DYLAN'S SUMMER FOLLOWING HIS COLLEGE JUNIOR YEAR
Chapter 35
by Donny Mumford
Chub and I walk up the carpeted stairs from the finished basement of our summer-rental-house. This year's house was rented by the Mom's fiancés, Tim and Tom, and is a significant upgrade over previous year's rentals. Going through the door at the top of the stairs we stop to stare at the super-modern, large, many-windowed kitchen. Wow, this place looks brand-new! Our Moms and the guys have been here three days but to me it looks like Chub and I are the first two people to ever step into this kitchen. I assume there were other renters staying here before us as well, but they were all very neat about it.
The kitchen is contemporary with four copper-light-fixtures hanging over a large granite-topped island with six-stools around it and then more of the same light-fixtures over a kitchen table with captain-chairs for eight around the table. Lots of pale-colored granite countertops with tile splash-backs in creamy colors and then some open-shelving plus regular kitchen cabinets above the counters.
It's very bright with everything either cream-colored or off-white in either an egg-shell or satin finish, plus some mint-colored tiles here and there as accents I suppose. Whatever, it looks like something from a magazine. The floor is different-sized stone-squares in colors from pale gray to sand-color. Its hard to describe but as far as I can tell, um, everything goes perfectly together.
Double doors on the stainless steel over-sized-oven and refrigerator and then a six-burner restaurant-quality stovetop with a ceiling mounted range-hood. The words 'induction cooking' on the stove-top sounds intriguing although I don't know what it means. Whatever, the kitchen is spectacular! The faucets are so cool-looking and... oh fuck, everything looks futuristic... its mind-blowing!
Chubby mumbles, "Whoa, guess we won't be cleaning fish in here this summer, huh?" I laugh, "Chub, when was the last time we caught a fish? Never mind cleaned one!" He goes, "Just saying..." and then from Chub, "Any beer in that ginormous refrigerator, bro?" I pull one side of the French doors open, "Yep, Blue Moon and Heineken. Ya want one?" He nods and I twist-off the caps from two bottles of Blue Moon, saying, "Don't get drunk or Carla will be pissed." He grins, "Ah yes, my first date of the summer." I swallow some beer, and then mutter, "Yeah, it took you almost an hour to nail that first date down." He goes, "Nah, I most likely won't be nailing Carla tonight, bro." Yeah well, that's not what I meant anyway, but its how my brother's mind works. He's a tiny bit oversexed...
Carrying our beers, we go on a tour of the house. Lots of windows in the large dining and living rooms. Definitely an uncluttered feel with furnishings in what I think might called expensive-looking 'contemporary-sea-shore'. Beautiful furniture in the dining room with a huge table with seating for ten and in the living room some wicker chairs with big soft-looking, palm-tree-decorated cushions and two other chairs in unusual modern-shapes, also a couple of love seats. In front of the love seats is a shiny-blond-wood-topped, unusually-shaped coffee table and there's a huge flat screen TV on the wall across from that seating arrangement. Everything is in pale earth-tones with natural-fiber floor-coverings and then blond hardwood floors around the edges of the rugs.
We're walking around with, 'What the fuck? Can you believe this!' expressions on our faces until Chub goes, "Okay, bro, no food fights in the living room." I mutter, "Or tracking mud in the house," he goes, "And no pet snapping turtles dropping their doo-doos on the floor," whatever that means. We've never had a food-fight in our lives, or a turtle.
Upstairs there are four bedrooms, each one with its own bathroom. Chub goes, "I guess we get our own room, Dylan," and I go, "Oh no! Let's share this one," as I point to a big room with two double beds." Chub goes, "Sure! That way we can get under the covers with a flashlight and read comic books when we're supposed to be sleeping." I laugh, "No, so we can tell each other what we did during the day and bond as brothers." He goes, "We've bonded like a mother-fucker already, bro, but sure we'll use this room. Seriously, the guys might have invited guests and will need that big spare-bedroom at the end of the hall."
Everything is awesome and I love that its NEW! I go, "Look at our bathroom, Chub!" We go in and get blinded by the white! But then there are black tile highlights here and there as well. It has a separate bathtub and a big shower stall with an extra handheld shower head. We're both a bit overwhelmed so not making our usual smart-ass comments being basically shell-shocked at how fantastic this place is. It's spectacular!
Downstairs we go out on the large, like twenty-by-twenty-foot, deck and what a beautiful view off this deck! The house next to ours is back of our place so we don't see it from our deck. It's like we're the only ones seeing this spectacular view. Nice outdoor furniture too plus a stone built-in gas grill that's almost as big as our kitchen back home. Everything is over-the-top. All Chub and I can do is smugly exchange smirks like, 'That's right, we deserve it!' But seriously, the twins outdid themselves with this summer rental.
We finish our beers on the deck and then bring our clothes and stuff in from the Jeep and dump everything in 'our' bedroom. Its obvious which rooms our Moms and their fiancés are using so we chose the slightly smaller of the remaining two bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows in every room and why not since there's great views of the dunes, the ocean, and sky everywhere we look.
As I get another beer and have a smoke on the deck Chubby takes a shower getting ready for his first date of this year's vacation. I'm being extra careful not to get any ashes on anything, using my first beer bottle as an ashtray. I didn't see any signs indicating 'Thank you for not smoking!' which would be appropriate for this place, certainly much more so than some of the ratty motels I've been in that show that type of warning/sign. And then I grin thinking about Robby. Ha ha, if he and I were here instead of Chub and I everything Chub and I dumped on the beds would be hung-up in the closets and put away in bureau drawers. Probably a better way to go but I didn't suggest it for fear Chub would have a heart attack at the very idea.
