3
Summertime Sadness
MARY
I didn't get fired. Thanks Jehovah, I owe ya.
But unvaryingly, I was rather disappointed with Wright Bros after they got me all psyched with that action. Squeegee Boy and Tanner really spiced things up. Ya dig? For the rest of the afternoon, work was boring, but it did deserve a Jehovah-level thanks because it gave me the fifteen minutes (yes, a whole fifteen minutes) required to get my hair in the PERFECT BRAID.
No one said anything about the shouting thing, and I guessed as long as Squeegee Boy didn't sue for a fractured collarbone, or something pussy like that, we're all good in da Wright Bros hood.
But the real deal was what I was going to do with my first Friday off in like, forever. I was scheduled to work every weekend. I was even scheduled to work during exams. Which was super gutless of Linda. She probably realized my scholastic career was a waste of time anyway. But yes, what to do on Friday night?
My friend Ashley, the A-1 regular smoker, was lovedrunk on her new hookup and wanted to be a committed side-hoe and go to his band's show.
Don't you hate those friends that don't take your amazing advice? Like, I'm basically Oprah Winfrey, and Ashley still thinks that "dating" (swap that for any other verb, my darling freaks) another nineteen-year-old college dropout who plays bass in a band is a good idea.
Sparing all the boring details, I'll summarize our texts back and forth on the longest bus ride home of my life: I agreed to go. I owed Ash one for letting me squat at her place the week before, and she needed a wing-woman.
Call me the Wright Sister.
After Mary and The Caravan of People Too Poor To Afford Cars, (cuz let's be honest, only poor people in Gilmore Park took the bus) got stuck in Ridgeway Avenue's rush hour traffic, and then got delayed further by roadwork on Lockport, the longest bus ride of my life came to an end. Giving me like, no time to get ready. For the sake of other humans subjected to being around me, I wanted to shower, you feel? Like, a long day at work gets you all greasy-feeling. And believe it or not, I wanted to look half-decent for the boardwalk.
There could've been hot guys there. How was I supposed to know? But let's be honest, every male in Gilmore Park is like, repulsive.
So I got pretty because, well, there's beef between Ashley and I. Which is ironic because Ash is a vegetarian. But like, one of those "I'll gorge on fries and frappuccinos" kind of vegetarians. But, well, like. Okay. I'll say it. I'm the pretty one. Now, most Basics would sell their soul to the Devil for beauty; I'd tell that ol' horny bastard to take his vanity and shove it up his ass. Because gorgeous or not, c'mon hunny, you know he'll do you as long as you spread your legs. You know how many ratchets get laid? But I'd gladly offer my soul like poker chips to Ol' Lucy any night if it meant looking better than Ash.
I had just enough time to do all the necessary means of Adriana Lima-ing myself. So yes, you betcha I plastered on that eyeliner and spoke just enough dirty Brazilian to turn myself on, and then I tried finding something to wear.
My closet stared me dead in the face and laughed for a solid minute and thirty-two seconds as I mentally composed about one hundred outfits. All of them heart-wrenching. My go-to shopping habit was thrifting, then coming home and realizing what I got was hideous, and then further realizing that one cannot simply just cut the sleeves off and make it look like a $79.99 dress from Urban Outfitters.
The laundry basket was sympathetic though; it knew I wanted to get laid. It coughed up my go-to: black jean shorts, my gray crop top (that when pit-checked, didn't smell like Mary after a long day at Wright Bros), and my Yankees snapback.
Why are you giving me that dirty look, you ugly bastard? Of course I was going for the whole Lana Del Rey thing. She's the most perfect person on planet Earth and she pretty much sings my life and I don't really buy into the whole celebrity worship thing, but she's worth all the worship. God, would I go lesbian for her. Did I mention she's perfect?
After getting ready in world-record-breaking time, I went to the kitchen and saw that the alcohol cabinet was left open, as if inviting me to fall into the footsteps of the generational alcoholism running through my veins.
