Hypothermia at Miami Beach

My childhood trips to the beach were never fully appreciated until I was abnormally sun burned, the police were dispatched for my mother or I tried to take the city bus home. The beach can often be a source of peace and tranquility to normal families. They find the excursion to be a way of bonding and spending time together whereas my family found it to be an easy way to embarrass each other in public.
Miami Beach was 10 miles away from where we lived but for some reason my mother would pack for it as if we would be traveling overseas, never to return again. Suitcases were literally packed to the brim with clothes from every season. Of all the things thrown in though, there was always a logical reason behind it. She always explained herself as if something was wrong with me. “What do you mean why am I bringing a snowcap? Do you know how long it takes to get sand out of your hair, she questioned. Extra pants and long shirts were taken in case one of us got chilly. The temperature would reach 105 during the day and my mother would be damned if one of us were going to catch a cold.
It was easy to hide the unneeded wardrobe in the car but no one at the beach was going to miss the 10 foot wooden canoe strapped to the top of the silver 1984 Cadillac El Dorado we were piled into. Unfortunately she had chosen the canoe when faced with the dilemma that both that and the rope hammock would not fit in the car. It didn’t bother mom that there was not a single tree on the beach or that no one in their right mind would try to paddle out into the ocean with a canoe that was built before she was born. To her it was something else in the house that could, in some way, be related to a water activity. The tackle box, a compass and my grandfather’s spear gun he used as an eagle scout all fell into this category.
Food was something we never went without when we went to the beach. Yes it was edible but it was not food that complimented a humid day under South Florida’s sun. Things like tuna fish casserole leftovers, mashed potatoes and cans of vegetable soup were crammed to the top of the family cooler. I still shudder when I think about the blue cooler with the missing top, its size so large and comical that it belonged on the set of a children’s television show or outside an army bunker holding meat rations. The blue behemoth had recently been acquired at a garage sale where it sat below a sign that read “Free: if you can fit it”. The food never remained cold and I would often find myself staring at the other families on the beach eating their hotdogs with the toppings spilling over onto their hands while the fathers flipped another sizzling burger over on the grill. I would have cried in envy had the meatloaf I was gnawing on not sucked all the moisture from my mouth.
All the annoyances of the day would peter out for a moment when our car would finally pull up to that beautiful turquoise wonderland the beach had presented. My legs would start to sprint before my body was even out of the car as I raced in glee to the crisp refreshing water staring at me. Everything moved in slow motion as I galloped and breathed in all the amazing sights ahead. Birds flew overhead in perfect harmony, the clouds opened up to shine the sky down on me as two kids looked up from their sandcastle to nod at me, sharing a moment like, “Yeah we know what you mean.” The crest of the cool wave tumbled over and swam to my aching toes as I stepped onto the soft wet sand and positioned my body to dive in. “Gregory!!! Wait!!!,” pierced into the tranquil sky and rang into my ears. It was my mother. “I need to put on your suntan lotion,” she screamed in gasps as she dropped the cooler to the sand and ran towards me, arms flailing. The moment of peace had come and gone as quickly as the wave I was about to jump into had. I lowered my head in defeat as I walked quickly towards her to avoid any further loud screaming.
Every summer I came to visit, my mother would take it upon herself to make sure that I got the darkest tan possible. Every summer she would dismiss my excuse that ‘It was impossible for me to get a tan and the efforts only resulted in horrible sunburns,” as something a girl would say. It was as if she dreamt of me going back to my friends in Virginia with a tan so incredible that it could only exemplify how great of a mother I had. As I appeared before her I could see that she was squinting hard at a black plastic bottle she was holding at an arm’s length away from her face. It was called “Tan Amplifier” and it was now being poured by the handful over my entire body. It was greasy as it beaded down my face and was massaged into my chest. I would later find out that the “Amplifier” in its name signified its amazing power to tan when there was barely any sun available. There was not a cloud in the sky that August day as I darted back across the scorching sand and into the water.
By the end of the day I think everyone on the beach knew of our presence. Even if I had tried it would have been impossible to have gotten lost. All I would need to do is look for the woman wearing the snowcap or watch for where the tide was inching upon a weathered canoe. I would not start to feel the effects of burn on my body until I was crammed next to the cooler in the back of the car and the salt in my fishnet bathing suit had begun to dry and itch. The drive home in the interstate traffic would not be a pleasant one at all. I screamed in agony as my mother sat in the front and reread the bottle of suntan lotion. “I’ll be damned,” she said as she realized what had happened. “Well, just think of how great of a tan that’s gonna turn into,” she said as I pulled out a wool scarf from the suitcase to rest my head on.

