Dylans Junior Year Summer

DYLAN'S SUMMER FOLLOWING HIS COLLEGE JUNIOR YEAR

Chapter 38

by Donny Mumford

It didn't surprise me that the second I returned from my 'walk' Chubby knew immediately I was stressing about something. My forced good spirits fooled everyone else though. Mom cheerfully told me they were waiting for me so Tim and Tom could treat us all to lunch at some Italian restaurant downtown. Chub knew I didn't want to do that even though I said, "Oh, that's sounds awesome." Chubby then pretended he'd changed his mind and wasn't up for lunch just yet, making it appear as though I'm the one who sacrificed when I said I'd stay behind keeping him company.

Chub was right of course, I did not want to fake my way through a long lunch pretending everything was awesome and blah, blah, blah. Anyway, there was nothing especially unusual about Chub and I doing our own thing. It doesn't raise eyebrows or generate any questions. It's like, oh, Jeffrey and Dylan are in their own world again.

Before they take off for lunch Chub and I promise we'll keep an eye on the beach chairs and stuff and when the Moms and twins begin walking up the beach Chubby asks what's bothering me and of course I'm gonna tell him, but not right now. Describing the insanity of Theodore Smiley will be kind of like living through it again and it was only a half-hour ago that I walked out of that motel room.

Plus, I don't feel good about my part in most of it. My blind-spot was overlooking the obvious fact that Theodore is simply a sadistic prick. I tried convincing myself there was a sub/dom sex possibility mixed-up in there somehow. There never was though, not in any normal or desirable form anyway, and I should have recognized that from the start.

Chub's understands I don't wanna talk about anything right this second and suggests a dip in the ocean. Seems like a good idea to me. Swimming around in the Atlantic Ocean will give me time to unwind and get my head straightened-out. Swimming is the perfect mindless activity in which to do that and I don't need a lot of time; a half-hour maybe. It's not like I intend making anything up. I'm going to tell Chub exactly what happened.

We empty our swimsuit pockets putting our money and cellphones under towels on a beach chair. Chub sees me putting two cellphones under a towel and gives me a brief quizzical 'look' but doesn't ask for an explanation. Actually I have no idea what do with Theodore's cellphone now that I have it. Throw it out I guess.

My money goes under the towel with the cellphones. I've only got twenty-one-dollars left from the sixty-dollars I left the house with this morning. Yeah, everything cost a lot in Wildwood. Chub's and my breakfasts and then the fake throw-up food and drinks cost almost forty-dollars. Forty-bucks doesn't go as far as it used to.

We're hiding our valuables under towels because it's not unheard of that someone will steal money or a cellphone, or a beach chair for that matter. The potential thief though has a conundrum. Yeah, walking by our stuff he can't be sure that our empty chairs aren't just part of the groups of people around us. The beach gets crowded and therefore other groups of sunbathers by necessity set-up very close to each other. That's the only benefit I can think of for people being close to us on the beach... theft prevention. Of course if the thief is one of the people in the groups around us we're fucked, but so far that's never happened to us.

As Chub and I swim we talk only sparingly, and about nothing remotely important. When we're not talking I'm formulating in my mind the proper order of how things happened starting with last night at the beginning of the Boardwalk. I'm telling him all the important parts no matter if they're embarrassing because otherwise it'd be on my conscience that I'm keeping a secret and I hate doing that! For important matters we try never to keep secrets from one another. Oh sure, there's personal aspects of our lives we don't share entirely, specifically those involving sex. We've never been gossipy about details involving our sex lives, although the topic is alluded to during normal conversations. Alluded to without either of us expecting or wanting specific details.

For example, from our conversations in the past I know full well Chub is into sex as much as I am and he's aware I have occasional sex with others besides Rob. And I know Chubby has sex with other girls besides the current one he's going steady with. I say 'going steady with' for lack of a better term. Ya know, a girlfriend who assumes Chub's going out with her exclusively and she probably expects he'll be faithful to her, although Chubby sees things differently. Neither of us is critical of the other's sexual life style, certainly not in a serious manner anyway, although we may joke about it occasionally.

And we sometimes have differing opinions about each other's sex partners too. An opinion is not the same as being critical though. I never liked MJ but Chub dated her for a couple of years anyway and then Chub was not fond of Ryan but that didn't stop me from having a long-term relationship with him, and so forth... Another example is Chub's opinion a while back that Rob was trying to control my life too much. That was some months ago and Chub felt he owed it to me to voice his opinion, which we expect of each other. Opinions, not criticisms, and like I said before there's a big difference. And anyway Chubby has since changed his mind about Rob's and my relationship, so we're all good.

And it's not like we think we've reinvented the wheel with any of this; it's simply acknowledging that we, like everybody else in the world, have a right to our own opinion. That seems obvious although it apparently is a concept many people have a difficult time grasping.

Also when we're talking about relationship matters and alluding to sex we freely use euphemisms to avoid being crude or crass. There's only a subtle difference between those two words, crude and crass, but we avoid both, just to be safe... ha ha. Chub and I have always been, even as little kids, very considerate of each other's feelings. Like I said, we can joke around at times but mostly we're extremely supportive of one another. It's just, I don't know, it's just always been like that and we don't know how to be any other way with one another.

So what I'm saying is there's no reason for me not to tell Chub about my activities of last night and today. Many times, we don't even need to hear specific 'details' to understand completely what's being said. That comes from a short-hand manner of conversing with each other that's developed over the years beginning when we first learned to talk. You don't live lives as closely together, almost never apart except when sleeping, like Chubby and I lived for the first seventeen-years and not know what a facial expression means or that a second's pause is an implied awkward-something that's better left unsaid.

I didn't confide in Chubby about this until I resolved it because of what I felt are embarrassing aspects of my behavior. However, if this was a situation that I needed his help with then I'd forget about being embarrassed and ask for his help. That wasn't the case here though. I mean, holy shit, if I couldn't handle this situation myself, I suck! The major criticism I have of myself is mostly that I didn't come to the conclusion about a final resolution until much later than I should have.

As far as I'm concerned, any small redemption for me lies in the fact I at least got that snob, Lee, out of the serious trouble Theodore's causing him. If I hadn't he would have been fucked with his family and his girlfriend's family. That minor good-deed isn't enough in my mind to negate the fact I didn't handle myself well from the very start, and I'm not feeling all that great about how I ended things either.

Finally, when Chub and I have bodysurfed enough and inadvertently swallowed enough salt water, I go, "Let's get out now, Chubby." He mutters, "Yeah, good call, bro, my skin's wrinkling."

Wading out of the ocean and onto the sand, wiping water off our faces, I go, "I want to get this latest shit-storm off my mind now, Chub. if you're willing to listen." He nods and pats my shoulder, mumbling, "Sure, but let's grab a towel to dry-off a little first." As we're walking up the beach to our chairs, he goes, "I could go for a smoke. If we walk straight up from our chairs to just under the boardwalk we can still watch our stuff." I go, "Yeah, okay." After drying ourselves briefly we get our money and cellphones, Chub gets his pack of Marlboro and his Bic lighter, and we walk together to the Boardwalk and then go under it.

Smoking is not permitted on Wildwood beaches, or the Boardwalk but as Chubby says, "I haven't seen anything that claimed we can't smoke under the Boardwalk." That's obviously an inferred ban as we both know, but we don't care. Under the Boardwalk is good because we want to be in a private area and for special circumstances like this a cigarette seems appropriate.

When we're under the Boardwalk I glance up at the underside that's at least ten-feet above our heads but I can't see anything except the boards. That's because there aren't any cracks between the boards. I can tell there's lots of activity taking place up there though, and we can hear voices but not the specific words being spoken. I also can't help but think briefly about Lee getting caught smoking pot under the Boardwalk. It must have been calm that night because Lee said the smoke from the joints drifted up and was noticed by the two assholes, meaning Theodore and the bicycle cop. Marijuana smoke is much more distinctive than cigarette smoke though and anyway there's a good breeze coming off the Atlantic today, so no problem.

As Chubby lights our cigarettes, one for him and one for me, I lean against one of the thousands of pylons supporting the Boardwalk. Chub passes me one of the cigarettes and then he sits on the smooth cement base of a pylon facing me and, leaning back, he goes, "So what happened, Dylan? What's troubling you?"

We're out of the sun here so I move my sunglasses to the top of my head and, speaking mostly in a flat-monotone-voice as if I was a spectator to what happened instead of in the center it, I begin from the beginning. There's no embellishing and I don't try covering-up any of the embarrassing aspects. Chubby smokes and looks at me without changing his expression even when I describe my confrontation with Theodore outside the public lavatory last night. Theodore blowing his whistle resulting in the appearance of the Boardwalk patrol cop on a bicycle is when the unfairness of the situation accelerated to absurdity.

Like always Chub gives me his undivided attention as I describe the ways Theodore humiliated me every chance he got, mostly in subtle ways but effective ones. Obviously I don't try repeating every arrogant thing Theodore said to me, but I give enough so Chub understands the extent of it. Not even a slight change in Chub's expression when I mention briefly that our quick sex was at best 'poor' and 'amateurish' on Theodore's part.

I gave him my theory that the probable explanation for the poor sex was Theodore is 'straight' and his primary reason for using anal sex is to humiliate selected straight guys. I assume he's doing that, in his distorted mind, to 'get-pay-back' for mistreatment of some kind he endured at school or wherever. Steadily talking, my rendition of last night's activities takes maybe five-minutes and I finish by saying, "I got home before one o'clock last night and crashed in bed, sleeping until around nine o'clock this morning."

Chub nods, saying, "Well, I know you'll tell me how you took care of that cretin, Theodore, but first do you mind if I mention something?" I shrug, "No, what is it?" He goes, "Your interest in what you call, sub/dom sex, or a rough version of it." I'm like, "Uh huh," and he exhales some smoke and says, " You and I have skimmed-over the topic of, um, rough sex but I've never really understood the attraction. And yeah, I fully understand this isn't the point here, but I..." I go, "Oh hell, it puzzles me too, Chub, but it is what it is. I mean..." and he goes, "I'm thinking it must be one of those, unconscious mind, situations, right?" I mutter, "Yep, that's what I blame a lot of things on... the unconscious mind, but I think the unconscious is a real factor and not just rationalizing." He goes, "I agree."

I ask, "Um, what about my interest in rough sub/dom sex?" And he says, "Well, I know I'm off topic a bit with that, but I just want to assure you I'm unaware it's not all that rare; you're interest in it I mean. More people are intrigued by some form of rough sex than is probably generally known. I've run into it myself. For example, there was this girl one time. I met her at the very first Merrimack frat party we were ever at. She came right out and told me she wanted me to... oh, well never mind what she wanted me to do. What I'm saying is I know there are guys and girls, straight and gay, who are into rough sex at times. That's all, just so you know that I know."

I mumble, "Well that wasn't off topic, Chub, because my nutty brain was thinking that since Theodore was such a dominant asshole and we did have that poor sex that maybe there's a possibility for something better. Maybe he had it in him. So the thought of rough 'sex' is what delayed me from doing the right thing earlier." He lights another cigarette and holds the pack up for me but I shake my head and he says, "Well, that psycho Auxiliary cop needs a reality check and I know you gave him one. What'd ya do?"