Damn though, I can't get over this summer house. Rich people probably wouldn't give this place a second thought, unless it was to complain about something. I can't imagine what that would be but I read someplace that rich people are... well they're, um, different.
Chub comes downstairs looking shiny clean and smiling brightly, saying, "I'm finally over our Jeep's shit-storm, Dylan, and now fully embracing the potential for a little Wildwood romance." I nod, "Good to hear, Chub, 'cause if you don't shine, I don't shine. Good to have you shining again." Walking over to where I'm sitting in one of the deck chairs with my feet up on a big cushion-covered footstool Chub gives my shoulders a hug. He smells good with aftershave lotion and I reach back and up to squeeze one of his arms, mumbling, "Love you, Chubby!" He says, "Thank, bro, and right back at you."
One thing I never take for granted is being with Chubby. We live very different lives now and spend only precious few hours together each day, but just the same my comfort-level with him is off-the-fucking-charts. Its the familiarity, the complete faith that we're totally simpatico with things about life that really matter, like love and friendship... without jealousies. There's a morality to our love and friendship. A code of honor that must never be broken. Its the loyalty to one another that allows infinite trust. We rarely discuss our one-of-a-kind relationship and how preciously golden it is, but we're both deeply aware of it and we do reconfirm it when it seems appropriate.
Leaning against the deck-railing, Chubby says, "No way to know how Carla and I will get along tonight, although the indications are promising. However it goes with her, sometime tonight I'll look for you on the boardwalk and we'll have a toast to our awesome summers of the past and future. Okay?" I nod, "I'll look forward to that, Chub," and hold my beer bottle up offering him a drink. He goes, "Ohmigod, no thanks, Dylan. I brushed my teeth and gargled like a wild man to have sweet breath for Carla. Just in case, ya know?" I chuckle, mumbling, "Optimist," and he goes, "Hey, do you think she's twenty-one?" I shrug, "Hard to tell. You guys make a cute couple though. Maybe she's finally the 'one'." He laughs and then says, "I'm not sure there's ever going to be the 'one'. Time will tell but I know there won't be a 'one' at my tender age, but that's not to say it isn't the perfect age for you and Rob. Check me out in ten-years though, maybe I'll have changed my mind. In the meantime, I like the variety girls provide although there are a lot of similarities in them that I like as well." Variety, huh? Guess I'm not the only one who looks for that; its apparently not just a gay thing.
He asks, "You gonna be okay tonight without the Jeep? I could walk the few blocks to Gregory's Bar." I go, "No problem, you take the Jeep, Chub. I mean, you might want to drive her someplace later for dinner or some drinks. I can walk the... what is it, six-blocks to the boardwalk? I'll enjoy the walk after having dinner with the Moms and the guys." He starts to say something but we hear laughing in the basement. Oh, our Moms and the guys are back from the beach.
Chub frowns, "Hey, Tom's car is parked out back, right? What'd they do, walk to the beach?" I'm like, "That's not like them. Tim probably drove down too. I'll check the back for Tim's car." Going inside I quickly go through the living room and dining room to look out the kitchen window seeing a brand-new four-seat, black, Ford Mustang convertible with the top-down. It's parked behind Tom's BMW. Wow, a Mustang!
Back on the deck I tell Chub, "Tim went a little wild and bought a new Mustang convertible. It's black and super-hot-looking." Chub goes, "A Mustang? Tim must be on a budget," and then the Moms come out on the deck, excited as usual, saying, "Hi boys! We're so happy you finally made it down here. It's terrible the trouble you had with your car," and then there's some uncomfortable hugging with them. I say uncomfortable because they're kinda sandy and hot-smelling. Its It's like a hot-sun, ocean, and beach smell.
Yeah, an ocean breeze smells good but somehow not as good coming off humans. Chub and I are both smiling and returning the Moms' greeting with Chub leaning back a little from the hugs because he just showered, but its all good and we're all chuckling being totally familiar with our family's greeting style. Kisses on the cheek are involved too and it always makes Chub and me feel good although we do our normal protesting about both Moms overdoing it.
Tim and Tom saunter out on the deck drinking bottles of Heinekens. As usual they're all smiles and giving Chub and me brief one-arm hugs and fists bumps with Tom saying, "Sorry to hear about the trouble you guys had with the Jeep. Pisser, guys!" Chub and I mutter, "No problem," and then we go into some sincere complimenting about this summer rental, gushing over it actually. And this place deserves the gushing. The twins are modest as always, mumbling, "Glad you guys like the place. We thought your Moms deserved a little something special," and they both hug the appropriate Mom making Chub and I grin. It's so cool how nicely they treat our Moms!
Tim goes, "Enough about this ol' cottage, c'mon guys, I'll show you my new ride." Chub and I go out with him and now gush over his new car a little bit. He's had it three weeks and now that I think about it I remember those guys talking about Tim getting a new car at a recent Sunday brunch. At the time though I was at the other end of the table talking with Rob and couldn't hear all the details. Its a cool car but a couple of steps-down-in-class from the BMW he had before. Tim mentions that, but says he's always had a 'thing' for Mustangs even as a kid. He's thirty-one, which is an age some older folks still consider a 'kid'.
We go back upstairs so Chub can say 'goodbye' to the Moms. That leads to some joking around by the twins, "Jeez, Jeff, what took you so long getting a date. Ha ha, what was it, twenty-minutes after you got here?" Chub's being a good-sport about it and maybe feeling a little cocky too, but finally he breaks away and he's off driving our old piece-of-shit Jeep. Gee, you'd think our future Step-Dads would buy us kids, Chub and me, Mustang convertibles or we'd be happy with Mini Cooper convertibles. We're not greedy. Of course I'm kidding, about them buying us cars I mean...