It'll Put Hair On Your Chest

Ray Leubano was a friendly gust of wind on our family’s last matchstick of dignity. What with my mother’s strong attraction to construction workers and Ray’s ability to drink a can of beer while smoking a joint, they were bound to find each other. We met this strange Mexican man in lot number 76 of the trailer park, which was two parking spaces down from us. My mother and I were enjoying a sopping wet humid day in Miami as we walked past the shopping carts and scattered debris that carpeted Fowler’s trailer park, when we heard a faint whistle to our left. As I turned my head I noticed a short man with no shirt that seemed to be waving and whistling at us. His hair was tangled into a thick dark mat that had a halo of stray hairs dancing in a circular blur. The stench of his scalp caused this blurring effect much the same way that heat would off the afternoon pavement. I would later find out that “shampoo was for pussies”. As Ray once put it, “This bar of Dial is your soap, your conditioner and your shampoo”. His jeans were cut just above the knee. I use the term “cut” loosely, as the pants themselves appeared to have actually had their legs torn and ripped off in a frenzy, as if he had become some sort of werewolf the night before. The way Ray drank, this was not so far from the truth. He stood before us with no shirt and his upper body showed evidence of years of manual labor as his muscles sank down on him like a suit of armor. His stomach on the other hand, showed evidence of years of heavy drinking, as it poked out like a basketball, his belly button popping out with force every time he breathed.

“Hey mommy, you want a beer,” he slurred as he knelt down and picked up a large glass bottle of beer, the label wet and scratched half off. “Uh, no thank you. This is my son Gregory,” she calmly replied as she made a gesture towards me, implying to Ray that I was too young and innocent to know about alcohol. I hated it when she called me Gregory. I always pictured that name on an overly cheerful male flight attendant, “Hi my name is Gregory, can I get you a pillow?". Ray was now staring at me. “Hey Gregorio, you want some cerveza? It’ll put hair on your chest,” he said, stumbling in my direction. This was Ray’s argument for everything, whether it was for me to get him a beer from the fridge or to try some Tabasco sauce on my cereal. “Come on Gregorio, it’ll put hair on your chest”. I still don’t know what it means. My mother just smiled and reached into her blue vinyl oversized purse for her compact. “So what’s your name,” she questioned from behind the small plastic mirror as she formed her lips into a pouting position. “My name’s Ray,” he said in a gravely voice as he took a swig from his drink. Just as he was setting his beer down on the pavement an orange tattered beast leapt down from the sky and onto Ray’s bare shoulder. “Ahhh pinche gato!” he screamed as he looked for a rock to throw at the monster, which had bolted out of sight. “That’s princess. She been livin here for a while,” he gurgled under his breath as he massaged his upper shoulder, now raw with three long pink scratches. What Ray was referring to was the orange cat that lived with him. The trailer park was the cat’s true home, but Ray fed him enough to keep him coming back. This thing was a reddish orange that seemed almost rusted with age, its face covered in scars and the left corner of his ear missing. On most nights, myself and the rest of the trailer park were invited to listen to a concert of hisses, screeches and wails made by the friendly neighborhood felines as they fought to their heroic deaths. Princess was no doubt one of the main performers. The fact that Ray had named him Princess only added to the animal’s rage, for he was clearly a male cat, this being obvious due to the sight of his abnormally large furry testacles that strutted from behind his legs as he walked. Ray and Princess had more in common than they knew, for they were both stuck in this trailer park with no escape or attempt of escape in sight, they both terribly needed showers and as Ray stumbled into the plastic lawn chair in front of my mother and I, his jean shorts opened just enough to let his furry testacles plop into sight.