I feel I need to emphasize again that the dubious possibility of rough sex with him was what clouded my brain for a while today when I looked him up to get my phone back. It was my big failing. When I'm done telling him, Chub exhales four little smoke rings, and says, "You're too fucking hard on yourself, Dylan. We're not perfect. So how'd you deal with that asshole? I wish I could have been there. You shoulda told me this morning, bro. Damn, you have all the fun."

Shaking my head, I mutter, "It wasn't any fun, Chub," and then I described how my stupid thoughts of sex evaporated within thirty-seconds of being with Theodore on the beach today. I described Theodore's and my short conversation near the pier and then my meeting with Lee and how after hearing Lee's sad tale I had this great rage inside me against Teddy-boy. All Theodore's horse-shit from last night flooded my mind and combined with this dork, Lee's, humiliations and yada, yada, yada, until I finally did to Theodore what I did. I described it all to Chub point-by-point.

When I'm finished describing everything right up to when I rejoined our group like forty-five minutes ago Chub doesn't cheer or appear disappointed or anything. He shrugs and goes, "Jeez, bro, like I said, you're too hard on yourself. Sure, that was misplaced interest in sex with that psycho nut-case, but do you think you're the only one who has an overactive libido? Christ, it's not only you who sometimes let's his dick do the thinking." I mutter, "I think I do that more than most." He goes, "You don't know that! Through the miracle of genetics, you and I both were born with a super-duper-sex-gene. We're more into sex than your average person. Hell, we've admitted to one another more than a few times that there's a remote possibility we're both just a tad oversexed." I snort a chuckle, "Yeah, just a little above average." He goes, "Well fuck, bro, somebody need to be above average to even-out the dopes who have a below average interest in sex. That's how ya get an 'average'."

Huh, speaking of below average libidos I immediately think of Danny Monday, but obviously don't mention that. Chub's still explaining his theory, "and I'm not claiming being a hound-dog with an above average interest in sex is a good thing, or a bad thing. The real concern is what I mentioned earlier... our dicks aren't nearly smart enough to handle the decisions we let them make." I go, "Yeah, Jesus, mine is really dumb." He says, "I'm just saying, it's not only you."

Chub's trying to lighten my mood. It wasn't any fun telling him about everything although I think it was cathartic saying it all out loud. It was like cleaning my mind by sharing my emotions, mostly bad ones, with Chubby. The entire 'telling' took maybe ten-minutes from beginning to end, even with Chub's input. It did seem much longer than that to me though. I'm glad to be done with it! Really glad!

Standing here against the pylon looking down into Chub's big brown eyes I realize I don't know what I expected him to say. He mentioned the rough sex and my inability to get that ridiculous possibility of sub/dom sex out of my mind in time. Actually Chub basically rationalized most of what I felt was poor behavior on my part away, and then made light of the sex attraction by saying we're above average sexually because of our genes. And Chubby has never been one of those people who feels nothing is anyone's fault. He's overlooking my faults in this debacle because he can tell I'm disappointed in myself and he wants me to let myself off the hook a little, so to speak. So I'm not quite sure what he really thinks about this whole mess I just laid out for him.

Oh hell, being honest with myself I knew he wouldn't be critical of anything I did. So now I'm just looking at him until he grins, saying, "I gotta mention your awesome move, bro. You're too modest to do it." I'm like, 'Whaddaya mean?" and he says, "I mean you using our infamous 'blackmail' ploy to scare the shit out of that sicko and keep the police out of it. Excellent! We've used that same tactic in some other sticky situations if you recall."

Huh, I never thought of its 'blackmail' but that's what it was. And yeah, now I do remember an incident or two; one for sure and it happened in Parkers Park. Huh! Chubby goes, "Plus it's important for you to remember, Dylan, neither you nor I caused the few confrontations we found ourselves in over the years, and you didn't cause this Theodore one either." I'm like, "Jeez, I didn't even think I was blackmailing him, but you're right of course. That's what it is, blackmail." Chub nods his head, "Bro, it's clean and justice is sorta served as well. Threatening to tell on, or turn incriminating evidence over to police about someone is very effective and, most importantly, it bypasses police involvement. Nobody gets hurt although the perpetrators probably don't sleep very well for quite some time." I mutter, "Parkers Park, right?" and he goes, "That's one of the examples I was thinking of, yep."

We look at each other for a few seconds before I'm like, "Any other thoughts about this latest cluster-fuck, Chub?" He goes, "Well hell, Dylan, what can I say? Jesus, you're so hard on yourself even if I wanted to take issue with some of your choices I'd just be repeating what you've already said. Hey, the bottom line is: I only care about you. That Lee-guy can go fuck himself and drop dead as far as I'm concerned, and as for the weeny, Theodore, I wouldn't have been as gentle with him as you were, but I think you fucked him up pretty good just the same. And I mean both physiologically and physically... so fuck him too. How are you feeling now? That's what I care about." I go, "Oh, well I feel better! Ya know, saying everything out loud helps a lot. It was all sort of going around and around in my head and now it's out." He shrugs, "Good, although I wish you'd have maybe broken some fingers on Theodore's hand or something, and I'm not being critical. It's just a thought...."

Nah, I'm satisfied Theodore is suffering. If only he were, um, bigger then I could have taken better satisfaction, but I'm satisfied he's suffering in a different way than pain. And I actually do feel better about thing, really! I say, "Jesus, Chub, it's funny how that whole shit-storm seems less horrendous now that I've told you about it, although not a single fucking thing about the entire experience was good." He mutters, "Yeah, I know, bro, but damn, I'd sure like to spend a few minutes with Theodore, I really would. Just him and me discussing high school or whatnot. Um, do you think we could find him on the beach?" I'm like, "Um, no, Chub..."

He stands-up then and brushes sand off his ass, saying, "Hey, Dylan, you really did brush over too easily about how you saved that snob's ass, that Lee's ass. Not that I give a shit about him personally, but I know you've got a gentle-heart and you care, so why can't you give yourself more credit for that." I mumble, "Ahh, I don't know..." Chub pats my shoulder and goes, "Truthfully though, that was one crazy-mother-fucker you were dealing with, that Theodore-turd. But bro, I'm being honest when I say that I can't think what you could have done differently through most of last night. I mean, and still avoid some police entanglement, and we know that never goes well. Fucking police, huh? And it was sweet hearing how you smacked Theodore around. It was probably too subtle a concept for that piece-of-shit to pick-up on." I ask, "You mean me smacking him because he wasn't worth punching." He nods, "Yeah, I'll bet you fifty-bucks he doesn't 'get' that." I go, "Well I did punch him once too."

He pats my shoulder again, chuckling and saying, "Yeah, but a punch in the stomach only counts as half. Hey, I don't know if you've thought of this, Dylan, but there's some delicious irony in the motel room incident. I mean considering we're assuming Theodore hated the treatment he received at school. And then he still found himself right back at getting humiliated all over again, and by a cool, good-looking dude who he assumes is straight, exactly like happened to him during his school days. After all his bullshit with you he ended up getting smacked around and begging you, the big-bad bully, not to tell on him. It's like his whole world came full-circle on his ass, deja vu all over again for that sicko. You should have given him a 'wedgie' too. Pulled his underpants up his ass crack." Neither of us can help snickering at that. Yeah, I know, guys suck. We're terrible.

Whoa though, I didn't think of Theodore ending-up right back in the same type position that caused his revenge tirade this summer. I nod, "Yeah, I see what you mean. I'm over him mostly and he deserved some humiliation himself but I still feely a little sorry for him." Chub mumbles, "Yeah, I know Dylan, but none of us are perfect, bro. Your sympathy for him is where we differ, but who's to say who's right in that regard. I think you probably handled it better than I would have. It's over now and you took care of it... that's what's important and I'm proud of you."

We start walking back down the beach with Chubby snorting out another chuckle, and saying, "Damn, Dylan, I can't help but wish you'd have told me about that dip-shit this morning. You wouldn't have needed to even get involved. Oh man it would have made my day getting to meet and greet Theodore. Say hello and whatnot." Shrugging, I mutter, "Sorry about that but I was embarrassed about my part in it, Chub. I had to handle this one myself before telling you about it."

As we walk I can feel Chubby wanting to enjoy the revenge part but I also know he's sensing that I'm still not real elated about any of it. He gives my shoulders a hug, saying, "Hey, bro, I'm really sorry you had to go through that. There's no reason that should have happened and it's hard keeping my temper under control and not visiting that prick myself to be honest with you, but I respect the way you handled it... I really do.

So I get a little sympathy and a pretty good stamp-of-approval from Chubby. We both think avoiding police involvement in any situation is paramount, so I accomplished that and I know that's the part Chub's is happy about.

While continuing down the beach, he adds, in a serious tone this time, "But ya know, Dylan, even though we agree there's an underlying bad experience behind that prick's antisocial behavior, is that an excuse for his outrageous behavior? It's like a mistreated pit bull attacking and mauling a child. Do we say, 'Ahh, that's okay because his owner mistreated the dog?"' Sighing, I go, "No, we shoot the pit bull. I don't know the answer when it comes to mistreated humans though." He nods, squeezing my hand, "I'm just saying there's no need to feel bad about slapping that dope around, Dylan. You're kind-hearted, and that's okay, but you did good." Yeah well, I guess that's all I wanted to hear...

We sit on our beach chairs, and after a couple-of-minutes, I ask, "Why do you think shit like this happens to me all the time? Am I doing something to bring it on, or what?" He says, 'First of all I don't think shit like this happens to you all the time, and certainly not caused by something you do. Take last summer's vacation for example. That pervert's truck that we burned down, remember? The photographer pervert." I go, "Oh yeah, sure I remember!" He says, "Fire-bombing his van was my idea in the first place, not yours, and neither of us 'caused' anything. He did! And what he did to your friend we simply couldn't ignore so we extracted revenge on him. Who knows, maybe it got him re-thinking his behavior, possibly preventing him from taking advantage of the next young guy who excites his sick mind. And we taught him a lesson without any physical harm to him, the pervert, although I would have liked to hit him with something." Yeah that's true, but the cops would put him in jail... maybe. I don't have any confident in the court system of justice though so maybe our justice was better. Their's is too arbitrary.

Anyway I almost forgot that fucker last summer and he did deserve every bit of revenge we extracted from him! After a few seconds, I go, "We harmed his ass financially, and I mean big time, plus probably scared the shit out of him in the process. And you're right... we had to do something." Chub goes, "And the police would have made matters so much worse and we'd all have been involved, ya know? Well hell, you just had your experience with the pretend-police, Theodore and that asshole on a bicycle, and you see how well that worked out for you."

Thinking about that, I mutter, "Okay, but here's another one. How about last spring at that frat party when I got tangled-up with that big dude who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer?" Chub goes, "You mean that gorilla guy who tripped." I'm like, "Yeah, him." Chub looks at me, like... 'What's that have to do with anything?' and goes, "Jesus Christ, that asshole wouldn't go the fuck away. We can't have somebody in your face all the time. He was stalking you! Plus threatening you with serious bodily harm..." That's a slight distortion. He was threatening me after we tripped him but Chubby remembers things his way.

