Incidental Episodes of Drifting Nostalgia

You lie here, face plastered against the greasy wood of the chipped, splintering bench. You have been lying here for hours, watching the Ocean City boardwalk. The flocks of beach police that patrol the area ignore you; they are too busy scouring the sand for hooligan, pot-smoking teens and late night skinny-dippers. No one is allowed on the beach at night. You know this because you have been here all summer.

Mothers in their late thirties pass by on their way to the carnival at the end of the boardwalk. Their legs jiggle of corn-dogs and french-fries. They give you disdainful looks as they pass with their screaming, whining children. You dismiss them as they pass by. They are just another aspect of the boardwalk, and the boardwalk never changes. Every summer, all summer you see the exact same people over and over again. The only things that change are their faces.

The light breeze of the day has turned into a chilly evening wind. It swirls off of the ocean, sending dampness into the air. You are glad that you remembered to wear a sweatshirt. Even in August the beach isn't always warm.

Teenage girls strut up and down the shabby boardwalk. They wear tube tops and mini skirts with their platform sandals. Giggling excitedly to each other they don't seem to notice the cool evening air. Think: Sluts don't get cold. Laugh a little bit. Watch the girls and boys pair off. No surprises here, you watch this mating ritual every day. Tourist teens meet and fuck and never see each other again. They call it a "summer fling." Roll your eyes. Feel superior. Shrug your shoulders from your lying position. Feel a little bit lonely. Feel jealous.

You see a girl who looks about eighteen. She has long brown hair and a mousy looking face. She wears baggy overalls and a tank top. You like the way she walks. Her stride is both confident and self-conscious at the same time. You like the way she looks straight ahead as she delicately picks her way across the crowded boardwalk. Her fingers graze the people she passes in such a way that you wonder if she touches them to prove her own existence to herself. She walks right up next to your bench. Realize that you are staring. Hope that she didn't notice you watching her. Hope that she did.

She places a hand on your bench. Her fingers brush against the top of your knee and you feel surprised but not violated. "May I sit here?" Her voice is like low note on a violin. It sounds like a whisper, like a song, like a command. A pause and then a puzzled expression passes over her face. It takes you a moment to grasp that she is speaking to you.

Raise your eyebrows and stammer out "Yes." Feel your face warm with embarrassment at the sound of your creaky stammer. As you sit up you hear the vertebrae in your back crack. Wonder how long you have been lying on the bench. Move your legs into a seated position. Scoot to the left-hand side of the bench. She sits down on the far right. She smells like salt water and roses. Wonder whether or not you should talk to her. Feel nervous. Feel excited. Feel nervous.

You watch her wind and unwind a strand of hair around her index finger. She is looking straight ahead. She seems to be people watching. Look straight ahead, but keep the corner of your eye on her. Pretend to be amused by the same boring, clich�d tourists that you have scorned all summer.

You can't people watch for long. The buzzing, the ringing, the chirping of the arcade distracts you. Lights flash from the seventy-five-cents-a-play video games. Feel dizzy. Remember why you had to lie down in the first place. Close your eyes and try not to hallucinate. Wish for the three hundred and twenty-third time that you hadn't taken those hits of acid. Attempt to will yourself back down from your trip. Open your eyes and look at your feet. Close your eyes. Rub your eyes. Open your eyes. Smack yourself in the forehead. Remember the girl next to you. Glance over at her. She is still looking ahead. Hope that she didn't watch you hit yourself. Hope that she did. Wish for her to talk to you. Massage your face with your hands. Massage your temples.

Look at the feet of the girl next to you. She is wearing beat up old Pumas with ankle socks. The socks bear the emblem RL. Wonder if those are her initials. Laugh softly to yourself because you realize that RL stands for Ralph Lauren. She is wearing Ralph Lauren socks. You find that incredibly funny. Laugh a bit more loudly. Put your hands over your mouth. RL, RL, RL, socks. It is suddenly hysterical that the girl next to you wears socks with another person's initials on them.

As you bring your eyes up from the ground you notice that the girl is facing you. She looks nervous. She wears the look of a person realizing that the one sitting on the bench next to them might not be "all there." She looks alarmed and perhaps slightly afraid. Know that you scared the girl on the bench. Feel shy. Feel a little sad. Feel lonely. Attempt to smile at her. Smile without showing your teeth. She seems to look right through you. Then she cocks an eyebrow and shows a shadow of a smile. She moves her hands to her lap slowly and crosses her legs. The way she moves reminds you of the way a person moves around a rabid dog. Smile more broadly. Nod enthusiastically. Attempt to look friendly. The girl next to you offers a half smile. Begin to grin. Nod more vigorously. She leans away from you. Feel the need to gain her trust. Look past the panicked expression on her face. Use body language to show that you are a good person. Lean in her direction and give her a friendly wink.

Decide to talk to her. Chicken out. Open your mouth. Close it. You are very aware that you look like a lunatic. You are also aware that the repetitive opening and closing of your mouth makes you resemble a bass. The girl looks back and fourth very rapidly across the boardwalk. Notice that her head moves in time with the music that is playing nearby. You wonder if she is looking for someone. A friend perhaps? You want to be her friend.

She has turned her back toward you. Her long tresses sweep gently back and fourth across her back. They move to the rhythm of the ocean. You want to touch her hair. You want to twirl it between your fingers. You want to smell it.