I nurse another beer listening to the Moms and the guys talking about the first couple of days here and then the Moms begin asking questions about Chubby's and my last three days. I go over the basics even though we called and told them about our Saturday and Sunday at home. After a while the Moms and I have a cigarette. The guys never complain about us smoking even though they're devoted non-smokers themselves.
Actually, I never feel real comfortable smoking around them but from habit, seeing the Moms light cigarettes, I do too. Feeling awkward though I only smoking half of it before putting it out in one of the two-ashtrays the guys bought for the Moms on the Boardwalk. It was in one of those shops where everything is supposed to be a dollar or less, but it's not. Tim and Tom were really considerate getting our Moms ashtrays... true love I guess.
As soon as I can politely do so I excuse myself and go upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes. Stepping over the two-towels on the floor that Chubby dropped after his shower I realize I'm feeling a definite buzz from this afternoon's beers. The 'buzz' sneaks up on you but this is a very pleasant buzz. Plus, I always feel good being around the Moms and future Step-Dads because they're so awesomely nice to each other, and to Chub and me too. It leaves me with a good vibe and a feeling that all is well in our little world.
Fact is, it's taken a while, but in a way, I've come to love Tim and Tom. A lot of that probably is because of the way they make our Moms so happy. I don't know anyone who I feel deserves to be happy more than the Moms. And yeah, Chub and I have always referred to them as 'The Moms' because from our earliest memories we've always felt we had two Moms. Two Moms and two brothers but no Dads. That certainly isn't your normal family unit but its been ours forever and now, in the not too distant future, two Step-Dads will be part of our family. Ya know, if I had more to drink I could get a little maudlin about how fabulous I think that is!
As much as I respect, like, and love my parental units and enjoy their company I don't want to spend an entire night with them. They probably don't want me to either so my plan for after dinner is to walk to the beginning of the Boardwalk and, for old-time's sake, walk the length of it. I want to take the time to remember when I was young enough to think the Boardwalk was the greatest place on earth. That was quite a while ago... years actually.
And maybe I will meet up with Chubby later although it may seem unlikely considering there are thousands and thousands of people on the boardwalk. Its only two-miles long though and walking from one end to the other is not a formidable task. Or I could just stay in one spot and wait for Chubby, and possibly Carla, to walk by. I might let them walk by if Carla's still with Chub. I'll wait to see how I feel about it when, and if, it happens. What I'm really hoping happens is the long-shot of me running into Charlie. That defies the odds of him even being here this week of course.
In the meantime, the shower is fantastic and I stay in it way longer than normal because I'm in no rush to get downstairs. The twins will be cooking dinner and they told me what they've planned for tonight. Shrimp cocktail first and as when I was going upstairs for my shower all four of them began peeling and deveining previously frozen BIG shrimp. The description on the bag claims 'Colossal Shrimp' 9 to 12 to the pound'. An awesome oxymoron right there: colossal shrimp.
After the cold shrimp with cocktail sauce we'll have barbecued spare ribs with a potato salad that they bought at a deli insisting it's almost as good as the homemade potato salad Chub and I make, which remains to be seen. Also, freshly-picked corn on the cob and cole slaw that I, in a weaker moment, volunteered to make. The late lunch Chubby and I had isn't a problem because we're not eating dinner until eight-thirty, which suits me perfectly.
After the shower I put on clean but baggy-cargo-shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. Now I'm beginning to finally feel pretty good about being on a sea-shore vacation. It's been stressful getting here after the two-day delay, but that's in the past and I'm finally relaxed and ready for a stress-free week.
As I come downstairs I hear the Moms' laughter coming from the deck and that makes me smile. The twins are funny-fuckers and the Moms are a perfect audience for them because they're both ready to laugh at the slightest humor offered by anyone. Stepping out on the deck I see they've all started in on a favorite drink of theirs; gin and tonics. It looks like a refreshing drink with the condensation on the outside of the glasses, the clear bubbly liquid inside with a dark-green lime wedge floating around. I happen to know however that looks can be deceiving and gin and tonics are not pleasant tasting. Tim and Tom are still drinking beers.
As I glance at the Moms and the guys, they actually look like people who have been at the shore for a couple of days because they have that partial sunburned/tan coloring on their faces, arms, and legs. And, ya know, none of them looks old at all! Well, for one thing they're not old! Usually the parents of guys Chub's and my age are older, but then most mothers weren't seventeen when they had their babies. How that happened is both a sad and a romantic set of circumstances that Chub and I didn't even know about until a couple of years ago. And the twins are even younger-looking than the Moms, which isn't a surprise considering they are eight-or-nine years younger. Actually, Tim and Tom don't look any older than some of the young men I go to college with. That's kinda weird for future step-dads, ya know?
They hear the sliding glass doors as I pull then open and step out on the deck behind them. Tom turns to smile at me as he says to my Mom, "Ah, here's our handsome lad now, Dee." Ah ha! 'Our' handsome lad, eh? Tom's adopting me I guess. I smile like I usually do when I can't think of anything to say, and Mom goes, "You look so nice, sweetheart. What are your plans for tonight." I shrug, "I'll walk the boards and see if there have been any changes from last year I guess."
Tom Rider, the older twin by twenty-minutes, is my Mom's fiancé.He's been called 'Rider' as a nickname from his early days on planet earth and someday I should probably ask him about that. Tim is Chub's Mom's fiancé and his nickname has always been 'Bud'. I don't know why that is either. The Mom's sometime refer to the twins by their nicknames when telling Chub and me stuff they did together, but both Moms mostly call their fiancés by their actual names when they're with them. Early on Chub and I would confused the names at times, 'who's Tim and who's Tom?' but not lately. We're both very pleased with the good-looking twins!
