Second would be to take the ancient black, rubberized, smelly, foot rinse tub (which had been replaced zero times over the last decade) and fill said tub with the day’s only allotment of strange-colored disinfecting chemicals, making the water actually pop and bubble, when poured in. Yet we wondered why our feet perpetually glowed in the dark…
The idea of this religiously followed routine was that it would somehow guarantee cleanliness, and create an impenetrable barrier between hundreds of feet daily, and the million-and-one unseen but life-threatening microbacteria, certain to otherwise penetrate each and every layer of one’s epidermis. Or you know, perhaps the intent was just to get the damn dirt off your feet.
Oh yeah, you got an extra fifteen-minute penalty on the bench if you accidentally kicked the stupid tub over. Talk about fair. Not! But I digress. At exactly 8:00 a.m. the sloppily painted turquoise-blue pool door, trimmed with a screened metal “security” grate covering its small scratched plexiglass window, swung open in conjunction with Pete Jones’ voice bellowing out the instructions:
“NO POOL CARD, NO ENTRY!”
“RENTERS YELLOW CARDS, OWNERS GREEN CARDS!”
“EVERYONE MUST RINSE THEIR FEET PRIOR TO ENTRY...
I REPEAT..!!”
The boys were anxious to grab a good spot so there was always a bit of pushing and shoving when we showed our cards, drawing the ire from Pete, his bark being nothing compared to his bite. We charged in and got our favorite spot set up, basically throwing our towels, t-shirts, and other miscellaneous items in the general direction of a chaise, then diving into the deep end en-mass, with one wise-ass always cannonballing right then and there, for an immediate timeout on the bench!
The water always felt fantastic. We took turns splashing and dunking each other and when Pete wasn’t looking Tommy slipped out of the water, grabbed an extra lifeguard whistle that Pete had (foolishly) left unguarded and started tooting on it like a traffic cop.
“To The Bench with You!”
Somewhere about midday, after stopping by the snack bar for some much-needed nourishment of hot dogs, fries, and lemonade, then heading back to the pool, something awesome happened. My new, still gorgeous, next-door neighbors walked in and man did they catch eyes! And better yet, the first thing they did, well, after checking-in with Pete and sticking those delicate feet into the tub of hellwater, was to say hi to me. That’s right, me!
“Hey there, neighbor!” Rochelle said sporting a wide smile, while Maxine offered a “Hi” along with a cute wave, “How’s the water today, Jimmy?”
“Hey, ladies. How are you? The water’s amazing today, even warmer than the ocean. You should try it.” Was about as much conversation as I could muster.
The guys were in absolute stitches, rolling about, embarrassingly punching my arms into a deep shade of purple—obviously as jealous as hell!
And do you think I introduced them? Hell no! Nonetheless, Tommy had no problem at all chatting it up sans the formality. Stick and Stevie however, looked shell-shocked, both at a loss for words and awkwardly gawking!
“Well, have fun, boys, we’ll see you a little later.” The girls offered to me and Tommy as they departed to another area of the pool with Pete Jones and the rest of the pool crowd completely transfixed.
“Woah…” The Stick.
“Now, that’s hot stuff right there!” Stevie.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven!” Patrick.
“I’ll be sleeping with them by tomorrow…” (you guessed it) Tommy.
Then I saw Tony Dupré and Adrian Best come in and after immediately noticing the girls, go right over to talk, aka flirt, with them. They were all chuckling.
Damn my stupid age (again)!
Later on at the snack bar I overheard a conversation between the two girls while I was behind them in line.
“Just tell him this is your vacation, and you don’t want to work. How’d he get your cottage phone number anyway?” Maxine said to Rochelle. It’s not fair that he wants you checking up on somebody on the Island for a possible news scoop. Tell him you won’t!”
“He has his ways.” Rochelle sounded glum, “I’ll do a little field research but that’s all. I promise,” she concluded.
Before I went, I had to go to the bathroom so I hustled over to use the bar’s buoys room, when I heard some shouting and slowed my pace. Barkeep Ben was in the kitchen screaming at some guy so loud the windows rattled. The other guy was yelling back. They were apparently arguing about some kind of a “coverup” and how “someone, somewhere, would find something out.”
Given that we’d already found an amputated pinky finger just lying around, it certainly piqued my interest. So I tiptoed closer to the kitchen’s door hoping to catch a glimpse of the enraged stranger. Except Barkcreep caught a glance of me and flipped.
“Get out of here, damn filthy brat! No one’s talkin’ to you! Hear?! Not now, not ever. Now make yourself disappear, and fast, little punk!” His shout, coupled with the way his eyes bugged out like a cartoon character with steam spouting from his ears, sent me running like a bat out of hell, and I didn’t slow down until I got home!
Soaked in sweat, with two toes stubbed and bleeding, I went straight for the garden hose and bandaids and decided to call it an early night.
Chapter 36
Retribution
The tension between the groups of teens from Mashnee and Memorial Beach had been steadily escalating throughout the summer, mostly because both sides wanted it to.
I suppose simply summering across a body of water and sharing use of a singular gas dock, equipped with a tiny, brick snack bar qualified as grounds for mutual hostility. Plus, there was the road race and kart-track situation.
Funny thing was, although this group fell under the heading of our cape rival, very few of the kids actually called the cape home. Surprisingly enough, most of the kids lived quite close to our permanent, winter homes.
The dreaded Jackson Brothers, Phil and Kevin, for instance. Phil with his casually mussed blond hair was the elder of the two. They were effectively the leaders of the ocean-side rat pack, and oddly enough, had we been back home, and under a different set of circumstances, they might even have been our allies.
But during the here and now, they fell under the heading of archenemies, foes, and foes they would remain. Booyah!
In addition to the occasional daytime altercation at the Bourne Kart-o-Rama, (Tommy Bourdon’s earlier fight being counted among them,) the real raucousness reliably broke out after dusk, and the later into the evening it got, the more contentious the kids became, especially those with a stash of booze hidden in the backseats of their cars.
Now imagine putting these tipsy, judgment-impaired, and occasionally terminally stupid kids on relatively fast, heavy metal go-karts with Briggs and Stratton lawn mower engines screaming a mere two feet from the driver’s cranium, and well, you tell me... What could possibly go wrong?
Oh yeah, add in a bunch of short-fused go-kart track workers (the following summer I would become one) yelling bloody murder at kids over the slightest rule infractions and often chasing them around the track to be summarily grabbed, head locked, and banished for life. (Note: they often came back the very same night!)
Of course, during Friday and Saturday nights, everything got ramped up several notches. Oftentimes, more notches than even a fat guy’s belt could hold. In fact, it literally got to the point where, if you didn’t want to get into a fight, or were afraid of being an innocent casualty in the aforementioned fights, it was best not to go. At all.
