Regardless where you are, something important is always happening. It’s just that you cannot possibly always know — indeed, will usually have extremely misguided notions concerning — where to properly allocate your attention. Attempts at assigning importance or even forcibly shoehorning importance onto an event are convoluted and may possibly backfire. One must simply pay attention, and hope revelation eventually washes over him. So it is that from this weekend, we will bring home, between us, what I would call exactly one major development, and no more than that. However, nobody has the tiniest inkling what this will be at the time, would never have sifted through all this sand and settled upon this single grain as the answer. Which takes months to determine, anyway, before this is revealed.
Saturday morning arrives, says a groggy fool with the singular viewpoint of having slept on a floor, both all too soon and not soon enough, somehow. As of my awakening, Dennis, Karen, and even Monica have improbably already gotten up and gone to breakfast. Dylan has dipped out for a stroll, scoping out the island’s luscious scenery, before returning to check on my progress, and in fact it’s the slamming door of his return that jostles me from my slumber. By now it’s after ten and I feel like the day is wasting, that this is a surprisingly poor showing from me and my reputation might take a hit as a result.
What would Pete Ravage have to say about this, re: Big Dog status? Surely a mouthful. He’s been on this kick lately declaring who is and is not a “Big Dog” based upon their drinking ability, in conjunction with sleep patterns that follow. So he would surely not approve. Then again, I have this vision that were he here, he would be stretched out atop the blankets on one of the beds right now. Fully clothed, sure, but prone, arms crossed behind his head and watching TV. Eyes occasionally, surreptitiously closing for suspicious lengths of time, should anyone notice. But still sorting people into canine categories, yes, whenever the subject emerges.
The weekend’s remainder will pass all too soon, in a rum enhanced blur. We grab breakfast at a seaside café where some Eastside Jeff guy is already setting up his music equipment. Back at the room, we encounter our first major dose of Marcia’s weird hangups, like positively flipping out if we don’t all put the toilet lid down, because germs Lear jet themselves through the air otherwise. To combat if not totally drown out her shrillness, we fire up the blender for some early morning daiquiris.
Ditching the remainder of our roommates, Dylan and I wind up chipping in with four others on a golf cart, exploring every orifice of this fine island, at least the non-human ones. With Dave at the wheel, Sally shotgun, Janice and Debbie mostly in the middle seats, this breezy yet gloomy early afternoon first involves a trip to Perry’s towering monument. Just before climbing aboard the elevator, for a gander from the observation deck, we learn that six soldiers were buried underneath the thing. Then on the way back down, Dylan pinches Janice’s ass, causing her to jump and squeal with a sudden newfound admiration.
As our de facto guide, Dave points out to us, in passing, the bar which suffered the legendary patio collapse. Though not a cop, he reminds me of one for some reason, externally gruff until you get to know him, at which point he displays a fondness for cheesy wisecracks, many involving his pet name for female breasts, melons, which he breaks out often. A bit doughy and pale, sporting short, near buzz cut black hair, and even the little cop mustache you would expect.
We cruise to a winery for their tour, sit at a stone table behind it sipping samples first and then making actual purchases, we take turns sharing semi-amusing tales in rapidfire, roundhouse fashion. Sally continually shakes her head and says, “too funny…that is too too funny,” instead of actually laughing at anything. Also some journey to a cave that they tell us is the largest geode in the world. Finally, having wound up at the opposite end of the island, we venture through the state park gates which are wide open at this hour, cruise around in vain searching for the Jodies, to no avail.
Upon our return to town, early evening considerations have taken hold, though dinner is not yet one of them. At the Beer Barrel, which is absolutely jumping, a much more uproarious and wide ranging cover band blows the roof off. Their drummer has a broken leg and is augmented by a second percussionist. They are playing Smooth when we arrive, though the highlight is maybe a Going To California where the keyboard player sings for a change. Reunited with Dennis, the three of us meet an equal number of ladies, in the form of Darlene, Gayle, and some other nice looking, short brunette with a solid body. They invite us to meet them at some place called Sidesaddle Inn later, whose name alone makes me wonder if we shouldn’t have worn our country outfits instead, or at least packed them.
