Down the Shore

by T. Torrest

  He walks our new houseguest over to the wall of music, and the two of them launch into a discussion, debating the merits of all the various titles.

  I’m still trying to register the surreal sight when Mom asks, “Will you be joining us for dinner, Jack?”

  I could cheerfully strangle her. How the hell am I supposed to get out of this one?

  Jack is crouched down in front of the bookshelves, and I catch the unspoken question in his eyes as he silently seeks my approval. I’m quite sure the look on my face is not welcoming.

  His lip quirks as he stands up. “Thank you, but I’ve got rehearsals in about an hour.”

  Thank God.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I offer.

  As we reach the front door, I start to feel badly about how I’m acting. Jack made a special trip over here just to save my ass, and here I am, treating him like an AIDS monkey. “Hey, um, thanks for bringing my camera back. It would’ve sucked if I had to use a backup all week.”

  “No problem,” he answers, grinning at me. “It’s not the only reason I came here, though.”

  I snicker out, “Yeah. No one should miss the opportunity to meet Russ and Linda.”

  “No,” he says, seriously enough for me to take notice. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  He steps closer, sliding his hand up the side of my neck. I catch a whiff of his smoky, minty scent as his green-blue-gray eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to be just another guy to you. I don’t know why that should be important to me, but it is.”

  I’m frozen in place as he plants a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  And then he walks out the door.

  * * *

  After dinner, Vix goes upstairs to ransack the closet in our old room and Dad heads outside to the patio for a “cigarette.”

  Because of that, Mom and I have found a rare private moment alone as we wash the dishes at the kitchen sink.

  I don’t know why I suddenly feel the need to bring up one of our family’s dicier subjects, but for whatever reason, right now I can’t seem to think about anything else.

  “Mom?” I ask. “How come you and Daddy stayed together?”

  When Vix and I were little, our parents were separated for a short while. Even when dad moved back in, there was a good two-year stretch where he spent most nights on the couch. They never made a secret of the reason why, but we had never discussed it in any great detail.

  “That’s a silly question. We’re married. We have two kids together.”

  “No,” I correct her. “I mean… after.”

  The way I’m biting my lip serves as a dead giveaway for what I’m getting at. She takes a deep breath and exhales, her eyes focused out the window at the overgrown rose bushes in the backyard.

  “I knew what I was getting into when I started dating him, Livia Moon,” she admonishes in a voice that’s supposed to come across as motherly. “But I couldn’t stay away. It would seem falling for rock stars is in your blood, so I shouldn’t have to explain the attraction,” she teases, raising an eyebrow at me.

  I don’t want this conversation being turned around on me. I’ve never really asked about this and I don’t want to just let it drop. So I evade her evasion by saying, “The problem is that I guess lots of other women find them attractive, too, huh.”

  She gives a shake to her head and goes back to the dishes. “Yes. But we were already married—already parents,” she corrects on a smile. “He apologized. I believed him. What else could I do? I was crazy about the big jerk.” She takes a peek outside to the big jerk in question. “Still am, as a matter of fact. I made my choices and I still stand by them, all these years later.” On a sigh, she calls me out. “If you’re looking for regret, honey, you won’t find any here.”

  I find that statement to be completely impossible. Mom is making it sound as if all their issues stemmed from a onetime indiscretion, which I don’t believe to be the case at all. Even now, my sister and I are pretty sure that nothing has changed; my father just got better at hiding it, is all. And if Vix and I know it, Mom sure as hell does. Maybe she’s just learned to turn a blind eye.

  I would never want to be in that position.

  It’s kind of why I don’t allow myself to get serious about anyone, even going so far as to target musicians in my quest to control the situation. A rock star is the very type of guy that would put me most at risk for getting burned. If I don’t feel anything more than attraction for them, if I can split before they get a chance to fuck me over… they can’t hurt me.

