"Still going to the beach?" reads the text message from my friend Lily. It's past noon on a Sunday, and I'm still in bed, hurting in that old familiar way from the night before. Saturday's wedding-celebration-turned-evening-on-the-town forced me to consume alcohol continuously for nearly 12 hours. My neighbors and I closed down the Fox and drank on The Patio until about 5 a.m. Every muscle, bone and nerve in my body begs to stay under the covers, with the curtains drawn, and hunker down until Monday morning. But beach plans had been made, and a little cervezas and sun might do me good. I spill the night's final can of warm beer while reaching across the nightstand for my cellphone.
"Do you mind if my friend Jessica comes?" Lily asks. "I need another girl along so I can get guys to buy me drinks. I don't want them to think you're my boyfriend."
"That's fine," I mumble. "Who's Jessica?"
"You met her, I think," Lily says.
But I hadn't. Or at least don't recall meeting her. It took me a while to get out of bed and then I got lost finding Lily's place in St. Pete's labyrinthine (to me, at least) Old Northeast neighborhood, which is even messier Sunday thanks to Taste of Pinellas taking place at nearby Vinoy Park.
"You look tired," Lily says the second she gets in the car. My friend then introduces me to Jessica, who says nothing, just glares at me from the back seat like I'm the damn chauffer. "What are you listening to?" Lily asks.
"The Polka Party Express on WMNF," I respond. "It cheers me up."
Lily giggles in a way that makes me feel 50 years old. That's twice her age. I'm only five years older than she is, but must admit that today I'm acting and feeling about 70. "I'll change it," I say and suggest the new Beach Boys box set — more proof (to Jessica) that I'm a hopeless relic. Lily grabs my new Radiohead Best of advance instead.
We turn onto Treasure Island and arrive at Caddy's where the parking lot is full. We find a spot for the car elsewhere in the neighborhood and hoof it.
"Where's your towel?" Lily asks three-quarters of the way into our treacherous hike over asphalt in the merciless heat. By this time, I feel nauseous from having not eaten all day following a marathon drinking session. Also, I have to piss so bad I'm sizing up every tree within view. "I'll be fine without the towel," I snap as I pick up my walking pace.
Upscale beach bums, straggly-haired kids running wild and 20somethings with sculpted bodies and bronze skin populate Caddy's, making me feel suddenly ashamed of my paunch and paleness. Luckily, there's no line at the pisser and I'm able to relieve myself without making an embarrassing dash to the ocean, which I was preparing to do if the wait for the urinals was more than three persons deep.
Lily and her mute friend Jessica, who looks at me like I'm some cretin from the planet Male Chauvinism, sit down at a table and order grub. Lily and I drink, as we always do, but not Jessica. As politely as possible I ask: "So, Jessica, you're not drinking?"
"No," she snaps, "I'm not much of a drinker."
"So," I joke, "what do you do with all that time when you should be drinking?"
Jessica responds with a glare and lists a few lame hobbies, but by now I've tuned her out.
"I like people who are dark," she blathers. "People who are mysterious."
Whatever. We're at the beach. Go back to your cave.
Lily, who has a tan like Pocahontas, spreads her towel on the beach, as does Jessica, who is pale but has covered her whiteness in sun block. I forgot my sun block and cook like a bacon strip. Enough of that. I go flop around in the bathwater-warm gulf like a 10-year-old from Nebraska discovering the ocean for the first time. Lily joins me for a game of Frisbee and Jessica follows. Jessica has all the catching and throwing ability of a jellyfish, huffing and puffing whenever the plastic disc sails through her hands.
Lily and Jessica return to their spot in the sand. I hit Caddy's and ease into a spot on the second floor. By now, my hangover has alleviated, and I'm ready to upgrade from beer to hard liquor and drink myself into another dimension, because this Jessica girl is really irking me. Alas, I drove — something I rarely do — so getting loaded isn't an option. I sip on another beer, which makes me feel increasingly bloated and self-conscious about my belly. Meanwhile, a herd of bald-headed, torso-and-pubic-region-shaven steroid cases prepare to brawl. I spot Lily looking for me and give her a nod that says: "Let's get the fuck out of here."
Caddy's Waterfront, 9000 W. Gulf Blvd., Sunset Beach, Treasure Island, 727-360-4993.
This article appears in Jun 11-17, 2008.