He's muttering now because he's incredulous I'd even bring that incident up as an example of me getting involved in these weird situations. I'm like, "Um, but initially it was me thinking with my dick again, sort of. He wanted more and wouldn't stop pestering me, and..." Chubby interrupts, "Well shit, Dylan, a lot of people our age, guys and girls, are interested in some casual sex at a frat party. I mean, why else go to the fucking thing, ya know?" I nod, muttering, "Yeah, that true I guess," and he adds, "Bro, how the hell can we know if the person we may have a casual sexual interest in is going to go 'postal' on us. How could you know the gorilla had mental problems? And what'd we do anyway? He mostly tripped over our feet... or some such shit. I don't even remember exactly. Jesus, don't bring that up as an example of anything. That guy was nuts."

Nodding, I'm like, "Yeah, I guess, but then I got in that fist fight with some guy at the basketball court a couple of months ago. The high school basketball courts." Chub goes, "Yeah, what about it?" I shrug, "Well, I was involved in another, um, incident. A fucking fist fight!" He frowns, "So what? That dick-head instigated that fight by dumping on us! Wasn't that it?" I nod, "Yeah, I think that was it. Oh yeah, that's right, I forgot. He was dissing you and me saying we were roaming the halls of middle school kicking kids' asses." Chub goes, 'Well yeah, we only needed to do that the first year or so we were there. Jesus, imagine that dick-wad bringing-up that old non-issue. That loser has got some balls cherry-picking instances from middle school. Jesus, what a dink!"

Chub's indignant! I try not to but I can't help snorting a laugh out loud because he thinks our actions were perfectly understandable in every case and he's perplexed I'd even mention these incidences as examples of me getting into awkward situations. My laughing makes him chuckle too, and then he mutters, "When dealing with assholes... whaddaya gonna do, bro?"

Well, I can see Chub's keeping my record clean; nothing about this Theodore incident, or any other I came up with did I apparently do a fucking thing wrong, and never mind anything that warrants criticism. Gee, I guess I'll go along with Chub's analysis. I mean, he has some damn good points. I grin, mumbling, 'We're awesome, huh?" and he goes, 'Well, fuck yeah!" and we chuckle again. And then, still a bit incredulous, he mutters, "Bringing up something from middle school! What total bull-shit... that guy needs to stop playing with himself."

We're quiet for a few minutes just staring at the Atlantic Ocean, watching the endless series of waves breaking monotonously on the beach, and then I'm like, "Life is really unpredictable, isn't it?" He says, "Yep," and then he goes into his sociological theory of life that I've heard versions of before. He says, "Some people look at the world, at life itself for that matter, and see a clockwork precision of events happening that triggers-off other events in almost understandable and in some cases predictable ways resulting in pretty much predictable results. These people do what they're programmed to do and the results eventually pop-out. Not always as predicted but within a facsimile thereof, and I mean no matter whether it involves: love, hate, war, children or whatever the fuck the situation might be. They basically expect the results and wait for them with their finger up their ass, good or bad results... duh."

He leans over, looking at me, "Do ya know what I mean?" Grinning, I mutter, "Yep, but you don't see life like that, do ya?" He says, "No, not me. I see a chaos of accidents, chance, stupidity, intelligence, avarice, idealism, jealousy etc. and all those things rubbing together in an unpredictable stew. You don't know what the fuck you're gonna get from uncontrollable chaos. There's too many variables but we still, individually, have our free-will, at least in the free-world. So we've got that going for us. That's our ace in the hole, bro! How we handle ourselves within the chaos can give us an edge. We don't wait for 'it' to happen, we make 'it' happen."

Trying not to grin, I mumble, "Un huh," and he says, "Yep, and then there's always some out of control circumstances that we gotta roll with the punches and punch back as much as we can and then deal with the aftermath in a way that we can feel kinda good about ourselves. For example, you should feel good about how you handled that dick-weed, Theodore." I shrug, not wanting to go over that again, and he goes on, "So it's simple when you think about it. Do what you can on your own and no sense worrying about a bunch of shit you can't do anything about, or stuff that's already happened. Oh, and sometimes the 'things' that are totally out of our control are good 'things', like being born rich, or being born in America or England rather than the Congo or North Korea. Some things that we have no control over are fantastically awesome. For example having the world's greatest brother... like I do." Grinning I go, "Me too!"

Chub's enjoying sharing his philosophical views and I know from experience he's got a lot more, so I go, "Ya know what, Chub? Not to interrupt, but I think I'm sensing a headache coming on, plus I feel I should be taking notes." He laughs and punches my shoulder, saying, "I was just getting started and..." but then my Mom walks up behind us and exuberantly says, "You boys missed a truly wonderful lunch," and then she tells us all about it. Chub goes, "Oh man, Dee, we should have gone with you guys!"

After Chub and I hear what everyone had for lunch we all settle down for an afternoon of sunbathing, talking, laughing, and swimming. It makes me smile to see all of them having such a good time together. At least I'm happy about that. Now I need to join the good times... I'm trying! And I do feel better about things in general now that Chub's and I had our 'talk'. I always feel better after a 'talk' with Chubby.

When things quiet down I get the urge to talk to Robby and even though I know it's probably too late for him to be having lunch, and I shouldn't call him at this time of the day, I'm missing him so I'll call him. Chub made me feel better and now Robby can finish the transformation of my mood from negative to positive.

Rob answers on the second ring and sounds really glad I called. "Dylan, baby! I love hearing your youthful sounding, one of a kind, melodic voice!" I chuckle, saying, "Oh, I'm sorry, sir, but I must have misdialed. I was calling to order a pizza." He chuckles, mumbling, "What do you want on it? Ha ha," and then he says, "Ya know, Dylan, I was thinking of calling you all day but we talked for an hour yesterday and I didn't want to seem like a nag..." I break in, babbling, "Well I'm sorry to call you this late in the day, um, I should have called during your lunch," and he goes, "I'm eating lunch at my desk right now!" He's lying to make me feel okay about calling this late. I go, "Wha'cha having?' and he goes, "Pizza... ha ha.".

While talking I'm slowing walking back and forth from the ocean to our chairs. I'm consciously trying to sound upbeat and positive while Rob sounds really good, for-real. He's excited about the baseball team but says it won't be as much fun without me being with the team for Wednesday's game. Then he goes into a story about how his Mom fixed breakfast for both of us this morning. Two place settings and everything forgetting I wasn't there and how yesterday after work his Mom told Rob she can't wait for me to get 'home' so Rob will stop being so moody and grumpy.

I want to believe he's not exaggerating but I'm sure he is. It makes me feel good anyway. When we're finally saying goodbye twenty-minutes later, Rob asks in a serious voice, "Um, not to pry but is everything okay, babe? You don't sound like yourself, um, everything's good there, right?" I stammer, "What? No, I'm good! Just missing you, babe," and he chuckles because I called him 'babe'. We get a little mushy before he has to go to a meeting and we finally say 'goodbye'.

Huh, I thought I sounded upbeat on the phone but still somehow Rob detected that maybe this vacation ain't exactly the best one I've ever been on, and it isn't... not by a long shot! Damn though, it did make me feel good that I'm missed by his Mom and of course Robby too. His Dad wouldn't say he missed me because he probably doesn't... ha ha. Not because he doesn't like me though. He likes me okay but I'm not important money-making 'business', and that's primarily what's on Mr. Dickers' mind most of the time... business.

Sitting back down on my beach chair, Chub asks, "Everything okay back home?" I nod, "Yeah, everything's cool." Ten-minutes later Chub and I walk up to the Boardwalk and have hotdogs and root beer floats for our nutritious late lunch. Swallowing the last of his first of two hotdogs, Chub goes, "Tomorrow is your big day, Dylan," and I go, "And Friday's yours, Chub." My birthday is Wednesday and Chub's is Friday; we'll both be twenty-two-years-old. Yipes!

We decided a few weeks back not to exchange birthday gifts this year because we're pooling our money to up-grade our 'ride'. We wanna do that before returning to Merrimack. Yeah, we're trading in the Jeep for something newer and better. Chub's contributing twice as much money towards that endeavor as me, first of all because he can. I mean, he made more money than me this summer and, secondly, because he uses the Jeep ten-times more than I do. It's a matter of 'need'. Chub needs the car and I usually don't. Rob drives us everyplace we wanna go. Chub has only himself... transportation-wise. As for the Volvo station wagon, that's the car both Moms depend on.

I finish my second hotdog, asking, "Any idea what the twins will give us this year for our birthdays?" Chub goes, "As you know, big-brother, I've been laying heavy hints all over the fucking place about us getting a newer car. I'm hoping that translates into cash for our birthdays." I go, "Omigod, Chub, you weren't too obvious about it, where you? Those two guys are so generous..." but before I can finish, Chub gets a cellphone call.

Holding up a finger, he goes, "Hold that thought, bro." He sees the caller ID and, with a grin, answers, "Sandy, girl! Jesus, you calling me right now is so apropos of something because my feet are covered in sand." He listens and goes, "No, it's like your name is Sandy and my feet.... oh, never mind." He listens and then says, "No, I'm at the beach. Why would my feet be sandy at the fucking movies? Are you..." but she apparently interrupts again and Chub listens some more, grinning, and then saying, "Well, WIFI. That's your answer," and then from Chub, "Huh? No, that wasn't a question. WIFI, you know, wireless networking. What's a FI' and why would I ask about it? ... huh? What...?" After laughing out loud, he goes, "Never mind that! Why the hell did you call me, girl? I'm busier than shit..."

I take our paper plates and cups to the trash, grinning to myself. Chub's awesome and I feel like maybe this year's vacation can finally begin now.

When he's finishes talking on his phone we start walking back to our beach chairs. The sun's been beating down on the sand all day and near the Boardwalk it's too hot for bare feet, but we didn't just fall off a turnip truck this morning so we're wearing sandals. Chub tells me, "That crazy chick on the phone was, Sandy Perkins. Remember her? I told you about her." Maybe he did but I can't remember all the girls he tells me about so I do a head nod and he goes, "Yeah, I met the bitch the last week at Merrimack. I recall we had a beer at Rolf's Bar and I guess I must have told her I'd give her a call because like every few days she's been calling me to ask when I'm going to call her." I go, "Oh, not a genius, huh," He mutters, "Noooo, she's very far from genius status! This girl forgot to pay her brain-bill or something; the wheel is still spinning in that chick's head, but the hamster died a while ago." I laugh, not sure what that even means, but he said it 'funny'.

Chub and I chill-out on our beach chairs for a while listening to the Moms talking. We can't help overhearing them so occasionally we're glancing at one another making a funny 'face' 'cause the Moms have so much energy talking about gossip from work. The other waitresses' ears must be burning at the restaurant our Moms work at. Tim and Tom are close by walking aimlessly in circles on the beach, both talking on their cellphones doing business. When you own your own business, I guess you're never really on vacation.

