Nomadic Rag

What made summer romantic was knowing at any point there could be a gleam which flaunted on top the water, someplace remote, somewhere uncanny, that corralled aloof nobodies with heavy souls, if only for a moment, placing them in swim, folly, and serendipity.

The first thing we did in Mt. Pleasant was grab breakfast sandwiches and a case of beer.

Technically, it was two halves to one, comprised of Yuengling and Pacifico, but who the hell was counting? There was no need to count anything on the 4th of July. The low hang of the coastal sun made the purchase from Whole Foods somewhat thrilling, like I had a fake ID or something sharp in my pockets. I tore open a bag of ice that was melting fast in the parking lot and stuffed the coolers I brought full. We were back at our cheap hotel before eight ‘o clock.

“What time is he coming here?” I asked eagerly.

“He’s calling now,” Ashley whipped the phone to her ear but spoke indifferently into it. “Hi…Yeah, yeah we’re awake…I told you to start leaving earlier, we’ve been ready.”

I could overhear his gruff voice in the quiet room say: “I thought you would take forever getting ready.”

“We’re just going to the beach.”

“Tell him we already went shopping and got beer,” I said nudging her.

She did, in her own way, and the line fell silent so Ashley laughed to fill in the space. Pressured by our readiness he sounded louder, like he was moving around now, “Did you guys decide where you wanted to go?”

“Well, we don’t know what’s good—you live here.”

“—Right-right.”

“Other than Isle of Palms.”

“Yeah Isle of Palms is nice, there is a lot of places we can go closer to your hotel like Red’s. But I-, how long did you guys plan on staying at the beach?”

Ashley darted her eyes at me and I said with a shrug, “Two hours…three tops.”

We met him out front under the portico where he was practically naked, changing into his beach clothes next to a shiny new Bronco. We shook hands once he got his shirt on.

“Hey Will, good to see you man,” I said looking up.

“Good to see you too. How was the drive down? Hey Ashley.”

They side-hugged and it never got less amusing to witness the difference between them. Will possessed the stature that made me feel short, but he wore it well. Unlike some lanky creatures that were uncomfortable to be around, like their height was the latest contagion from Wuhan.

“Pretty good. A little tired this morning, but what a perfect day.”

“Yes it is. You can nap on the beach.”

We did the dreaded sand march that every beachgoer lamented over; the one that felt grueling as a child, for it was the first time, or among the very first, that the veil of leisure had been stripped away. There was no clearer picture into the shameless agony of adulthood than an awkward, sandy, metal frame of a beach chair pointedly struck into the achilles. None of us had that problem this time though, for we knew better than to drag it behind our backs.

One by one our chairs sprawled out against the foothills of the dunes. The beach was crowded, but nothing like Point Pleasant or Seaside we’d grown accustomed to. This was a nice crowded. We cracked a couple beers and looked on in rapture. Where the crest of the waves met with the painted sky, it beckoned us to take a closer view. Will said he would sit for a while and told us to go on.

Ashley and I meandered through the vibrant sand and umbrellas to greet the ocean. It was gentle on our feet, like bathwater, an impossible sensation we had yet to experience. As the sting of the salt was absent. I held her in my arms looking out, thinking to myself how God must’ve favored me. Like a sail, her hair caught in the wind and caressed my face. We eventually walked down the strip and admired the houses. There was a beach bar a few walkovers down from where Will was.

“You want me to get you a Pina Colada?”

She returned with her meek refusal that she was effortless on, which always told me she did. I met her back and she was stretched out on her towel, tanning, while Will spoke with his Dad on the phone—the tropical drink was for her alongside a cup of water meant for him.

“Figured you’d need to hydrate,” I said.

“Get that sh— away from me,” he quipped back.

Having understood of my opportunistic mania, I felt compelled to face the ocean full-on. After all, summer was at its crux and what I considered of a perfect beach day had aptly materialized: mild humidity, morning UV’s, a swirling mixture of clouds, flirtatious breeze, all with the love of my life—and Will. I would’ve been foolish not to indulge with the bobbing and weaving of whatever the ocean threw at me.