Actually, this is not the first time that has occurred to me. Though we learned this lesson toward the tail end of our cowboy adventures, we jumped right in and made that same brand of mistake this weekend. We crack ourselves up assembling these outrageous getups, acting on the theory that they will help us stand out more…then patronize the only places where such costumes are guaranteed to assimilate us right into the background. It’s too late now, but clearly throwing on the boots and spurs would have made a greater visual impact this weekend. Or the wedding rings. In reality, dressing like cowboys and wearing the wedding rings, now that would have presented an unbeatable combination.
Dennis disappears before we ever leave this bar. Which seems odd, considering that we do have this legitimate lead with that other trio of ladies. Back at the hotel, to refresh and reassess, we are not exactly astounded to observe that he is already passed out in bed. Snickering, I snap his picture, then we dip down to the poolside bar — which is right along the way, after all — and order a pizza to go with our rum n’ cokes. Now it’s our turn to meet a couple of girls from Michigan, although we are pressed for time and can’t exactly justify ditching those other prospects in favor of these even flimsier ones.
Sidesaddle Inn winds up as just another wood paneled seaside shack of a bar, albeit one which feels Irish almost, thanks to the lone guy singing and playing acoustic. He has that brogue about his voice, even when belting beachy numbers, or popular singalongs, though it’s true that he does throw in at least one traditional Celtic drinking song. He’s truly amazing at his craft, and these girls are even right where they said they’d be, a pair of promising miracles. Darlene is the most forward of the three and I think has the most potential, so I focus on her, which of course means dissing her as much as possible. Gayle and the other brunette drift over to say hello, too, and we learn that they all three arrived here via their own boat. All merely closing chapters in another fiery car crash of a night, one which concludes with the bar closing and me asking Darlene if we can continue this party on their boat or if not there, then elsewhere, to which she says no. As consolations, we are only given phone numbers, which I have a hunch are useless.
Defeated, we head back to the room, figuring the only thing left to do now is fire up the blender and curse the reasons we ever agreed to this overrated trip. The primary issues are a pair of jagged phenomena which almost meet in the middle, but not quite: a bunch of slightly older women who talk a lot…then fail to follow it up with much discernible action. This is for all intents an island teeming with thousands of Dylan’s lame coworkers. They came here to wander around all weekend, drink a lot, giggle and flirt even more, then collapse alone in their own hotel beds. Primarily so they can snap a couple pictures and go home to tell all their friends what an “insane” time they had. Our greatest hopes were the Jodies, whom we bumped into basically fifteen minutes after reaching these wretched shores, whom we then blew off and have not yet seen again.
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Sunday brings more of the same. By now I feel I am by and large over this entire excursion. Monica’s incessant bitching about the toilet lid isn’t helping matters, nor are two nights sleeping on the floor while a passed out Dennis hogged an entire bed. When the other three finally rouse themselves enough to shove off for the bars at 2pm, this time I’m more inclined to stick around with Dennis instead, as he and I figure lazing by the pool all day is the far superior option. Reconfiguring sidekicks when things get stale is also never a bad idea, even if I’m not sure what to make of mine and his seemingly outlandish tales.
“So I was banging this married chick for…I don’t know, maybe a year and a half,” he tells me, as we stand in the pool, elbows on the concrete rim, clutching our most recently acquired strawberry daiquiris, “and we never got caught, until this one day I came all over her headboard. Neither of us noticed, but then her husband got home, as it turned out, just a few minutes after I left, and he was like, what the hell is this!? So the cat was pretty much out of the bag at that point…,” he concludes with a chortle.
It’s possible that he used to be a ladies’ man, or maybe even still is — after all, I too get the impression outsiders and maybe even closer friends or family have a wildly misaligned take on my own performance in these matters. The results aren’t evident this weekend, maybe, but then again none of us have exactly reached the stratosphere with our flare guns. Dennis does after all have the smooth older guy look down, at first blush even seems to go through the motions of one, and he used to date Sally, however many years ago that may have been. But in the moment, though uncertain how much I really buy that particular tale, I conclude that it doesn’t matter because he’s keeping me entertained, and this entertainment is often contagious.
