Rockaway Beach Vignettes: Judas, Brutus, and Cassius

This vignette series will be running over the summer about Rockaway Beach, New York.


Ran into Mulroney on 96th eating fish tacos and he was off the junk so he and Red Hat and Pretty Boy and I went to the Bar for a pina colada. Yeah Mulroney was good with soul present eyes and we were all feigning for that frozen rum drink. I said to Mulroney “I thought you were wearing tanks all summer: what’s with the button down.” He smiled and opened his shirt to show his commitment – a black tank revealed. “It’s a little chilly, ya know.”

As we walked down 95th to the Bar, a car pulled up to park. Mulroney familiar with its driver ran up to the passenger window. “Its Bodi!” I knew of this person and was curious to meet this storied surfer. Mulroney waived us on to the Bar and said that Bodi would be joining us there. Past a group of children perpetually playing on the street who were all too curious and then on to the first tier of our favorite place. It is the afternoon during the week and in the seventies, cooler than usual. The Bar is empty but for a few others craving the summer drinks. I just bought two packs of American Spirits and was happy to sit down to a rum high and smoke my American tobacco. I gave a cigarette to Red Hat even though I felt bad—his being young and all. We were waiting for our drinks. I didn’t feel like a lecture but reminded him that they cut off the oxygen to your brain. He looked a little disturbed—good…success.

The drinks arrived and we settled into a long relaxed sip on this beach veranda. It was a pleasure to have this spot so Appollonian and quiet—the nights erupt into a Dionysian ritual of sex, jealously, drunkenness, and the deafening roar of the present. All are completely in the moment with no future and only few are unfortunate enough to bring in a past.

We wait for Bodi to arrive—his Guinness foams and settles long before his arrival. Red Hat and Pretty Boy take off for the skate park after one. Mulroney convinces me to stay for at least two more—how could I say no with nothing to do for the afternoon. Mulroney nods to an approaching car, “ugh, here comes Fake Frank.” “why do you call him that?” “You will find out in about two minutes.” A far too blond man with no shoes and a Grateful Dead T-shirt approaches us with a drunk and cheery girl. “Hey, there Mulroney…Oh man, I haven’t seen you in (pause for fist bump)…wow, how are you?” Introductions. “Hey I know you?” “Uh, nah but maybe I have seen you around.” No matter Fake Frank is already consumed the annoying banalities uncharacteristic to the neighborhood. Mulroney placates then rolls his eyes as the two disappear into the bar for their drinks. “Yeah, I got ya, Mulroney” Laughter. Sip Drinks. The kids from the sidewalk come up towards us—one boy gave me a white flower taken from the house next door. He is our instant friend.

A man rounds the corner—big and husky. He is wearing white linen pants and a button down, sunglasses, an Irish cap, and using a wooden cane. Banged up clearly. This is the surfer from Nicaragua. This is the man all the other surfers talk about. He sits down with big warm handshakes all around. He sits down like Santa with his beard and his legs apart for a listening lean. After he lifts his warm beer, Mulroney looks pleased and they catch up. He was injured in an accident—hence the cane. I am out of my league and thinking I should depart. Not good for ladies to be hanging out with so many men— as I stand to leave Mulroney insists that I stay for at least one more. Bodi takes notice of me then and offers his introduction. “I am the girl who lives with the dark haired man” Ahh…yes, there is recognition now—he came to one of our yard parties. Already warm on rum I say “I have heard of you—the surfer from Nicaragua.” This pleases the crowd and Bodi who is attentive to me now. We talk of Nicaragua while Mulroney gets my drink—of international relations and drug trafficking—of the people and the jungle. Mulroney arrives with a rum floater on my pina colada. I avoid these but am not upset at its arrival. I settle back into my wrought iron chair of curly-cued roses and chipped paint and take the golden brown rum off with a slow sip.

The rum is getting me now as the banter is quicker and Fake Frank arrives to speak more banalities to Bodi whose patience is of the worldly kind. Fake Frank and the girl tuck themselves into the corner for some making out while we continue a better conversation now about Dante’s Inferno and who was the third man in the mouth of the devil. No one can remember and Bodi says he can’t because he is too high. He is reading Don Quixote in Spanish –“DO you know Spanish?” No. “My friends are teaching me.” I think they are …Yo quiero cerveza...ha.

- Lady Gravesend