BETTER FOR IT

The hot weather has come in full force. As if overnight, temperatures have risen from a pleasant 70˚ F to a staggering 90˚ F. Summer, it seems, has arrived early. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing either. Medical experts say the added heat could ward off the Coronavirus as it does to most flu bugs, giving us humans the upper hand in a war that seems like it has no end.

Summer’s always been the most difficult season in terms of creativity. The energy that’s normally there is sapped away by physical duress and condensed in beads of sweat that tickle down your skin, reminding you of the crevices and rolls of fat accumulated over the last year. There isn’t anything clever to say. I have very few positive memories of summer past my 30th birthday.

I remember several parties during my mid-twenties at Mandi’s parents’ house. They usually occurred around July 4th when her parents would visit Twain Harte for a weekend, leaving the place wide open for our debauchery. And, by 10am, the music would be cranking, the drinks would be pouring, and the clothes would come off – swimsuit or no – for a devil-may-care heave from the diving board into the cool waters below. Goddamn, I still get goose bumps thinking about it. Though, for the males out there, I’d recommend against skinny dipping right away. At least let your body get used to the cold before you bare all.

During one party, Ronnie, Mandi, and I were in the pool, and we had invited over this 18 year-old girl, Suzanne, who showed up in a bikini. She liked to show her body off – that much was clear by the way she swung her hips walking around the pool and how she leaned over much farther than necessary to talk to us – and Ronnie and I took the bait. Our eyes stuck to her like skin on hot leather as she jumped up and down and off that diving board and again as she rose to the surface of the water, flinging her hair back in that perfect wet arc you sometimes see in shampoo commercials.

Later in the afternoon, I timed my refill so that I could follow behind her up the patio. She grabbed a hose and sprayed me down until I fell back into the pool, glass in hand. She must have thought I was making a move. I probably was, though I don’t remember exactly because I was drunk off my ass. I imagine I had some young, dumb, horny grin on my face – the old smolder perhaps, haha – before she shot the hell out of me and put an end to that.

Funny how, that night, I crawled into Mandi’s bed without her knowing. And when she came in, she pulled the blanket off me and told me to get the hell out of there. She told me, “I’m not going to play second-fiddle to that whore! Get out! Get the hell out!” And so, I did, staggering to the couch in the living room and passing out.

Hahaha. Mandi. Oh, Mandi. I’d marry you 8 years later, have a son with you in 10. We didn’t have a clue back then. It’s funny how life evolves on its own no matter what plans you painstakingly put together. In fact, I’d say the MORE plans you have, the MORE you’ll never see them to fruition. Not to say you’ll hate your life, not usually, but it will be nothing like you expected, and, hopefully, you’ll be better for it.

I was better for it… still am. Now, excuse me, I have to kiss my son goodnight.

-My typer ribbon split in half earlier in the week, and so I wrote this entry on my computer. So, it’s not technically thoughts from a $3 typer… we’ll call it “Musings from an $800 Computer” for this week and maybe next until the new ribbon arrives.