tide is high.
“You coming home anytime soon?” Dad asks, breaking the sound of the waves and my thoughts in them.
“Soon, yes. But not this weekend. There’s a birthday party for me. Maybe the next.”
“Your mom misses you. She’s going to have a hard time with Anne leaving for college this year, too.”
“I know, but my life is here. In Wilmington.” I brush a sandy hand on my towel.
“I know, Son. It’s just a lot of changes for your mom at once. Me working out of town. Anne starting school. And you, not coming home for the summer. Go see her. You can ride with me one weekend.”
“I will. I promise I will.”
“Your mom wants to see you. She misses you.”
We sit a while longer on our towels, letting the constant wind dry us.People stroll in front of us while the lights of the Oceanic begin to shine more brightly and the restaurant bustles with diners eager for seafood. When the sky becomes its late-day violet, we scoop our towels from the beach, shake them off, and begin walking toward our cars.
“How about the same time next week?” Dad asks.
“As long as there’s no rain, that sounds great. It’s a perfect time for a swim, tourists gone and it not too hot.”
When we near Dad’s car, he opens his door and pulls a card from his seat. “Here,” he says. “Since we won’t be seeing you this weekend, it’s an early birthday present. It’s just a bit of money,” he says as I open the card and see the cash, “but we thought that you could get a good dinner somewhere.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Mom’s got something else for you, but you know you’ll have to come home for that. She’s not gonna mail it or send it by me.”
“That sounds like her,” I laugh. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
“Happy birthday, Son,” Dad says, giving me a farewell hug.
And as he drives away into the fading purple, nostalgia overcomes me. I have grown up and moved out of the house. And it all happened so quickly.
June 9. Sean and I drive to the store to get the keg for tonight’s party, and in the parking lot, he shoves me a wad of green bills, commenting that everyone should buy a keg on their twenty-first birthday. Inside, the lady behind the counter asks for my ID, and I proudly produce it. She is old and wrinkled, her eyes a pruned topography of skin.
“Oh, happy birthday,” she says, coughing out of a phlegmatic lung while taking the cash I give her.
“Thanks.”
Another employee brings out the keg on a dolly, and I roll this outside and down the handicap ramp.
“Aren’t you going to help?” I ask of Sean, who idles in my truck’s cab. “This thing’s heavy and I can’t lift it myself.” He flips open his passenger door.
“Sorry, dude. I can’t touch it. I’m still twenty.” He laughs, saunters over, and hoists the keg into my truck bed. “Pussy,” he chides.
Later, my house parties. Gleaming candles are set around the place,flickering in the corners and dancing shadows upon the walls. In the great room, the stereo booms, growing louder as the night lengthens. Two lines form along the hallway: one for the restroom, the other for the keg iced down on the small balcony. But really, one line is an extension of the other. A cup is filled, is drunk, and is then pissed out to make room for another. At least this is how I begin to see the night as I revolve from keg to toilet and so on.
The party is a good-looking crowd. The fit captain of the crew team swings his arm around a cherub-faced teacher in training; a lithe basketball scholar proves his athleticism by performing several keg stands; and a steady couple brings their argument to the party, making loud overtures of their hate for one another. Several beers into the night, however, a partygoer discovers this same couple in my roommate’s bedroom and snaps paparazzi photographs of their naked embarrassment. We laugh.
“You coming home anytime soon?” Dad asks, breaking the sound of the waves and my thoughts in them.
“Soon, yes. But not this weekend. There’s a birthday party for me. Maybe the next.”
“Your mom misses you. She’s going to have a hard time with Anne leaving for college this year, too.”
“I know, but my life is here. In Wilmington.” I brush a sandy hand on my towel.
“I know, Son. It’s just a lot of changes for your mom at once. Me working out of town. Anne starting school. And you, not coming home for the summer. Go see her. You can ride with me one weekend.”
“I will. I promise I will.”
“Your mom wants to see you. She misses you.”
We sit a while longer on our towels, letting the constant wind dry us.People stroll in front of us while the lights of the Oceanic begin to shine more brightly and the restaurant bustles with diners eager for seafood. When the sky becomes its late-day violet, we scoop our towels from the beach, shake them off, and begin walking toward our cars.
“How about the same time next week?” Dad asks.
“As long as there’s no rain, that sounds great. It’s a perfect time for a swim, tourists gone and it not too hot.”
When we near Dad’s car, he opens his door and pulls a card from his seat. “Here,” he says. “Since we won’t be seeing you this weekend, it’s an early birthday present. It’s just a bit of money,” he says as I open the card and see the cash, “but we thought that you could get a good dinner somewhere.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Mom’s got something else for you, but you know you’ll have to come home for that. She’s not gonna mail it or send it by me.”
“That sounds like her,” I laugh. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”
“Happy birthday, Son,” Dad says, giving me a farewell hug.
And as he drives away into the fading purple, nostalgia overcomes me. I have grown up and moved out of the house. And it all happened so quickly.
June 9. Sean and I drive to the store to get the keg for tonight’s party, and in the parking lot, he shoves me a wad of green bills, commenting that everyone should buy a keg on their twenty-first birthday. Inside, the lady behind the counter asks for my ID, and I proudly produce it. She is old and wrinkled, her eyes a pruned topography of skin.
“Oh, happy birthday,” she says, coughing out of a phlegmatic lung while taking the cash I give her.
“Thanks.”
Another employee brings out the keg on a dolly, and I roll this outside and down the handicap ramp.
“Aren’t you going to help?” I ask of Sean, who idles in my truck’s cab. “This thing’s heavy and I can’t lift it myself.” He flips open his passenger door.
“Sorry, dude. I can’t touch it. I’m still twenty.” He laughs, saunters over, and hoists the keg into my truck bed. “Pussy,” he chides.
Later, my house parties. Gleaming candles are set around the place,flickering in the corners and dancing shadows upon the walls. In the great room, the stereo booms, growing louder as the night lengthens. Two lines form along the hallway: one for the restroom, the other for the keg iced down on the small balcony. But really, one line is an extension of the other. A cup is filled, is drunk, and is then pissed out to make room for another. At least this is how I begin to see the night as I revolve from keg to toilet and so on.
The party is a good-looking crowd. The fit captain of the crew team swings his arm around a cherub-faced teacher in training; a lithe basketball scholar proves his athleticism by performing several keg stands; and a steady couple brings their argument to the party, making loud overtures of their hate for one another. Several beers into the night, however, a partygoer discovers this same couple in my roommate’s bedroom and snaps paparazzi photographs of their naked embarrassment. We laugh.
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