My ideas are not always the brightest, as anyone who’s met me (or spent any time reading this here special cache of narcissistic drivel) can attest. Sometimes my ideas are downright daft… like tonight.
My friend and I had spent a pleasant, low key day working on a railing job he’s doing. We took a break for a while and got nice juicy burgers at John’s Fish Market, finished up for the day and went back to his house, where I promptly fell flat asleep for about an hour on his couch (yes, there is photographic evidence of said nap and no, he did not put my hand in hot water–now that’s a friend). When I woke from my little nap and he was done with the busywork he’d been doing while I was sleeping, I suggested we take a motorcycle ride to Menemsha to watch the sunset and get more greasy food. He was hesitant, citing the distinct possibility that there would be a lot of people there.
Now I’m not a huge fan of people, but he HATES people, particularly tourists. He’s got GO BACK TO NY written in the dust on the back of his pickup truck, and he routinely curses out total strangers in the street. Last week, he spit all over (and inside) an ostentatiously huge Land Cruiser in the Lucy Vincent parking lot (a well-deserved attack which was the result of a completely separate episode of assholery that I won’t go into).
But it’s Tuesday, I said to my friend. There shouldn’t be that many people there on a Tuesday. And it’s kind of cold.
Boy, was I wrong. Before we’d even parked the bike, my friend was so annoyed that he was revving the engine so that it spat out punctuation to his expletive-filled rants. There were people EVERYWHERE. The beach was a sea of assholes, most of whom were under the age of fourteen. My friend hates people in general, but he particularly loathes children.
This is your fault, he said. You suck.
We found what we thought would be a quiet spot far down the beach to watch the sunset, and dug ourselves into the sand. But the children found us. Within minutes, our little sphere had been invaded by miscreant youth, armed with frisbees and volleyballs and every other annoying airborne object you can imagine. And they were screaming. All of them. And the people sitting on blankets were talking loudly and laughing and shouting… it was like a fucking high school cafeteria. My friend got hit with an errant tennis ball and surprisingly did not remove the limb that had thrown it, although I did see the thought cross his mind when the boy bent down to retrieve the ball.
Right when the sun went down, all the people on the beach clapped. I knew they were going to–those people always do–but it still made me want to go around breaking their fingers at the middle knuckle. Why do they do that?! It’s like finger snapping at poetry slams, or fat people in skin tight clothing. It just shouldn’t happen, ever.
My friend heaved a loaded sigh. This would be really perfect if all of those people would just fucking DIE, he said. As if on cue, about six twelve year olds who were kicking around a volleyball started screaming in unison. I’m never listening to you again, my friend said.
As well you shouldn’t, I said. I obviously don’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.