Landing on my knees after I had pushed myself up onto the tiled-stove counter, I accidentally knocked over the empty boxes of Mac 'N' Cheese, and then looked through the alcohol cabinet. And yes, I did check the stove-pot; only the crust of burnt cheese brimmed the bottom.
The cabinet door bounced back on the hinges and hit my shoulder as I pushed through the empty bottles all the way to the back, searching for my Sourpuss Vodka that the magical Booze Fairy must have downed in the middle of the night. It was gone. I searched the fridge for my Vexes. Gone. I scavenged for the Holiday Bailey's pack Ash got me for Christmas. Gone. For Ol' Lucy's sake.
Finally, in an act of desperate measures, I resorted to my ninth-grade tactics and filled an empty water bottle with one of his off-limits bottles of vodka, and then filled the rest of the vodka bottle back up with tap water. Call it an act of revenge. I may or may not have also swiped a cigarette (or two) out of a pack of his Indian Reserves in the drawer. Call that an act of charity. Charity just like the Welfare Fraud Warning letter left haplessly amongst all the other unopened mail on the counter by the front door.
Ashley needed to hurry up.
When I finished lacing up my scuffed white Converse All-Stars, I secured my possessions for the night, and pushed through the cringing screen door onto the front porch. Out on my way to please my cigarette-aching lungs across the street.
Typically, on my way down the porch, I would stop and tell this old damn rusted barbecue, that Jim profoundly refused to get rid of, to "go die," for it only contributed to the clutter and the neighborhood reputation.
A little ways down and across the street from my house, at the end of Seadrift Drop, where the road ended in, well, a straight drop into the waters of Danae's Bay, sat a rusted yellow guardrail. It was my sorta go-to spot when I needed to get out of the house, or smoke a joint.
As I sucked back the cigarette, I watched a seagull glide under the shadow of a giant willow tree that the sunset had backed onto the pink ocean. That stupid seagull escaped Danae's Bay until it became nothing more than a speck far south down the coast. From the crest of the bay, I could easily see the Carraway Beach boardwalk, and the lighthouse in the distance already blinking with the oncoming of night.
My phone vibrated. Ash claimed, via text, that she was here. I looked back around to the street.
Hmm. No, you're not.
I replied telling her to meet me at the corner of my street and Seadrift. Not long after, I saw the yellow sign reading: DEAD END (ha, isn't that ironic) light up in the glow of the headlights, and then, as I turned to look behind me, I saw a blue van speeding down Seadrift and swerve onto my street.
And not even in the mood to conjure up annoyance at Ashley for ignoring my instructions, I marched over.
"Hey, hey, hey! Gurrl, whaddup?" Was the exact way Ash greeted me when she rolled down the window and waved her hand with a cigarette clutched between her unsexy fingers, fanning out the ashes.
"Hey, Ash! Let's go!" I said, as Ashley like, struggled, to get out of the van idling on the gravelly slab of my driveway. The stones crunched beneath her feet as she ran up to hug me.
"My nigguh, Mary. Whoop! Whoop!"
I burst out laughing. I'll grant Ash that at least. She could make me laugh like nobody else. No, I am not that big of a bitch. She made me laugh cuz she was crazy. I wasn't laughing at her, not then, anyways.
" 'Kay, let me go find my straightener," Ashley said.
"Ash..." I gazed toward the street. "Can I bring it to you later?" I said, and then through gestures tried leading us back towards the van.
"Mary, I need my straightener."
(FYI, Ash had, like, pin-straight hair. She really didn't need to fry her dyed blonde split-ends any further.)
"Ashley, can this wait?"
"It'll take me like, two seconds," she said and pushed past me, scattering the stones as she dragged her feet up to the porch steps.
"Ashley," I ran to her. "Please."
