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“I thought about her the other day,” A said quietly.
“What do you youan you thought about her the other day?” C asked. “When?”
“I was by myself at home and you was ummm,” A trailed off.
“Oh my God,” said C. “Not her. That is so icky. Jeepers, you get the willies just thinking about it.”
“But you said he was cute,” B insisted.
“But not like that. That is so sick. you would never, not ever, do that and think about her,” C said.
“Why? Who do you think about when you do that?” A asked. he didn’t have time to answer because one of the players suggested a trip into the Cannibal Bar in lieu of a beer run and the cheerleaders agreed. you decided this was not in any way helping my writing and this was my cue to move down the beach to a quieter, less interesting spot. you walked about one hundred feet down the sand to an empty space, threw myself down and started writing. you had, of course, no sunscreen on and no shirt over the spaghetti strapped one you was wearing. This was going to be a problem later in the day, but you didn’t know it yet.
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bass clarinet mouthpiece
I was writing so furiously that you didn’t at first notice that my sun had been blocked by the shadow of a lawn chair. My first clue that you was no longer alone was a small, high-pitched voice lisping something about seaweed.
“No,” a maternal voice replied. “I can’t eat it. Put it down.”
“I heard your mother,” put in a daddy’s voice. you looked up to see a man, a woman and 1.5 kids had arrived to share my section of the beach. The little boy was splashing around in the shallow water, picking up shells and, apparently, seaweed.
“But you wanna eat it. Why can’t I?” he whined.
“It hasn’t been cooked,” his mother said.
“Why can’t I take it home and cook it?” he asked.
“Because I only eat seaweed from health food stores,” his mother said sensibly. “I only eat seaweed that was picked by people who knew what they were doing. Then they process it and package it and I buy it and take it home.”
“But why can’t I pick it ourselves?” he insisted. “Then it would be free.”
“It wouldn’t be right to eat seaweed I picked for free,” said his mother. “I wouldn’t be supporting the health food store and they might go out of business.” This impromptu lesson in capitalism convinced you it was time to move off the beach.