How I Spent My Summer Vacation (3 page)

The late-day shadows under and around the boardwalk suddenly shifted and fragmented, one piece moving forward and translating into a figure in layers of sweaters, socks, and skirts. Her hair, uncovered, was pale brown, fuzzy and thin, reminding me of a doll I had once overloved into baldness.

Still crouched, as she must have been under the boardwalk, she looked up at me from dark eyes set in a rumpled face, and, having found her balance, slowly drew herself up straight. “
Steps,”
she hissed. “
My steps.
Below for a while because it’s nippy, that’s all. I’m still alive, you know, even if money thinks I’m dead.” Her voice darkened. “My place. Find your own.”

“But—”

“One part of the beach as good as another.” She waved her hands toward
elsewhere
. She wore one red and one blue glove. “People are slobs. Cans and bottles all over come summer. You’ll make a buck anywhere. Wherever you are, they try to round you up, roust you out, every night. Here, too.”

“But I…I’m not…I’m just visiting for a few days. At the casino.” I wanted to think it was funny that my worn jeans and threadbare turtleneck had made her decide I was poaching her turf. But I couldn’t. She was a face for my worst fears, for, I suspect, almost every underpaid, underinsured single woman’s worst fears. To become the bag lady, street person—or, in this case, sand person—alone, homeless, destitute, and perhaps slightly mad. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You get the winners.” She made a throwing motion with both hands. “Pennies from heaven. Losers, too. What the hell, they say. Understand how it feels. Turn their pockets inside out.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you.” And I turned.

“Got a buck, then?”

At home I carry a bill or coins in my pocket for just this purpose, but I hadn’t thought the situation would arise on the beach. “I only brought my room key,” I said lamely. “I’ll be back.”

“Sure,” she muttered.

“No, honestly. Will you be—are you always here?” What’s a nice former girl like you doing on a desolate beach like this? I wanted to know her story—every street person’s story—every step of the way down. If I knew how and why this happened, would I also know ways to keep it from happening to me? Unfortunately, the more stories I heard, the less defined and more easy the slide appeared to be.

She squinted at me intently, and, as if she’d read my mind and worst fears, she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I was once like you. You don’t think so, but I was.” She chuckled softly.

Her words had a rehearsed or at least overpracticed sound, and probably were both, and she sounded slightly cracked and probably was. And that should have made her and whatever she had to say less ominous, but it didn’t.

“Yes!” She flung mismatched hands toward the heavens. “Ruined!” she shouted. Then she dropped her arms and looked at me, her brow burrowed. “Men, you know?”

Just exactly how much like me had she been?

“I watch all day long.” She pointed the red-gloved index finger in my direction.

“Me?”

“Everybody. The visitors. Saw The Donald last week. You know who he is? Had a good talk with him about high finance.” She cackled again. Her right incisor was missing.

Of course that hadn’t happened at all, but nonetheless, I had to ask. “Was he generous?”

“Generous?”
She laughed so hard, she collapsed down in the sand. “Not a penny. Said he never carries small bills!” She flopped onto her back and looked up to me, and then in a world-weary voice said, “Rich men are the worst, aren’t they?”

I went down the staircase and helped her up, brushing sand off her clothing, which was purely symbolic, given her residence. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m Georgette.”

I wondered if that was supposed to be an answer to my question. “And I’m Mandy,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Suddenly serious, she looked me directly in the eye. “Yes,” she said. “I was once like you. I had curtains at my windows, too.”

* * *

Sasha was not yet in the bar, but before I went up to retrieve her and money for the sandwoman, I detoured to the ladies’ room to, among other things, wash the grit off my hands.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Georgette, which is probably why I almost plowed into a nervous-looking, fussily dressed senior citizen blocking my exit. I hesitated, expecting her to move in one direction or the other, as in the normal order of business. She didn’t. “Are you leaving?” I finally asked.

“What?”

“Leaving.” I amplified my voice. “The door’s behind you. May I use it?” I sounded stupid and she looked fuddled. “Are you all right?”

“All right. Am I all right?” She tilted her head, the better to consider the issue. Her hair was baby-chick yellow, sculpted into curls that didn’t budge as she moved. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, dearie. You young people have lives of your own. I’ll be fine.”

Definitely off kilter and none of my business. I reached around her for the door handle.

