“You wanna know a good dive bar?” he asks the three pseudo-locals. His face too red, his voice too husky as the vape smolders from his fingertips. The weather cools but not enough to chill the tallboy stuffed in his back jean pocket. Mostly gone, like the summer.
“Mai Tai’s with sour mix give me indigestion.” “I go for Tanqueray and tonic.” The privileged and white transit the harbor in their boats both powered and unpowered. Names like “Lots of Options,” “Totally Hooked,” and “Striper Swiper.”
“That’s Preston Bush’s boat.” “That’s 34-feet, triple 300’s.” “He’s a cowboy.”
Upturned collars. Plaid. Short shorts. Teens in the bow, glued to their phones oblivious to the boat, the day, the ocean, the summer or the air they sluggishly breathe. Irish flags fly across the harbor. Three generations of Indian family approach and ask for directions, information, and my opinion. After ten trips here I find my answers to be somewhat of value.
How great is this land of ours? On long term loan with the most vicious of rates, but the beauty of “us” is that it isn’t just a few of “us” it’s all of “us.” Every flavor, every color, every talent, and every flaw. A collection of imperfect perfection.
Work, pay taxes, contribute.