It was impossible to relax at the beach the day a guy 10 feet away yapped like a caffienated Chihuahua about the "schizophrenic stock market." He thought he was quite a peach for diagnosing America's economy with a four-syllable word.
"The DOW is up!" the wheeler-dealer bellowed and I immediately assumed the obvious. He was receiving his seaside day trading info via the transmitter hidden in his can of Arizona ice-tea, which brought reception to the chip, implanted in his brain. The surgery scar was hidden under a well-groomed comb over.
The wheeler-dealer's entourage, ecstatic about the financial upswing, munched away on organic pitas stuffed with tofu and bean spouts. With steadfast intensity they gazed straight ahead, as though the stock quotes ran on tickertape across the horizon line. Could they really be
? If we believed in the life forms that created crop circles, why not this?
Yes, it was time to face the chilling truth. I was in the presence of vacationer impersonator parties
real life V.I.P's. Though all knowing about the best imported-hypoallergenic-non-pore clogging sun lotion, these people had no idea where work left off and summer relaxation began.
I half expected Martha Stewart, the revered leader of the vacationer impersonators, to come trudging out of the waves after a long morning of deep-sea fishing. She'd show the beach goers how to stuff the stripped bass she caught with an herb seaweed couscous, and then bake the delicacy in a fiery sand pit. Then, after a dessert of individual sponge cakes carved in the shape of baby mahi-mahi, and served with a raspberry coulisse, she'd retire to her homespun beach blanket. While tanning, she'd work on the layout of her new television series, "Martha Stewart Living Behind Bars." In a couple of months jail stripes just might be "A Good Thing."
But the multitasking mogul did not grace the beach with her presence and I instead had to endure the nearby beachside broker yell into his cell phone in order to be heard over the crashing surf. Apparently his guest had gotten lost in a sea of umbrellas, and he was trying to track them down via his little phone.
After endless "cell-fusion," (the realization that you're talking on the phone to someone less than 20 yards away), the two parties merged. The beachside broker ordered his guest to take a load off and help himself to the plantain chips, energy boosting soy nuts, and iced chai tea in the cooler.
At that moment I only wanted one thing -- yellow caution tape. If I could only rope off the vacationer impersonator parties like a bloody crime scene, perhaps they wouldn't multiply and ooze toward me.
But it was too late. They were everywhere.
That wasn't the worst of it, though. After a day at the beach, the vacation impersonators captured their dogs (who were fetching driftwood in the waves), locked them in shoulder bags the size of Volkswagens, and took them shopping in town. Yes, these coddled canines had to be close to Mommy, while her real children were back home at the palatial oceanfront palace with herds of Nannies who had been conveniently ordered by their husbands with a click of the mouse at hot-brazilian-nannies.com. Ahhh, the miracles of technology! The vacation impersonators' laptops glowed in a halo of light.
Stop the madness! I wanted to scream. Didn't anyone see what was happening? Children were developing Spanish accents after spending all their days with Nanny Roberta. Shorthaired terriers were being versed in beachy fashions and the joys of unlimited credit. A doomed revenge was inevitable. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, the spoiled dogs would be found stuffed in mailboxes with a note attached that read "Hola Mama, como le gusta Sparky ahora" (Translation: Hello mother, how do you like Sparky now?)
I managed to stay calm as the vacation impersonators hovered on the water in their crazy sailing ships. They fervently checked the DOW and the day it went up over 300 points were giddy as little schoolgirls abroad who just polished off a couple bottles of wine. Oh, I'd had my financial woes too that summer -- lost $1.50 on a bad backgammon bet, and a 20 during my bout with scratchy lotto tickets. But it was summer and like an old lady who has just removed her dentures after finishing her Jell-O surprise at Shady Pines, I smiled nostalgically and gazed into the distance. Hardwood floors gritty with sand. Overturned rowboats in the dunes. Being pulled aimlessly in the salt water by the undertow. That's what makes the summer go 'round.
The August haze settled over me and I began to forget what day it was. Conversation grew loose. Faces became foggy, and I only could match names with swim trunks and tans. I ran into a couple of guys (who I only ever saw on the beach) spiffed up in khakis and oxfords one night after dinner and accidentally blurted out, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on." The vacation impersonators, who crowded the sidewalk and binged on fat-free-aspartame-chockfull ice cream, looked like they just swallowed the sadistically spiky heel of a Jimmy Choo shoe. They covered the ears of their dogs, hoping my audacious greeting had not corrupted their dear Sparky.
But I could have cared less. My friends knew what I really meant. It took some time but life was finally lightening up in the summer sun and so was my hair. I was in a vacation state of mind.
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