There's something really magical about it, y'know?
Completely unhealthy, but who cares about that when you're a kid? Nowadays, you can go to a fast food place and get some churros. To me, getting the snack was an event. I would always associate it with spending a nice day at the pier.
I remember sharing it with the birds. Winged critters from all over the world would gather at my feet to consume the sugary pastry. It was a bird-watcher's perverse, wet-dream: pigeons, gulls, pelicans; you name it, and they were there.
At first, my parents thought it was cute. Patrons of the pier would walk by and think “what a sweet kid.” Every week, I was reinforcing the idea that “sharing is caring.”
However, after a month, my parents thought that I was sick.
They soon realized that I was feeding more to the birds than I was actually eating for myself. Eventually, they stopped giving me money for food at the pier because they knew I was just going to give it to the 'damned winged rats' anyways.
And so, the congregation of fine fowls at the Muddson Pier never united ever again; the circus was closed and the carnival was over.
As I stood alone by the bird shit, it was then and there that I learned the hard way that life was going to be a series of mixed signals, and nothing was ever going to be truly right or wrong.
* * *
Trey played with his iPhone. The lights in the room flickered.
“Faggot,” he muttered.
I'm pretty sure if the same story was mentioned in a motion picture, he would think that it was profound, but I digress. You can't win them all.
I thought of a story that would interest him.
“I stepped on a condom outside of Bullseye.”
Trey's eyes widened. “Was it used?”
“Well, I almost mistook it for chewed gum and bird poop, but yes, it was used. It was flat as a dead bug, with its guts spilled all over the pavement.”
Trey smiled with delight. A lot of people go inside of that Bullseye. It's the department store right across from our apartment.
“Nothing says 'Welcome to Muddson' quite like a used condom,” said Trey.
“That reminds me of another pier memory,” I followed up. “Everyone knows that there's nothing living in the polluted waters of Muddson, and so my friends and I used to go condom fishing every Sunday.”
I motioned with my fingers. “I once caught a big mouth about yay big. It was amazing!”
Trey laughed. “Nice. That's great. Y'know, Dave, it seems like the whole world is getting laid but you.”
Trey continued to cackle, but I didn't join him. It was such a douchebag comment, but I guess I can't say anything. It had become a rule of the modern man to just let assholes be assholes. Being a jerk is the only way to have a sense of humor these days.
And besides, he was right. I should stop with the nerdy stories anyways. It made me sound like an old man.
Trey got up and pulled his jacket off the coat hanger.
“I'm off to go see Nicky. Catch ya later dude.”
“Take it easy.”
Trey left and the lights went out. We were trying to cut back on energy usage, which was the only reason why story time began.
In ways, it felt nice. It felt like Trey and I were cavemen, sharing stories the old fashioned way. But I guess, in ways, it wasn't. Trey and I are not quite the same.
He fits in this world. This is why he was out on a Friday night and I'm at home in the dark.
I crawled to my room, and turned on the record player. I had left Margo Guryan's 1968 LP “Take A Picture” on the turntable, and it spun. The night turned into day through its vibrant songs.
I studied the wooden contraption. I thought about all the implications this world can make about me by owning such a thing: am I a music lover, or am I a trendy hipster by being 'retro?' Even better, listening to an obscure artist probably makes people I assume I'm an artsy-fartsy, music-Nazi jerkoff. Does listening to sixties music filled with sunshine, flowers, and good feelings make me a feminine guy who's going to wake up early tomorrow just to prance in fields with my dick nowhere to be found?
I'm also sure people have or will assume I think I'm better for feeling like an anachronism.
But in truth, I guess that I just don't know.
I don't want to point my finger like a gun; I'll keep it in its holster.
I have no clue what the answers are, but I am certain of two things: (1) This world sure has a billion ways to make you feel like crap, and (2) Margo Guryan wrote some good songs.
I closed my eyes, and went to sleep.
I dreamed that black birds pecked through my window, and surrounded my bedroom. The room became flooded in darkness, and there was nothing left to be seen.
It was perfect.