It beats sheer boredom, or the repetition of another day identical to the two previous ones. And one other factor possibly contributing to this malaise is a curiosity I’ve observed before, in overstimulated scenes, overflowing with activity: sometimes it’s as though there’s too much going on, and nobody can focus on any one thing, as a result, for more than five minutes. Which ultimately means that none of the potential winds up panning out.
Or is this just excuse making? Some people have surely hooked up with strangers this weekend, and we are not among them. Therefore I guess we’ve sort of botched this. Yet time remains to right this capsized vessel, and we even have opportunities for doing so, like for example upon relocating to the hot tub, finding ourselves joined by those two Michigan girls Dylan and I met last night, as well as a third. We are clinking our drinks together for toasts, and laughing, and they’re even playfully ripping on my Ohio accent.
“Listen to how he says his Os!” the one girl marvels to her friends, as they take turns imitating it. Then share a group laugh, while I shrug and sip my daiquiri.
These two hilarious rednecks show up but it’s all one big party, they jump in the hot tub too. Good times and liquor all around except it starts raining, which for some reason freaks the girls out even though we’re all, to state the obvious, immersed in water already. Nonetheless, they get up and run back to their room. The one redneck stands up and holds his hands to the sky, shouts, AAAAAH! I’M GETTING WET! before he and his buddy split as well.
Dylan swings by to explain that we’re all supposed to meet at this fancy seafood restaurant for dinner, before continuing to the room himself. And while Dennis is somewhat amusing, his droning monotone gets old after a while and I consider that it’s time to wrap up this operation anyway. Back at the room ourselves, another round of daiquiris is in order for us three males — though Karen and Monica, like most of the other ostensible cougars, laugh and call us The Blender Boys now, and even use this as a calling card explaining the purported outrageous hilarity of this situation to strangers they meet (these are The Blender Boys, they’ve got a blender and a shitload of liquor back at the room, ha ha ha ha ha!), they have no actual interest ever in drinking any of it.
Since we’ve gotten a later start than the others, they take off to meet the rest of our crew, figuring it will help speed up the process of our getting a table. While Dennis is getting ready, I have this sudden weird hunch and wander down to room 237 to knock on that door. Clutching a hair curler, Debbie opens the door and explains that she’s in the same sinking boat, that the other four in her room have already left and she’s running late.
“I like your lipstick,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says.
“Can I taste it?” I ask.
She laughs and says, “no,” although I’m not sure if she fully grasped exactly what I was asking. Therefore perhaps a more direct approach is required.
“You don’t know how bad I want to kiss you right now,” I tell her.
She pats me on the head but then leans forward anyway and plants a quick peck on my lips. All this without my ever having entered the room.
A pleasant but not exactly memorable dinner follows, at this pricey seafood place along the shore. Sticking together as one united posse for the first time ever, we troop up the road to still another yet unfamiliar site, a bar where over pitchers of beer we witness some strange band with a keyboard/sax player and two window dressing girls, a la Robert Palmer. Here, Karen and Janice mostly stand chatting with Dylan and me, which is a nice change of pace. The former is always at least affable, if nothing else, and the latter we feel is possibly digging us more than a little bit. Though both leave without saying goodbye, independently of one another, which would appear to fire a cannonball right through the rotting wooden hull of that concept.
A dejected late night return to the room follows. Actually, it’s not that late, only our moods making it feel as such. Pacing around and wondering what to get into, but then the three of us consider, hey, we might as well fire up this blender for one last glorious go-round. We’d shown up with this suitcase full of liquor, so damn heavy it nearly required two to carry it, with visions of everyone in our extended party winding up back here at the end of every night — assuming we hadn’t managed to pair off with someone elsewhere, ahem — and incandescent early morning bouts of merry drinking around this blender, as we recapped the day’s adventures, or maybe even created some new ones worthy of discussion.
But maybe there’s still just the tiniest window open to make something happen here. Though the other two are disinterested, I observe that the pool and hot tub remain in operation, and descend to these with pina colada in hand. If nothing else, I can soak in the hot tub and forget about everything, about this mostly unremarkable excursion and all the money we’ve collectively blown.