Mom goes, "I know how much you like the Boardwalk, Dylan, but you're more than welcome to join us older folks. We're going to a club in Margate," and Tim chimes in with, "There's a rumor, Dylan, that Bruce Springsteen is in town and might do a 'set' at the bar. It was one of the first bars in New Jersey to hire his band in the seventies. He's been known to surprise patrons at one of his old haunts." I nod my head, mumbling, "Um, 'The Boss', huh?" Well, that explains the CD that's playing. I recognize the artist as Bruce Springsteen although I'm pretty sure I've never heard the song before; something about jumping in a river or... I don't know. Its a dreary tune.
I don't care for the song but I actually do think that old-rockin'-roller and his band had some damn good music in his early days, like his Asbury Park album and another one I can't think of the title. I go, "Oh, thanks, Mom! That sounds, um,... ah, but I'm probably meeting Chub on the boardwalk later." She goes, "We understand, dear. Can I get you a beer? Or maybe you'd like Tom to make you a mixed drink." I shrug, "Thanks but, um, I can get a beer for myself," and I go in the kitchen to do that. They all mean well but that kind of over-attention is awkward. It makes me uncomfortable. Usually Chubby takes center stage and there's no pressure on me. I mean, its sweet that they're all so nice and all but I could do with a little less attention and... oh, I don't know.
Actually, hearing the name Bruce Springsteen immediately brought to mind an experience I had years ago, one I distinctly remember to this very day. It was one of my sleep-over nights at the Worthington mansion. Yeah, mostly in Willie's apartment-size bedroom. This was early in our relationship when Willie was like someone I could hardly believe existed. At times I was completely captivated by him because, aside from our sex, which was a revelation to me on its own, Willie seemed bigger than life in many other ways. I'd never met anyone as mercurial, as interesting, or as totally fascinating as Willie. Nowadays, except for Chubby and Rob, I still think more about Willie Worthington than anyone else I've ever known. What I mean is, there are things always popping-up in my life that remind me of him.
In this case it's Bruce Springsteen because during that sleep-over Willie got into a discussion about the AIDS crisis of the 1980's. It was the anniversary of an important 'happening', one I wasn't aware of. Some protest that finally got the government taking AIDS seriously and that's what got Willie talking about AIDS and I learned what I should have already known. What happened was, after a very late dinner prepared for the two of us by their personal chef, Willie and I were slightly drunk and got naked in his huge bed. Willie put on some Springsteen music and began educating me about AIDS and the struggle to get people taking action when the virus began effecting hundreds of lives. I'm not saying Springsteen was involved in the AIDS, um, awakening. He wrote a song for a movie... is all he did.
Anyway, Willie told me the birth of the virus had been traced back as far the 1920's in the Republic of Congo when hunters killed a chimpanzee and either ate it, or possibly it's infected blood got in an open-cut on one of the hunters. In any case the virus transferred to humans. By the 1960's it had made its way to Haiti and by 1980 had spread to five Continents including North America. By the end of 1981, 270 reported cases of severe immune deficiency among gay men had been reported in America and the virus began spreading and running wild from then on. It wasn't until 1986 that the virus causing AIDS even became known as HIV.
Willie talked about the terror our gay brothers in the 1980's went through with little to no sympathy from the rest of the world's population. Mostly, instead of helping to find a cure, there were all kinds of rumors about the causes and who was to blame. There were even those depraved miscreants who claimed AIDS was God's punishment for being homosexual. AIDS is a horror story of cruel insensitivity and a moral failure of the medical and scientific communities of epic proportion. That continued until, like I said, the gay community themselves formed groups like 'ACT UP' and others that forced the government to begin taking the epidemic seriously. World-wide over 35 million people have died of AIDS thus far.
Anyway, what's this have to do with Bruce Springsteen? Well, Willie was playing Bruce's song, 'Streets of Philadelphia' which is from the movie, 'Philadelphia'. It's about a gay young man and the prejudices heaped on him because he'd been infected by the AIDS virus. Bruce's song is haunting and with Willie's serious and sensitive discussion about AIDS and HIV we both were thinking, I suppose, of ourselves if we were living thirty-five-or-forty-years-ago. We were thinking of young gay boys our age back then and the helplessness and horror they experienced, and well we both shed some tears for those boys... and that's my most vivid take-away about Bruce Springsteen. That and the 9/11 tragedy with Springsteen's response songs 'The Rising' and 'Into the Fire'. They're haunting songs too, so yeah... that's mostly all I know about Bruce Springsteen. I'm not even sure what he looks like. Of course, none of that did I mention at dinner because my intention was not to bring down the Moms and the guys' good moods.
Just thinking back to that night with Willie and contemplating those young men and boys who were basically abandoned and left to die makes my eyes sting as I'm thinking about it right this second. Snapping me out of my musings, I hear Tris saying to the twins, "You two think this is women's work, don't you?" I look up and see Tom putting a dozen ears of corn in from of the Moms. Tom goes, "Of course not, but Tim and I are doing the rest of the dinner preparation, so..." Both Moms pick up an ear and begin shucking corn. Shucking? Um, I think that's what it's called. I know it's not called 'peeling' corn. They're all chuckling about shucking. I wonder if inane comments like that 'women's-work' one will seem worth a chuckle to me when I'm ten-years older? Hard to believe.
Sitting against the wall on a footstool I'm hoping not to be noticed but at the same time feel I should offer to help with the corn. So I offer and Tom says, "Un uh, Dylan, that's women's work," which gets them all chuckling again. Jesus...
Tim's singing along with some of the Springsteen's lyrics and occasionally one of the twins, or one of the Moms, will bring the conversation around to include me, which is also very nice of them although unnecessary, and especially so when they do it in the form of questions. Not exactly prying, but close enough, so again I'm missing Chubby because he handles all the prying questions with Bill Belichick-like answers, meaning he tells them basically nothing, although it seems like maybe he did.
