the north shore
I sat on the beach, my back leaning against a sizzling concrete wall as the surf licked my toes. The wall stretched along the length of the beach, and I watched the crowds enjoying the small patch of sand between the wall and the ocean. I stood up and walked into the ocean, the hot pebbles beneath the water tickled my feet and made me laugh. From the wall my mom yelled at me to take my sunglasses off. I dove down and grabbed a handful of hot marbles. When I resurfaced there were strands of spaghetti stuck in my sunglasses. I laughed and ran my hand over the surface of the water, collecting the noodles between my fingers. I was surprised and excited and said ‘wow the noodles are beautiful!’ and a woman swimming nearby rolled her eyes and with derision scoffed, “It’s the North Shore.”
My self-made, successful gay lawyer friend invited two of his young model girlfriends over. They left me in his five story townhouse and went to get pizza and then go to the club. From the view of his balcony I watched his nervous breakdown: like an exorcism, his face contorted in agony as he scaled an invisible fence that rose high above the neatly tree lined street in his upscale neighborhood, fucking hot dogs, splitting them open to further develop their resemblance to a broken urethra. His two hot friends returned home in the morning from the club in a cab, and I refused their entry to my friend’s townhouse because they were selfishly unaware of my friend’s mental instability and were bad friends for letting him eat hot dogs.