swam another hundred yards, riding down the gentle waves and cresting the swells like I was born to it, taking little mouthfuls of seawater and spurting it out again as I went. When I needed rest, I rolled over and continued on my back.
After a while, I looked back toward the shore and noticed a lifeguard jumping around and waving at me to come back in.
“Screw you, copper,” I said and spurted some water at him. Then I dove down, swimming for the bottom and not finding it before I quit and had to come back up again. After breaking the surface, I couldn’t see the lifeguard anymore. That’s when I first noticed how tired I was. And I mean, man I was tired.
The sun?
But no, it was still cloudy out.
Ah, Kevin didn’t get his medicine today.
Now I knew I was screwed. Strung-out and floating in shark-infested waters hundreds of feet from shore. I would have laughed but I felt physically sick. I worried I might puke up some of that sauceless spaghetti, and then I worried whether sharks liked spaghetti—and then yeah, I guess I did laugh a little at that.
I did my best to head back in but only succeeded in staying more or less afloat. It was still better than drowning. It felt like an eternity before the kind-hearted lifeguard arrived on a jet ski and pulled me aboard. Back on the shore, no amount of I’m fine would suit him, so eventually I picked up my towel, keys and shoes and left. An ambulance was on the way, he said, but I left. The lifeguard followed me clear to the edge of the street, yammering the entire time, but I left him there, twisting between his duty to watch the other swimmers and his concern about losing his job over a lawsuit. Only later did it occur to me how bad I’d have felt if he’d been needed by some drowning child while chasing me around the beach.
When I got back to the bungalow, I found someone sitting on the wooden step-up to the front door listening to an mp3 player. A very pale, skinny white guy. Young, tattooed, and scraggly enough to make Kevin look downright preppy. He had on blue shorts, flip-flops and a red tank-top with a big number 10 on it. I wondered what it stood for. The number of times he’d flunked kindergarten? The number of tattoos up and down his arms and neck? The weight in ounces of the drugs he’d ingested since waking up?
“Wuzup, Kev? Damn, bitch, why you all wet?” he said, standing up to give me a tiresome high five that morphed into a little tippy-finger tug thing at the end like I’d seen in numerous movies about “the hood.”
I told him I fell in the water. I was too tired for this. Just looking at the jittery, grinning fool was enough to knock me down, right there.
Lots of laughing and “you dumb motherfucker” and “motherfucker fell in the water” and “damn motherfucker” and thereabouts for a while, really enjoying himself, before he caught on that I wasn’t joining in.
“I need a nap,” I said, and pushed past him to the door.
“Hey man, this place kinda small—it get bigger inside?”
“See for yourself,” I said, and went in.
Whoever-He-Was just followed along—a little too closely, with all the respect for personal space of freshly cut flatulence.
“Man, I can’t believe you stole this shit. What he like, a fag or something? Fucker likes flowers, don’t he? Whachu got to eat?” He opened the refrigerator, then made a sound of disgust. “Man, you need some food in this bitch.”
From the mouths of dipshits.
And then I wondered what he meant by “stole this shit.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m really tired—”
“Holy shit, look at that puzzle! When you start doing puzzles, yo?”
“Hey, don’t touch it.”
He touched it. He took one of the sides apart, fast as that. I reached over and pulled his hand away.
“I said leave it alone.” Carefully, I reconnected the ends. “I’m working on it.”
“What’s up with you? You’re acting like, all responsible and shit. You got a new
After a while, I looked back toward the shore and noticed a lifeguard jumping around and waving at me to come back in.
“Screw you, copper,” I said and spurted some water at him. Then I dove down, swimming for the bottom and not finding it before I quit and had to come back up again. After breaking the surface, I couldn’t see the lifeguard anymore. That’s when I first noticed how tired I was. And I mean, man I was tired.
The sun?
But no, it was still cloudy out.
Ah, Kevin didn’t get his medicine today.
Now I knew I was screwed. Strung-out and floating in shark-infested waters hundreds of feet from shore. I would have laughed but I felt physically sick. I worried I might puke up some of that sauceless spaghetti, and then I worried whether sharks liked spaghetti—and then yeah, I guess I did laugh a little at that.
I did my best to head back in but only succeeded in staying more or less afloat. It was still better than drowning. It felt like an eternity before the kind-hearted lifeguard arrived on a jet ski and pulled me aboard. Back on the shore, no amount of I’m fine would suit him, so eventually I picked up my towel, keys and shoes and left. An ambulance was on the way, he said, but I left. The lifeguard followed me clear to the edge of the street, yammering the entire time, but I left him there, twisting between his duty to watch the other swimmers and his concern about losing his job over a lawsuit. Only later did it occur to me how bad I’d have felt if he’d been needed by some drowning child while chasing me around the beach.
When I got back to the bungalow, I found someone sitting on the wooden step-up to the front door listening to an mp3 player. A very pale, skinny white guy. Young, tattooed, and scraggly enough to make Kevin look downright preppy. He had on blue shorts, flip-flops and a red tank-top with a big number 10 on it. I wondered what it stood for. The number of times he’d flunked kindergarten? The number of tattoos up and down his arms and neck? The weight in ounces of the drugs he’d ingested since waking up?
“Wuzup, Kev? Damn, bitch, why you all wet?” he said, standing up to give me a tiresome high five that morphed into a little tippy-finger tug thing at the end like I’d seen in numerous movies about “the hood.”
I told him I fell in the water. I was too tired for this. Just looking at the jittery, grinning fool was enough to knock me down, right there.
Lots of laughing and “you dumb motherfucker” and “motherfucker fell in the water” and “damn motherfucker” and thereabouts for a while, really enjoying himself, before he caught on that I wasn’t joining in.
“I need a nap,” I said, and pushed past him to the door.
“Hey man, this place kinda small—it get bigger inside?”
“See for yourself,” I said, and went in.
Whoever-He-Was just followed along—a little too closely, with all the respect for personal space of freshly cut flatulence.
“Man, I can’t believe you stole this shit. What he like, a fag or something? Fucker likes flowers, don’t he? Whachu got to eat?” He opened the refrigerator, then made a sound of disgust. “Man, you need some food in this bitch.”
From the mouths of dipshits.
And then I wondered what he meant by “stole this shit.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m really tired—”
“Holy shit, look at that puzzle! When you start doing puzzles, yo?”
“Hey, don’t touch it.”
He touched it. He took one of the sides apart, fast as that. I reached over and pulled his hand away.
“I said leave it alone.” Carefully, I reconnected the ends. “I’m working on it.”
“What’s up with you? You’re acting like, all responsible and shit. You got a new
Similar Books
