The Bubble Bath, Part 9

   Editor’s Note: After sitting quietly for a while on the beach at Atlantic City, we finally decide that it’s time to move back into civilization, mainly because the sun is quickly dropping over the horizon, and we all know that horrible things happen to innocent people on beaches when darkness descends. Since we still have several places to visit on this vacation, it would throw a kink into things if one of us should perish unnaturally near a decaying pier…

  We gather our bags of souvenirs and various footwear, heading toward some nice wooden steps that will give us access to the Boardwalk. Halfway to our destination, we realize something shocking: The sand is evil.

  Oh, sure, the sand was our friend back when we were playing in the water, dashing about and splashing, or just standing there while the waves rush back out, creating that delicious sensation of the sand disintegrating under our feet. We loved the sand at that point in our lives. But now our relationship has changed, as relationships always do if you spend too much time with someone and get glimpses of unsavory behavior and questionable activity. Everyone disappoints you in the end.

  First, the sand beguiled us with innocent-appearing patches of sand that seemed to be devoid of broken shell pieces that could lacerate your unprotected feet. This was a lie. There was actually a fine layer of the sand hiding daggers of death, silent slicers that would leave you with bloody stubs. The trust in our budding relationship was completely destroyed because of this, and once the trust goes, it’s only a matter of time before the bitter catfight which ends in tears, with one of you being forced to pack your bags and find somewhere else to live.

  Next we have the odd behavior of the sand itself. Just lying on the beach, the grains were a nice off-white, perhaps a very light gray, but definitely on the white end of the spectrum. Yet once the grains had transitioned from relaxing on the beach to hitching a ride on your dampened legs and feet, an astonishing transformation took place. The grains turned an ugly dark gray, and they stayed that way even when things dried off, the sand now a paste of crackling darkness.

  With my pant-legs rolled up, I looked like a shoeless hillbilly coal miner.

  Well, no worries, I initially thought. After all, during our earlier trek along the Boardwalk we had spied little ocean-side showers where happy, tanned swimmers had been professionally rinsing off the beach debris. We’d just find one of those, right?

  So there we were, traipsing along the boardwalk, fully convinced that we would soon run across one of these comfort stations and could wash away our sins. This did not immediately happen. In fact, it never happened. Apparently, while we were frolicking in the water and completely distracted, someone had come along and stolen all the showers. They were nowhere to be found.

  And since we were still barefoot and slightly damp, our feet were now attracting other hitch-hiking parasites. Road tar, used bubble gum, cigarette butts. All of the world’s detritus was making a beeline to our coal-encrusted tootsies. From the knee down, we looked like some scaly monster from the deep who had arisen from his flooded cave of despair, and was now determined to snack on common sense-challenged coeds who were stupidly standing around and thinking about having sex with the star of the movie instead of fleeing for their lives and thus making it into the inevitable sequel.

  Bubbles finally had enough of that mess. She trounced off to a nearby concession stand, intent on purchasing a bottle of water so we could take impromptu sponge baths. Without the sponge, or a nursing assistant who could do the work for us. While she bartered with the proprietor, probably scaring him into giving her a discount since she wasn’t going to actually drink her purchase, Terry and I just stood there and pretended like we meant to look like walking road kill, and we were just fine with our lives, thank you very much, so quit staring, you ugly people who can’t wash away your nasty appearance.

  Bubbles returned, and we commenced splashing liquid on our feet, doing our best to make things pretty again. This was mostly successful, though I could still feel grittiness when I finally slipped back into my tennis shoes. I would probably greatly regret this condition at some point in the near future, but at the moment I was quite pleased that my feet were no longer in direct, intimate contact with bird poo, unexplained saliva, and various crime-scene fluids on the sticky surface of the Boardwalk.

  All of this hygienic activity proved to be very taxing, thus resulting in slight hunger on our parts, so we then headed to another nearby shop where they were serving the ultimate in healthy, nutritious fare: funnel cakes.

  Now, everyone loves funnel cakes, so I don’t really need to go into the specific pleasures of such. (Seriously, have you ever met anybody who took a bite of one, spit it out, and swore to never touch the powdered-sugar mess again? No, you have not.) Bubbles obtained our treat, and then we retired to a nice patio table so we could people-watch as we consumed grease-dripping bread.

  Night had fully fallen, so there was a definite change in the parade of humankind on the Boardwalk. Most of the children had disappeared, although there was still an alarming number of the little urchins running about and doing irritating things, each of them a firm example of why state-enforced birth control is not necessarily a bad idea. Likewise, a big chunk of the Blue-Hairs had gotten back on the buses and returned to their assisted-care living facilities.

  Which mostly left people about our age, some a little older and some a little younger. And 97% of them were drunk.

