For Tanya. This is your story. I am merely its vessel.
It all started with a stolen glance.
Jesus, that sounds fucking pathetic. If I’m going to just throw caution to the wind and relate every ridiculous detail of this bizarre turn my life has taken, I better at least back up and make you understand that I was relatively sane not too long ago. I might be a raving lunatic but you would be, too, if you had —
— been taking another Ecstatic wobbly Friday night stroll across the weathered Asbury Park Boardwalk, Dan’s bicep hooked into the crook of my arm for balance, a detailed outline of his hard-on etched into the faded fabric of his slim-fit Levis.
We ducked into the Convention Hall, an imposing eyesore of an edifice that reminds me of the abandoned Ellis Island Great Hall and probably shelters just as many ghosts of the terminally forlorn. Dan tapped two cigarettes out of his pack and handed me one.
“I’m vaping now. Hurry up and smoke that thing so we can get out of here.”
“You’re still scared of this place, Sam?”
“It’s Sammi, for the millionth time, and when I’m at the peak of my roll, I like to be anywhere but a big, musty, depressing fucking building, okay?”
Dan broke into his little weasel chuckle and blew a cloud of smoke into my face. I punched him in the arm and turned to stare at the dark surf breaking on the invisible shoreline. Silhouettes skittered past the clouded glass of the window, vague human forms unconsciously choreographed to the distant calliope music. I shuddered, another micro-orgasm wasted on Dan’s incessant motherfucking smoke breaks. He was leaning against a column staring at the blue smoke curling languidly into the dank atmosphere of our marble mausoleum. Sometimes he irritated the living shit out of me.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What’s the rush, Sam-mi? Seen a ghost?”
“No, but I see an asshole who’ll never get in my pants again if he doesn’t crush that butt under his shoe in the next 30 seconds.”
Before I knew it, we were under the boardwalk fucking as if our lives depended on it.
Dan and I had spent pretty much every Friday night that summer rolling and drinking and screwing at the boardwalk. It had gotten so routine that I probably wouldn’t have even thought to mention it if this particular night hadn’t preceded the next Saturday morning. That was the morning when I started to question everything I thought I knew.
As I write, I can feel him staring daggers at me — actual soul-piercing daggers. He’s right there outside the sliding glass doors, silent, motionless and inscrutable as you’d expect any ceramic statue to be. Don’t be fooled. He’s pure creeping insidious evil and if I had the will, I’d smash him to jagged shards right there on the patio.
This is a love story. I’m writing it for the benefit of everyone who — like me — hates love stories with a fucking passion. So pour yourself a drink. You’re gonna need it.