After dozing off for maybe twenty-minutes I wake-up yawning and as I sit up straight in the chair I'm tapping Chub's shoulder, "Hey, Chub, ya wanna keep me company while I return private-school, Lee's, license? I'll drop it off at his hotel, um, the Radisson is where he said his family's staying." Chub sits up blinking his eyes, muttering, "Yeah, sure. Jesus! I almost fell asleep though, bro..." He said that funny too, like falling asleep on the beach is unheard of. I grin and he frowns, not knowing what I'm grinning at. He's funny without trying to be. It's the emphasis he puts on everything, or something...

We tell the Moms we're going for a walk and as we saunter away I hear Tris says to my Mom, "We should go for walk, Dee." Chub and I grin at one another again because we know they'll be discussing that for a while and then maybe walk down as far as the ocean and back. Our Moms are not 'work-out' fanatics. Probably because they're on their feet ten-to-twelve-hours a day, six-days-a-week at their waitressing jobs.

During our 'walk' I'm not concerned that Chub will be rehashing the Theodore debacle because I know he's aware the entire mess is too unpleasant for me, and too recent. It's something I want to put behind me, not relive it. He's also aware I feel I handled myself poorly overall and that the entire mess is a sore-spot for me. I learned something from that unpleasant experience though and I'll remind myself about it if anything remotely similar ever happens to me again, although I sincerely do not believe anything like it ever will. It was too bizarre.

The topics on our minds, the pleasant ones that we talk about, consist of our new car and our final year at Merrimack. We can't believe how fast our college years have gone by. That's not an original thought of course as many college students feel the same way, but it's surprising just the same. And then Chubby drops in a bombshell I'd never have suspected, saying, "Don't faint when I tell you this, Dylan, but I'm seriously considering continuing my education after this year." I stop in my tracks, "You're gonna go for your master's degree?" He nods his head, "Yeah I might, who'd ever imagine me doing that, huh?"

We start walking again as I enthusiastically offer encouragement, "That's fantastic, Chubby! Awesome, but when'd you decide you might do that?" He goes, "Well, what with our college debt I hadn't given it a serious thought, not until Timmy and Tom brought it up. They're encouraging me to do it, and they'll pay for it too. That's hard to turn down. My Mom is all excited about the idea and I guess I am too. Oh, and they'll be giving you the same offer, so this is your 'heads-up' to be ready for that." I go, "Really? Um, when did all this happen?" He goes, "Just today when you were, you know, on your walk. That's the first time they talked to me about it. I wanted to tell you as soon as you got back, but you... um." He means I needed to get the Theodore horse-shit off my mind first, so Chub waited for me to do that.

Damn, a master's degree is two more years of college; harder college too I assume. Why would I wanna do that, and what would I even take as a major, or whatever you call it? The idea is initially shocking and it doesn't appeal to me at all. I wanna get on with life and put school behind me. I ask, "Do you even know what you'd get the degree in?" Chub shrugs, "No, I don't know. Tim and Tom just mentioned this idea and they'll talk with me more about it later. Oh, and from what they were saying, I think they have a position for both of us in their business if we want it, although I don't know any more about it than that. It's very preliminary, Dylan. Just wanted to give you this heads-up 'cause, like I said, they're gonna be talking to you."

Huh, generous of Tim and Tom for sure! Yeah but Rob and I have our own plans and I have a position in Rob's business, plus two more year of college after this year doesn't interest me one bit. I don't say that though because I need to think more about it and I want to encourage Chubby to do it. I mean, he seems sincerely interested and excited about the idea." I go, "It's a wonderful offer but then we already knew Tim and Tom were super guys." Chub goes, "I'll say! Oh, and obviously we wouldn't be going to Merrimack for our master's degrees. We'd go away to a university. Oh fuck, there's a million things to iron-out and fortunately we have plenty of time to do that."

Gee, Chub seems to be expecting me to go along with this... and I don't want to. Like I already told myself, I need to do a lot more thinking, and get a lot more information. Yeah, and talk with Rob and maybe Mr. Dickers before I decide on anything. After saying that, and after everything is said and done, I still can't imagine I'll want to do it. Fuck though, I hate even the thought of disappointing Chub! Goddammit, in this life it's always something!

Chub talks some more about it, mentioning some universities he's kinda interested in, mostly because they always have elite basketball teams. Yeah, we like college basketball but that's not gonna change my mind. I'm pretty sure of that. Chubby's saying, "Of course we'd need to get accepted first, ha ha! Small detail," and I'm nodding my head as he talks, but mostly I'm looking at the pier up ahead. It's the one Theodore walked me to earlier today. Even if I see that asshole I'm not telling Chubby it's him. And this is the beach the prick hangs-out at too. Glancing around and up at the top of the beach where I saw him earlier today; but I don't see him anywhere. Good! Yeah, I want to leave him as a closed-issue forever.

Damn though, I'm kinda surprised Chubby's so excited about continuing his education now that I think about it. He seems to be, but of course, even as excited as Chubby seems about this master's degree idea he still can't help himself. He has to stop at two girls who are talking on the beach. His focus of attention is the one girl with big tits and I know he'll ask her some dumb-ass question. He talks to strangers as if they're old friends. Sure enough, Chub butts right into two girls' conversation with this lame nonsense: looking directly at the girl's big bazookas, with a big grin he asks, "Oh, excuse me but can either of you tell me how far Cape Cod is from here?"

Oh man! How lame is that? I stand here as he and the girls laugh and flirt for a couple of minutes until finally big-bazooms' little sister comes over to break it up by nagging Babs to take her in the ocean. That's the name of the girl with the torpedoes for breasts, Babs. Chubby smiles saying, "Well isn't she the cutest little fucker," meaning Bab's sister I assume. The little girl says, "He said the f-word, Babs." Chubby chuckles and goes, "Well it's been nice talking with you, Babbles," and she goes, "It's just, Babs, but nice talking with you too, Randell," and looking at me, she adds, "And your little brother is adorable!" Jesus Christ!

As we walk away I mutter, "Oh gawd, Chub, what was that?" and Chub's like, "She's kinda hot, don'cha think, bro?" I mutter, "She's okay I guess, Randell." He chuckles, "Yeah, huh, I don't know why I told her that was my name." He has fun with everything!

The Radisson Hotel's big sign is up ahead now. We walk off the beach and then half-a-block down the sidewalk to the front entrance as Chub's saying, "Oh fuck, bro, we should have remembered to put on T-shirts before we left. Ya probably need to be wearing shirts in the hotel." Yeah, he's right but earlier I was on the Boardwalk without a shirt, which is another thing that's banned on the Boardwalk, and nobody said anything. It's hard to keep track of all the 'banned' things. Also Chub and I didn't think about it and we had lunch on the Boardwalk without putting on our t-shirts. See, life is happenstance. That would have caused us grief if one of the dorks on a bicycle came by to give us grief about it, but none did.

We walk into the freezing lobby of the Radisson Hotel without shirts, and Chub goes, "Look," pointing at a glass-top-table with a red 'in-house' telephone on it. There's also complimentary stationary. Chub's like, "Free stuff," and I go, "Yeah, envelopes too." Standing in front of the table I use their courtesy pen-on-a-chain to write a short synopsis of my encounter with Theodore, telling Lee he shouldn't have anything more to do with that prick because he will not be bothering us again. Adding my cellphone number, I finish with, "If he even speaks to you, Lee, tell him you're calling me." As I'm just about to seal the envelope with the license and note in it I'm like, duh! I don't know Lee's last name, so how can I leave this at the front desk?

Taking his license from the envelope I copy his full name on the front of the envelope and then seal it. Chub asks, "All set?" I nod and we head for the front 'registration' desk but get stopped by a man wearing a uniform with the hotel's name and logo over the breast pocket, who says, "Guys, I'm sorry but you need to be wearing a shirt in the hotel lobby." Before I can say anything, Chub goes, "Jeez, no good deed goes unpunished, huh, mister?" The man looks puzzled and Chub adds, "Yeah, dude, my brother found a driver's license that someone we were talking to accidentally dropped on the beach. It must have fallen out of Lee's pocket, but then pockets on bathing suits are for shit, don'cha think? Anyway, we're merely doing our good deed for the day by getting it back to him. He must be frantic!"

When Chub said, 'frantic!' he said it with such emphasis it's like Lee left his heart medicine on the beach. The man, who I assume is the doorman, says with a grin, "Yes, he must be frantic without his license for the past hour. I'll see he gets it." Chub goes, "That's a good fellow. Um, sorry we're without money at the moment so we'll need to owe you a tip." I hand the guy the envelope, muttering, "Thanks. Let's go, Chub."

We walk outside with Chub saying, "Those guys live on tips, bro. Fuck him though after all the shit he gave us about not having a shirt on I'm thinking of stiffing him on the tip." I just laugh and then mutter, "He didn't give us any shit, Chub, and we already stiffed him on the tip." Chub's done with that topic though and goes, "Hey, let's walk back on the street so we can smoke." That's what we do although smoking isn't allowed on the street this close to the Boardwalk either. We don't go halfway down the block before Chub grabs my arm to stop me outside a motel, saying, "Hold my cigarette, Dylan," and he goes inside the office of this random beach motel. Ha ha, what's he up to now?

I watch him through the window as he leans on the counter and talks enthusiastically to the man behind the counter who soon has a startled expression on his face. I can't even guess what Chub's telling him. Then the guy's feverishly looking for something behind the counter, finally handing Chubby some brochures.

Chub comes out reading one of the brochures, saying, "Oh man, Dylan, that guy was helpful. Well, not initially but look here, the nice guy gave me some stuff about Wildwood's nightlife. I'm looking for good bars and clubs that we might frequent tonight. The man lied though and said he didn't have any brochures for strip clubs, but some of these clubs might be interesting." He takes his cigarette back and we continue on our way with Chub excitedly exclaiming, "Holy shit, Wildwood has a million bars."

We walk back only part of the way on the sidewalk and then when we finish our cigarettes we go down onto the beach and as we walk along Chub reads me descriptions for different clubs and bars. Back at our chairs on the beach we sit for a while talking about which clubs we might go to tonight and after that we do some swimming. Feeling invigorated after floundering around in the ocean for fifteen-minutes we're back on our beach chairs talking with our family about what to do about tonight dinner.

As everyone has a different opinion about that I'm now considering the real possibility that conversation about a master's degree that Tim and Tom had with Chubby might very well have been way more casual than Chubby made it out to be. Maybe just a hypothetical discussion on the beach and no more than that. It makes sense as a casual conversation about what our plans might be for after college, right? A talk that future Step-Dads would have with us. The only problem with that theory is Chubby's no dummy and he would realize it wasn't a serious talk, so it probably was serious. Huh, I just talked myself in a fucking circle!

Anyway, after some discussion about what to have for dinner tonight we all settle on eating 'in' at our summer house, buying take-out seafood. We're at the shore so of course it'll be seafood. Some fried shrimp and clams maybe, with French fries and then haddock for the Moms, plus raw clams and oysters for the 'real' adults and the normal side dishes like coleslaw, corn on the cob, and whatever. Chub and I are still way too unsophisticated to eat raw clams and oysters. Raw shellfish still have the guts and intestines in them plus whatever else when you eat them, their eyes too if they have any. I may never be old enough to eat those things.

