The sun beats down on boardwalk, merciless and scorching. I pluck my hat off my head and run my hand through my hair, cringing when my palm comes back slick. I wipe my sweaty hand on my shorts and groan internally. It must be four thousand degrees today, I mean- okay, so my phone says that it’s only ninety-two, but still.
I sigh and look down the boardwalk, peering at the different people ambling by, bright and smiling, headed towards the beach and the carnival; others walk in the other direction, headed towards the parking lot. Sleepy children cling to parents, hair wet with ocean water, feet and hands caked in sand, mouths ringed by brightly colored sugary stickiness from the popsicles and ice cream bars that I sold their guardians however long ago. Surfers walk amongst the crowds of children and parents, too, of course, bronzed skin glowing and wetsuits reflecting the sunlight back at all of us. Bikini babes flank most of the Adonis look-alikes, hanging on perfectly toned arms and giggling, hands pressed against rock-hard chests as they flash their brilliant white smiles and laugh their perfect laughs.
Okay, so I’ll be honest: my job as an ice cream vendor on the boardwalk isn’t the most glorious of occupations, but it’s something. The pay is decent, I don’t have to really dress up (not that I mind dressing up, but in this heat, a casual dress code is a Godsend), I’m only obligated for the summer, and the view isn’t exactly bad. I’m not big on girls in skimpy bikinis- I mean, I can respect the aesthetic of a pretty lady, but that’s not what makes this job fun- it’s the surfer guys in tight wetsuits that get me. (Okay, yes, I swing that way.) Oh! And on top of all the perks I listed above, I also get one free ice cream of my choosing per day. I practically have it made.
As a matter of fact, one surfer boy in particular really makes me- you know what, I’m not even going to go there. I need to focus on work, not him… or his abs… or his back muscles… Jesus Christ, I just…
I collapse into the little lawn chair that I’ve set myself up with next to the candy-colored ice cream stand, enjoying the small amount of shade that the bright orange umbrella provides. A few quiet minutes pass before a group of teenaged girls approaches the stand, perusing the ice cream selection with great interest. I stand up and help them, smiling and using my best manners as they weigh the pros and cons of ice cream sandwiches over creamsicles. They order their ice cream and drop any loose change that I hand them in the tip jar, flashing smiles and thanking me as they walk away, flip-flops clopping in a jumbled rhythm.
Business picks up after that, almost as if the gaggle of teens has alerted people to the stand’s presence. I lean down to pass groups of small children sticky treats, handing bills and coins off to their parents, always flashing a smile. I get a few more tips and do a few more transactions, as per usual, but then things calm down for a bit. The lunch rush should be coming soon, but I’ve already got the stand prepped, so I decide to relax before the storm hits, so to speak.
That is, until I hear him walk up.
“Hey, Ozzy!” he calls, and Jesus, I can already hear the grin and see the twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Hey, Jim!” I call back, almost without thinking about it. I jump to my feet and dare myself to look up, heart going into palpitations as I see that Jim Gordon, the demigod of a man (Boy…? Should I call him a boy? I mean, he’s eighteen, so I guess that qualifies him for the title of Man, but…?), the best surfer on the beach, the fucking object of all my hormone-fueled teenage wet-dreams approaching the ice cream stand, a bright green surfboard tucked effortlessly under his arm and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, wetsuit unzipped and rolled down to his hips. My knees nearly give out as I see that he’s dripping water, rivulets of moisture rolling down his chest.
