walking along the beach that i grew up next to with martine. the day is brilliant like a coke ad, the sand is soft and fluffy, squeaking through my bare toes, the gentle blue waves sparkle, lapping at the shore like a cat tasting milk. i say to martine something like 'days like this make living worthwhile' he agrees.
we pass the rocky point and i look down. to my horror, the damp sand is strewn with used syringes, there seems no patch of empty sand. i scream out in rage at the selfish invisible junkies who put them there 'i hope you die really soon you losers, if i get aids and die i will come back to haunt you, you CUNTS'
we are desperately tiptoeing over them trying to avoid the points, there are more and more of them until they are piled 5 cm deep. we pass through and continue our conversation. martine has become marlon brando, in his 'on the waterfront' period, without the blackeye. he points to a stretch of beach up ahead in front of the pine trees and the yacht club.
he asks 'do you know how weightwatchers bay got its name?'
i reply guessing it had something to do with the fat woman and her two fat children who used to lie there, often helping in the yacht club canteen, in between generous helpings of pavlova. he says 'exactly', and the fat people hove into view between the trees. we run up to them. while i'm greeting the two porky teenagers, marlon whispers something in their mother's ear. as her face turns a deep shade of red, she meekly hands over about 90 dollars in notes. it seems that marlon has said something really cruel about her girth, implying that she should pay him for having to look at her (or something). i am very angry and tell her to not be ashamed of what she is, and berate marlon (who we all know is a tub of lard now anyway) for his renowned mental cruelty.
copyright 1995 lisa bode