My mother acted as if she didn’t notice the horrible sight before us as she said politely, with her hips slanted and one hand planted on her side seductively, “Well maybe you could come by and help us fix our air conditioner. There is a nice dinner for you if you say yes.” Ray looked up with a drunken glaze and half cocked smirk, “Hey anything you want me to eat I’ll eat.” He then nodded and winked. Dear God. “Okay then Ray, it was nice to meet you, we live just two doors down. Come by anytime,” she smiled again as she turned to walk away. I was too young to understand how crude the comment was but I was not too young to see how repulsive the man behind the comment was. My mother on the other hand, saw an “honest side” to him and told me that I should be polite to him. “Don’t you want your mother to be happy,” she said when we got back home inside the trailer. I calmly reached for the gray circular handle and twisted open the heavy glass shutters. As I looked out the window and breathed in the warm, dusk filled sky I saw our shirtless friend running away down the asphalt street cursing at the orange cat. He then leaned his body onto the side of a large green dumpster and proceeded to urinate into an oval arch that splashed before his bare feet. “No mom, I don’t want you to be happy,” I said under my breath as I sank down into the polyester cushions of our sofa.

Who Shit in My Boots??

The visits to Miami often included an evening’s stay at my grandmother’s house. Referred to as “Granny Friel” you would never find her without a Pall Mall dangling from her lip and a salty brimmed Budweiser can semi dented on the side to allow for easy grasping. The house sat literally unchanged as the neighboring areas grew with the eras they witnessed. The fluorescent orange shutters had dulled over the years as well as the sky blue front door. Inside the house lay a thick fog of cigarette smoke and dust and the sound of my granny coughing became a familiar ring in the back of our ears. The most popular sight of the abode was the Florida room, or the television room where a pale white blanket of flesh and fat enveloped the lime green sofa. The occasional moan that emitted from underneath the massive presence was the only indication that it was, in fact human. “Hi Uncle Tim,” I hollered with joy as I ran to embrace his enormous stomach. “It’s good to see you, I missed you,” I said as I tried to wrap my arms around him. “What the fuck is that, he screamed as he jumped up swinging his right arm into my forehead launching me past him into the side of the end table, scattering National Enquirers across the dimly lit room. He sat up with a face of wrinkles and indentions that were left from sleeping on the television remote. “Oh hi Gregory,” he let out with a relieved smile. Picking up a half smoked cigarette and blindly reaching for his lighter he questioned, “What the hell are you doing on the floor?”

