For all the days I’ve wasted, just sitting alone inside of my house/apartment/dorm room whatever, today should stand as a reminder that going outside is always the better option.
I woke up today determined to not waste it like I did the day before. While I had what I thought was a good story idea, I ended up burying it under half a bottle of Jameson and producing a turd. Bukowski once said that Hemingway was an alcoholic who got up early to write so he could get it out of the way so he could get drunk. That may be true. I just know that every writer thinks he writes better drunk. And while it is good to every now and then get blasted and type away, I’m finding that the creative juices are a bit more, how should I say it, diverse, when not drunk.
So, after tooling about a bit, I went for a walk. Decided to hit the beach and see if it was indeed as eroded as it looked last night in my drunken stupor. It was.
Only problem with it, really, was the people. Seems you’re allowed to drive on the beach this time of year. So, of course, to justify owning a four-wheel drive vehicle all these folks are on it. In their cars. Getting in my way as I’m just walking.
Then, out of nowhere I hear a voice, obviously saying something to me. I have headphones on, but keep them low enough on the odd chance someone wants to have a conversation with me. I try to say hello to everyone, but most people do everything they can to look away or not make eye contact. I used to be like that too, but found it to be more tiresome.
“Hey, honey. You from around here?” the redhead says.
“Umm. Yeah, I live over there,” I reply, pointing in the general direction of where my house is located. I look at this person and quickly come to the conclusion that she’s a he. He’s with another person, one of the many folks that I’ve noticed in my neighborhood, but never talked too much with. She is the skinny lady who lives across the main road. The one who I was five seconds from calling the cops for when her boyfriend/husband/whatever was cussing at her and hitting her. But then the cops showed up anyway.
“Well, you should invite us over,” he/she says.
“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got things to do,” I manage to say as I turn up the volume on my I-pod. Lucero’s “When you decided to leave” begins, somewhat fittingly, I figure. By then I’m walking down the beach, hoping this conversation has ended.
“Catch you later, hon!” he/she yells at me, waving, just as I’m walking by an older couple tanning themselves in the 70-degree fall day. The give me a look, I say “Hi!” and keep on walking.
I walk along the beach for a good two miles before getting bored. I was going to try and make it all the way to the Sheraton, which is about five miles from my house, but it starts to become something I’m not interested in anymore. So, I turn right up the sand and head for a trashcan. Usually they’re around rentals and public beach access areas, I figure. This time, I figure wrong. It’s got the “Don’t you dare!” signage for tourists and riff-raff to be scared by. Since I’m just riff-raff and the house in question is still boarded up from the hurricane about a month ago, I figure I’m safe.
On the road, I put my shoes on and start walking. No one here is very friendly. I say hi to a guy out fixing up something on his porch. Nothing. A couple of eldery New York-types give me the eye from their “Private Beach Access” walkway. I smile and say good afternoon ladies!”, and get nothing but a look and some whispers between the two. Guess my unkempt appearance and tattered hat don’t suit their wants and or needs at the moment.
A garbage truck passes by with one of the most strikingly beautiful women I’ve seen in quite some time driving it. I look her way and she gives me the “yeah, I’m hot, get over it,” look. I just look away and keep walking.
Upon arriving at the boardwalk area, I am walking slowly towards an entrance to a local eatery. A mustang is there. He stops and waits for me. Kind of odd, since I’m a good half a block away. I don’t hurry up. This seems to bother the marine (guessing here). He gives me a look and starts waving his hand in a “speed it up” kind of motion. I get beside his car, finally, and he gives me the look again. I say “you’re the one who waited.” Which sets him off on a tirade of profanities and then the old rev up the engine and pull into the parking lot real fast move.
I can only feel sorry for his girlfriend/wife. She’s going to have to listen to him for the next hour cussing about that ragged beach bum who walked so darn slow.
Ha.
After getting past the boardwalk, I get near the water tower. A bunch of construction workers are laughing. I look around and see one other guy going towards the hotel across the street from them. He goes up some stairs to a bungalow. There, three woman are hanging around. Young women. I watch as I walk. He says something to one of them and they give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. The other construction workers let out a howl. Two of the ladies go in the room, the other hangs out on the deck.
She looks down at me, walking by, and gives me the wave for “come on up.” From behind, I hear the construction guys’ cat-calls. I look up, smile and shrug. As I walk on, I wonder if I’ve now found the local brothel location?
Trannies, marines and whores. Who needs the big city?
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