taught a lesson, I must be made an example of. If I were allowed to get away with my unruly behavior chaos would ensue. Anarchy would prevail. This was serious.

The two senior members of the crew took one of the trucks and drove to the cottage to find the PI and explain what had happened, to tell the other side of the story, the crew's side.

Things had come to a head, but they were a long time coming.

There was a history here. A history that needed to be gotten to the bottom of, talked out, resolved.

At quitting time, the rest of us packed up our tools and drove to the house.

The XO was gone.

He had left the dig. To spend more time with his family.

The two senior members of the crew would run the dig in his absence.

There had better be no more incidents.

I was warned to watch myself.

I didn't have any need to watch myself, any reason to be careful, I didn't have a problem with authority, I had a problem with inept authority, arbitrary authority, stupid rules.

The PI left for Europe and the rest of the summer was a lark.

It was the inmates running the asylum, the crazies from the crazy-place outbroken.

It was the best dig I was ever on.

We were on our best behavior, we were being tested, we were showing that our way was better, that the PI's way was flawed. We would show the PI by example, by our deeds. We would be sharp tools for the company. Our behavior would be exemplary.

We could be trusted, we were adults, we were total professionals.

I remember singing, "A-R-C...H-A-E...O-L-O-G-Y," to the tune of the Mickey Mouse Club, making fun of the chickenshit rules, which we flouted, the boot camp rules, the oppressive, picky, minor league, small town rules, like carrying the shovel box back and forth every day, we left the shovel box at the site. What the hell, it had a padlock on it. And was too heavy to steal.

The summer came to a close.

Brenda and I got married at the end of the dig.

The crew knocked off early one Friday, we all cleaned up and rode to the courthouse, in Tallahassee, and stood together in Judge Gwynn's chambers, and he married us.

Our two crew chiefs were Brenda's maid of honor and my best man.

Afterwards, we drove back to The Oaks for our wedding dinner.

We had fried mullet, a green salad, and French fries or cheese grits. The same thing we had every night. The cheapest thing on the menu.

We took the weekend for our honeymoon, came back on Monday, and Brenda stayed in the women's bay area and I stayed in the men's bay area.

We had rented a garret apartment in Tallahassee we would live in the next year as graduate students.

We had a break between the end of the dig and the beginning of classes, in the fall.

When we went in to the campus, to the archeology lab, our keys didn't work, in the locks. The locks had been changed.

We knocked on the door.

The XO answered.

We were persona non grata in the lab. Brenda and I.

We would have to have an escort if we came in.

The PI told Brenda's maid of honor he wished he had sacrificed a summer's field work rather than letting a crew rebellion interfere with the organization he was building. The organization was more important than one summer's research. I, I, had caused insuperable discontinuities in his chain of command, in the efficient operation of his command structure, and I must be dealt with, severely, as the putative leader of the rebellion, and Brenda, as my chief associate, my partner in crime, must be punished, too. We were out. Disgraced. Defrocked.

The XO had a little shit-eating grin, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Like, "I showed you."

I was just glad I didn't give him the old spirit-of-the-bayonet butt-stroke.

I remember when I walked off the mound to have a Dixie cup full of water I was trembling, from how close I'd come to losing it.

I had an adrenaline hangover, a bad reaction to not fighting or fleeing, not getting closure, what would I tell Oprah, what would I tell Dr. Phil?

I guess this was before Oprah and Dr. Phil, but they were in the cards.

They were what was pending.

I had seen the future and it was Oprah and Dr. Phil.

And I was Mr. No Oprah.