  I mean, there is no way I’d ever forgive a guy for doing something like that, whether we were married with kids or not. What kind of man is that? And what kind of trash bag would allow herself to be The Other Woman? For all my promiscuity, I never hook up with married guys. I’m trying to have some fun; I’m not looking to destroy a marriage. Because I can’t see how any wife would put up with it.

  My mother has to either be the most understanding or most desperate person on the planet.

  The thing is, though, I’m glad they found a way to stay together. If they hadn’t, I would have grown up in a broken home. But I can’t imagine what they went through in order to give us a stable childhood.

  I thought the conversation was over, but Mom waves a dismissive hand in the air as she adds, “And anyway, that’s in the past. He’s not that same person anymore.” I get the impression she’s trying to convince herself of that more than she is me. She turns off the water and dries her hands on a dish towel. “But I guess I wouldn’t be doing my duty as your mother if I told you my choices were all sound. Have your fun. But don’t…”

  She shakes her head as she trails off, prompting me to ask, “Don’t what?”

  Mom turns toward me and swipes a piece of hair behind my ear. “Just don’t sell yourself short. Attraction isn’t everything. Got it?”

  Loud and clear, Mom. Loud. And. Clear.

  CHAPTER 12

  Friday, June 2, 1995

  10:02 AM

  The Studio

  Ridgewood

  I drag myself through the doors of The Studio and fix a cup of coffee before slumping onto the black, leather couch on the far side of the showroom. I officially broke up with Mitch last night and the conversation has left me spent, even though our separation had taken all of ten minutes. I was only half surprised that he hadn’t really protested the idea of ending our relationship.

  Because of his aloof attitude, I was able to pound the last nail in that coffin without regret. I received all the confirmation I needed to walk away and not look back. After that conversation with my mother this past weekend, it helped me to see what I’ve been missing out on. Mitch was hot, but he had the personality of a mildewy sponge.

  Why shouldn’t I expect better?

  He came to my apartment unannounced last night with some Chinese food and a bottle of wine. But before he could get too comfortable, I dropped the bomb, right there at the dining room table. “We need to talk.”

  Those four words set off a brief, emotionless dissolution of our dating status, and moments later, I watched him drive off on his Harley for the last time.

  Vix got home from work shortly after, and she and I spent the rest of the evening polishing off the leftover Chinese, chain-smoking cigarettes, and downing a few cocktails in celebration. Once I finally ‘fessed up about hooking up with Jack, she insisted on a few more cocktails in celebration.

  Even though I got to sleep at a decent hour, I woke up with a slight hangover, and now I’m finding it difficult to get my gears turning.

  Letting out a cleansing breath, I squint at Shana, peering over the glasses at her nose, clearly sizing up the sorry state of her employee. “Drinking on a school night? Tsk, tsk.”

  I roll my head to the side and am able to open my right eye. “Shut up, Shane. I am in no condition to kick your ass this morning.”

  Shana laughs and rummages around in her desk. She comes up with some Advil. “Here.” She tosses the
bottle to me and I fumble to catch it. “Take two of these and meet me in the darkroom.”

  Ahhh. A dark room.

  Thank God Shana still insists on the ancient art of hand-developing her photos. Most places just shop that task out, but this is one area where I’m glad she’s a perfectionist.

  Everywhere else, her obsessions can get pretty grating.

  Shana and I actually went to high school at St. Nicetius together, but she graduated a year ahead of me—a fact she likes to exploit often, as if it gives her the right to lord over my days, simply because she’s eight months older.

  We were in the same art and photography classes her senior year and just kind of hit it off. My group of girlfriends never clicked with her, though, and Vix went so far as to say, almost daily, that Shana is a pain in the ass.

  I get it.

  Before we started working together, Shana could sometimes drive me crazy with her self-centeredness. Now that she’s my boss, that annoying little trait of hers has multiplied tenfold. As grateful as I am that she’s given me a job, there’s a part of me that feels she only did it to officially retake the role of my superior, picking up where we left off in high school. If her parents hadn’t set the precedent by spoiling her her entire life, she wouldn’t have been able to pressure them so easily into buying her this storefront in the first place.

