Hallelujah Hatrack

Suddenly the clean and aromatic salt air of the
Jersey
Shore was perforated, like a spray of napalm in
Southeast Asia, with the pungent smell of carcinogen-laced menthol.  At the same time that I sat up in my beach chair I slowly opened one eye to see from where the smoke was coming.  It was then that I became aware of them.  The love birds.

At first I couldn’t tell where he ended and she began, due to the full body clench and the age-inappropriate exchange of saliva.  She gently took off his camouflage style “Git ‘er Done” cap and began stroking his head.  Quickly she grew tired of the closely cropped hair on the top of his head and began running her extravagantly painted fingernails through the shoulder-blade length mane that ran down his back.  There was no distracting them – not their kids, not the girls selling beach tags, and certainly not the gulls that swooped down to pick up the Doritos crumbs that were strewn around the house painting drop cloth that they used as a beach blanket – their lip lock was only interrupted to take slow and sensual drags from their cigarettes.

His red T-shirt, obviously among the best available with Marlboro points, had been altered to remove the sleeves.  The stark contrast between the ivory of his shoulders and the crimson on his arms suggested D.O.T. road crew, but his “F*ck you IF You’re Not Union” tattoo implied Teamster.  The tattoo on his other arm, a big heart with two crossed daggers and what must have been someone’s name blocked out and the name “Tiffinee” written in underneath, suggested that this was not his first attempt at matrimonial success.

She was wearing a white T-shirt with green and gold accoutrements, apparently from the KOOL collection, and a stylish fringe pattern cut along her waistline.  Some would call her hair over processed, but I think we’d all agree that any middle-aged woman that is so very interested in her appearance should be applauded.  The hair, an array of colors as if from a pale yellow to rich brown monochromatic rainbow, didn’t so much blow in the breeze as it did flap in the wind – like a flag that had been treated with layer upon layer upon layer of spray starch.  Seeing that half of her fingers were adorned with engagement rings from days gone by showed me that, like him, this was not her first walk to the altar.  The fact that 4 of her 5 boys answered to the name “Junior” (Billy Jr., Raymond Jr, etc.) seemed to confirm my suspicion.

He spoke like a man of authority, he would say things like “Junior, Jr, if you knock over my wudder ah swear ah’ll beat yur ass, ah kin guruntee ya dat” or “Tiffinee, we gotta find an Ode Navy store cuz ah need a new bading suit, this one itches ma balls.”  When she spoke she sounded like an Appalachian princess, someone who could make Britney Spears sound Shakespearian, “Sh*t Honey, yer laying on my f*cking smokes!”   

Their children seemed to enjoy the beach, and spent most of the time throwing a football (“no ball playing” sign be damned!) and digging a 6 foot hole into which they were hoping smaller children would fall – oh, to be young again!  The hairstyle of the younger boys – twins? – harkened back to a simpler time.  Their braided rat-tails brought me back to days when the Thompson Twins ruled the airways and the “Thriller” video ran every hour on the hour.  What culture sense to be that retro at such a young age.

This lovely day ended rather abruptly, when his devil-may-care attitude seemed to upset the proud members of the OCBP.  Although

Ocean
City’s finest a profanity-laced adieu. 

After wiping away the sand that was flung my way by the shaking of the dropcloth – as I was downwind – and telling Boona and The Bear not to stare, I grinned, resettled myself in my chair, and resumed my nap.

And that, gentle readers, was a snippet of my Father’s Day weekend.