For the better part of an hour I was enveloped in the waves. Ever since I was young it fascinated me. Surely there were patterns, a natural rhythm like a metronome of the tide, held accountable by the lunar conductor. However, there were also discrepancies. A broken one would come early; a larger one would bring another shrouded in its wake. There were diagonal ripples to endlessly hurdle, and it was a suspicion of mine that these sequences were not random—but the ridges of a divine fingerprint, left behind for us to trace. Why then did it bring such profound relief as if I was home?

Eventually I brought myself back to where my feet could touch and Ashley scolded me for going out so far.

“I was trying to get your attention for like half an hour,” she said.

“Sorry honey! It was my only time in the ocean and I was having fun—it’s not that late is it?”

It ended up being around two hours we were at the beach, but to her credit, it did feel much longer. Will delighted in our return since we were eager to carry on.

“That’s how I like the beach,” he proclaimed, with eyebrows poking above his Gucci sunglasses. “A couple hours to hang out, drink a beer, swim, and then go. Some people wanna spend the whole f—— day here. I get bored.”

We regrouped at his three-bedroom bachelor pad where we showered, changed into nicer threads, and ate some gas station chicken. I putted around on his indoor green with a club more expensive than my entire outfit. The turf of which stretched from the screened-in porch through the living area where a cockeyed flatscreen streamed the Mets game Will had money on—a desperate parlay soon to be lost. It was also where we pregamed with beatboxes and beer over a drinking game called “Ride the Bus”. His brindle pitbull, Flex, much like Ophelia, was a senior dog who seemingly encouraged this destructive behavior.

“This would be the perfect time for an a——,” Will said rubbing his eyes.

“What are you getting tired?”

“I’m always tired.”

“Well Derek’s never done any of that,” my wife interjected before they were produced.

However, this only piqued his interest more. He straightened up in his chair in sort of a dignified way and said: “What better time than at Shem’s for your first—just do a half.”

I chuckled in the sheer mischief of it. For many other times they dangled seductively on a line, and the sales pitch always tickled me. But before I could say anything, another one came, in a well-rehearsed solicitor’s whisper.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you except feel amazing. The fireworks start at what time? At Patriots Point—, 8:30-9? So if we take it around 4-5 you’re not gonna get tired from all the alcohol later. When I take it, it balances everything out and then I’m social and happy—conversation is easy. You’ll be vibing about 7, quarter after.”

There was always a lot of time keeping in that supplement culture. “I have a problem shutting the hell up when I drink,” I admitted, raising my beatbox. “This is my a——.”

“Alright, but you better not fall asleep on me.”

Parking space was limited when we arrived, as Shem’s was steadily filling out. Even the marina looked stuffy from the pier. With pairs of vessels docked on either side, it left just enough room so that ships could pass through. A tight, nearly perilous squeeze, yet I was reluctant to feel too much sympathy for them—they could float home, which was always preferable when abusing alcohol.

Red’s Ice House carried this mentality well, like a server who carried their student loans on a drink tray; the longer they paid them off, the better off they got. Besides, there was a bloody bar every twenty feet in this dim shanty hole. I practically stumbled into my first drink trying to find the bathroom.

We sidled along the worn floorboards, through an open doorway that left the clamped overheard ceiling behind. A gentle hint of boat fumes tickled my nose and it brought me wondrous memories of childhood fishing adventures on Lake Ontario. Will casually asked if we wanted to go to the upper deck which also had a bar. There was a modest line in front of the adjacent stairs for capacity reasons so we waited in it.

His friend, Kenny, accompanied us also for the night. He had a kind smile, infectious at times. Well-kept dreads that styled his baseball cap higher on his head. I believed he worked for Will in a sales position.

“I’m not much of a drinker, but when I do—it’s this.”

He was pointing to a second pineapple vodka that could’ve easily passed as his first: “I don’t f— with whiskey, gin, Campari, any of that dry sh—. A beer is okay with the guys but-, I like to drink what the ladies are drinking!”

A group of frat rats came down a little too slow for my liking. They kept glancing back at each other as if for reassurance, or perhaps they knew how suddenly their rat king acted on some voluntary poison. When it was finally our turn, we hiked up a few zigzags and elbowed through to the far right corner where we poked our heads up to breathe. Will didn’t have to however, as he towered over everyone, grabbing them by the back of their necks if he needed them to move. Ashley and I joked about it as he bought us another round because he didn’t have to reach up or even across to do so. Instead, his arm mindlessly fell forward like one clasped a remote to change the channel.

