centre of the universe - the dreaming: and Begorrah

03/12/2003: "and Begorrah" Okay so that apology I was talking about really didn't materialise. I was going downstairs to deliver it when the Boys came over (no, not 'da boyz) to take Mike away to the pub....we're really NOT a bunch of bums. It just happens that we like to play pool now and then...oh hell. So anyway, they took him away, and then I went to bed.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say Mike is the best man in the universe.

Well. I mean, aside from Gary Oldman.

So anyway, back to our story. We were in Florida. Toodling around. Noticing that there really isn't a respite from urban centres - not like here where if you drive too far down Arcola, you end up in Kronau. We drove and drove and drove and saw lots of alligator farms (YAY RIPPY!) but not so much *empty vista*.

Fort Lauderdale. Mmmm. The cesspool of spring break dreams and subject of many college-frat-coed-boozeup movies. I was sooo excited. Plus, nothing beats going to the beach in December and not having to a) cut a hole in the ice with a chainsaw to see running water, and b) wear six layers of thinsulate/wool/fibreglass to keep from instantly freezing in the wind. I happened to have with me a snappy little two-piece bathing suit. Top AND bottoms.

We walk along the beach for a while, Dad and I pushing each other in the surf just enough to get our pantlegs wet, until we find a suitable Spot. Mum plunks herself down on a bamboo mat she'd sworn at me for buying the year before (now happy to have it, I might add), and Dad and I proceed to disrobe to the suits. As we've been walking along the beach, I keep seeing these notices about 'Jellyfish warning - no lifeguard on duty'.

Let me explain. When I was young, my best friend in the universe (Sarah, bless her soul, who still likes me) took me frequently to her grandmother's cottage at the lake. In particularly hot years, little ovoid bits of algae would collect in shallow areas, and we called them jellyfish. They *were* jelly-like (rather like bits of kiwi jam floating in the water). I was soon to discover, however, that they were most definitely not jellyfish.

Mum leans back with a book, pops open a beer from her purse, and tries to stay out of the sun. Dad and I race each other to the water, which is chilly, but not cold. Actually, it was pretty freaking amazing. Yes, we were the only ones in the water. What's more, we were very nearly the only ones on the whole damn beach. Dad (who used to be a speed swimmer and a lifeguard) swims out and out in the saltwater. I (who also used to be a speed swimmer) swim out a ways, then remember my dull fear of sharks, and decide to keep it closer to shore. Hey! Waves! I can body-surf!

Let me tell you something. Never, EVER body-surf in a two-piece bathing suit. Just don't do it. The shame of having to wade through the water searching for your top is nothing compared to getting stung by a jellyfish on the nipple. Really. Nipples aren't meant for that.

After reapplying my top, I dig the sand out of my bellybutton and decide to get some sun. Out of the water. I look for Dad, but don't see him, so I figure either he's diving somewhere or he's been taken by a riptide. 'He's a strong swimmer,' I think to myself, 'He'll eventually make it to Halifax...'

Lying down beside Mum, I see a Form strolling up the beach. Someone in a very strange leisure suit...oh...wait...no...no...that's not a ....

"Oh my God, Mum. Look." Mum looks up from her book in time to see a swarthy, hirsute man walking toward us. She starts to giggle.
"Man or beast?" she asks.
"Man-beast," I reply, trying not to stare. He's coming closer. He's wearing seventeen pounds of gold chains. The reason I thought he had been wearing a leisure suit is that he is actually nearly naked. The gold glints off his chest in the sun as he saunters up to us. He's wearing a red speedo. He's probably in his sixties. He's talking to me.
"Good afternoon, ladies," he says with a definite Italian accent. "It's a lovely day for sun today."
"Mmmm," Mum says, and returns to her book. Great. She's left me here to flounder. Where's Dad? Ah yes. Riptide.
"Yeah, nice," I say, trying to cover myself up. He's leering now.
"You're beautiful," he says, "do you live around here?"
I try not to choke. "Uh, no. I live in Canada."
"Are all the women in Canada as beautiful as you?"
I'm starting to get worried. I can hear my mother snort behind me, trying not to laugh out loud. She lights a cigarette and buries her nose further in her book. "Actually, the women in Canada are much, much prettier than me. Of course, they're older than SEVENTEEN."
Didn't have the effect I was going for. His grin widens. "I love the younger women. Would you like to go to have something to eat with me?"
I actually felt my jaw drop in horror. What to say? Tell him I'm actually a boy in the middle of a sex change? Tell him I have chlamydia? Tell him I'm pregnant with Don Cherry's lovechild? "Um, no. I am absolutely NOT interested. But thanks for offering. Bye!"
He smiles again, bows slightly, and walks off.

My mother bursts out laughing. I was about to mention the fact that the speedo was, in fact, a G-string, but at that moment, I hear my father swearing. He's walking up the beach rubbing his belly. It wouldn't completely do justice to the scene if I neglect to mention he's wearing the same swimming trunks he wore in 1976. They're not speedos, but they could be. From the distance between our 'spot' and the water's edge, I can see he's covered in red welts.

"What's wrong?" Mum and I ask, nearly in unison.
"Some Goddamn thing bit me out there," he replies, rubbing his chest. A few welts there. He turns around to get his towel. His back is covered in thick, angry red streaks.
"Uhhh...Dad?"
"Yeah."
"I think you got stung by jellyfish."
"Jellyfish? I don't know what the hell it was, but it hurt like a sonofabitch." In typical Dad fashion, he finds someone on the beach, asks them what the hell could have done that to him, and looks shocked when they answer, 'jellyfish'.