“That is,” she said, “I
hope
I’ll be fine.”

I took a deep breath. I had already had my peculiar-old-lady fix for the day. I had people to see, vacations to create. “What do you mean, you
hope
?” I asked, my big mouth once again working independently of my brain.

“If you insist.” She folded her arms across her commodious bosom and launched into her spiel with so much gusto, I knew that I was the unfortunate fly this spider lady had been awaiting. “I’m being harassed.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Sexually, like that sweet girl with the judge on the TV.”

“Anita Hill? What are you talking about?”

“Why? You think she lied?”

“No—I just don’t see what any of this has to do with blocking the door. Or with me.”

“Honey,” she said, “my
boundaries
are being
violated
. Just like they say on Sally Jessy Raphael.”

“Sounds painful, but I’m supposed to meet my friend, so—”

“You have a heart of stone or you don’t believe me? Which one? You think I’m too old?
He’s
too old? You ever hear the expression ‘dirty old man’? Or do you think men improve with age, like wine?”

I took a deep breath. “If you have a problem, report it to one of the guards, or the management, or the police.”

“Nobody can touch him. He’s beyond the law.”

“I’m sure that’s not so, miss.”

“Mrs. Rudy…” The last name sounded like
Smirtz
. She wiped her eyes and moved on. “My late husband, may he rest in peace, was a good man. Lala. Call me Lala.”

“That’s quite an unusual name.”

“A family nickname. My grandmother’s and aunt’s, too. We’re all really named Henrietta. Lala is short for lalapalooza.” She leaned closer to me again. “Tommy is beyond the law. Nobody would dare touch him. He nuzzles my neck and says I have heroic bosoms like a Valkyrie. He says my ankles make him weep with pleasure. But me? I’m finished with men since my Rudy passed. Tommy says he loves my spirit, that he’s a romantic and he’ll never give up. He comes down on the bus with me and goes back with me, too. Tries dirty things as we ride.”

“Why don’t you flat out tell him to get lost?”

“I’m afraid. He’s connected, you know what I mean? I can’t enjoy my life. I can’t enjoy the casino. What kind of woman does he think I am?”

“Look, I have to leave. My advice is: take a different bus.”

She curtly shook her immobile curls. “I’m not made of money, dearie. I’m an old woman, and every nickel—the bus is a charter. We pay eight dollars, they drive us here. A bargain, already, right? But then they give us five dollars for the day and a five-dollar voucher toward the next bus. How could I take another bus?”

“Don’t come at all.”

“I’m not entitled to a little fun? A little pleasure?”

“Well, that’s quite a problem you’ve got.” I hated to be rude to my elders, but I was going to knock her down, if necessary, to get out of here. “Be a modern woman. Risk it. Tell him you’re not interested. Bring a lady friend. Bring a different man friend. Get a restraining order against him. Learn self-defense. Use your common sense!”

“Actually.” She put her veiny hand on top of mine. Her nails were polished the color of bubble gum. “There
is
something you could do.”

“Excuse me?” It is possible that I am actually one of those noisy ghosts who try in vain to be recognized because they don’t know that people can’t hear or see them. “I’m sorry,” ghostly me said. “I can’t.”

“Such an easy thing.”

I shook my head.

“Pretend to know me. Please.” She stepped back and looked up at me. “Save me.” At five-eight, I was a good seven inches taller, and, I assumed, forty years younger.

“I’m sorry, but—” I’m working on this other case, the lady who lives under the boardwalk, you see. The guilt office has met its daily quota and is closed.

“Five minutes, that’s all. It’s for a good cause. You’ll do it, won’t you, darling? Play along with me. In the name of sisterhood!” She raised a clenched fist.

Shameless manipulation. Impersonating a feminist. But what the hell? She really seemed afraid of this man. “Five minutes,” I said, and arm in arm, we entered the darkened bar. I scanned for someone dark and broody, visibly
connected
.

Lala delivered me to a frail, freeze-dried male.

This villainous lecher who’d struck terror in Lala’s heart pushed back his chair and leaped to attention. In thrall to the calendar rather than outdoor temperatures, he wore a seersucker suit and white shoes. All he lacked was a straw skimmer hat to be a perfect turn-of-the-century dandy. “Lala! Dear heart!” he said as she approached. “I was worried.”