My beer bottle is empty and as I'm contemplating another beer I get a phone call from Rob. Seeing his caller ID makes me do a big grin that I immediately change to a blasé demeanor, saying, "Excuse me, guys. Its Rob calling and I'll take his call inside." My Mom goes, "Say 'hello' for us, Dylan." I nod and go inside to wander around this big house as Rob and I talk for the better part of an hour. I'd already told him about some of Chub's and my car problems when I talked on the phone with him Saturday night and now I tell him about Sunday and then about our experiences today.
He has a lot of things to say about the boring conference he was at. Some of it strikes me as funny although Rob doesn't think it is. He was back at work today and he's home now. We can't get over the irony of him being in Camden, New Jersey from last Friday until Sunday. Yes, New Jersey, ninety miles from Wildwood where I would have been except for the car troubles. Rob tells me that even if I had been in Wildwood Saturday we couldn't have hooked-up. His conference reconvened after dinner Saturday night. When he first heard about the conference in Camden though we both half-expected we'd get together and now I know that wouldn't have happened.
Still, it's been a sex-free zone for me since last Thursday night with Rob. We joke a little about how hot our reunion-sex will be sometime next Sunday and then he finally is called to do something work-related with his Dad and we end the call after promising to talk tomorrow.
Putting my cellphone in my pocket I'm nodding my head, thinking: Yeah it has been four days since I've had a sexy time with anyone! Be that as it may though, I sort of surprise myself realizing I have no intention of jumping at the first opportunity I get for side-sex down here. First of all, I'm not expecting a lot of opportunities, or maybe none. I mean why would there be a lot of opportunities here when there aren't any back home? It's my advanced age and the age of potential side-sex partners that's reduced the opportunities greatly. In past years I was lucky to run into teens and guys in their early-twenties who were hot-to-trot, but that most definitely hasn't been the case during the last year-or-so.
On the other hand, Rob's and my sex life has been so good I'm not champing at the bit to get laid by a stranger. Times have changed. A week or ten days without sex was once unthinkable when now its more like a probable reality. It would need be an awfully enticing temptation for me to go for a one-and-done side-sex-experience during these next five-days in Wildwood. Instead I'll concentrate on the reunion Rob and I will have back home.
Anyway, after my conversation with Robby I find I'm missing him more than I expected. Hell, we both got a little maudlin near the end of the phone call. It's awesome being in love but it hurts sometimes too.
Our last night together was last Thursday because Friday afternoon he left with three other managers for their 'Management Diversity Conference'. It's weird, but after talking with him just now, well I don't think Wildwood holds the same allure for me it used to. I almost wish I was back home with Rob going to work, eating lunch together, being at the baseball games, and sleeping together. This is the first summer I've felt like that!
After I make the promised coleslaw, the twins finally get the dinner on the table around eight-fifteen. It's good eats, well except the twins overcooked the corn-on-the-cob but then most people do, and the potato salad didn't have the 'fresh' taste that Chub's and mine has. How could it when there's some kind of preservative in the store-brand salad. No problem and of course I don't mention either major screw-up.
The Moms and their guys are in awesomely happy moods and I continue doing my best not to be a wet blanket. I'm chuckling along with things said that aren't all that funny. Then I lose my mind for a minute and made a big dumb-ass-goof by telling a joke at dinner. Chubby told me this joke at Gregory's Bar and for some half-ass reason I thought it'd be a good idea to tell it now. Well hell, halfway through my telling I realized it's totally inappropriate as a dinner joke! Jesus, I'm looking at the Moms sitting here with grins on their faces ready to laugh whether its funny or not. And now I'm thinking, halfway done telling the joke, that its actually not all that funny anyway, never mind it's grossly inappropriate. Its more a joke you'd go, 'Oh gawd!' to the punch line and maybe give a chuckle to be polite. So everything is wrong with this joke but I sort of have to finish since I started it.
The joke: At the Senior Citizen Retirement Home's monthly party all the really old people, the infirm, and those in wheelchairs crowd into the assembly hall for a sing-along that went about like it always did, meaning maybe twenty-percent participation. From those not singing there's some snoring heard above some loud talking about their ailments along with complaints about today's lunch. Extra loud talking, of course, so those hard of hearing can catch every-other-word. Anyway, after the sing-along portion of the festivities there's cupcakes and lemonade followed by a special guest entertainer: Claude, the Hypnotist. Well this got most of the old-timers' attention. Kind of exciting having an actual entertainer at the party. The more alert residents shake the less alert ones awake and eventually almost everyone is paying attention.
Claude holds up a very old pocket watch telling everyone how the watch has been in his family for six generations and its quite valuable. He begins swaying the watch and whispering in a creepy voice, "Keep your eyes on the watch" and the old folks become mesmerized by his voice and the swinging watch. They're all easily hypnotized just as Claude expected. He was planning to have some fun making some of the older seniors bark like a dog or try doing handstands etc.. but the watch chain breaks and the expensive pocket-watch burst apart when it hits the floor. Without thinking, Claude yells, 'Shit!' Obviously a command the deeply hypnotized seniors obliged. Well, what a mess! Claude was never invited back.
At the rather sick-joke's ending the twins cover their mouths with their hands snickering while trying not to, with both Moms showing a look of incredulousness on their faces. A moment of silence after the, um, punch line, with me babbling, "Its not the kind of joke to be taken seriously, um, and its not making fun of seniors ... ah... and not a good visual-joke during dinner what with all the seniors shitting themselves and, um, I mean...!" Mom goes, "Oh my, Dylan, sweetheart why...?" and both Tim and Tom snort out a coughing-laugh with me blushing like mad.
