I live in a tropical paradise. When I go out my front door and walk due
south, I can only walk for about a minute before my feet are wet up to my
ankles in the Gulf of Mexico. The azure gulf
yawns before me, and the white sugar sand beach stretches in either direction
as far as I can see. A constant breeze
breeds constant waves, blowing and crashing to the tune of seagulls whining and
wheeling overhead while pelicans looking too big to fly cruise the surf,
suddenly plummeting into the water to surface with a fish, which they swallow
with a snap of their necks and a flap of their pouches.
It is the very definition of idyllic. It’s so captivating that as I stand and
marvel, the surf washes in and then hisses back, taking the sand from beneath
my feet so that if I stand too long, I lurch like a drunk, almost falling down
while standing still. (It’s the
surf…really.) Almost every day the sun
shines from a cloudless sky, and every day I stand in awe, not only at how beautiful
it is, but how easily my worries fade into the sun and surf and wind. It never gets old.
And then some idiot always wakes me up.
The trouble with living in a tropical paradise is
that everyone, naturally, wants to be here.
Far be it from me to begrudge any person the joy of sandy toes and surf,
but because I live here, I also reign here, if only in my imagination, and
there are visitors to my kingdom whom I would, if I had the power to do so, quickly
and forcibly remove, to wit:
In March there were some vacationers from Wisconsin
here, staying for a week in the building next to mine. I saw them as they arrived: A mom, a dad, two young boys, maybe 8 and 10,
and a person I’m pretty sure was a brother in law. I knew they were from Wisconsin long before I
saw their license plate, because the entire clan was decked out in Packers
gear. Every article of clothing, from
hats to shoes screamed “GREEN BAY PACKERS!”
Their car, as you might imagine, was also festooned with cheese head
paraphernalia. They were from Wisconsin.
When it’s not blazing hot, I keep the windows open,
and in doing so, am treated to the sound of the surf crashing on the
shore. Sometimes it’s almost loud, but
it’s always there and always soothing. I
catch snatches of voices from the beach as well. They’re faint, but I can hear them: Children squealing with delight or drunk
people “woo-hooing”. And then there were
the Wisconsinites.
I think it was the second night they were here. I was sitting in my apartment and I could
hear people in the street. At first it
was just background noise, and it fit in, because it’s warm and playing outside
is the thing to do. Then, closer, just
outside, I heard words of encouragement, like “Catch it,” and “Go deep,” which
were inevitably followed by the sound of tennis shoes frantically flapping on
the asphalt. Sometimes, the ball was
caught, and sometimes not; I could hear it bouncing sporadically, as loose
footballs do. It was completely normal,
except that after every sound of the ball not being caught, the result was the
adult male voice saying, “Really?
REALLY?” It must have been after
three or four times that I’d heard it when I realized that my pleasant
background symphony had gone from pleasant to obnoxious. “REALLY?” must have been the only
word/expression this guy knew, and he couldn’t have sounded more ignorant. It seems to me that only dullards use that phrase
that way, as if repeating one rhetorical word with increasing volume somehow
imparts an air of unique respectability to the speaker. I think it made him sound like an idiot.
Anyway, as the sequence began yet again, there came the
sound of the flapping tennis shoes, a scuffle, and then a fall; the unmistakable
wet smack of skin on pavement. Anyone
who has ever witnessed a child falling down on the street knows there are about
5 seconds before the wailing starts and of course, start it did. I couldn’t see, but I knew there were tears
and blood. The male voice admonished the
crying child to not be so thin-skinned. Far be it from me to tell anyone how to raise
their children, but that lummox didn’t seem very sympathetic.
Right here is where this story should end. But it doesn’t.
I stepped out on my porch out of sheer disbelief to
see what would (or wouldn’t) happen next.
Within three minutes, they were
back at their street football game. It
wasn’t fifteen minutes before the entire scene was played out AGAIN, complete
with skinned knees and tears, with dad yelling “REALLY??” like a skipping record. I felt like this:
I stood, smoking and smirking; I didn’t say a word
to them then, nor the entire week they were here. They didn’t speak to or even acknowledge me
either. Probably best that way.
I think what bugs me the most is that it never
occurred to these morons to walk not 20 steps to the sand on the shore of the
goddam ocean to throw their football. In
the sand, if you miss a throw, it won’t bounce very far. It’s good exercise to run in it, but most
importantly, when you fall, you rarely bleed and almost never cry.
The stupid street football show went on ALL WEEK,
and this thick dolt never thought to play in the sand that he obviously drove his
family a LONG WAY to be beside. What a
great way to spend your vacation:
forcing your kids to play next to the beach but not on it, spending a
fortune on tissues for tears, bandages for blood, and seven solid days of crushing
your child’s self-esteem because they cry when they fall down trying to catch a
football thrown in the street NEXT TO THE SANDY BEACH. I’m all for tough love, but everything in
moderation. And keeping him from playing
in or next to the sea is just wrong. As the
southerners might say, that’s just “yankee” wrong.
It’s not all bad here, though. In fact, I have met some extraordinarily nice
people. I can’t tell you how much I’ve
saved in groceries; when the weekenders find out I’m always here, they
invariably give me a cornucopia of foodstuffs, from eggs to half rib eye
tenderloins. I’ve gotten furniture,
food, bait, and sometimes, when I’m paying attention, advice. I’ve been lucky enough to make new friends,
have good conversation, and most importantly, I’ve got a revolving set of
drinking buddies that I see every couple weeks for a couple days, and then they
go away for a while. Let me tell you, it’s
impossible to put a price on that. That’s
a slice of fried gold right there.