My pleas were really all for her sake because her mug looked like my dirty foot based on the stank-face she was giving me. Ash stared real hard, but my inner bitch was much more fierce and gave her evil eyes until she got it and backed off from my house.
Oh no, don't get me wrong, she was not impressed or expressing any sympathy or something the way I would have. She just rolled her eyes, said "whatever," and waltzed back to the van.
Can't blame her——she just wanted to look hotter than me.
So, with my super duper Friday night off to a great start, I followed behind Ash, checking out her flat scrawny ass all the way to the van. And as I pulled on the handle of the back door, it slid open in my face with an intense blast of weed. Faint circles of smoke lingered in the air around the dudes sitting in the back.
From the passenger seat, Ashley announced: "This is my friend, Mary," as the dudes in the back slid over to make room for my ass. A bong sat between the legs of the bro next to me, vapor still swirled in the base.
Well, apparently I'm breathtaking (duh), because they all just sorta nudged their heads in my direction as I said Hi.
When Ashley specifically introduced me to Cody, her bass-playing hookup, he hardly had as much of a "hey" to say to me. Real personable bunch. Now, I could see how Ashley found Cody attractive; there was something sexy about him, but he wasn't my type. He really didn't even look like a true musician. He seemed like the kind of guy who, since discovering pot in the eighth grade, just resumed the role of being a bass player because it fit the whole stoner gig and justified the Bob Marley posters in his room.
"Mar," Ash said, turning around to face me as the van rolled down my driveway.
"Yeah?"
"Do you have a dart?" she asked.
No, I don't have an extra dart you can have. But I will graciously, out of the goodness of my heart, give you one because you're my friend, and I am a nice person.
"Sure," I said.
The van jerked on the brakes, then pulled forward as I pulled the pack of smokes out of my purse and handed Ash one of Jim's cheap Indian Reserve cigarettes.
"Thanks, Mar!" Ashley handed the cigarette to Cody.
Screw you, Ashley.
As the van whipped through the narrow streets of my neighborhood and approached the main road, I noticed that the dude sitting next to me, who I assumed (purely by the stench) was the drummer, kept looking down at the nearly indistinguishable outline of what barely deserves to be described as my tits.
Like, dude! I am not even showing a fraction of any cleave, I'm like a B cup. WHAT can be so sexy about two barely visible lumps on my chest, THROUGH A SWEATER. God. Damn. Boy.
I safely assumed my role this evening was that stupid friend that they all tried to finger on the basement couch as Ashley and Cody went off to bang. Great.
"I'm Nick," Drummer Boy said in the stoner voice. I think he knew I noticed him checking out my twelve-year-old-girl chest.
"Hi, Nick," I replied in the stoner voice. Then nudging my head back into the headrest, I looked down at the bong and said, "Let me take a rip of that."
Without hesitation, Nick handed me the bong, fished a lighter out of his pocket, and I went to take my hit. The glass bottle grew hot as I held the light and slurped up the smoke. I then felt immediately dizzy, on the brink of death. My throat closed, raw, heavy with smog. I coughed; they laughed. The dizziness faded, and so did my mind. Just like that, I was cooked to perfection. Call me an Easy Bake oven.
======================
DANNY
Summer can be quite oppressive to those of us not participating in its multitude of activities. Forget single loaded barrel guns. That whole goddamn town was like a row of machine-gun armed guerilla soldiers led by Che Guevera, thirsty to kill anybody even curious about participating in a rebellion. Wanna play rock 'n roll music? Freak.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, I carried the rebel flag nailed through my flesh on my back. My existence hosted a rebellion, a coup d'état against the Gilmore Park mentality. Which was that you're supposed to drive a pickup truck, enter the same trade as your father, drink away the day's burdens at the plaza pub, watch your kid do the same thing. Then die. But what else could've been expected from an abandoned factory town with a boardwalk tourist scene hobbling on its last peg leg? One hurricane, or dip in the economy away from the sea swelling up and swallowing it whole like Atlantis.