Around six o'clock we're off the beach and back at the house showering and dealing with some sunburn, only minor stuff. It feels so good to be showered after a day on the beach, showering off the salt from the salt water that dried and itchy on my back and shoulders and getting the sand off my body. I feel super clean after a long shower at the shore.

I'm drinking a beer on the deck looking out at the great view as thoughts of Theodore fade out and are replaced by thoughts of adding two-years of college to my life. Damn, I know in my heart that wasn't a casual conversation that Tim and Tom had with Chub. Those two are planners! Of more immediate concern however is this: with everyone in awesomely good vacation-moods, I need to try harder to get in one myself. That's what I'm concentrating on now!

When the take-out food arrives, we eat from a buffet of seafood, including whole lobsters that Tom bought back with him. He bought all this food at a very popular restaurant where you need to take a number waiting to be served, like a bakery. Unlike a bakery, after ordering Tom then had to wait for the lobsters to be cooked and the rest of his order packaged up. It took a while! He took the hit on all that this time, but told all of us in a nice way that for the rest of the vacation it's someone else's turn to do... whatever.

Tom, as usual, was a good sport about it telling a couple of funny incidences of people who were waiting with him. Incidences that I'm guessing he didn't think were very funny when they were happening. People can be such assholes! Anyway, it's always fun being with the Moms and the guys, and of course Chubby's a blast to be with, plus the take-out-food qualified easily as an excellent dinner at the shore. Still, I'm struggling to match true vacation vibes like everyone else so I'm hoping tonight while drinking with Chubby I'll finally start feeling good about this vacation.

Chub and I are ready to leave the house at nine o'clock with me determined to have fun tonight. It's been an effort so far because things have not been coming close to matching expectations. It all started with our car trouble and then the negativity associated with that dick-head, Theodore, plus I'm missing Rob and, I don't know, mostly it seems I can't catch-up to a true vacation frame of mind, but I think I've been keeping my negativity to myself.

On our way to checking out some clubs and bars we're walking out the basement door as Chub says, "We'll need to drive to the first club," and then he adds, "Seriously, bro, I think you need to tie-on a load tonight. Forget about, um, everything up until right now." I go, "I'm good, Chub, no problem." He sees right through me...

Still, I don't feel like getting drunk although I probably should. Actually I never 'plan' on getting drunk; it happens sometimes but not purposely. I seriously do not want to put a damper on tonight's bar-hopping, but feel I need to remind Chubby of something, so I'm like, "Um, you remember we're getting up really early tomorrow morning, right? We're going deep sea fishing and all." Chub goes, "Bro, how could I forget that. It'll be super cool but it's like ten-or-eleven hours from now." Yeah, that's actually what I meant... it's less than ten-or eleven hours from now that we'll need to be getting out of bed! Plus we've already had drinks before dinner and then wine with dinner and now... oh man, I'm not saying anything else about it though.

The first bar we stop at is in Wildwood Crest. After the normal hassle getting 'carded' and then convincing the bouncer our licenses and college ID's are real, the first thing Chub does at the bar is order us shots of bourbon, and the night takes off from there. This club has a band that required us to pay a ten-dollar cover-charge to get in here. Chubby was muttering to the bouncer, "The brochure doesn't say anything about a cover-charge." The bouncer said, "Fuck the brochure, kid. Move along," and Chub's like, "Oh, and what charm school did you graduate from?" I'm tugging on Chub's arm. Bouncers can be gruff.

This is a big, crowded club with lots of people already drunk, many of them dancing to a fairly good 'cover' band. After a half-hour, and two rounds of shots and beers, we're relaxed enough to start dancing, which is fortuitous because two girls just came over giggling, asking us to dance. Yeah, that's something girls will do when impatient. It moves things along quicker.

After two fast dance-numbers we're back at the bar where the girls insist on buying Chub and me a round of shots and beers. That only seems right since they 'hit' on us. It's been my experience at college that girls drink as many shots as guys, maybe more. My dance partner introduced herself to Chub and me as Patricia. Chub, of course, insists on calling her, Patty-cakes, which she gets seriously huffy about. After downing her shot, Patricia put her lips close to my ear to be heard over the heavily-amplified band, and says, "Please don't be like your friend. I hate being called 'Pat' or 'Patty' and 'Patty-cakes' is insulting and chauvinistic of him beyond belief!" I go, "Oh, okay." Then she swallows half her beer and yells at Chub, "Do not call me Patty-cakes again, Buster!" Yeah, I'm so sure that'll mean anything to Chubby. He looks behind him and then asks his dance partner, Judy, "Who's this Buster guy?"

Patricia's a good dancer, and she's kind of attractive too. I don't know though, and I guess it's a minor thing, but I get annoyed with girls who want to act like guys in some regards, but then insist I give them deferential 'girl-treatment' as well. Patricia is that type. For example, she does 'shots' like a guy, plus she's wearing a guy's baseball cap with her ponytail pulled through the opening in back above the Velcro sizing-strap. What I mean by 'doing shots like a guy' is, the jerky un-girl-like-motion she uses throwing the shot down her throat and then she slams the shot glass on the bar and says something crude that includes the f-bomb. It's like she's a 'jock' or a construction worker and it's annoying! Then she tries acting cute and says in a little-girl's voice, "Dylan, would you see if you can get me a stool to sit on? Pretty please..." Get your own fucking stool, jock!

Her baseball cap has the Philadelphia Phillies logo on the front and she's wearing a top that I think is called a 'tube-top' made of some type of stretchy material that highlights her protruding boobs. The 'top' doesn't come close to reaching her belly-button that has a wire-hoop piercing it and some kind of tattoo surrounding it. Completing her almost nonexistent clothing tonight she has on barely-legal shorty-shorts and then another guy-thing, she's wearing shower flip-flops on her feet. Lots of tanned skin showing on this girl but I do admit she smells good. Oh, big hoop earrings too and too much make-up that Hayden would probably approve of. I say in her ear, "The stools are all being used at the moment, Patricia. See, all the other 'jocks' are sitting on them?" She wiggles her ass, that is kinda cute for a girl, and says, "You can persuade one of those guys to give up his stool for me, I just know you can." Well no, actually I can't, but I change the subject and soon we're dancing again.

Chub's dancing partner's name is, Judy Britney, who Chub calls 'Britches' even though she asks him not to every time he does it. She got into a hysterical laughing fit while dancing with Chub for the first time. She was laughing at Chubby's dancing style and I think she was initially under the impression he was kidding around. By the second dance however Chub had somehow convinced Judy to imitate his dance moves and they were both laughing at each other like mad. Patricia, finally giving up on the idea I'll get in a fight moving some guy off his stool, yells in my ear, "Your friend is funny, isn't he?" I go, "He's actually my brother, but yes, he's quite humorous. I'm the serious one." She looks at me, squinting her eyes like maybe she's just realizing she asked the wrong brother to dance, and she doesn't know the half of it yet...

The four of us take turns buying rounds after dancing and lying to each other about personal things as we drink the drinks. After an hour-or-so of that Chub buys Patricia and I a 'round', saying, "Britches and I are gonna, um, have a smoke outside. We'll be back and find you guys in a little bit."

Neither Patricia nor I think they're going out for a smoke but we don't mention it, although we both do roll our eyes at them as Patricia bumps fists with Judy. Oh brother, another 'guy' thing that girls do! They do it too deliberately though by first lining-up their fists and then sort of just touching them together. Maybe they're concerned they'll break a 'nail' or something. Or maybe I'm nitpicking.

Chub and Judy fight their way through the crowd and then get the back of their hands 'stamped' at the door so when returning they won't get 'carded' again or need to pay another 'cover-charge', and then they're outside. We watch then go and then Patricia goes into her interrogation mode which many people resort to when they can't think of anything else to say. She asks me the usual questions: Where Chub and I are from? How long will we be at the shore and where we're staying? What college do we go to? Are we 'going' with anyone at the moment? And other questions along those lines. After answering my absolute limit of these questions I tell her, "Actually I avoided your question a minute ago and I shouldn't have. I'm gay and I've been 'going' with the same guy like forever."

She laughs and hits my shoulder calling me a 'fibber' but she eventually believes me and her questions dry-up immediately because now she's lost interested in me, which is exactly why I told her. I went along with the charade as long as I needed to and now that Chub's made his move on Judy there's no longer any reason on earth that Patricia shouldn't know I'm gay. Plus, she was getting too familiar with toughing me, like she wanted us to go out for a 'smoke' too. So, with a resigned sigh, she says, "Well, let's dance at least." So okay we dance some more but I sense the atmosphere is ruined for her now that our romance has been derailed.

After a couple of dances that Patricia actually seemed to enjoy, we're back at the bar with me acting friendly and trying to get one of the busy bartender's attention. Before I can do that Chubby and Britches return. One look at Chubby and I know he wasn't successful in going 'all the way' but that's good news for me. I know Chub's gonna want to move on pretty quickly now, and we do. Chub tells his twenty-ninth lie since we met the girls, this one about us needing to meet up with our 'cousins' in Margate City... and we leave.

Next we're looking for a bar that's within walking distance, as Chub tells me, "That Britches bitch was a tease, Dylan. Big tease and that's frustrating, ya know?" I nod, and say, "Yeah, um, let's go in here. There's no band and no cover charge." He goes, "Good idea." Walking up to the bar, named simply 'Paul's Bar' we hear music although I can tell it's not 'live'. Chub mutters, "I need a few minutes to recharge my bull-shit-batteries after the disappointment of Britches."

We get 'carded' of course and then I tell Chub, "Patricia was asking too many questions so I told her I'm gay and she got all deflated. She was barely going through the sociable motions after that. Chicks, huh?" He chuckles, "Yeah, she was probably the one who was hot-to-trot, and she gets the gay kid." I mumble, "Dumb of her to go for the best-looking one, huh?" He goes, "Beauty's only skin deep, bro..." and by now we're past the 'carding' ritual and looking for open seats at the bar.

Every bar in Wildwood is just as crowded as the Boardwalk. Lots of people vacation here. I read somewhere there's over 250,000 people in Wildwood at any time during the summer. As was the case in the last bar, every bar stool in here is occupied so we stand at the end of the bar ordering draft beers and as the beers are being set in front of us four college-age guys get up arguing loudly about something, and then they storm outside pulling on each other's t-shirts. Huh, a drunken disagreement... what a surprise! Chub looks at me, muttering, "Fortuitous development," and we take two of the empty bar stools.

Our conversation is about tomorrow's deep sea fishing trip with the Moms and the twins. Tim arranged the morning fishing trip, which supposedly lasts from nine o'clock to one o'clock and we both think it's a cool idea although an afternoon fishing trip would have been better. In either case we're terrible fishermen though, Chub and I. Fishing is an activity we've never embraced a whole lot. It's a bit of a messy pastime sticking hooks through worms or minnows. We've never tried the deep-sea version though, so we're kinda interested in that. The idea of being out on the ocean is cool... maybe we'll see a whale or a big-ass shark.