“Tommy, I want you to meet the granddaughter of an old, dear friend….” Self-absorbed Lala had never asked my name. She merrily skipped on. “You remember I told you about Sherwin? The man who’s infatuated with me? Can you believe that his granddaughter just showed up, and says that Sherwin is searching for me.” She spoke at about twice the tempo she’d used in the ladies’ room, and things moved so quickly that as angry as I was becoming, when Tommy put out a hand that looked like a pterodactyl’s, I shook it.

“I’m Amanda,” I said.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “
I’m
a-man-da. You’re a-girl-da. Sit, sit, sit.” He waved at the table he’d been at. We all continued to stand.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Tommy said, covering his wretched joke’s flat wake. “Any friend of Lala’s…” His attention returned, adoringly, to Ms. Smirtz. “I don’t seem to remember any Sherwin,” he said.

“Really?” Her laugh was an incredulous tinkled scale, like spoons on crystal. “He’s the one who took me to Rome that time I had an urge for pasta.”

I exhaled loudly, angrily. “It’s been great, but—”

“I think maybe I won’t go back to the city with you tonight, Tommy. Sweetie here says Sherwin’s desperate to see me.” Lala sighed extravagantly.

“Whatever happened to subtlety?” I muttered. “Or honesty?” They both ignored me.

“Please, Lala!” Tommy said. “Come back with me.”

Lala shook her head like a wild young thing, although the glued-together curls refused to toss and she looked like she had a crenelated skull.

“Don’t make any rash decisions. Let’s talk this through.” Tommy interrupted his pleas to wave at a beefy bald man. The man’s companion, a creature with straight black hair and a red dress laminated to her flesh, flicked a glance our way. The man did not. “I was just telling Big Julius there about you, Lala,” Tommy said.

“That’s Big Julius? Isn’t he…oh, my, I’ve heard about him. The garbage business, isn’t it?” She looked at me and hissed, “See what I mean?
Big Julius!
And what did you tell Big Julius about me?” she asked in her normal voice.

“That I was crazy about you, of course.” He elbowed me. “I’m crazy about this lady,” he said. Then he looked back at his love object. “Big Julius is a nice man, despite his reputation.”

“It’s been a treat, but I have to run now,” I said.

“She’s leaving you stranded, Lala,” Tommy said. “All mine again. That means you’re not running off with this Sherwin person. I’ll wine and dine you and we will ride off into the sunset together at the back of the bus. Look, over there. It’s McDog. The one whose business partner blew himself up, or so the official story goes. And over there…”

Watching them was mildly fascinating, a game of ego Ping-Pong. Tommy served hyped inside dope on mobsters he pretended to have known, and Lala returned the serve with ever-escalating tales of the imaginary Sherwin’s generosity and lust.

“They all love me,” Tommy said with some desperation. “Every single one of them. They tell me everything. They call me the Safe Deposit, get it? I keep their secrets. See him?” he said of a respectable gray-haired business type in conversation with the bartender. “He has three days left to pay off his loan or die. He’s not lucky at the tables the way I am.”

“You didn’t seem so lucky today,” Lala said.

“Not yet, maybe,” Tommy answered. “But I was out of the game for a while, after all.”

“He was hit by a roulette ball that jumped,” Lala explained.

Tommy rubbed the back of his hand. I could see a dark bruise on the leathery skin. “My luck’s changing,” he said. “I feel it in my bones—long as you’re with me, Lala.”

“But Sherwin—”

“See her?” Tommy pointed at a woman with yellow-white big hair. “Sinatra used to be very fond of her. You catch my drift?
Very.
But she is reputed to have killed her husband and eaten the corpse so there was no evidence.”

“Sherwin says every woman deserves a—”

“See him?” Tommy said of a redhead who had just entered the cocktail lounge. “Supposedly an antique dealer, but really Jersey’s number one hit man.”

Lala shuddered with delight.

“Aren’t drinks free in the casinos?” I asked. “Why are all these men coming into the bar?”

“A change of scene,” Tommy said.

“A little socializing,” Lala added. “A little schmoozing.”

“A little business,” Tommy said, sotto voce.

I thought about the vacation plans I had abandoned. At this point, cleaning closets sounded like keen fun.