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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 30, 2004 || 6:10 pm

Vacation Journals, part two

Friday, five twenty-five pee emm

There is a khaki-and-white clad family a dozen members deep that are here to capture photographic, beachy memories.

I am quite drunk and want to holler vile things at them.

Thus far, I’ve been a model of restraint and have not done so. I’ll watch them with a creepy look on my face instead.

pee ess…I really-really-really want to hop into frame at the last second and make rude gestures or bunny ears over the grandpa or something. I even offered my mom-in-law ten bucks to do so, and she threatened me: If I give in to my baser nature I’ll be banished to the condo for the next four days. Any takers? Ten bucks! Ten bu-uhhhcks!

pee pee ess…one of the girls stares at me. She seems, for all intents and purposes, to be Damien’s twin. She is far creepier than any eight-year-old has a right to be.

pee pee pee ess…DevilGirl en familia are headed to frolic cutely in the surf for a Spontaneous Kodak Momenttm. I think, as a show of my Evil Supremacytm over them, that I will not warn them of today’s frequent jellyfish attacks/stingings on this region o’ the beach. It is supposed to be a private beach, after all. The memory-hoarding fucks.

peepeepeepee ess…the seagulls are a nice touch. Maybe they will read my thought impressions (oh, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, where art thou whenst neededeth?) and poop on the family.

Friday, five forty-three pee emm

I just remembered!…arcade night at Orange Beach! I will fully kick Samuel’s arse at most any game(s) of his choosing! Also, Scout and I will play at Mini Go-Kart Race of Death!

(Mathias is fun with his spirited approach to Whack-A-Mole, as well)

(Maxim and I will play at whacking other things later)

Friday, ten-twenty pee emm

The kids view souvenir shopping as mandatory on these yearly beach excursions. I’ve not told them that everything stamped or embroidered with ‘Gulf Shores’ is made in China; they’ll find out on their own soon enough. They are old enough to this year, so they immediately scatter from all parental-type relations when we hit the doors to the place. I find myself separated from Maxim, lost in a sea of tee-shirts and puka shell jewelry.

It is at the very back of the store where he finds me. He is five (for some reason the fives are always drawn to me…I reckon they sense a similar mentality to theirs housed in this five-ten frame), thick as a tree trunk, sporting mussed hair.

He’s holding a foam sun visor with the front end of a turtle hanging off its brim. We are –remarkably– the only patrons for thirty square feet. He locks onto me visually and exclaims, “Hey! Whyn’tcha see how this snappin’ turtle feels on yore fanger?” He is squeezing the mouth into a wide-open yaw and closing the eight feet between us rapidly.

“No, no, little guy…I think I’ll take a pass.” He pulls up short some four feet away.

“Okay then, but c’mere.”

“What for?” I am the slightest bit cynical, five or no.

“I need to tell you something.” His voice has a dusky quality to it for him to be so young. I step within a foot of him.

He flaps his hand toward himself, “Closer.”

I bend slightly. He is starting to lose patience.

“Clohhhh-sser.” I’m gonna get the turtle, I just know it, but I bend further near him anyway. Fast as a shot, his hand darts out, finds flat purchase at the nape of my neck, yanks me further downward. He is surprisingly strong (“Help! HELLLLP! I’m being accosted by a wee one!”); I suppose most tree trunks are.

“Listen,” he begins, lips near-touching my ear, “if you go out that door there, turn, then pass the ice cream parlor, they have crabs.” I think he means sell crabs –yes, most probably he means they sell crabs– but I don’t hazard a correction.

“You should go get me one n’brang it back here.” He says hee-yur. I am in love with this bold little turd.

“Ahhhhh…I don’t think I can do that.”

His hand is still corralling me up by his face. “No really, it’s easy. I can walk you to the door and point to where.” Way-ur.

“No, I mean I can’t just up and leave. My people will lose track of me and be upset.”

“Oh yeah, I get you.” I get you! Street-savvy, ‘I get you’! I want to collapse into a heap of amused tourist.

“Hey, where’s your momma and daddy?” Why aren’t they keeping a closer eye? I’m annoyed with them, these slipshod parents; I am mildly indignant on Treetrunk’s behalf. My job has ruined me completely, made me the worst kind of suspicious and distrustful.

He thumbs toward one of the indoor kiosks. Mom is apparently in charge of ‘old-timey photos’ and is hip-deep in about thirty loudly cawing people. Oh, the humanity.

“Look, you need to be careful of who you talk to, okay?”

“Yeah, my dad tells me about them stranger-people. I think if a stranger is mean, though, they won’t like me very much and they’ll leave me alone.”

to be continued

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