As we talk about all the expenses Tim and Tom are incurring renting the boat with a captain and crew, plus the fishing poles and whatever else, a middle-aged man and woman take the two vacant stools next to Chubby and the man immediately butts into our conversation. He introduces himself and the woman he's with, who he refers to as his girlfriend. Ya know, I wonder if there's a cut-off point at some advanced age when women stop referring to guys as their 'boyfriends' and guys stop calling their women 'girlfriends'? I'm just curious, that's all...

Holding out a huge hand, the man goes, "Boys, I'm Ambrus Contos," and nodding at the woman, "This is my girlfriend, Gina Tomlinson. Hope you don't mind us barging in on you." Like we have a choice. Chub's next to him and actually appears to be at a loss for words, for once. After a startled 'look', he goes, "How ya doing?" and sort of slaps hands with the guy who is very large. Big hard-looking belly and, well everything about him is big. Big facial features, especially his nose that's very prominent on his over-sized head with lots of jet-black hair combed straight back from a low forehead. Big gold chains around his neck and a big Rolex watch on a wrist that's as big as my bicep. His girlfriend meanwhile has gotten one of the bartenders' attention and she's ordering, "Two double Old Granddads and ginger, please."

Ambrus makes a wheezing sound through his large bulbous nose as he breaths and, even from two stools away, I can smell the half-bottle of strong cologne he's wearing. Ya know, friendly people are fine and he has a very friendly manner about him for sure, but we don't really care to be buddies with fifty-year-old-men, ya know? The woman is as petite as Ambrus is large; complete opposites, plus she looks about fifteen years younger than him. So yeah, I'm guessing Ambrus is fifty, or in that area at least.

He tells us they just arrived this afternoon for a few days' vacation staying with Gina's sister and her husband two blocks from here. Chub, who's next to the guy, nods his head and goes, "Really?" making the word sound like that's the oddest thing he's ever heard. I snicker but turn away covering my mouth. I don't want to dump on the guy, who like I said is very friendly. As Ambrus' big drink is put in front of him, he tells us, "Gina's sister is a sweetheart but the husband is one of those straight-laced guys. No fun, ya know? Anyway I told Gina we're gonna go out and have a drink or two, or ten, and meet some people." That's swell, but shouldn't he be meeting people a little closer to his own age?

Chub's not rude and we have another drink talking with this guy as I'm again thinking, 'This isn't like any other summer I've ever spent in Wildwood.' When Gina talks it's like a voice coming out of thin air because Ambrus is so large I can't see her from where I'm sitting, not unless she's leaning way forward over the bar ordering another cocktail which she does often. As I said, I can't see her except for that, but what she's saying makes sense when she goes, "Ambrus, you're boring these boys, honey. Let them alone." He sternly rejects that possibility as he explains to Gina, "Jeffrey's interested in my speciality: mathematics." Well, no Chub's actually not! Ambrus adds, with a big-hand patting Chub's shoulder, "That's what this boy's majoring in at Harvard." Oh man, is that what Chub told this guy?

The man, ignoring Gina, says, "As Greek as I am, Jeffrey, and I'm one-hundred-percent Greek, I myself admit the Greek mathematician, Pythagoras, wasn't the first to invent trigonometry like they probably taught you at the university." Chub, fairly drunk by now and obviously trying to make the best of his situation, says, "You're right, that's not what Professor Pendergrass said about 'trig'." I roll my eyes while holding up two-fingers to a bartender ordering another beer each for Chub and me. Ambrus goes, "Well he's wrong! It was an unknown Babylonian genius who wrote on clay tablets a series of trigonometry tables that are more accurate than the Greek ones. The tablets are 3700-years-old and use the base 60 rather than the 10 which, as you know, Jeff, is what's used today. Sixty is more easily dividable by 3, you see, so that's why the calculations are more accurate."

Chub picks up his new beer and chugs half of it the way he can do it by just letting the beer roll down his throat. I can't do that for the life of me. After a burp, Chub goes, "That totally blows my mind, Broosky," which is what he's been calling Ambrus for the last twenty-minute. Chub adds, "I'm straightening out the Professor about that shit as soon as I return to Harvard. I may even text his ass tonight! But for now, me and my brother are meeting our future wives in Cape May so we're gonna need to bid you and the lovely, Gina, adieu." Ambrus goes, "No! Let me buy you and your brother another beer." Oh, he's been paying for our beers? I didn't know that. I thought the bartender was running a tab.

Chub's thanking the guy while turning down his offer, so I gulp down most of my beer and I'm off the stool standing and ready to go in ten-seconds, while Chub finishes our goodbyes. After thanking the man and Gina for the beers we make it outside where we get some cigarettes lit, as Chub's saying, "I'm striking-out this summer, Dylan!" I go, "No luck with the waitress last night, huh?" He shrugs, "Not yet, but I'm gonna go out with her again. It's early I know, but this summer just feels different to me." Ah ha, I'm not the only one who has noticed that! I mutter, "Me too, Chub, me too."

We drive to another club that Chub thought sounded good from what he'd read in the brochure, but we don't stay long because the entertainer is an amateur rap singer, who sucks. We do have a bottle of beer each though and overhear something funny. A drunk guy is explaining to his friend., "It's like I told her, Freddy. I told her... Ya know, Titsy, it's the Mickey and Minnie Mouse thing all the fuck over again. I did not say you were 'crazy', I said you were fucking goofy!" His friend laughs as the guy swallowed the rest of his drink, and adds, "And I know damn well she is fucking that goofy, Dickie Wells who works for K-Mart." Chub and I had to laugh too because the guy was such a goofy-looking bastard himself, just imagine what 'Titsy' looks like, or Dickie Wells for that matter.

What the hell, we're supposed to be on the boat by eight-thirty tomorrow morning so we give-up our 'clubbing' night early. At around one o'clock in the morning we both agree to call it a night. It's a fact of life that just being legal age, meaning old to get served in bars, doesn't guarantee a spectacular time every night we go out. I had some laughs though and I feel good now that we're heading back to the house.

During the drive home Chub's telling me about Britches, his dancing girl from two bars earlier. She told him, with a mischievous smirk that she has an electric vibrator in her motel room. Chub goes, "She tells me it's powered by batteries and I go... well no shit, what the hell else would it be powered by, windmills?" and he laughs, adding, "She actually told me she uses her vibrator regularly, but then when we go outside I could barely grab some tit before she's saying... 'Whoa, not so fast, cowboy'. She's that kind of chick, ya know? A cock tease with a vibrator!" No, I don't know, but I mutter, "Yeah... jeez..."

Back at the summer house we notice the Moms and guys are still out partying somewhere, which surprises neither of us. After using the bathroom, we take advantage of our classier accommodations this year and sleep in separate beds. Turning out the last light I sigh realizing I'm drunk but not seriously so, although, oh man, I am exhausted and this time it's both physical and mental exhaustion. The whole Theodore thing took more out of me than I realized and then today was rather an active one too.

Yeah, I'm tired but I still smile because even though tonight wasn't one of Chub's and my better ones, it was awesome being together, just the two of us. I never feel as comfortably good as I feel when it's just Chub and me doing something together. That's coming to an end though if he goes off to some university for a master's degree. Good grief, I never expected that! But then, what did I expect Chub would do after college? That's a good question...

Next morning Tom comes in our bedroom all bright-eyed and exuberant, "Rise and shine guys! Happy Birthday, Dylan! C'mon guys, we'll be catching some big fish today!" I roll over and look at my wristwatch: it's ten-minutes-of-eight. Oh God! Chub groans but slides out of bed, muttering, "I'll take a quick shower, Dylan. Stay in bed and get a couple of extra minutes sleep." Tom goes, "That's the spirit!" and he's out in the hall saying something that makes Mom go, "Oh, Tommy, not here." Damn, this vacation continues to be nothing like I envisioned, and how the fuck can Tom be so energetic when he was out much later than Chub and me? Damn!

When Chub's done with the bathroom and I've showered and dressed and standing in the kitchen everyone is saying, "Happy Birthday!" I'm not thrilled but at least they're not singing it! They tell me we're going to wait until dinner tonight for my birthday presents... and thank God for that too! It'd be hard to act exuberant about presents when I'm hungover, tired, and still in my funk. I do of course fake big smiles, mumbling, "I can hardly wait."

Mom's making all of us coffee as Chub goes, "Hey you guys, in case I haven't mentioned it often enough," and he laughs, adding, "Um, it's just that Dylan and I are looking at some cars in the paper and, oh man, with the proper funding we could maybe afford..." and I go, "Please, Chub! That's embarrassing." He goes, "I'm not saying we're getting a car for our birthdays, but if anyone wanted to do a joint birthday gift of a financial nature for both of us..." And I'm like, "Gawd! Please Chubby!" Everyone takes it with good cheer though, laughing and confirming there's no cars wrapped up with a bow for either of our birthdays.

Tim and Tom have cooked a big buffet breakfast but Chub and I, being a little hungover, eat very little although what little we do have is very good. After breakfast, running late as usual for all of us, I drive the Jeep following Tom's Mercedes with the four of them in that and all of them in much better spirits than Chub or me. During the half-hour drive to the marina Chub falls asleep in the Jeep's passenger seat. He can fall asleep standing up.

We finally park at a big marina and like I said, as usual we're late so there's a hectic ten-minutes with us hurrying to get our rented fishing gear and whatever else we need sorted-out and carried on the big-ass boat, and none of us sure what we're supposed to be doing. Horrendous!

But, wow, this is a beautiful big boat! It's a super yacht actually and I'm super-impressed. What an awesome yacht!! The yacht's captain has a complimentary cooler for us with cold drinks and beers, plus donuts and whatever so this just might be a very exceptional and really cool time today. My spirits rise some. Something new and exciting on vacation at last. Man, I gotta admit the twins do everything first-class! When we pull away from the dock in this big, beautiful yacht people on the pier are gawking jealously at us. I give a wave to the peons. It's a little after nine o'clock on a sunny day with temperatures in the high-eighties and a strong breeze... things are looking up at last.

This is a much bigger and way cooler boat than I visualized in my mind. I thought we'd be on a rough, smelling old fishing boat that smelled like a fishing boat. Hell, I was even considered bringing a squeeze bottle of hand sanitizer with me. This brilliant-white yacht looks new and more suited for pouring glasses of champagne than fishing. Classy deck chairs and plenty of space. Sweet! The strong breeze makes for choppy water even as we're sailing through the bay, so I gotta wonder what it'll be like on the ocean. The cool-sounding throaty engines struggle a little initially but soon have this big-ass yacht moving along at a nice clip. It's so cool...

In short order the six of us are settled-in and getting used to everything either sitting or standing on the deck enjoying the ride and I'm thinking this was a great idea the twins had and how incredibly considerate those guys are. I'm not taking that for granted either and tell them how much I for one appreciate all they do. The twins though just wave a hand at me, mumbling, "We love doing it for you guys, Dylan. We're lucky to be with all of you." Gracious, huh? Those two are really special.

There's a downstairs to this yacht too and a lavatory of course. Also a room with bunk beds, and, um, a living room too. I guess you'd call it. Plus a galley? Is that what a little kitchen on a boat is called? Whatever it's called it's all super sweet! The twins rented the whole boat for just the six of us while the brochure claims it's big enough for parties of up to twenty people. I think there's something really special about a big boat like this, and as I gaze back the dock it's looking smaller and smaller the further out to sea we get and Jesus, look at all this fucking water! It's like it goes on forever.