Whatever, in-the-name-of-God, made me tell that fucking joke? I have no idea! I suspect that terrible decision might have had something to do with the beers I've had, and why isn't Chubby here to fill the few seconds of silence and say something to get us thinking about something else! Tim steps-up to help me out by shocking everyone offering me his new car for the night. He goes, "Well, Dylan, in lieu of another joke let me offer you the use of my Mustang tonight. Jeff has the Jeep so if you have a need for a car... um..." That got everyone talking about Tim's spur-of-the-moment purchase of the Mustang. My joke is never mentioned again. At least not when I'm around to hear it.
I recover enough to continue dinner and then after dinner I pass-up the offer of another beer, saying, "I'm kinda anxious to see if there's been any changes on the Boardwalk." Tom tells me there's been new construction near the end of the Boardwalk closest to us. It used to be kind of ratty and honky-tonkish down at this end.
After politely turning-down Tim's offer of his Mustang, with many thanks for the offer claiming I'd prefer walking tonight. I mean, the real reason is I've been drinking and don't want the responsibility of driving his new car in my condition. I don't tell them that's the reason though because they've all been drinking too and yet they're taking the Mercedes to a club in Margate to do more drinking. They might think I was inferring a criticism of them if I said anything.
Then, still about to leave, I'm happy to have someone talking about anything other than the joke or the Mustang, I pretend intense interest in Tris' telling me about the bizarre things that happened to the four of them yesterday while playing miniature golf on 24th street at the miniature golf course, 'Adventure Falls Golf', in the pouring rain. Happily I chuckle along with the four of them as they laugh. It does sound absurdly funny in a way.
The whole thing, the terrible joke at dinner and the nutty offer of Tim's new car, plus Chubby not being here and me being too much the center of attention: it all left me feeling out-of-sorts as I walk down the back stairs and out the door next to the garage. Going down the alley to Ocean Drive I'm thinking how different tonight's dinner would have been if Chub were here. Much less uncomfortable and embarrassing for me!
Anyway it's only like six blocks to the beginning of the boardwalk and when I get there I see the construction Tom and Tim mentioned. It appears completely finished now and looks oddly 'new' as compared to most of the Boardwalk which looks 'weathered'. The new pressure-treated lumber and other materials used to renovate this half-block section of the Boardwalk will look weathered and therefore blend-in with the rest of the Boardwalk by this time next year.
There's a strip of plastic across the entrance to the brand-new ramp leading up to the renovated section of the Boardwalk. It's the type of Police tape put around to protect the sanctity of a crime scene. This tape merely says, "DO NOT ENTER". Fuck, it looks finished to me and as I approach the ramp I'm thinking I'll just duck under the tape. I start to do that when I hear, "You there, kid! Can't you read? Back away from there!" Looking over my shoulder I see a young guy wearing a uniform of some kind and he's walking briskly towards me. He looks about sixteen-years old! What the fuck?
Walking right up to within a foot of me, he stops and says, "Like the tape says, do not enter, and that mean you! This ramp isn't in use yet. Use the one on 43rd street, a block up from here," and he points in that direction. I don't believe I care for his manner, so I sneer, muttering, "Says who?" Sticking out his skinny chest, he goes, "Says me, who do you think?" This little officious prick is four inches shorter than me and skinnier than Hayden. His nose is too small for his face too. It looks like a pointed bird's beak except with peeling sunburn. He's wearing a baseball cap with an insignia over the bill but all I can make out is the word 'Wildwood'.
I try not to, but can't help snorting out a laugh, and then say, "Yeah, I know you said it, but who the fuck are you? Are you in a Boy Scout troop or something?" He points to a patch on his shoulder, saying, "No, not the Boy Scouts, wise-ass, I'm with the City of Wildwood's Junior Auxiliary Police and I'm telling you to move along... Sir." Oh, so now its 'Sir' instead of 'kid' or 'wise-ass'. He must have remembered his indoctrination instructions: 'when dealing with the public always use a sarcastic version of 'Sir' addressing a male perpetrator'. I have to say this little fart is over-flowing with aggressive confidence and he's not backing down a bit!
Police have a way of saying 'Sir' making it sound ironic and snarky, especially when addressing someone as young as me and this kid has mastered that aspect of being a pretend-cop. There's a name tag over the left pocket of his brown uniform shirt indicating I'm dealing with, Theodore Smiley, so I go, "Teddy-boy, how the fuck old are you anyway?" He points to the sidewalk, sternly saying, "Just do what I said and move along." Theodore is one neat, preppy little mother-fucker. He has that bird-beak-nose but the rest of his face is attractively youthful with beautiful green eyes and narrow, perfectly shaped eyebrows and a cute little mouth and chin. His eyes are the shade of green that Hayden calls 'chartreuse'. Ya don't see that very often. If he weren't so young I'd kiss him on the lips... heh heh. I better not though...
Actually I'd like to 'mess' with him some more but he's fiddling with a whistle that's hanging on a string around his neck and looking up the road like he's expecting reinforcements. Huh, he also has a backpack on but it looks almost empty. Why does everyone feel its necessary to always wear a backpack? Yeah but, oh man, what's he gonna do with that whistle? Blow it and a real cop comes?
Yeah well, this is beginning to look like one of those no-win-situation for me so I shrug and say, "Sure, no problem, I'll go up to the next ramp. Um, if you don't mind me asking though... why do you need to be such a tight-ass?" He says, "Move along and avoid being arrested, Sir." Shrugging, I walk away from him to avoid 'being arrested, Sir!' Arrested for doing nothing...