Early returns are not great down here, either. Identities obscured in the dark, upon arrival at the hot tub, I can finally see that there are just two people submerged within its steamy depths — Tracy, and her man Ed, whom I have somehow avoided meeting all weekend. It seems that Sally thought it would be fun to lump him and Dave and the other dudes in a room together, the same way those five women are. Tracy’s husband died not too terribly long ago, and this Ed is just her somewhat late arriving, post-grief boyfriend, though I’ve heard they are on the skids. He’s somewhat older and such a stuffy cheeseball, with a toupee and the aura of a career furniture salesman or something, that I’m surprised she’s with this guy. Then again, it isn’t as though I know her well, either.
This makes for a somber atmosphere in the early going. But then, I don’t know what happens. It’s as though the entire hotel has suddenly awakened, at ten o’clock on a Sunday night, and realized this is our last possible opportunity for a legend making blowout. Dylan and Dennis finally waltz down, clutching daiquiris themselves, and join us in the hot tub. This incredibly hot young thing in sexy secretary glasses, whom Dennis and I had observed earlier, even spoken to briefly while chilling in the pool, begins throwing little plastic, lid covered jello shots down from her nearby balcony, to the masses gathered here, before eventually joining the fray. This because the pool has also suddenly swelled with bodies, and the adjacent outdoor bar is flexing a tiny bit of leeway by remaining open until the authorities swing by to give them the axe. Then some other pale, skinny girl, sweet but not much to look at and with an unfortunate cleft palette as well, begins gabbing our ears off, claims she’s from our town and, it soon emerges, lives just up the road from where I work. Dennis is really into her, though, and winds up grabbing, if not her phone number, then at least what room she is staying in, at the Islander Inn.
The cops only finally get around to showing up at 2:30 in the morning. With the bar shut down, most of us have the same idea, of just making a show of leaving until the police have departed the scene. Except they return about fifteen minutes later and toss us out for real, leaving not much wiggle room for debate. Back at our room, Karen and Monica are awake but already sprawled out atop the covers, in their bed, with the TV on. Dennis paces around, says he’s going to call that pale chick, is surprised and perplexed to discover that the room number she gave him doesn’t seem to exist. He even asks me if I overheard what she said, and I concur, she said it was 307. A follow-up call to the front desk of the Islander is in order, then, as Dennis asks the clerk about the possible existence of this room.
“Are you sure? Oh. Well, okay. Mmm hmm. Thanks,” Dennis mutters, and hangs up, tells us with audible bewilderment, “he says there’s no such room.”
Dylan laughs and suggests, “maybe she wasn’t even real! Maybe it was a ghost!”
“The Islander Apparition!” I declare, shivering as though spooked by the concept.
Dennis falls backwards into the other bed with a flopping motion. Like me, Dylan still cannot bring himself to sharing a bed with this dude, and since he is much older, we figure he should just have it. However, one key difference about tonight is that I have no intention of sleeping on that floor again. This time, I crawl up in between Karen and Monica, and lie there atop the sheets. They are both drunk and giggling, which is a good sign. Even better, they tell me I can remain here, even as we crawl under the blankets, so long as I don’t try anything “funny.”
“Okay, but what about groping?” I ask, “what’s a little groping among friends?”
I’m not really sure what would classify as “funny,” but am all for pressing my luck in some small fashion. The most pressing immediate question, however, is which way to turn? In deference to Karen’s pussy surgery, in this weekend’s great parlance, although slightly more attractive and easier to get along with, i.e. otherwise possibly a greater prospect, this eliminates her from consideration, and therefore I rotate on my side to face Monica’s way.
After the lights have gone off, I slip my hand underneath her pajamas, to where it is resting on her ass. She says nothing, only issues a slight throaty chuckle, which encourages me to try for another yard or two by sliding underneath the panties now, and rubbing her bare cheeks. Emboldened by such minor victories, I attempt moving around to the front, but soon encounter the border patrol, before ever reaching the promised land. Monica takes my hand, and returns it to her backside, where it will remain until morning. After a short while, she sticks her ass out farther, begins rubbing the freer cheek against my dick, but then apparently falls right asleep.
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In other news: order the complete novel from my official site and save a few bucks, on the exact same versions, versus what the big mean corporate ogres at Amazon are charging:
Well-Behaved Monsters paperback
Thanks and have a great week!
