The Lost Summer
The Lost Summer
Harry Mayer
Jersey Shore. Summer of 1977
A midsummer night breeze kicks an empty paper cup down the boardwalk. Lightning flashes over the ocean, no thunder, just an occasional flicker. I pass the Midway Steakhouse where Jimbo the fry cook cleans the grill. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. Droplets sizzle when they hit the hot iron. Jimbo scours the grill like a deck hand scraping barnacles in a boatyard. The steakhouse smells of fried peppers, onions, and rancid grease. My stomach growls. I forgot to eat again. Jimbo calls, “Are you coming tonight?”
“Where?”
“There’s a party tonight at White Beach, across from Bum Rogers.”
“Cool. Who’s going to be there?"
“You know, just local kids. Joey ‘Long Board’ brought some Panama Red back from Florida. Hey, are you looking for work? George quit last night. Tony needs a counter guy.”
“No, I’m not going to waste my summer working. I’m just going to hang on the boards and surf.”
I continue down the boardwalk in a haze turning at Kohr’s Frozen Custard. The bright neon signs start going out. One by one owners shutter their stands for the night. The prize wheel at Union Jacks has stopped clicking. The boardwalk is dark now and quiet. The only remaining light comes from streetlights. Confused moths craving sunlight dance in their glow.
I sit on a park bench at the end of Funtown Amusement Pier waiting for Sandy to finish her shift. An overweight mechanic in a dirty white T-shirt works on the Tilt-A-Whirl. His sweaty shirt rides up displaying his plumber’s crack. He curses as he crawls under the ride to inject grease into the zerk fittings. Red hydraulic fluid bleeds from the ride’s pistons. It creates a puddle that seeps into the wooden planks.
Is this the best job Sandy could get? A witch? A freakin’ funhouse witch. She knows what the boardwalk’s like after closing. All the drunks. Frat boys with beer muscles. Guidos with gold chains. Everyone looking to score.
Sandy appears carrying a large canvass bag. When she passes through the chain-link fence surrounding Satan's Funhouse her bag snags on a cheesy plywood spider fastened to the gate. It jerks her shoulder back. She sees me. Pauses. Then makes a thin-lipped smile. “Billy, what are you doing here?”
“I heard you got a new job. I wanted to see how you’re doing. You know there’s a lot of freaks on the boardwalk this time of night.”
“I know, but I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.”
“I know you can, but I was hanging out on the boards anyway, so I figured what the Hell.”
She sets her bag on the bench, then takes off a black wig. Shaking her head from side to side she fluffs her shoulder-length blond hair. After opening a jar of Noxzema, Sandy slathers the smelly white cream on her face. The green grease paint blends with her dark eye shadow; it turns to a thick brown goo. It looks like her face is melting. She wipes the gunk off with an old towel, scrubbing her face clean. After looking in a handheld mirror, she says. “That’s better.” Then she slips out of her long black dress that covers her halter top and too short cut-offs.
Sandy stuffs everything into her bag and says, "Since you’re here, do you want to do something?”
“Sure, Jimbo told me there’s a party at White Beach. You want to go?”
“Do you think Robbie Dawson is going to be there?”
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Ok, why not. It sounds like fun.”
We start walking to White Beach. Why did she ask about Robbie? Doesn’t she remember how he tormented her in middle school?
I ask, “What are you going to do when summer’s over?”
“I decided to go to Ocean County College.”
"Don't tell me. You're going to be a theater major.”
She laughs. “Of course, what else? Then she asks, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
I pretend like I didn’t hear her. “Why did you ask about Robbie? You know what a jerk he is. I guess you forgot how he treated you in middle school.”
She looks down. After a long pause, she says, “That was a long time ago. Robbie’s not like that anymore.”
“No, Robbie’s a big football hero now. What a tool. Come on, tell me you can’t be interested in that jock?”
“It’s just, well, I heard he broke up with Katie Crenshaw.”
At White Beach we kick off our shoes and walk toward the ocean. The beach sand is cold, and it sticks between my sweaty toes. A beach fire burns between the dunes and the surf. Orange and yellow flames lick the sky. Embers swirl in the dark like fireflies, and a transistor radio blasts heavy metal. The fire silhouettes ghostly images of dancing teenagers. It’s tribal. Couples are making out, grinding against each other on the beach. Smoke blows in my face. It stings my eyes.
Jimbo shouts. “Billy Bong, you made it. What's happening man.” Then he takes a long drag on a joint. He holds his breath and makes a throaty cough. He passes it to me and says, “Toke up, dude.”
The skunky smoke fills my lungs; it burns a little and makes my throat sore. I hold my breath waiting for the weed to do its magic. Coughing, I pass the joint to Sandy. We sit in the sand, get high, and chill.
A loud voice comes from behind the dunes. "Everybody put your hands in the air. This is a raid. You’re all under arrest.”
Two paranoid kids start running down the beach. Finally, a teenager on the other side of the fire says, “Damn. Robbie, you scared the Hell out of us.”
Robbie laughs and grabs a beer from a Styrofoam cooler.
Jimbo starts giggling. "Man, do you believe this guy. It’s the middle of the freakin’ summer and he's still wearing his football jersey. I bet that dude sleeps in it.” It strikes me as funny too.
Robbie sees us laughing and says, “What are you two stoners laughing at.”
“Nothing.” Jimbo bursts out laughing again. Then he says, “Hey man, you want a hit?”
Sandy interrupts, “Don’t pay any attention to them.” Then she says, “My brother told me you’re going to Penn State in the fall.”
“Yeah, I got a football scholarship. Coach Paterno needs us in State College by the end of the month.”
Robbie sits on the beach next to Sandy. I instantly become the invisible man.
She says, “I heard you broke up with Katie Crenshaw.”
“That bitch? Yeah, we're through."
Jimbo passes me a bottle of Boones Farm Strawberry Hill. I chug the sweet wine. It goes down easy. I give the bottle to Sandy. Shaking her head she says, "No thanks." I pass it to Robbie. He laughs, “Man, my little sister drinks that piss water." Then he chugs the rest of his beer.
Lightning flashes at sea—followed by a far-off rumble of thunder. I turn to talk to Sandy, but she’s gone. I watch her dancing by the fire with Robbie. They dance slow. She melts into him laying her head on his chest while he gently strokes her hair. His hands roam down to the small of her back. He easily slips his hands down the back of her shorts. Robbie grabs her ass and forcefully pulls her close.
My jaw tightens as I grip the bottle of Boones Farm. I chug the remaining half a bottle and toss it on the ground. Jimbo passes me another joint. He says, “Take another hit brother. Don't worry dude. She’ll be back.” When I turn to look for her, she’s gone.
I’m tired. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Instead, I lay in the soft sand, close my eyes, and fall asleep. When my eyes finally open, Sandy is sitting alone. She doesn’t look at me. Her body is stiff, her knees clenched together tightly. She stares in silence at the fire. It seems like she has been crying. I want to comfort her; tell her everything is going to be ok. I want to tell her, but I don’t. Instead, I take a joint out of my shirt pocket, smoke it, and pass out on the beach.
It’s the cold offshore breeze that wakes me, that burst of wind that comes before a squall. The beach is empty. The fire has died, just a few remaining hot coals that hiss when the raindrops hit them. A clap of thunder and a flash of lightning. A storm blows in from sea. I get up and start walking home. The sidewalks are empty as sheets of rain flood the street. I walk the deserted sidewalks at sunrise.
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