  Of course, you can’t really blame them for being such. After all, Atlantic City was an entertainment destination, with gambling all over the place, enough massage parlors to soothe the entire populations of certain Western states, and thinly-veiled “ladies and gentlemen of the evening”, prowling up and down the Boardwalk and waiting for rich, horny old men to stumble along so they can offer personal tours in the comfort of a hotel room of their choosing. Alcohol was available everywhere. You couldn’t throw a piece of funnel cake in any direction without hitting an establishment with a liquor license.

  Thusly, people were drinking. A lot.

  There are three basic types of public drunkenness. In our first group, we have the people who are just feeling really good. You might not even know that they are somewhat tipsy, except that they are giggling just a wee bit too much, and they are talking with a little more force than is normally required to activate one’s vocal cords. These people are generally fun to be around, because giggling is infectious and talking loud has its merits, especially if they are babbling about your outfit or a certain skill that you might possess. It’s always nice to be flattered in a vociferous manner. And at this level of civil inebriation, even the most boring sober person in the world can manage to appear interesting once they’ve had a shot of tequila.

  Next we have the people who have consumed enough liquor that they are starting to forget about things like personal boundaries and the legality of their actions. They share TOO much, and it’s hard to find their “off” button. These are the people who will show you the tattoo on their butt, even though all you wanted them to do was pass the salt. They are usually more obsessed with sexual activity than one would find appropriate, often digging a small photo album out of their purse to illustrate exactly what they mean. They are firmly convinced of their own amazing sexual desirability. And they don’t stop talking, ever, even when you leave the room.

  Finally, we have the people who have completely lost their minds. Decency is gone, humanity has been sucked out of their pickled soul. In the chemical madness, they will do or say anything. Well, they will try to say it. Sadly, motor skills are weakened and anything coming out of their mouths will contain harsh consonants, too many vowels, and slobber. Likewise, they cannot stand still, swaying to the beat of some imagined conga drum. And they are mean, yelling at people and waving their arms and proving once and for all that man really did evolve from the apes.

  And the mean drunks travel in pairs, often with one of them slightly less smashed than the other, and burdened with the responsibility of screaming “Po-Po is comin’!” at the appropriate moment. The pairs will often turn on one another, their little society falling apart after one of them says something unsatisfactory to the other. Then the rest of the world gets to watch them holler and sway and point and do their slurry best to destroy civilization as we know it. Happily, in Atlantic City, you’re on a Boardwalk, and you can effortlessly shove the mean drunks in the ocean and let them float away. No one will care or dare report you. In fact, the remaining crowd might just build a temple in your honor.

  Then it suddenly hit me. In my current state, I did not qualify for any of the three stages of public drunkenness. I had committed the ultimate vacation sin, allowing myself to become sober while it was still early in the evening. The utter shame.

  I turned to my companions. It’s time for more cocktails, bitches. Move.


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.

The Bubble Bath, Part 8

Editor’s Note: We’re still in the “House of Blues” in Atlantic City. I have just offended Bubbles by somehow implying that she’s not my friend. Slightly-harsh words were exchanged, and Bubbles stomped into a dressing room to concoct an appropriate punishment. I was huddled near a worthless sales clerk, fully expecting to be annihilated by a death ray from Godzilla at any moment…

  Bubbles marched toward me, her look indecipherable as she tossed back whatever garment it was that she had given a test run, finding the thing unsuitable. Just before she reached the point where I was standing with Terry, she barked some cryptic message into her phone, probably arranging for a stealthy hit on the Boardwalk that would snuff out my life while she innocently fed bits of corndogs to the seagulls.

  Bubbles stopped in front of the two of us. “Hey, husbands,” she said blithely. “Ready to head outside and see some more sights?” Then she smiled brightly, as if she had just received word that the diet had been successful and the cholesterol numbers had dropped.

  This confused me. Was I going to die or not? Was she toying with me, or was she really over it? I’m sure that part of her master plan included intentional statements that would keep me in the dark, trembling. I looked at Terry with an expression that indicated he must now ensure my safety, as couples in strong relationships should do. He looked back with an expression that I was a big boy and I was entirely responsible for my own actions.

  I immediately ran to the checkout counter to make my purchase of the evil pink t-shirt that had resulted in threats to my livelihood. Bubbles was already upset with me about the misperceived status of our relationship, so there was no point in jeopardizing things with lackadaisical consumer transactions. I begged the cashier to proceed at full throttle, lest there be bloodshed. The cashier did not understand words with more than one syllable, but she at least sensed the urgency, and quickly shoved the bagged t-shirt in my direction.

  Bubbles led the procession out of the store, deftly knocking aside stupid people who dared to get in our way. There was brief confusion when we neared a place where folks were lined up for some type of world-famous hot dogs, because apparently those folks did not understand that their need for processed tubes of discarded animal parts did not justify blocking the exit path of a Diva with her husbands. Bubbles unleashed magnificent powers from her manicured fingertips, and the sea parted.