I would often find myself roaming in the backyard of the Friel estate which consisted of about two acres of dry crab grass speckled with the remains of once drivable cars, now retired to stand upon cinderblocks, the paint jobs rusting away under the scorching heat of South Florida’s sun. There was a large pool on the deck that I cannot remember ever being full. It had formed a sort of ecosystem in itself and now resembled a miniature version of a steaming swamp. We witnessed generations of hideous frogs and lizards come and go as they belched and urinated their way into our lives, not much different than the other members of the Friel family actually.The patio had been screened in at one time but now only long aluminum supports remained. Long grasses and weeds had grown over what was once a poor excuse of a greenhouse. This was where the various pets of the family had called home and taken refuge from my grandfather’s alcoholic “moods” over the years. Now it just sat there off in the corner, windowless and concrete colored. I could imagine it being used in 1939 Poland as a cell to beat unruly prisoners in. The only reason I know that it was once livelier was the black and white picture my mother kept in her jewelry box at home. It was a picture of her monkey Pepe Cleo Friel perched on the greenhouse doorstep. She named him Pepe after the gay Cuban gardener the family had hired and Cleo because my grandfather had brought him home for her after the hurricane, named accordingly. She loved this monkey, as any kid would. Hell, what kid wouldn’t love a monkey? They didn’t enforce many wildlife protection laws as they do now so anyone could basically own any kind of animal they wanted. My uncles owned baby alligators at one time but after being too much to handle, they brilliantly let them free in a local running canal. Back to Pepe; now my mom has been known to smother things; human, animal, most things. A lot of people have had animals run away or panic and leave but I guarantee my mother is the only person in the world that has actually forced an animal to kill itself. That’s not really fair as I’m sure it was a group effort of the entire Friel family that drove poor Pepe to his ultimate demise.“Screeech,” my mother would frequently hear when arriving back from school. Either her two brothers were feeding it pepper sauce or my grandfather was chasing it to beat him for shitting in his boots, but either way that monkey was never at ease. Next, it was my mothers turn to torture and humiliate him. She would squeeze poor little Pepe with so much love that one little “eep” was all that came out of his exhale. She would then bathe him, paint his fingernails, and tie ribbons in his hair. I can imagine Pepe fighting and struggling from the curling iron for a few minutes and then eventually giving in with a sigh and frown of acceptance as he was pampered into misery.It was a hot summer day when Pepe came upon a solution to his Friel family situation. Pepe waited until everyone left the house and my grandfather had drank himself to sleep. He had thought about this moment for weeks in advance, clinging onto a little blue baby sheet at all times, impressing the idea onto others that he truly loved this blanket. Finally they had allowed him the chance to keep it with him in his cage. Up and over the top of his cage the little blue blanket was thrown; Pepe had practiced this movement countless times before with pieces of ivy that had fallen from nearby trees and the loose braided hairs of his tail that he had collected over time. The noose was in place as Pepe looked around one last time with a hint of hesitation when he heard a voice shout through the air, “Alright motherfucker who shit in my boots?!.” The rope snapped and Pepe left this world with a relieved smile.

At night I could always look forward to a friendly game of Uno, a card game that used as much skill as one would use to breathe or blink their eyes. Seated at the head of the table was my great grandfather. This was the meanest person I have ever known and the constant dirty scowl on his face summed up his personality. His chin turned up so far that it literally touched the bottom of his nose and the glasses he wore resembled thick glass ashtrays as his eyes were magnified to a comical degree. “Give me a goddamned card,” he bellowed. “Dad for the last time we are not playing Gin, now put your hands down and pick up your cards. We’re playing Uno with Gregory,” she calmly instructed. Grandpa Worm always loved me and cherished my visits. “Who the hell is that? One of Terry’s bastard children,” he politely gestured. Good old Grandpa Worm I thought to myself. Little did he know that his utter disgust for life would bite him in the ass as he would ironically outlive all his children. By 9 o’ clock my relatives would all be drunk and or passed out. The only one left up were my Uncle Tim and I.Uncle Tim had a slight drug problem I would come to find out and for some reason most drug addicts constantly needed cash. As he approached me to ask if I needed a refill of my generic brand cola he noticed me admiring the money I had in my wallet. “Your dad give you money,” he asked softly as his eyes gleamed with anticipation of the answer. “Yeah he gave me a hundred dollars to spend while I’m here,” I said back. “You know, he said, it’s not good to carry one bill with you. You should get change so that way you can have five twenties instead of one hundred dollar bill,” he said with a sound of superiority and great wisdom. “Uh yeah that does sound right I guess. Do you have change,” I asked. “No but I can get you some,” he quickly responded as if he had been waiting for me to say that all night. “Okay,” I said and handed him my money. He left and informed me that he would be back in no more than twenty minutes.Several hours passed before I realized he wasn’t coming back. All I managed to do was cry and run to tell my grandmother. “That son of a bitch,” she screamed. “Did he take anything else?” She was referring to the set of china dishes she left out after we had dinner. In her drunken stupor she had forgotten to lock them away in her cupboard in the closet. He had in fact taken it all, including my hundred dollar bill.I didn’t see Uncle Tim the rest of that wonderful stay in Miami but my granny did reimburse me the one hundred dollars, but not before telling my dad about the ordeal. She told him to sit me down and let me know about Uncle Tim’s “problem”. When I got back home to my father though, he never spoke of the incident. But a week later after I finished mowing the lawn I asked him for my pay, only to hear him respond, “I’ll pay you but I need to get some change from Uncle Tim first.” I could hear him laughing to himself as he walked away into the house.