Take a deep breath. Swallow the tightness that has formed in your throat. Ignore the uneasiness of your stomach. Take a deep breath. Without quite knowing what you are doing, you reach out and tap the girl on her shoulder. Her shoulder jerks at your touch, as if you stabbed her. She turns and faces you with the smooth motion of a person seated on a swivel chair.

"H-h-h-hello," you stutter. Look down at your lap. Feel really embarrassed of your speech impediment. Curse your parents for never sending you to speech therapy. Look longingly into the girl's eyes.

The girl smiles and suddenly you feel better. You see real warmth in her smile. She reminds you of summer camp and ice cream sundaes. "Hello," she answers you. Feel warm all over. Feel good. Feel accomplished.

You notice that her eyes are blue-gray. They are the color of the ocean. They feel friendly and forgiving. They are looking directly over your shoulder. They are looking directly over your shoulder. They are looking directly over your shoulder. Look over your shoulder. All you see is the darkness of the beach and the blackness of the water. There is no one behind you. Wonder if the girl next to you is mad. There is no one behind you. Wonder if she talks to invisible people. There is no one behind you. Wonder what drugs she has taken tonight.

Look at her face. She has a very nice face. Her cheekbones are defined but balanced with a prominent chin. Her eyebrows are thick where they ought to be and thin where they ought to be. They arch at the perfect angle. The sprinkles of freckles across her pointed nose remind you of fairy footprints. She is suddenly beautiful.

"You are b-b-beautiful." Feel thick and dumb for blurting that out. Pinch yourself on the leg. Pinch it again, hard. Blame the sudden outburst on the acid. Feel the discomfort of your drug-soaked brain. Discontinue feeling perplexed as the drug sweeps over you for a moment. Everything scrambles and unscrambles before your eyes. Your eyes finally refocus on the girl who sits on the bench next to you. To your surprise she smiles. Her shoulders rise up and then fall down in an embarrassed shrug. A light, musical laugh tumbles from her lips. You notice she has dimples, you like them. Her fingers fold and unfold as if agitated. They dance in her lap. She seems to be restraining her fingers from climbing all over the bench. "Thank you." She is still looking over your shoulder. She raises a hand. It is delicate, made of porcelain, made of glass. She reaches her hand forward. For a moment you think she is going to touch your face. You know that she isn't going to touch your face. Her dainty hand pauses inches away from your cheek. "May I?" she asks.

Nod. Her hand hovers in front of you. Nod again. Smile warmly and nod a third time.

"May I?" she asks again.

"Yes," you say, pleased that you did not stutter this time. Your heart vibrates and a chill slowly creeps up your spine. Her hand moves against your cheek. She feels like silk. Her fingertips are feathers against your sun-beaten skin. You love the touch of her. Her hand glows under the boardwalk lamplight. The glow shifts colors and textures. Know the illumination of her skin is from the acid. Wish that it wasn't. Wish that the glow of her touch were really insight to her soul.

You do not want to interrupt the moment. You interrupt anyway. "Why are you t-t-t-touching my f-f-f-f-f-f-f-face?" you ask.

Her fingers pause. "So I can see you."

The gears in your mind screech to a halt. You are rusty, un-oiled. You do not understand. Become confused. Become a little frightened. Grab her wrists a little too roughly. Move her hands away from your face. Open your eyes. Feel your eyes slant. Feel suspicious. Examine her palms for eyeballs. You do not find traces of eyeballs on her hands, but under the dim light the creases on her palms shift to dark ridges, shift to worms, shift to snakes. Drop her hands quickly, as though they have burned you.

Slowly stand up and back away from the bench. Her hands still hover in the air. She wears a somewhat alarmed, somewhat hurt expression on her face. She reaches her right hand out for you. Watch her pat the air. Watch her rub her hand against the bench. Become afraid.

She calls out to you. Her voice has lost its music. It has lost its laugher. It sounds lost. Her hands move around almost frantically. She calls out to you again. Her voice trembles. She sounds afraid. Her voice becomes high pitched, painful to listen to. You can no longer understand the girl on the bench. She is scary, demented, deranged.

Walk away quickly. Do not look back. Head away from the carnival, the stench of cotton candy and greasy popcorn. Head away from the overpriced T-shirt stands and head shops. Your legs move fast across the wooden slats of the boardwalk. Feel the pull of your speed. Your rhythm is as smooth as being on wheels. You could be flying. You are standing still and the boardwalk itself is moving the carnival further and further away.

The wind is blowing a bit harder and you pull the hood up on your sweatshirt. You are happy that you had the foresight to wear an extra layer. Sometimes it's cold in August. Circles of fifteen-year old girls stand gossiping in short-shorts and bikini tops. They do not seem to notice the chill in the air. Smile to yourself. Sluts don't get cold.

Middle aged women with their crying children in tow brush past you roughly in their haste toward the carnival. A little girl is lifted brutally by a hand and spanked in mid-air. Her tiny body quivers as it is set back down. Her gumdrop eyes fill with wet and animalesque yelps escape her lips.

Put your head down and concentrate on your flight from the girl on the bench. Pass 12th Street. Pass 13th street. Head for a street in the upper teens. Search out the darkness. Search for quiet. Search for seclusion. You reach the 19th Street alley. Find a bench. Sit down. Try not to look at anything for too long. Hope to come down soon.