  This storefront that serves as my windowless prison.

  With Shana as acting warden.

  But what Vix can never understand is that Shana isn’t all bad. We definitely share the same sense of humor, so working with her can sometimes be a lot of fun. And, like I said, she signs my paycheck every week, so I can’t complain too badly. Even when she was interviewing new photographers last year, one guy showed up with an impressive resume. Shana still kept me in the full-time position and hired Manuel for part-time.

  So, if she was a complete bitch, there’s no way I’d still be working for her after three whole years. And I’ve learned so much in the time I’ve been here, not just about photography, but the ins and outs of running a business. Not so much from Shana—her mother is the one that does all the gruntwork to keep the place going—but I learned it all the same.

  Within the hour, I’m on auto-pilot. I forget my hangover and dive into my work. One day a week is normally set aside to develop film, print photos, and confirm appointments. The only other humans we see on most Fridays are the rare walk-ins, since most of our clients are scheduled weeks in advance.

  The day flies by.

  * * *

  I woke up early this morning—despite the hangover—to pack our bags for the beach. The plan was to leave for the weekend right from The Studio and then pick up Vix at the train station so we could head straight down.

  So, it’s still a gorgeous, sunny day as we cruise down the road en route to the beach.

  We have the windows down as The Raritan Bridge comes into view. It’s New Jersey’s very own Mason-Dixon line, the point that, at least for me, always delineated the north from the south.

  “Magic” by Pilot comes on the radio, and my mind is transported to a time so, so very long ago when my sister and I would ride down with our parents in Dad’s convertible Cadillac—no seatbelts—the summer sun shining on our skin, sunburned before we even made it to the beach. The car would be crammed with beach chairs and pails and shovels and duffel bags. We’d sing along to 8-tracks of The Beach Boys and Chicago, The Four Seasons and Neil Sedaka, Blondie and ELO and Wings.

  And when we hit the bridge, we knew fun was mere minutes away.

  It was the spot where I could get my first whiff of the bay and its briny, fishy aroma, which was only pleasing because of the promise it held: Sandcastles and body surfing, cold drinks smuggled onto the beach in a mini cooler, and Dad’s transistor radio blasting out AM gold while we baked in the sun on a scratchy, wool blanket.

  No beach day would have been complete without a trip to the boardwalk, where somehow, Dad always found the cash for us to load up on pizza, play a few wheels, and hit some rides at the Funtown Pier.

  My love of music was ingrained in me since birth, but was solidified in Dad’s convertible and that stupid little transistor radio out on the beach.

  In the middle of this all-consuming burst of heart-swelling nostalgia, Hall and Oates’ “Rich Girl” comes blaring out of the speakers, creating the perfect soundtrack for my walk down Memory Lane. How many times have I been down this same stretch of the Parkway? Every summer weekend of my youth has started with this same road, traveling to the promised land of sand and surf.

  Even though these days, a trip to the beach is for nothing more than a great night out with my friends, it is still there where I find myself most at home.

  All the other seasons pale in comparison to the excitement and freedom of summer. It’s the one time of year when I can cut loose and feel like a kid again. Before the responsibilities, before the soul-crushing pressure of trying to figure out my future. I can forget about my crappy job; I can forget about my even crappier love life.

  Summer is my superpower.

  CHAPTER 13

  Friday, June 2, 1995

  9:13 PM

  The Beach House

  Manasquan

  “Where’s my other brown sandal?”

  Sammy’s voice interrupts my hair ritual. I put the flatiron down on my dresser and ask, “Which pair?”

  She’s all huffy as she clarifies, “The ones with the cork heel that you borrowed last weekend?”

  I check under the bed and come up with the missing shoe. “Sorry,” I offer, handing it over.

