Grandma said my interests were too fleeting to call them passions. I’d argue that my physical misfortune kept me from realizing my pursuits. Name an allergy, condition, or deficiency; and I’ve developed it.
A lemon of hapless chromosomes, I spent much of my childhood absorbed in reverie. Contained to the Coquina Palm condominium, daydreaming about scoring the winning touchdown or settling a patriotic score as a jet fighter pilot--worlds inside my head.
Eventually, I found something that required no aerobic ability or passing bill of health.
Fashion, ironically, was not pain.
The oft-dismissed kitschy aesthetic of Cocoa Beach became my inspiration. After the success of my line of Spring Break-inspired terrycloth bucket hats, I had no choice but to move to New York and create amongst my peers. Grandma struggled with what my independence may do to my body, but she knew what the ennui of this sleepy beach town would do to my soul. By the time I left, I was a walking pharmacy, ready for any reaction my nervous system may have to the spores of the Upper West Side.
~~~
The passing years brought success and a yearning for home. What once felt like a humid cage now offered a slow-paced reprieve. Florida gets a lot of flack, most of it deserved, but its skanky appeal has been my muse. Upon recent visits, I’ve enjoyed a level of anonymity I don’t find in the city anymore. Not to mention, I’ve grown a zen-like affection for second-rate reggae music and salty locals.
~~~
I can barely hear his condescending question over the Rebelution song blaring from the busted PA speakers.
“Where did you get that outfit?”
When I was picked on in my youth, it helped to imagine the bully as a walking penis. So I close my eyes and imagine balancing my skinny margarita on the obnoxiously straight bill of his Monster Energy hat. I giggle because this looks especially silly—the drink on the hat on the penis.
“Something funny?” he asks like any 80s movie bad guy would.
His cargo shorts and flip-flops tell me I would not find common ground over the triangular aesthetic in Rick Owens’ last Berlin runway spectacle.
I search within.
Find love for his exposed toes.
Find love for his extraneous pockets.
—I’m struggling with the pockets.
Cargo Shorts is growing confused and mutters something to his friend.
“A storm over the ocean,” I say.
“Huh?” He asks.
“Sand in the sheets.”
“The fuck?”
“Harmony,” I say. “It is all around us: the smell of Aloe on a sunburn, a sandy dog, the leathery back of the old man baking away on the boardwalk—unaware his balls hang out the side of his polyester swim trunks—or perhaps, aware.”
“Fuck,” he says a bit more contemplatively.
“To love that old man,” I continue, “balls and all, is to accept him as the yin to my yang—a fixture of this salty tableau I adore so unconditionally.”
His silence encourages me.
“The beach blanket boombox that plays to the runway show of retired strippers--bleached hair on football skin. They strut along their low-tide catwalk, bikini tassels dangling like coral fingers dancing the mambo of the tide.”
Cargo Shorts mutters to his friend, “Shit, I guess he is from Florida.”
I smile. “Brother, I am not from Florida. I AM Florida.”
And for reasons beyond me, I open the left knee pocket of Cargo Shorts’s cargo shorts and pour my margarita into it.
He takes offense.
The house music warps like a siren passing on the highway as a clean right hook sends me to the floor in slow motion. Before my eye swells shut, I see that his bulging pocket, though sagging like the balls of the Boardwalk bard, has not leaked a drop of my margarita onto his exposed toes. At this moment, even I cannot deny the uncompromising utility of Cargo Shorts’ cargo shorts.
There it is again.
“Harmony—“
With the word comes a flash, the sun shining in my eyes, and a significant temperature rise. Lying in a pool of sweat, I roll to my side upon the splintered wood of the boardwalk and find myself face-to-face with that familiar pair of leathery testicles.
“God damn, kid, how many times your grandma told you not to walk up here when the sun is midday angry.”
He wipes off the used Epipen and puts it back in the left cargo pocket of my shorts. I tell him it goes in the right pocket because the left holds my inhaler. His testicles bounce against the wood like a set of dropped bocce balls as he lifts me. He props me under the shade of a Sabal Palmetto and places a stray flip-flop back on my foot like a Spring Break Cinderella.
I lower the brim of my cap to block the sun and let the sea breeze cool my sweat. Teens panting from beach football topple onto their beach blanket, and I hear the one-drop of a reggae song coming from Holiday Inn—the sound boomeranging with each passing car on A1A.
My rescuer assumes his position as boardwalk bard and chews on his unlit cigar. His back the color of wet clay and cancer, though somehow entirely immune to the latter.
Photos from Boatstock in Florida. We played on a barge attached to a pirate ship floating in Tampa Bay. Thousands floated on paddle boards, dingies, and boats. I honestly can’t believe everyone made it out alive. I can also honestly say this was one of the funnest days of my life. (don’t care that funnest is not a word)
(My friend Laura Lombardi bought me these gold-sequined panties for my 21st birthday. They still fit, which is kind of cool, I guess.)
Man this hits home. Literally