As Max and I drove in Rob's Porsche, I found the sixties satellite radio station which was God's gift to me. '60s on 6, '70s on 7, '80s on 8. Hell, even when Max and I jammed out to "Hip Hop Hurray" on '90s on 9, I kinda had fun.
While pretending to be a Formula 1 driver, surrendering to the demand of Atlantic Way as it swung over Lake Heeley in a bridge shaped like an S, I caught in the air the smell of a simmering barbecue——the signature scent of an early summer eve. And out past my elbow hanging over the ledge of the window, the sun was slowly relaxing its way towards the horizon. Its setting light, like a skimboard, skipped pastel colors eastwards onto the lake, and in the distance, the Atlantic Ocean.
"Dude," Max sparked up outta nowhere. "Change this shit," he said, turning off "I've Just Seen a Face." "We're gonna look like fags."
Max then scrolled through a thousand stations until he found something cool. Shortly after the Lake Heeley Bridge, Atlantic Way whipped around downtown Carraway Beach.
Carraway Beach, like many other coastal communities, considered itself its own township within Gilmore Park, though the only properties actually addressed "Carraway Beach" were the shops on the boardwalk and the downtown area. The downtown was nothing much more than a single block of nineteenth-century buildings built upon a hill that rolled up from the coast, and then continued to roll on all the way north into Danae's Bay. The storefronts wrapping the perimeter of the downtown block consisted of coffee shops, two-cent restaurants, a retro candy store that everybody loved, maybe a junky swim and surf stop, and old people bars. But the heartbeat of downtown was an alleyway that cut through the block and followed the roll of the slope until it reached the road. The locals had simply called this alleyway: The Alley. Lining The Alley were bars that redefined the meaning of bar-hopping, where the bands could be heard playing all night long.
"This is my shit," Max said, cranking the volume up on a song he found just as we wound up stuck on Atlantic Way in the God-Awful bumper-to-bumper traffic that Gilmore Park seemed to have a fetish for. That, and traffic lights. Lots of traffic lights. And one-way streets. Pretty much the whole goddamn catalog was a sham.
"Dude," Max piped up, bobbing his head to the beat, "all these girls are so ugly."
Out past my window, where the chrome on the Harleys lined up outside the biker bar, Gypsies, gleamed in the sun, I saw that the sidewalk had become a runway of thin-legged girls pretending to be in California. Strutting around in their bright tank tops, sheltering all the wonders in the world that were only the drop of a strap, or the snap of a pant away.
"It's gonna be ill when you have the house to yourself," Max said, as we inched a little bit forward in traffic. "We're gonna bring back so many bitches."
I made a noise in agreement. Out on the street, the charade of people matched the charade of music blasting from every available speaker. Everyone had a different idea of what a summer evening sounded like and imposed their soundtrack onto the traffic jam.
Jukebox Doo-Wop sang out sweetly in all its four-chord captivation and desperate lovesick melodies from the candy store, Gypsies thought the beachside scene called for AC/DC, and down by the sailboats reggae blared; Max and I obviously thought Demon King's "Bitch City" went melodically with the setting sun.
"I, uh, actually," I began incoherently saying as I crawled the car slightly forward in traffic, bringing the shafts of the setting sunlight into direct confrontation with my vision. I reached up and swatted the sunvisor down. "I think, I'm, um, going. Actually."
"Wait—what?"
"Yeah, man. Well, you know how my mom was really against it and everything. And, well, my late application got accepted, so yeah, I think I'm going..."
"Fuck, man. Danny-O. My main-man, Danny-O. Fuckin' Cali cooch. I love it, bro."
"Yeah."
Max cranked up the volume on "Bitch City."
It was the crosswalk of The Alley and Atlantic Way that caused the traffic holdup. And additional foot-traffic was produced because, next to downtown, beside where the old Gilmore Bowling Alley stood proud, a carnival was setup. These things began with the Fourth of July and did not end until September. The mechanical questionability added suspense to every ride. You never knew when it could be your last.