  “Bitch.”

  I finish straightening my hair and then go out into the living room to wait for everyone else to get ready. I got first dibs on the shower, so now I have some time to kill.

  Isla joins me soon enough. Her hair is still wet, but she has to wait for Vix to finish blow-drying before she can. We learned during the first weekend that running two blow dryers simultaneously would not only knock out the power in this place, but cause a rip in the space/time continuum. The wiring in this ancient old cottage isn’t equipped to handle more power than it would take to burn a piece of toast.

  As Isla slips into her sandals, I notice that she’s got on a pair of white jean shorts covered in a splatter-paint design.

  I take one look at her and snicker, “Are you really wearing those out tonight? You look like Punky Fucking Brewster.”

  She doesn’t even wait a beat before busting into a Running Man move, singing, “In my opinionation… the sun is gonna truly shine…”

  “That’s ‘Blossom,’ you turd.” She laughs as I add, “Same wardrobe, though. I never thought about that. Huh. Bravo.”

  We both exchange our best whoa before I realize that the stupid theme song is now lodged in my head. “Crap. We need some real music.”

  I throw on the boombox, and “Smells Like Teen Spirit” comes blaring out of the speakers.

  As excited as I always am to hear some Nirvana, the elation is always closely followed by heartbreak. Cobain offed himself last year, and I still haven’t gotten over it. Dad and I were stuck in such a funk in the weeks following the news. We were glued to the TV, just soaking up every smidge of the story¸ trying to figure out how someone so talented could have been so haunted.

  So wrong on so many levels.

  I’m jogged out of my melancholy once I hear Tess screaming the lyrics from the bathroom. Isla and I soon join in, and before we know it, the walls are shaking as all five of us take part in the sing-along.

  I feel stupid! And contagious!

  Here we are now! Entertain us!

  As the song is ending, Tess comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy towel, dancing around as she spritzes all of us with her Bath and Body Works glitter spray “just for some extra glow” as Vix starts futzing with my outfit again. She’s been treating me like a goddamn Barbie doll all night, offering “helpful” suggestions about what I should wear, and it’s starting to get on
my nerves.

  I slap her hand away from my skirt and snip, “Vix! Enough already. What the hell?”

  She stops her adjustments and eyes me thoughtfully. “At least lose the Doc Martens. Here. You can wear my heels.” She pulls the black platform shit-kickers off her own feet and thrusts them in my direction. I would fight her on it, but she knows I love those shoes. Plus, if it will get her to lay off, I’m down for anything.

  * * *

  Vix doesn’t feel like drinking tonight, so she volunteered to play Designated Driver in order to avoid paying for a cab. It’s only Week Two at the beach, but we’ve pretty much been drinking nonstop every moment we’ve been down here. I totally get why she wants to take a break.

  We pull into the lot at The Parker House, and thank God, there isn’t a huge line to get in the door. I guess that’s because the whole world is already inside. We file our way to the bar without losing one another which is no easy feat; the place is packed and the music is already blaring. If the DJ is playing this loud, I can’t even imagine the damage to my eardrums once the band hits the stage.

  Years ago, we taught ourselves some basic sign language just so we could communicate in these situations, so Sam wedges out a space at the bar and uses her hands to ask us what we all want. I spell out B-U-D and add the sign for lightbulb to convey my order, then share a ciggie with Vix while we wait for one of the damned bartenders to make their way down to our end.

  The DJ winds down, but it’s still unbearably loud in here. I just know my ears will be buzzing all day tomorrow.

  Tinnitus. The bane of every twenty-something’s existence.

  Our drinks are delivered in the nick of time, because I was about to die of thirst. I take a swig from my Bud Light as we commandeer a spot nearer to the stage just as the band starts in for their set. My back is turned, but as I hear the opening notes of “Higher Ground” kick in, I find myself whirling around for visual confirmation.