Sun-block mixed with wind driven sand gives us a stucco finish. We are like architectural mock-ups for three sphinxes stretched out on towel-draped chaises on the beach. We are each holding his right hand as a ledge over squinting eyes with head tilted up to view the passage of the impossibly lithe personal trainer who is running a group of fluffy pink folks through some gentle paces. His stretchy grey Speedos shrug with apology at not being able to accommodate the extended family of his crotch.
Dieter fishes out the camera and pretends to photograph me, turning the lens stealthily at the last moment to capture the “view”. We are dirty old men with fresh batteries.
We speculate about the black arm covering. Fetish wear a la plage, perhaps.
Rog and Dieter spf their tattoos, explaining that too much sun will fade them. I did not know this, and I luxuriate in the shallow pool of self-absorbant trivia that we hold so dear while we are in Fort Braindeadlia.
Rog reports that he had, at my urging, visited the Clubhouse II last night. He had parked in one of the metered slots without feeding it any coins. Something told him he ought to return to the car before checking into the club. This was fortuitous. He found a policeman writing a ticket. Upon explaining to the officer that he was just going inside to get some change for the meter, he was asked to produce said change, and could not. He fessed up, and the officer had mercy. As Rog fished some change out of the car, the officer said, “You know, I’m not this nice to everyone…”
Tomorrow, I will bring them to look at a condo in a building that I have long admired. I can see it from our terrace. It is on the opposite side of the park from our place.
(Dieter and Rog live in the pink tower to the left.)
The unit has been entirely gutted. It feels like a city loft and makes the real estate agent’s voice echo as he leads me about. I think I would tint and polish the concrete floors and paint the walls a dark silver. The only reason to move here would be the fact of a guest room and second bath. It’s a buyer’s market now, and this unit is part of an estate. I’d make a ridiculously low offer and forget I ever considered this if they won’t negotiate. Real estate is grim business unless you land a serious bargain. Here is the central room. Like all the others, it looks directly out onto the beach.
I made myself a winning salad while listening to Linda Ronstadt and Ann Savoy’s gorgeous cover of Walk Away Renee. Mixed greens (not the bitter kind) with summer-invoking Florida-grown plum tomatoes dressed with basil-infused avocado oil and freshly ground pepper.
We three have made plans to meet up later at Alibi. I was there last night, and was set upon by a local who does rich hair in Boca. I was carrying on about the differences between New York and Braindeadlia. He took exception to this, and said, “We have culture.”
“Yeah. Right. You mean you had culture, but she died last week at your Seminole casino.”
Why does anyone talk to me? I am not congenial. If C were here with me, I’d be relieved of the obligation to talk that I find increasingly onerous. Is this a sign of age? Tonight, I promise myself, I shall be sweet to everyone I meet, or maybe I’ll stay home.
Happ V Day, Baby. Remember to look in the trunk of my car when you get home from work. As always, wish you were here.