“Nothin’ wrong with another short plane ride through the sky, you and I—Lost, lost in the heat of it all.” — Frank Ocean

And as the drinks kept flowing, the more the channel changed. Fireworks were slated to begin within an hour. I saw the warship at Patriots Point resting now in orange water. Four-engine yachts piled an additional row to the harbor and if someone there wanted to come ashore they had to traverse over two other boats. Everyone was getting snug. Even the upper deck felt like we were testing capacity.

“What are we doing for dinner—should we get oysters?” I said.

“Kenny and I gotta piss, then we can grab food. You can’t order it up here.”

“Should we hold this spot?”

“Guard it with your life.”

Fifty minutes went by and we agreed they weren’t worth much more. After all, a gaggle of Charleston blondes swallowed them whole with their rears. Ashley’s face wrinkled in contempt since our feet had been resting on the bottom rungs that we kept closely against our own. Phones were being thrown around to find an angle that didn’t include our miserable faces. If we stayed any longer we risked the likelihood of taking a shot and not the kind we had been enjoying much of the holiday.

We frantically stepped downstairs to find them, scanning around for that shaved head to surface like some sort of dorsal fin. It was of no use. What once might’ve been a distinguishable feature in the north, a coveted one at that, had been utterly ransacked by homegrown good ‘ol boys that frequented these parts. Moreover, I recounted Ashley shouting in my ear: “What, is everyone in the south six-foot-two in a trucker hat?!”

“Let’s beat this crowd closer to the fireworks!”

I led her across the arched bridge and along the pier until the crowd thinned out past Muddy’s. It was a colorful tiki bar with distressed wooden elements, strictly by design. They had a live rock band pounding the strings and skins which drew in any remaining stragglers. Not many of them knew this, but there was a separate bar in the back that was more secluded with an excellent view.

Dusk lit a faint glow on the marsh beneath us where the heaviness of the wind burrowed in the grass, cascading throughout it. We followed the meandering boardwalk to a sand island that started up another. Not even fifty more feet we found a cozy spot on the railing and watched the fireworks start. I looked back to the heart of Shem’s where all the twinkling lights reflected off calm water, residential homes showcased their own stash in the sky, a kiss from Ashley; it was a great day to be an American.

As the show tapered off, we still hadn’t heard from Will or Kenny. I imagined they were pretty loaded. My stomach growled as Ash tried him one more time—no answer. I was sober enough to drive to Moe’s and eventually our hotel. We were heading back inside when Ashley noticed a grey Bronco parked with its lights on.

“Oh my God, he’s here??”

“That’s not his, he had a blue one,” I said assuredly.

“No he didn’t, go over and look in the window,” she insisted.

“I’m not doing that! What if-, it’s a stranger—it’s gonna look weird. The car is running so whoever is in there is getting ready to leave.”

The windows were also tinted which made it impossible to see at this hour. Reluctantly, Ashley followed me back to the room and we ate burritos and passed out.

When I awoke, Ashley said Will had texted her around two ‘o clock in the morning with only one word: “F—.”

The story later came out that when they went downstairs to use the bathroom Kenny puked and refused to get off of the floor. Will was bringing him water when a pair of bouncers dragged him out of the building and onto the curb. Will ordered him an Uber and he went home where Kenny said he slept by his toilet. By the time Will returned, the line to the upper deck was too long so he decided to stay at the bottom and wait it out. A carousel of Jack and Cokes went down easy and before long he had forgotten what he was waiting for, so he downed some more.

In a miraculous glimpse of sobriety, he placed an Uber to go home only to realize halfway through, as his stupor wavered, that his car was back at our hotel. He informed the driver of his situation but to the driver it probably sounded like he was choking on his tongue, so he dropped him off at a local Spinx—which was a gas station chain in South Carolina. There he got a different Uber that finally brought him to our hotel, got into his car and knocked out. He texted Ashley at two when his head was pounding and he drove home.

We all reconvened at Shem’s later that afternoon. I had the bartender make a Dark and Stormy while Ashley pecked at a fresh Daiquiri. They walked over to us, slow and straight-faced, near the spot where it all happened.

Toasting my glass I jeered the first thing that came to mind: “Once a Shem always a Shem!”

Nobody knew what that meant, but it sounded cool.