So if you're lonely, you know I'm here, waiting for you -- #458
The other night I was sucking down $4 Bud Light bottles, alone (unless Jesus counts) in a half-filled bar down at the Jersey Shore. An acceptable cover band -- acceptable because the lead singer wasn't prancing like a douche -- was whipping through Franz Ferdinand and Weezer songs for an amused crowd of people likely ten years younger than me. Most of them were locals, trapped on the island for these final weeks of summer: girls with yellow hair and dark tans, guys wearing loose khaki shorts, coral necklaces and trucker hats twisted askew. I'm still young enough not to be That Guy, but with two weeks facial growth and a freshly acquired cheese fry gut, I'm creepy enough to qualify as unapproachable. At some point in the evening a tiara-wearing bride-to-be, fluttering around the bar with her bachelorette party in tow, was brave enough to ask if she may grab my ass and take a photo of it. I happily agreed and was molested. That was my action for the night.
I came down here almost two weeks ago, staying by myself at my aunt's spectacular beach house. This trip was a rehab of sorts, only with tons of alcohol. Since finishing law school and taking the bar, and moving my stuff into my parent's garage and essentially becoming homeless, my days have been a bit of a bore. At one point I was too tired to go out and lay by the pool -- that's deadly sin level sloth. And I'm also out of money, living on credit cards and parental handouts. Two weeks ago I was out shopping for deodorant when I thought to myself, "Do I really need this? I'm not going anywhere, so it doesn't matter if I smell." Realizing that this was probably the same thing that a heroin addict says, weeks before they find themselves on some corner saying, "It's two dollars to see it, and five dollars to watch me whack it," I decided that maybe I need a change. Fuck it, I said, I'm going to the shore.
Every day has been blue sky and sunny, somewhere around 85 degrees. With the exception of Labor Day Saturday, which I spent at the house playing beer pong with my cousin, the beach has been quiet and medical-waste free. I wake up every morning around 8:00, brew a pot of coffee, hike a quarter-mile with a beach chair, and read Anna Karinin 15 feet from the pounding surf. I kayak, run or bike in the late afternoon, grill fresh meat for dinner, and sip IPA on the roof while the sun sets. My skin is brown, healthy and softened from saline baths every day. I'm wondering how much longer I can keep this up.
The other day I decided to search for the bottom of my soul: I got drunk during the afternoon and went to play skeeball. To appreciate the awfulness of this, you have to remember that this was a holiday weekend and I'm staying in a family-oriented section of the island. In other words, I'm surrounded by children. I didn't intend for this to happen, didn't even consider it. I was enjoying the afternoon by myself, sipping cocktails and reading on the porch, and suddenly I'm time-travel drunk. Feeling restless about how to spend the remains of the day -- it was too early for the bar and I was too spun out from the surf to fall asleep -- suddenly skeeball seemed like a great idea. I could sober up a little before hitting the bar, and maybe win a giant comb or an oversized pencil. So I staggered down the road, waving to cars and flashing my thumb to the Mexicans working the ice cream stand, my feet locked magnetically toward the big ferris wheel looming in the horizon.
I got there and immediately felt like a degenerate. Thousands of children, their eyes filled with the lust of video games and neon lights and shaky carnival rides. And then there was me, a tanned zombie, struggling to shove dollars into the change machine. RRrrrrrr! Skeeeee! Balllllll!!! "Mommy, that man smells like Grandpa Joe after he drinks his magic space potion."
Making matters worse is the fact that I'm actually pretty good at Skeeball. Why is this a problem? You attract young kids when you can do something that they can't. After ringing a series of corner scores and getting a silly siren to whirl around for breaking 100,000, suddenly I'm the pied piper of Skeeballville. A flock of wide-eyed seven-year-olds gathered around me to watch, some tugging my shorts and offering advice, others asking if they can have my tickets when I'm done. Horrified parents, realizing what a disgusting turd I am, are politely trying to pull their offspring away while giving me the evil eye. "Leave the man alone, honey, and let him play his game."
Worried that I'm a moment from having security escort me out, or worse having Chris Hanson shove a camera in my face, I decided that I better keep moving. I wander outside and drop some money at the baseball throw challenge, winging split-finger fastballs at mocking plush clowns. At one point I hit the support rail under those clowns, sending the ball out of the booth and skittering across the amusement park. "Um, sorry," I slur to the disgusted college girl working the booth. Again feeling like I triggered the silent alarm to have me thrown in the carnival drunk tank, I decide that it's time to call it a night at Adventureland.
I keep wondering what I'm looking for down here. Like the characters in my Tolstoy book, I wonder whether or not I'm happy. I think about my own complicated and traveled life, comparing it with the characters, my daily emotions wavering from despair to ennui to contentment to elation. I'm an expendable life form in a trashy paradise setting, wanting for nothing but having nothing either, deferring my life and waiting for responsibility to pick up my resume and offer me a job. Memories of success and failure ebb and flow like the crashing waves, thoughts of people gone from my life, times spent together, visions of people I've yet to meet but certainly will.
Personally I'd rather just keep playing skeeball.
No comments:
Post a Comment