Tom says, "Okay, guys, we're in the ocean for sure now. Feel the rolling waves; different than the bay, huh?" Hmmm, it is pretty damn rough out here actually. Obviously I've heard of people getting sea sick and as much as I'm hoping I'm wrong, I'm beginning to worry about it affecting me a little. It's probably just in my head and I try not thinking about it. I'm definitely feeling, um, funny though, as in... not good. I never imagined a person could get sea sick on a yacht! I mean we're out for four-hours of recreational fishing, not on a five-day cruise. You get sea sick on a cruise ship or battle ship or something like that, right?

Looking around at the others, I'm thinking maybe everyone is, um, I don't know... more used to being on the ocean maybe, and that's what will soon happen for me; I'll get used to this motion of the yacht. Unfortunately I can't talk myself out of the fact I'm feeling kinda, dare I say, 'sea sick'? Chubby's over there energetically yucking it up with the Moms and making fun of our lack of fishing expertise by purposely miss-naming every piece of equipment he picks up. Chuckling at Chub, Tim and Tom are happily trying to sort out the fishing rods for all of us. Everyone looks fine.

Yeah but there's no denying it to myself any longer, I'm beginning to seriously not feel well. Wait! Maybe it's my slight hangover... but then maybe it's sea sickness too. What is sea sickness anyway? I think it must be a form of motion sickness. Kids get car-sick from the car's subtle motion and some people even feel motion sickness watching 3D movies. I've never had motion sickness before in my life though! Taking deep breaths, I'm concentrating on not being sick because I've been a bit of a wet-blanket since I got to Wildwood and I hate that! I do more inhaling of the fresh sea air, telling myself: 'Don't get fucking sea sick, ya dope!'

The Captain's mate, I guess that's his title, a guy named, Steve, informs us, "You'll be able to get your lines in the water in a few minutes, folks. I've been checking the radar and there are schools of fish in the area. Captain Roger will be dropping anchor soon. Anyone who wants coffee we have an urn of fresh brewed coffee and all the fixings, or cold drinks from the cooler? There's some jelly donuts too." Gag me with a fucking anchor! I don't want anything and could he keep his voice down a little. Goddammit!

Everyone else wants something though. Chub calls over, "Hey, Dylan, can I get you a cold Coke or something?" I don't dare shake my head. So, without looking at him, I go, "No thanks," and we hit a bigger than normal wave with the boat rolling up and then down. What's with this Goddamn yacht? It's like a fucking cork in the water! I'm beginning to sweat now, and for no good reason! The wind is refreshingly cool.

Why am I sweating? I'm just sitting here in a deck chair not moving and not causing any problems and there's lots of refreshing sea air blowing, so I'm fine! Chub calls over, "C'mon, bro, get your fishing rod." The boat goes up a wave and then slowly rolls down as Tris is laughing hysterically about something. What the fuck is so funny? And if this fucking boat would just settle down I'd be okay. It's these fucking waves we're running into and the up-and-down-motion of this stinking boat! Sweat is dripping off my forehead and I'm beginning to feel dizzy.

The boat comes to a stop, although the motor is still rumbling, making a different sound now. Jesus! Is this supposed to be fun? Even though we've mostly stopped the boat's still rolling up in front and then down in back before settling down to just a constant motion of a little up and a little down, to the front and then to the back. Who the hell is driving this piece of shit anyway?

The Captain comes down from his perch shaking hands with everyone. Big-ass smile on this guy. He has a big face and big teeth in his big smile, saying too loudly, 'It's a little rough out here today folks but everything's under control." Yeah, except me, and now it coming on me fast... uncontrollable nausea. I just know I'm going to hurl as a watery substance fills my mouth from God knows where. I jump up, take five running steps and hang my head over the side to vomit incredibly fast and hard. A shockingly hard, long vomit that I'm afraid might include my balls. Just the one time explosion, but the biggest vomit of my life and I'm so weak now it's stupid....

Everyone stops everything for like two seconds and then Mom, Tom, and Chubby come rushing over asking if I'm alright when I'm obviously not. I'm done vomiting but I'm far from alright. Apparently sea sickness doesn't end when you throw-up. I'm still really dizzy and feeling very weak and still nauseous. Everything is wrong with how I feel.

The Captain goes, "Oh boy, folks! Ha ha ha ha! Oh gosh, there's always one... ha ha ha! And it's the birthday boy too! Am I right? Jeeeeezus! Last week, what was it, Steve, five or six, all women, hanging over the side. Lordy what a trip that was!" If I had a gun I'd shoot that asshole captain right in his big fucking teeth!

Tom says, "I'm sure that was something, Captain, but I'm also pretty sure Dylan isn't interested." Tim goes, "Help him down below. He'll feel bad as long as we're on the water." Oh, that's great fucking news! I'm gonna feel like this for another three-hours or more.

People are taking hold of me and I seriously do not even want to say a word. Chub and Tom help me down the steps and I lay on this sort of padded-bench, not wanting to move a muscle. There are words of concern and pats on my shoulder and whatever, but I'm relieved when everyone goes up on deck and leaves me alone in my misery. There isn't any sense trying to explain how awful sea sickness feels. It's something you'd have to experience, although I don't wish it on anyone.

There's nothing I can, or want, to do. Sleeping is out of the question and I don't dare move an inch because I'm dizzy and weak and very sick. My head is too heavy and each minute seems much, much longer than a minute and the many trips the family makes down here to check on me and ask how I'm feeling makes it worse. I know they mean well but the best thing they can do for me is turn this fucking piece-of-shit-boat around and head back to the dock. Barring that, then just leave me the fuck alone!

I don't dare speak because I'm afraid I'll throw-up again, although what I'd throw-up by now I can't imagine. Putting it mildly, it's a torturous three-hours for me and I know I put a heavy dent in everyone's good time, but they're having fun and I hear laughter quite often, the bastards! No, it's no one's fault, not even mine. It just is what it is.

Finally the boat is moving again and Chub comes down to tell me about who caught what, but I manage to give him a 'look' and he says, "Okay, I got it. You don't wanna hear it right now and the best we can do for you is leave you alone," and he lightly touches my shoulder and then goes up on deck. I hear him say, "No, just let him be." There's a little argument about that, but Chub prevails.

And then the weirdest thing of all happens: when we're finally, and thank God for it too, arrive back at the dock and I unsteadily, with Chubby helping, walk off the boat onto solid ground I feel normal again. Sure, I'm thirsty and hungry but just stepping off that-piece-of-shit-boat cured me!

Yep, I'm feeling amazingly 'okay' again. Not fabulous, but okay and feeling better by the minute. But wait a fucking second here! After what I just endure why shouldn't I 'milk-it' a little? No one expects me to help get the fishing equipment or all the stuff we brought with us for the fishing trip unloaded and returned, or do anything with the fish they caught. And I'm obviously too sick to even conceive of carrying anything... that goes without saying. Huh! I just slump over in the Jeep's passenger seat, adjusting my sunglasses and Framingham Summer League baseball team cap a bit, and then wait for everything to be taking care of. Chubby can drive my sick-ass home when they're done doing all that shit.

On the way back to the house I sit right up and tell Chubby about being cured as soon as I touched dry land and how I faked continuing being sick afterwards so I wouldn't need to do anything. I'm like, "Why should I help with anything when I didn't fish for even a second?" He laughs and says, "I thought you looked okay as soon as you got off the boat. You had color coming back in your face. Plus whenever I checked on you I detected a smirk or two and then a snicker as the rest of us were struggling getting those stinky fish on ice and turning-in the fishing equipment and life jackets and whatnot." I'm like, "Fresh fish don't stink, Chub, do they?"

Back at the house the twins and Moms are excited about cooking the super-fresh-fish for a late-lunch but Chub and I pass on that lunch too. I mean, watching Tim and Tom descaling and cutting into a couple of fish's guts we decided, "Okay, we're outta here." Yeah, we'll eat on the Boardwalk again... at Mack's pizza probably. Then we'll spend the rest of the day on the solid ground of the beach.

So yeah, we're kind of addicted to Mack's pizza although it's different than any other pizza I've ever had. For one thing they put the cheese on first and then their special sauce. It's thin crusted pizza which I like best and they've been in business on the Wildwood Boardwalk since the fifties so we're not the only ones addicted to it. Yeah, the fifties!

We order a whole cheese pizza for $21.00. That's much more expensive than pizza back home but then we're on the Boardwalk, not back home. Along with the pizza we both drink fountain birch beer which is similar to root beer but different too. For one thing it's reddish-colored and we only order it here in Wildwood. After lunch it's an okay afternoon on the beach but I find I'm still kinda lethargic and so I don't even take my normal boy-watching walk. I mean, sea sickness didn't improve my evaluation of this vacation as being, um, seriously below expectations... to put it gently.

Chub's down by the water talking to two girls, one of whom he's interested in while the other is a tall girl and therefore not on Chub's radar screen. Me, I'm thinking about the weeks I've been living with the Dickers. I can't accurately say 'living with Rob' because it actually involves his whole family; only the three of them since Dodger's still in California. I've enjoyed living with them much more than I expected so some situations do work out good for me.

I've had my dinners with Chubby back home as planned, but that's turned-out to be only three nights a week. He either works overtime or has a date on other nights. So I'm eating dinner with the Dickers like three nights a week too and then Rob has brunch and dinner with me, Chubby, the Moms, and usually the twins on Sundays. That's been our routine for weeks now. Oh, and Rob eats dinner with Chub and me about every-other dinner, and that's been fine too.

Sundays seemed strange to me initially. I guess I'm the only one who noticed a difference though. To everyone else they see me as much, or almost as much, as when I was sleeping in my own bed at home. To them it's normal and it's seeming more and more normal to me now too. Mrs. Dickers has been the biggest surprise. She can still be a bit spacey and she'll overdo things at times but mostly she's been awesome to me. I always thought she liked Danny better than me but, while she does like Danny a lot, I think she likes me a lot more. Mr. Dickers is himself all the time which is to say me living there doesn't seem to affect him one way or the other.

After saying that, I need to admit he treats me fine too and often, when talking to Rob refers to me as 'your boyfriend' and when talking to me he refers to Rob in the same manner. He refers to us by name too obviously, so his 'boyfriend' references are only significant in that he has no apparent problem with Rob and me being 'boyfriends', and that's no small thing to me. So yeah, I feel more comfortable there now although still not one-hundred-percent comfortable. It's not a family that displays a lot of affection, other than Rob and me, that is. I must say though they're all very natural and at ease with one another and they care about what's going on with each other too, but there's not much hugging or kissing going on. It's funny then that Dodger and Robby used to do that quick-as-a-wink kiss all the time, or on second thought maybe it's not odd since they weren't getting that from their parents. I feel, I don't know, relaxed there now actually.