Max lowered the volume on the song. "Dude, I'm gonna get out here."
Max got out of the Porsche, feeling more important than ever before in his life, and disappeared into the bustle of downtown. At that point, I couldn't have cared less as to ask why. I skimmed through the radio, back to my sixties——keeping the volume low so I wouldn't look like a fag.
Now, don't get me wrong. It's not that I hate modern music; I don't have some ensconced bias because I need to validate my resistance against the mainstream and wear my hipster badge with pride. Not at all.
It just matter-of-factly sucks.
There have been a few good bands that have cropped up in recent years. Such as The Killers, Arcade Fire, Kings of Leon, the 1975, The Strokes—to name a few. But exactly, where are the bands? The bands! Where did the bands go? Where are the voices as ugly as the guys who were singing? The guys with their freaky clothes and freaky hair? Gimme some crudeness and some crass. Some slop and slosh. A voice wailing outta key least is real; not every vocal inflection filtered through auto-tune. I want to see the scars in the pick-guards, thrashed through thousands of hours of practice, the drum-kits beaten 'til they're bruised. Please, treat my soul to the electric guitar solos setting the soundwaves ablaze, making my body move in ways that I'm terrified by. I want something loud, something screeching at supersonic speed, something to shred inhibition to ribbons. Bringing down the entire house in a red hot meteor crash, exploding onto the stage with a blast of smoke that swarms the lead guitarist like a Rock 'n Roll Resurrection of Christ. Best part apart about it? No Gucci required.
Have you ever listened to "All Along The Watchtower"? How about "Jumpin' Jack Flash"? It should be mandatory to listen to "Purple Rain" from start to finish.
And it ain't just all about rock. I love Pop from mostly every era. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" made me fall in love with The Beatles after all. Rock 'n Roll's Daddy, Elvis Presley, was the first Popstar, and Michael Jackson was the King Of.
Hell, even crank up the volume on Taylor Swift.
The problem is not in the music; it's in the production. I can hear it. I call it Flying Saucer Sound. Smooth. Flat. Repetitively spinning around. I do try to like new music. I really do. I give every new Pop hit on the radio a chance. But music nowadays just doesn't move, doesn't soar. It can't set a fire in your soul 'cause there's nothing gritty about the sound to strike the match. The blood's all drained; the color's all been taken out, the nuances and details lost in the mixing. And lyrics have lost their integrity, where's the storytelling?
The dynamic range of the instruments is being compressed to nothing until its just one garbled cacophony that can be cranked up loud enough to come out clean and smooth and soulless through your speakers.
Completely stalled in the traffic-jam and wondering why I was the friend who had to drive, I watched summer be herself in full-throttle beyond the tinted windows, and saw how people were staring at me. Thinking for sure it was because I was listening to Elton John's "Crocodile Rock."
A wake of courage then hauled upon me. It might've been because "Get Off of My Cloud," came on the radio next, so I blasted the volume and punched up the bass. Now people stared harder. I didn't care. Gilmore Park should've awarded me, or at the very least, given me one of those keys to the city or something for teaching these people about good music. I knew the old guys at Gypsies would think I was hot stuff.
Oh yeah! they'd think. This young guy's got some real muscle. Let's invite him for a drink!
And I'd go over to Gypsies, where Bill and The Boys would buy me beers as I delighted them with my knowledge of classic rock, specifically how the Gibson guitar defined Woodstock. They needn't know I'm personally a Fender guy.
But no. Neither Billy, nor Ricky, nor Ricky's sister, nor Tommy or Timmy (old cats always have names like that) looked my way.
Eventually, the crossing guard gave me his blessing to go on through the crosswalk and so I floored the pedal like James Dean in his Porsche Spyder, and thought of how tragedy glorified the damned.