  Back on the Boardwalk, with the sun lowering and a very nice breeze cooling things off and carrying away the stench of unwashed humans who don’t understand hygiene, we approached the ocean side of the Boardwalk and gazed at the gently crashing waves. The sight inspired Bubbles and Terry to scamper down a nearby rickety staircase and dash across the sand, the call of nature ringing in their ears.

  I guess my cell phone reception wasn’t up to par, because I wasn’t feeling this call, but I followed my companions nonetheless, not wanting to be left out or re-inspire Bubbles to contact nefarious characters named Guido who would cut me down for the price of a good bottle of Chianti.

  Bubbles, because she had wisely chosen to wear simple sandals that effortlessly coordinated with her comfy summer dress while still allowing for impromptu wardrobe changes, quickly snatched off her footwear and raced into the waves, giggling with release and delight. Terry followed suit, albeit with a brief pause while he struggled out of his socks and tennis shoes.

  This left me standing there, fully clothed, clutching my “House of Blues” bag with the evil pink t-shirt and a magnet that I had impulse-purchased which read “Be Nice or Leave”. I didn’t know if I particularly wanted to expose my tootsies to the elements. Sand was involved. Sand gets into places that it shouldn’t. Which is fine if you just want to frolic on the beach and drink beer. Not so fine if you have to eventually wander back into fancy casinos in search of more alcohol. I don’t want bits of quartz shooting out of my ass while I order a vodka gimlet. (Best drink ever, when made right.)

  But I got into the moment, casting aside my normal anal tendencies to control everything around me. Off came the shoes, off came the socks, both of which were quickly shoved into my “House of Blues” bag, probably ruining the stupid t-shirt that had led to vindictive utterances from a Mafia Princess. Two seconds later, salty water was crashing into my shins and soaking my crotch.

  And it was fine, indeed.

  I’ve been to many beaches, but the years between visits erode the sensation, dim the pleasure, and you forget. There’s something amazing and mystical about the push and pull of the tide. This primal sense of things bigger than us. Coupled with the immediacy of small treasures brought forth by the lapping waves. An interesting piece of shell. An odd rock worn by time. The swift, skittering tiny birds that race along the shore and pick at bits of yummy in the sand.

  The garish and suddenly cheap yowling from the Boardwalk fades away.

  Real nature, fluff removed.

  So we wandered along the shore, heading, I don’t know, probably south. We made our way under a few of the piers, ancient stalwarts of strength, leading out to sea, to a destination that is no longer. Things have changed in Atlantic City, many things. Structures have burned or crumbled, and died. But this sense of other-place is there, once you get beyond that yammering of the Boardwalk.

  We sat on the sand. We talked. We envisioned.

  “I want,” I said, offering no further definition.

  The waves continued to crash, carrying far more secrets than I could ever fathom…


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.

The Bubble Bath, Part 5

  Editor’s Note:  Bubbles has just docked her rocket ship in the parking garage of Caesar’s in Atlantic City…

  Much to my terror, Bubbles realizes that I am not dead in the back seat, so she pokes me with a stick. “Get your ass up. We’ve got places to go and things to drink.”

  Wiping away tears, I climb out of the car, clutching my laptop against my chest as a protective shield. This proves to be a mistake on my part. “You are NOT taking the laptop,” bellows Bubbles. “Put it in the trunk. You are not going to blog when you are supposed to be entertaining me.” I reluctantly comply with her decree, tucking the laptop into the trunk (next to a kayak, of all things; this is a very busy girl), giving it a final loving caress and hoping that I might see it again some day.

  Bubbles leads the way as we march into the Caesar’s hotel lobby. I briefly consider alerting the desk staff that we may all be in danger, but I let it pass. Hopefully, they have been fully trained in survival skills and/or speedy building evacuations. Besides, it’s entirely possible that Bubbles may not decide that someone must die until after we’ve been here a while and made a few friends. There’s still time for children and the elderly to be whisked to a safer location.

  We enter the casino and parade about, trying to decide how best to waste our money on games of pure chance. I’m certain that I don’t want to do anything that involves a “table”, because that would mean I have to talk to people, and I’m never really interested in that. I briefly eye the nickel slot machines, because they speak of solitude and anti-social defiance. But I’m not really feeling it.

  Turns out, none of us are. In one rare moment of complete agreement, the three of us decide that we really don’t want to gamble. Which partially defeats the purpose, of course, of having driven all the way to Atlantic City. Then again, it only took us 15 minutes to drive from Philly, so no real harm done.

