I have about 48 seconds to preface this before I have to sprint down the street to Yoga, so here goes: homegirl, me, is exploring creative writing.
Yikes. I know. Why? I don’t know why. Your mom is why. CUZ is why. But what you are about to read has been humbly linked to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge, which was to write between 33 and 333 words on the one-word prompt “vulgar.” Vulgar is a word near and dear to my heart because it was one of my mom’s greatest hits growing up.
1992: “What did I tell you about Nickleodeon! Vulgar! Put the Disney Channel back on!”
1998: I want you to draw me wearing this. Wearing only this. “Sarah! Close your eyes! Vulgar!”
2002: say no way, say no way-ah, no waaay-ah, no no why don’t you get a job “UGH! Where did you get this CD?! VULGAR!”
ANYWAY. Sorry that preface was supposed to be brief. Succinctness: not a strength. But in this instance we had to use the “common, plebian” lesser-used definition of the word.
PS I feel all shy and vulnerable sharing anything that could be remotely interpreted as “art” so be gentle and don’t laugh. Pls.
3:00pm on a weekday was not the hour you wanted to be tending the beach club bar.
The mirthful female population was not interested in being pulled away from the sand at the peak stretch of UV concentration. The mothers had long retreated to condos and cottages to proctor naps and administer snacks of cheese cubes and hemisphered grapes. And, most obviously, people of healthy bodies and minds were inclined to wait for a later, more socially acceptable hour to make their appearances.
3:00pm traffic was reduced to the vulgar and unrefined—depraved second wives on the prowl, atrociously behaved fraternity wildlife, gaggles of leathered broads gathering for post-Bridge vodka sodas and squawking like raspy, tobacco-addicted sea-fowl.
And me, the unfortunate barkeep, alone and flanked by filthy, churning daiquiri machines.
My main objective this day, like most days, was avoidance of one of the club’s more infamous female personalities who seemed to have taken a keen interest in my work schedule. Physically, she was 23 and not wholly unfortunate. Intellectually, she was far from the crispest pool noodle in the shed’s armada. And behaviorally, the woman was a train wreck. Last week my boss had to formally reprimand her for topless poolside sunbathing—an event that horrified the evangelical parents, delighted the Rotary Club gentlemen, and confirmed the staff’s longtime suspicion that she was, truly, an imbalanced character in a Jimmy Buffet song.
I heard the aural assault of her God-awful giggle before I saw her round the corner into the bar—Croc-clad feet, strapless and age-inappropriate cover up, halter-shaped tan lines, a visor pushing her blonde hair into a shallow mound on top of her head.
“Gordon! There you are!”
I sighed. Resigned. Gritted sand between my teeth.
It was 3:09 and 3 months till Labor Day.