I rode the circuit of Atlantic Way and Dalhousie Street several times, keeping an eye out for a convenient parking spot. Considering I had nothing better to do than that, and wait for a text.
It's true. There was a girl. For the sake of time, let's just recall her name as—Jess. A fine gal, a swell gal, whatever kinda gal Jess was, I remember her telling me once in a passing conversation, that she liked The Broken Lyre. You might have even been fooled into thinking that Jess was a cool girl. She posted black and white pictures, avoided Top 40, and dressed as a fashionably recognized hipster. I had actually texted her before I left the carwash. But I kept that a secret.
After circling through the parking lot a few hundred times, a spot eventually became available. So, as I sat in the parking lot that fringed upon the boardwalk for a text I knew was hopeless to wait for, I did the worst thing one with my disease could do. Scroll through social media. Before long, I was plagued with photos of everyone I knew having sun-induced fun. The Hamptons. We ♥ NYC. Girls that looked unrealistically good pulling up the straps of their bikini bottoms, melting in the sun as displayed on the internet.
Then, after sitting in the car for so long, looking at the real world in all its online glory, I was convinced my body had sagged into the leather seat.
Then suddenly determined to get out of the car and be a part of the summer, I pushed open the door, swung my legs out, and then was laughed at. When I walked around to the trunk, these two blondes standing across the fence were laughing. I was certain it was at me. So, I checked my reflection in the tinted rear window.
Do I look like a psychopath? Did they hear my music?
There is no worse humiliation in this world than being subjected to an attractive girl's sneer. But, what did I honestly care? From out of my bag, I slid out my Lyric Book, threw my jean jacket on—despite the heat—and went for the boardwalk. Out of all the freaks that migrated to the beach, what was I doing that was so laughable?
"Hun'ner!" I then heard somebody screech as I crossed the sand. "Stahp yer cryin' and be a good big brother." Someone with breasts that should not have been so carelessly exposed said, scolding her child (whose name I pieced together as Hunter). The other one with breasts, though flatter and with hairs growing out of the faded blue eagle tattoo, sat with a burning cigarette in the driver's seat of their car.
The sunlight slanting through the thin haze in the sky blinded me as I observed the whole family affair, squinting like a patched-eye pirate.
Hunter was putting up a fit. He didn't wanna leave the beach or something. His mother—the nipples on her unappealing breasts cutting through her shirt—started yelling at him. And then she cursed. Which I hated.
Stop it, I should have said.
Whaddafug? The hairier and flatter-chested one would've answered.
He's just a kid. Let him be.
Who da fug are you t' tell me how t' raise ma boy?
He just wants to play for a little bit longer. Let him be a kid.
Then I would slash open the back door of the car, freeing Hunter and his sisters from the smoky backseat. And then the wind coming in curls over the beach, like the hair of a golden goddess, would cleanse them of the smoke while I built them the biggest and best sandcastle ever. Like with a moat and everything.
But as I was weirdly watching, I made eye contact with the starchy-nippled one, still all squinty like Patchy the Pirate, and kept on my way.
Turning onto the pier after walking down the boardwalk, I looked down to the sand and observed the familiar sights of Carraway Beach. A pink bikini top cradled a pair of tits like a hammock. Laughter radiated from the drunk thirty-year-olds playing volleyball and listening to crappy music overlaid with AM static. An old tanned cat, pumped like Tarzan, proud of the salt and pepper patch of chest-hair that matched his mustache, stood at the shoreline with his hands on his hips, letting the waves break against his shins. All the characters I saw inspired me to yank out the black wire-ringed notebook I kept shoved in my left butt-pocket. Then, taking a seat on a bench, resting my Lyric Book on my thighs, I slipped the cap off my pen and spewed cheap rhymes. Awash in the golden-orange light of the sinking sun, I masked myself behind the impatience of the pen as ink bled out, hiding from the world as I wrote out the lyrical fantasies it inspired.