This vacation continues to go wrong at every step. I have the strongest urge to go back and slap the shit out of this pompous little turd but then he'd blow his fucking whistle and six cop cars will come flying in to zap me with their taser toys and I'll end up jerking around on the ground while the officious Theodore gets all excited and probably cums in his uniform pants. Shaking my head a little like, 'Can I believe this shit?' I mutter a sarcastic, "Yes, Officer," and continue walking up the sidewalk to the next ramp that's one long-block from here.
I have this feeling of fury but there's no immediate outlet for it because, like I said, that was a no-win situation. But balls, life ain't fair! Heh heh, Theodore would have shit his pants if I gave him a sloppy kiss on that sexy mouth of his. Yeah, and then he'd call the 'real' cops on me. Discretion and whatnot was my best move in that situation.
Oh well, as I saunter up the ramp on 43rd street I'm making myself forget the unfortunate interaction with Theodore and I try feeling better about being on vacation. Surprisingly I manage to do that with each step I take. After all I do have ten-million memories revolving around the Wildwood Boardwalk and almost all of them are positive memories. The bad ones I try not to think about and that most recent one is going in the bin of forgotten ones.
On the Boardwalk, dodging people, I stop thinking about the little creep in the auxiliary police uniform and make my way over to the ocean side and then lean against the railing looking down at the sandy beach by the light of the moon and stars. It's been smoothed over by the Beach Patrol and looks inviting. Yeah, tomorrow will be a beach day laying in the sun doing very little. At some point I'll take a walk on the beach, maybe while listening to tunes on my iPhone while checking-out any possible cute, hot-sexy young guys in my path... if there are any.
And then, ah yes, I gaze up and out at the impressive Atlantic Ocean with its waves endlessly pounding on the shore line. The full moon is hanging just above the water, but way the fuck out there. The breeze and smell of the seashore is intoxicating tonight. It's a pretty site. Oh hell, it's spectacular!
For something to do I feel like lighting a cigarette except that's one of a million things that are banned on the Boardwalk. Many rules to be obeyed or you take the chance one of these cops riding up and down the Boardwalk on bicycles will yell at you.
Pushing those negative thoughts away I think about my fondest memories of the Boardwalk. They go back to when Chub and I were a tough duo of thirteen or fourteen-year olds, not taking shit from anyone. Well, Chub didn't take shit from anyone and I went along with whatever he instigated.
We didn't have any money usually, so Chub improvised some minor burglaries to get us on rides and get us stuff to eat. There are two hundred food shops along the land-side of the Boardwalk and Chub would scout a few until he found one he liked. We'd wait in line for say hot dogs and sodas, or whatever. When placing our order Chub would be going through his pockets as if he's getting him money and then the food was always served fast so with his free hand he's passing the food and drinks back to me. I'd drift into the crowd with Chubby still going through his pockets to pay, saying, "Damn, let me get my Dad," and he'd drift back into the Boardwalk crowd too, the register guy yelling, "Hey! Hey!" What's the guy going to do, leave his shop and chase us?
Chub used basically the same tactic for getting us on rides. We'd stand in line and when we're at the ticket-taker person Chub would point at me telling the guy, "We're together," and as he's going through the charade of getting the tickets from his pocket, stalling until I was on the roller coaster or whatever, and then Chub would go, "Shit, my brother has the tickets," and he'd walk right by the ticket-taker guy. They all yelled the same thing, "Hey! Hey you!" but what's he going to do? There are a line of people holding up their tickets and, anyway, why does the ticket-taker guy give a shit? Ya know?
Oh man, it was the 'challenge' of getting away with it for Chubby. Me, like I said, I was up for whatever Chub was up for. Of course we didn't try the same thing with the same register-guy or ticket-taker but there are more rides on the Boardwalk's five piers then at Disney World and then countless food carts, booths, shops and restaurants, including bars now. We'd never hit the same place twice.
Yeah, those were the days. It's not like we didn't know any better; its more like we didn't give a shit. We knew it was stealing but Chub justified it by saying, "Fuck, they're basically stealing from everyone charging what they do for everything." I'd be nodding my head, "Damn, right, Chubby!" Ha ha, like I said: those were the most fun days ever on the Boardwalk...
I'd never try that shit now of course, and then that summer of my seventeen year everything changed. I was 'outed' to myself by fat Carl and began my boy-watching in earnest and with promising results too. I discovered there are more gay and bisexual lads around that age who were still in the experimental stages of their sexuality. Nowadays there aren't nearly as many; not at my age. Well, of course there are still guys unsure of their sexuality at this age but they're apparently not nearly as willing to experiments at age twenty-one-or-older as they were at seventeen or younger. Too bad for them.
Pushing away from the railing I begin walking the thirty-eight-blocks, which is two-miles on the Boardwalk starting from this end near our summer place, to the other end, which is nearer where we stayed last summer. Wildwood's Chamber of Commerce advertises the Boardwalk as, 'Two-miles of smiles' and it is still fun. Wildwood is not what most people would consider a 'classy' summer spot though. It can't compare I wouldn't assume with places like Boca Raton or West Palm Beach or probably about a hundred other ocean resorts for upscale classiness. No, this is kinda crass, tacky, honky-tonk... Wildwood's more like that.
Even I, who have never been to those Ritzy places, have finally had enough of some things one encounters on the Boardwalk. Like the disturbing number of people walking the 'boards' who are extremely distant from classy. I'm far from a snob but I've gotta believe those Ritzy places I mentioned probably have a ban on fat, hairy, tattooed men wearing only wife-beater T-shirts and swim trunks who you see walking down the boardwalk here. I pass a guy like that every few minutes and he's usually dropping the F-bomb yelling at his over-made-up wife who's wearing too-little clothing and yelling at their little kids who are whining about something.