So I'm glad I'm living there and often thank them for having me. They all poo-poo my thanks like it's no big thing, but me being accepted by them so openly is a big thing to me, and it is to Rob as well. It was his ideas I move-in and it was a good idea. Rob has good ideas. And as for him, he's continuing to be really great. He never pulls rank because it's his house. We're equals as far as I can tell. And while we've been without sex for almost a week now, our love-making when I'm there is as close to perfect in my mind as I ever expected to experience with anyone; he's the best 'top' any gay guy could ever want. I couldn't be happier with how things are working out for us.

That's back home though and, while it's not that I'm unhappy being here at the shore with Chub and the Moms and twins, things just haven't worked-out well for me during this summer vacation. There's been some positive aspects to this vacation of course, like our fantastic summer house and it's always awesome spending time with Chubby and our family, so I'm very glad to be here, it's just not as great as I expected it would be from past years, that's all.

I guess you could say my expectations need to be adjusted as I get older. The wild and sort of irresponsible crazy side-sex of years gone by is just that... gone by. It's simply not here for me nowadays. Yeah, 'adjust' is what I need to do. I'm twenty-two and I guess that means not having as much frivolous fun as I used to have. Have a different kind of fun I guess is what I'm supposed to do, and I'm presently trying to figure out what that might be.

Looking down near the ocean again I see the girl Chub's was putting the moves on is chasing him along the beach now, both of them laughing while the tall girl frowns at them. Chubby isn't having his normal amorous results in the sack this year either, but he never stops having a good time. I hate that I'm moping like this but I can't seem to get excited about anything. That fucking Theodore put a damper on things for me I suppose. It must be that!

Thinking these thoughts, I doze-off for a nap in my comfortable beach chair and wake-up with water dripping on me and Chubby saying, "C'mon in the water with me, bro." The tall girl and the other one are gone. Chubby's bright eyes are looking into mine, "C'mon, Dylan," so I get up and we run down the beach and into the ocean again. Everyone is swimming around; the Moms, and the twins, and us, and a couple of thousand other people up and down the shoreline.

Chub and I and the twins are challenging each other to swim out further and further and finally we're far enough away from the beach to get the lifeguards apoplectic about blowing their whistles at us and waving their arms for us to come in. Tim's laughing and saying, "Wonder what that eff'n commotions on the beach is all about," and then, laughing he goes, "Oh fuck, I think the undertow is pulling me out further!" as he purposely swims out a little further. We're acting goofily childish but when we see the life guards get off their perch and start fucking around with the row boat we swim in. Walking out of the ocean, looking innocent, we get chastised, mostly by the girl lifeguard who stalks around walking like a guy. The Twins pretend ignorance, "You were blowing your whistle at us? No way! Omigod, I thought someone was drowning!"

Chub and I slink away smirking and thinking the twins are cool dudes. Our dinner reservations are for eight o'clock so around six o'clock we're picking-up our chairs and all the other stuff we carried down here getting ready to go back to the house with Tom saying, "So we're running a little late again, big deal! Hell, reservations for any restaurant at the shore can't be trusted in the first place. Basically they just put your name on a list. We'll be lucky to get seated by nine." Ah ha, rationalizing our irresponsible tardiness that our group is known for. Rob would not approve!

Chub grabs a beer when we're back at the house, saying, "The birthday boy gets to use our bathroom first." Fine with me! The Moms and twins, laughing and joking around, start mixing cocktails so I go upstairs still feeling kind of out-of-it. They're all in a vacationing frame of mind and they must think I'm a drag. Idon't want to be, and it's not like I got seasick on purpose for Christ's sake! I'm just not feeling 'it' this year. I haven't complained out-loud about how this vacation isn't 'doing it' for me, so that's good. Now I need to stop complaining about it to myself and maybe that'll help me get in a better mood. They're probably giving me some slack thinking I'm still dealing with sea sickness after-effects, but if I don't cheer up pretty soon somebody is gonna eventually call me out on it.

During my shower I think about tonight's baseball game back home and wish I was there with the team. Yeah, my luck on the baseball diamond has stayed with me all through our first eight games. Heh heh, Danny's batting gloves, my new baseball footwear, and my new aluminum bat have all been helpful, but mostly I've been lucky... unless maybe I'm better than I thought I was. Whatever, I've been pretty fucking good every time Coach puts me in a game. We've won six out of the eight games and are tied for first place in our division. Danny Monday is one of our star players, but he's so humble about it you'd never know it. Poor Hayden though has gotten in only two games as a reliever from the bullpen, with mixed results. He doesn't seem concerned about giving up a couple of runs though. He's not 'into' baseball like Danny and Rob, and I'm sorta getting into it now as well. That experience has been a blast so far!

Hell, I've been in more games than my fellow bench-player, that little fart J.J. Benintendi. I even started two games; one at second base and one in right field. Rob was correct about guys having stuff in their lives keeping them from making every game; family obligations where they've positively had to do something with their parents. That happens during the summer. So I started two games and I've pinch-hit in two other games, plus played first base for a few innings when the first baseman took a fast ball off his nuts and had to leave the game. I even had a walk-off double that won the game in the bottom of the seventh. We play seven-inning games in this league. Fuck, I was the most surprised person on both teams when I saw the ball I hit go in the gap. Everyone mobbed me at home plate too. Jeez, that was fucking awesome!

Drying myself after the shower I'm thinking my baseball musings may have put me in a little better mood. Looking at my face closely in the mirror I decide to shave and after that, in honor of my birthday dinner, I dress in pressed shorts and a button-down shirt with the tails tucked-in. Normally I don't wear a belt, but I put one on to look a tad more dressed-up.

Downstairs I find all five of them still drinking. The Moms and Chub are smoking and talking about something that they all stop talking about when I walk out on the deck. What the fuck? Oh, it's probably something to do with my birthday; a birthday cake or something. I go, "What were you guys talking about?" They all look at each other and Chub goes, "Um, what else, bro? We're deciding what to order for dinner tonight. What are you thinking about having?" I go, "Fried soft shell crabs. How 'bout you?" Chub laughs, "Same thing, Dylan"

I plop down in a cushioned deck chair, mumbling, "You weren't talking about dinner," and Mom goes, "It's getting late. We better start hitting the showers." Tris, Mom, and Chub all go inside to do that. I mumble to Tom, "Was it something I said?" Him and Tim laugh as Tim pats my shoulder, and asks Tom, "Care for another G and T?" Tom nods and Tim asks me, "Can I get you something to drink, Dylan?" I'm like, "Um, no thanks. I'll wait until we get to the restaurant."

He goes off to make his and his brothers' drinks as Tom ask, "Anything troubling you, Dylan? I mean anything other than getting sea sick and turning twenty-two." I snort out a forced laugh, saying, "Turning twenty-two isn't nearly as much fun as turning twenty-one was, not so far anyway. Now I'm on the fast track to thirty, no offense intended." Not wanting one, but for something to do I light a cigarette. Tom goes, "You've got a long way to go to reach my age, buddy. Um, but you're fine, right? Your Mom's worried that something's bothering you. Ya know, you're not our normal smiling-happy-go-lucky-Dylan that we all love." Shrugging, I mumble, "No, Tom, I'm good. How you guys doing?" And where the fuck is Chubby when I need him?

Tim's back with their drinks and they have the master's degree 'talk' with me like they had with Chubby. "No pressure, Dylan. None at all but we talked to Jeff's and your Mom and we want to offer the option of all expenses paid to you and your brother." Tim goes, "Tom and I are flabbergasted at how you two have handled yourselves so admirably all these years." They can see I'm not thrilled with the idea and finally say, "Well, just talk with Jeffrey and whoever else. You've got lots of time to consider this." I thank them like mad, three times, and promise to think about it and then thank them again.

Tom helps me out by switching the conversations, talking about cars and what Chubby and I might be able to afford. Tom looks at Tim and they exchange some signal that I'm sure identical twins do even better than Chub and I. Tim goes, "Um, not to double-down on you after the master's degree discussion, and you gotta keep this next item a secret. Don't tell your Mom, but we think, Timmy and I, that you and Jeff need to upgrade your thinking about your new 'ride'." I nod, "Okay, but we have a budget and..." Tom looks at Tim again, and then says, "Yes, that's what we mean. We want to expand your budget somewhat. Timmy and I are giving you boys five-thousand-dollars each for your birthdays, but don't even tell Jeff until after dinner, okay?"

My eyes open wide and I don't know what to say. I can't control the huge smile that forms on my lips and eyes though, and before I can say anything, Tim goes, "And please don't say... 'you guys don't need to do that'," and they both chuckle with Tim adding, "That what people always say, don't they?" I go, "I wasn't going to say that. I was first gonna say, 'I can't believe it' and then say 'thank you so much, and then say, you don't need to do that." They both pat my back, chuckling, and then Tom says, "Both Moms are afraid it'll seem like we're trying to buy our future step-sons' affection." I go, "Oh, that'll definitely work with Chub and me! Wait'll Chubby hears about our birthday presents!" Tom goes, "Keep it to yourself until after dinner, okay? We wanted to cheer you up though." I nod my head, 'Yeah sure, after dinner. Omigod, you guys are so awesome but ya know you could have bought our affection for half that amount," and we all laugh.

Gee, that perks me up big time! Ten-thousand-dollars will significantly upgrade our Google search for used cars. Oops, dealerships prefer the term, 'previously owned' rather than 'used car'. The twins talk about their first cars and then the Moms reappear all showered and looking good. They look younger than their age and they're both slim and I guess kinda sexy looking for Moms. The guys fix drinks for everyone and then go up to shower as Chub comes down. Mom and Tris start reminiscing about Chubby and me with some funny stories of when we were a lot younger and for some reason that gets me feeling a little glum again.

A little later when everyone has showered and is out on the deck talking and drinking I'm still quiet even though Chub's doing everything he can to get me to laugh. Of course I laugh because I can't help it with him, and then I'm like, "Shouldn't we be leaving for the restaurant? It's eight o'clock now." They all look at each other. This is strange.

The past half-hour has been a little disconcerting for me because either Tim, Tom, or Chubby keep walking through the living room to the kitchen and I get the idea maybe they're waiting for some kind of birthday present to be delivered or... no, the twins already told me about our unbelievably generous birthday presents. So, I don't know what they're doing and like I said it's disconcerting.

Everyone has this 'look' like they know something I don't. I wish I could be cheery and upbeat, but fuck I'm just not into it. Maybe after some drinks at dinner I'll be able to kick this funky mood I'm in and, fuck, why did I say I didn't want anything to drink now? That was another glum and dumb decision on my part. I gotta get happy because it's not fair to everyone else. Yeah, I should have started drinking as soon as we got back from the beach. That's what I shoulda done!

I go to light my second cigarette of the evening when everyone gets this look of anticipation, trying not to smile and I'm thinking... what the fuck is going on. They're trying not to, but everyone is sneaking looks behind me and before I can turn my head someone behind me cover my eyes with their hands. As impossible as it is to be him, my brain tells me immediately who it is and I jump up saying, like it's a question, "Rob?" and there he is smiling like mad saying, 'Happy Birthday, Dylan! Whassup, babe?" I'm like, "What?... How'd you...?" and we hug, but don't put on a drama clinic, not in front of everyone. We'll do that behind closed doors later. Jesus, Robby drove from Framingham just for my birthday? I don't know what to do, or say...

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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