  Instead, we’re just going to hit the Boardwalk, and see what’s what. Terry and I have never been here, so surely there are exciting new thrills to be found. And if not, we can drink until things seem to be more interesting than they really are. (This is a fallback life plan that I firmly believe in, and probably should just get t-shirts made with this slogan.)

  Bubbles shifts course and we head into the sunshine.

  The first thing I notice is that there are some really aggressive birds around here. They will come at you like a horny goat, only with wings. They are not afraid of people, at all. And you can’t try to shoo them away, because they will interpret this as a “food-throwing” gesture, a screech of discovery will be transmitted along the avian network, and suddenly 20 more kamikazes will show up, intent on joining the feast.

  Interestingly enough, there are signs all over the place proclaiming “Please don’t feed the birds.” Apparently you do not have to be literate to join the festivities on the Boardwalk, because every other person is hurling food at the creatures as if there’s a prize for doing so. Chunks of bread, bits of fruit and entire burritos fill the air.

  Now, if you aren’t immediately killed by an attitudinal seagull, or felled by a surprisingly large splash of bird poo, you might be able to make it a few feet down the wooden boards before your encounter your next obstacle. This would be those pushcart things driven by men who yell a lot. They want you to sit in their little carts, and then hand over money so you can be shoved along for a few blocks.

  I wasn’t handed any literature concerning the rights-of-way on the Boardwalk, but apparently the carts rule supreme. The pushers do whatever they want. Sure, some of the guys are nice enough, veering out of your way with their lazy cargo, but many of them do not, barreling along with an apparent desire to decimate the population. It’s up to you to perform gymnastic maneuvers if you want to live.

  If you survive the initial onslaught of flapping wings and rumbling carts, you will soon develop the necessary skills to actually calm down enough to enjoy your stroll. As long as you keep one eye on the death-dealing carts, and keep in mind that you must instantly start running if you hear cooing, you’ll  be fine. And there are many things to see along this famous boardwalk, some of them intentional, some of them not.

  There are shops everywhere, selling everything. Much of it is crap, designed to instantly break before you can even drag the thing back to your over-priced hotel. There are tons of restaurants, with holes-in-the-wall mixed in with palatial establishments. Any type of food that you want. Well, any type of food that is normally available on the Eastern seaboard. Didn’t really see any Mexican or Barbecue joints. But that’s fine, because I’m not really invested in eating either of those things unless it’s served by someone with a Southern drawl.

  And the most common establishments to be found? Massage parlors.

  Seriously, it seemed like every third storefront had advertisements shilling things that could be done with heated rocks or petite women who could do aerobics on your back. What’s that all about? Are people in New Jersey really that tense?

  Speaking of people, there were tons of them, all kinds, with one overwhelming trend: blue-hairs. Nothing against our beloved senior citizens, we obviously wouldn’t be here without them. But why do so many of them flock to Atlantic City? In fact, that’s the one major difference between Las Vegas and Atlantic City. In Vegas, there’s a fair balance across the age spectrum. In Atlantic City, it looks like half the people showed up when the Boardwalk first opened in the 1880’s and then never went home.

  But all of that aside, it’s the architecture that fascinated me the most.

  Granted, there are quite a few newer, gleaming buildings that, to be honest, don’t really fit the style. But thrown into the mix are quite a few period structures that have survived. Terry and I were dancing around, trying to get all the pictures that we could, somewhat rapturous with our finds. They have these little placards every so often on the ocean-side of the Boardwalk, and they tell the history of the immediate area around the placards. Really good stuff. As soon as either of us would spot the next one, we would race up to it and devour the details.

  Bubbles was not interested in doing such.

  In fact, her main goal in life seemed to be perpetual movement. She rarely slowed down for anything, much less faded signs with historical tidbits. She scampered along at a consistent pace, apparently intent on reaching Boston in the near future. I guess she’d been to Atlantic City enough times that she just wanted to get the walking part over with.

  So Terry and I tag-teamed, one of us reading the signs or taking pictures, while the other kept an eye on Little Eva as she trudged across the tundra. This resulted in a lot of mad sprinting at points when we realized she was about to vanish in the distant crowd, and if we lost Bubbles we were screwed. We nearly died several times trying to keep up with her, what with all the grenade-like bird poo making things slippery, the pushcarts determined to hurt people that could walk on their on, the skateboarders and bicyclists with their obvious disdain for people without wheels, and the sugar-rush urchins dashing about madly, waving sharp objectss that their neglectful parents had allowed them to possess.

  Suddenly, Bubbles slammed to a halt outside a building. Breathing heavily and sweating buckets, Terry and I gasped our way over to her and reviewed the sign above. “The House of Blues.”

  “Time for a cocktail!” announced Bubbles, and in she went.

  Well, that sounded just dandy, so we trailed along, completely unaware of what would happen inside…


Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Click Here to Read this story from the beginning.