And the shops along the Wildwood Boardwalk are not selling Tiffany jewelry or Burberry outfits, and the food shops are not offering caviar or truffled langoustine ravioli. Nope, here it's fake jewelry, three-for-ten-dollar T-shirts, cotton candy and corn dogs. But that's not a criticism because we don't want that expensive shit, and the corn dog is probably better tasting than the ravioli. Well, that's an exaggeration, but Wildwood beach and Boardwalk are what we come here for notwithstanding the guys wearing wife-beater T-shirts showing off their fat stomachs, tattoos, and hairy backs.
The Boardwalk is pure sensory overload of sights, sounds, and smells. The sounds get louder when I casually walk past each of the five amusement piers that extend out towards the Atlantic. I can't lie, it's still excited walking down Morey's Pier named, Ocean Oasis, where there's a truly world class roller coaster, The Great Nor'Easter. It's a suspended roller coaster meaning during half the outrageous ride the people are upside-down. I hear squeals and screams from everywhere walking through the pier. And then the tackiest of all are the carnival-style midway games, followed closely in tackiness by the flashing arcades. The midway though is where you can allegedly win a stuffed animal made in a third-world country by nine-year-old children in a sweat shop.
I can't help but grin watching the suckers playing the midway games. Generally acknowledged by anyone with an IQ above the average temperature in Alaska that the most fixed of all the sucker games are the 'Knock Over the Milk Bottles', 'Balloon Dart Throw', 'Three Shots at Basketball Hoop', and 'Ring Toss'. Little to no chance of winning an off-smelling stuffed animal at those four games.
The milk-bottle-shaped objects in that game are stacked three in a pyramid and you get one throw with a soft ball to knock them over. Should be easy except each bottle is filled with lead and each one weights ten-pounds. Good luck! The balloons look easy enough to pierce with a dart except the balloons are only inflated like 30% and the darts are very light and very dull. Guys can surely make one basket out of three shots though, right? Well no, because the basketball is slightly off-sized and the rims are far from regulation size. LeBron James would have fits trying to make a basket with the rim being smaller and slightly oblong in front.
And on and on it goes with the cheating midway's-games-of-chance, but its still fun because once in a great while a freak accident happens and someone will win a prize. The prize unfortunately didn't cost as much as the sucker paid for the chance to throw the basketballs or whatever. Same holds true with the genius that will guess your age within three years and your weight within five-pounds. If he's wrong, or you outright lie about your age and weight, you win a prize that's not worth the price you paid to start with.
Leaving the Pier, I'm shaking my head remembering times we had a couple of bucks in our pocket and Chubby and me were trying to pop the balloons. Omigod, the curse words coming out of Chubby's mouth as the darts bounced-off the balloons and him yelling of fraud, fraud! until, the guy threw a stuffed animal at him yelling, 'Get the hell away from here!" And then as Chub held up the stuffed animal the guy was yelling, "Another winner folks! Come right up...".
My guy-watching as I walk along turns-up some hot-looking, sexy guys walking the 'boards' tonight. I check them out with peripheral vision but none of them give off any gay vibes. Maybe I lost my 'gaydar' or maybe I never had it in the first place. Maybe there's no such thing or more likely, when I was younger I wouldn't do the peripheral-vision watching; I'd brazenly make eye contact. Yes, unfortunately that will also get guys screaming at you, 'What the fuck are you looking at?' but also eye contact will connect with another guy's eyes showing possibilities and then the dance begins. The thing is I don't want to 'dance' anymore. It's too much trouble.
I've finally walked all the way down to 'Al's Famous Hot Dog Stand' which is the last food stand on the furthest end of the Boardwalk. Furthest from this year's summer rental house but the first food stand from last year's house. The Boardwalk goes another two-blocks, which I walk just to make it official that I've walked the entire two-miles and then I turn around. Wait a second! Looking out at the beach I don't see the cement structure that was partially sand-covered last year. The place I fucked Charlie in a few times. Huh, they must have bull-dozed it away because I'm sure it was visible from here last year. Oh well, things do change.
Next to Al's Hot Dog Stand is a shop where I buy a sno-cone. I get a cherry-flavored one. It's shaved-ice in a paper cone with some artificial cherry flavoring. The flimsy paper cone comes to a point at the bottom. Jesus, this is so sweet my teeth hurt! Can I believe I used to love this shit? And it was only two-dollars, ha! That's an example, by the way, of me being sarcastic; only two-dollars. It's also an example of what Chubby meant when rationalizing our stealing as kids. He said they're all stealing from us anyway, meaning two-dollars for shaved ice and an ounce of super-sweet syrup, or four-dollars for a 'real' lemonade drink make from frozen concentrate, and so on. He was sorta right too...
Getting a Popsicle headache from the overly-sweet shaved ice I dump it in a trash can and plop myself on a bench against the railing across from Al's. It occurs to me that I've been holding in a beer piss for an hour now. Fuck, guess I'll need to use a public bathroom! Omigod!
Yeah well, I saw one a couple of blocks back on this side of the Boardwalk; the ocean side. There was a public lavatory sign but, Goddammit, I should have taken a piss before leaving the house!!
Well, as much as I despise public lavatories I'll sucked it up and go down the steps to that lavatory because I need to take a piss bad. I'll use one of the stalls avoiding all eye contact with anyone who may be in the lavatory. And after that I'll reward myself by having a smoke on the beach. The beach is officially closed at eleven o'clock but it's only ten-thirty ... and fuck 'em anyway. A quick piss and a smoke... what could possibly go wrong!
So why am I still sitting here? And there's still been nothing from Chub. If his phone was charged, which it isn't, and he had it with him, which he doesn't, we could have hooked-up long ago. Chub and his cellphone don't always travel the same places though. Well, I get up and start the walk to the public lavatory two-blocks down...
to be continued...
Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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