A few minutes later, we're dressed and ready for lunch. A guy on the beach looks at us funny and says, "You weren't swimming out there, were you?"
"Yeah," Dad and I answer, "why?"
"Oh man, this beach is really bad for jellyfish this time of year. That's dangerous. Good thing you didn't get stung."
True to form, Dad whips off his shirt, points to his back, and exclaims: "Is that what this shit is? Jesus Christ it hurt."

The welts eventually went away, but not for about a week or so.

Being hungry after a swim-and-attack, we decide to have lunch at the closest place we can find; a Denny's restaurant. Now, in not wanting to get sued by the company, I ought to mention that I'm sure this experience isn't representative of eating at Denny's. I'm sure most Denny's restaurants are fine. But it had to be us, at this particular Denny's, at this particular time, in this particular place.

We're seated at one of the many empty window booths. The waitress delivers coffee and water and disappears while we contemplate our menus. Mum makes the same remark she always does when we eat at a breakfast restaurant. She says to my father, "I know what you're going to order. You always order the same thing. Eggs over easy with brown toast and ham. Then you make a sandwich out of everything and cover it in catsup."
"It's a good breakfast," my father replies, closing the menu.
I make my choice (pancakes) and gaze around the place. Typical Smitty's/Denny's/Humpty's surroundings. Nothing new here. Then I stare out the window. Then I stare *at* the window.
"Hey, look at that!" I call out, pointing at our window, "A bullet hole!"
"Where?" my father asks, looking over his shoulder at the door.
"Right...THERE," I insist, tapping the spiderweb around the hole. "Cool! A bullet hole right at our table!"
Mum turns pale. Dad stares at the window. "That's not a bullet hole."
"Yes it IS, Dad. It's a bullet hole."
"Well how the hell did it get *there*?"
"Uhh...my guess is that somebody shot the window..."
"That's not a bullet hole. You have an overactive imagination."

I sigh. I've watched a lot of movies. I even watch the news sometimes. I watched Simon & Simon religiously. I know what bullet holes look like.

The waitress comes by to take our order. She asks distractedly what we'd like to eat. I am about to order pancakes when my father pipes up, "What's that?" and points at the window.
Her gaze slowly rises from her paper to the window. Then back down to my father. Then back up at the window. She's not saying anything, but she has a look on her face like my father has just pointed out that she has arms.
"What *is* that in the window?" Dad asks again, pointing more...um...pointedly.
"'s a bullet hoal," she drawls, "wh' cnnah gitcha?"
"A bullet hole?" Dad asks in surprise.
"I TOLD you it was a bullet hole, Dad." I turn to the waitress. "I TOLD him it was a bullet hole."
She sighs. "Yep. D'yall want brekfist?"
"A bullet hole. How did it get there?"
I roll my eyes. Now she *really* thinks we're idiots. "Sumbawdy shoat aet iss," she relays, sounding bored and tapping her pencil on the paper.
"Jesus Christ!" Dad calls out. Mum turns white. "Was anybody hurt?"
"Waell, the bullet dun rikohshayed off'n the grease hud, an' the coik got baernt up, but tha's 'bowt eit. Now dy'all want brekfist er dy'all need smore tahm?"
"Yeah, I'd like pancakes please." I pipe up, trying to alieviate the aura of stupid surrounding our table. She writes down my order and glances at my father, who is staring at her like he's just discovered she has arms.
"Does that kind of thing happen often around here?" Dad asks.
"Waell, yessir, it does. Tha's the fowruth winder we had. Dy'all want the spashul?"
Dad makes some crack about this being a 'quality establishment', then orders eggs over easy with brown toast and ham.

Nothing brings a family together at meal time like bullet holes in windows.

It's all Dad talked about for the next day. Every now and then he'd start to giggle and say, "remember that bullet hole in the windows at Denny's?", and I'd remind him it was only a day or two ago, and yes, I think we all remembered it.

We're almost through now. Dad only drove the wrong way down a one-way street twice on that vacation. He only jumped the boulevard twice. Mum and I nearly ripped each others' eyes out probably only half a dozen times, and we had bad crab (not bad 'crabs') at a seafood joint with fishing nets strung up on the ceiling. At another restaurant (sans projectile fire), I ordered an Irish Coffee, and Mum was all up in arms when the actually brought it to me. I guess she was bitter that I didn't get carded. I ate shark that night. Tasted like chicken.

The only bit left to the Christmas tale is How We Got Home, or Yes He's an Idiot but He's My Dad. Coming soon to a web log near you.

Really, I have to say this. I love my father. He really isn't a bumbling moron. It was just a bizarre turn of events during this one week in Florida.

"Faith" "Rollin'"

2 Comments

Quinn , on Wednesday, 12th March:

alright, I really wish Jill that you could convince my mother that she needs to read your web-log thingy. I mean bullet holes in a window brought your family together. whenever my family had a "bullet hole issue" it was usually the opposite. Shouted statements like "Quinn! Are you shooting in the house again???" are heard. I just wish that she understand that I shot the stove in an attempt to bring our family unit together.

Ooblik , on Thursday, 13th March:

snigger. Semi-italian beach / lounge lizard.

distractions