“Bucky, so good to see you,” said Kona. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take two egg salad sandwiches and a glass of that cheap Chardonnay you serve.”
“Before you start,” Luke interrupted immediately, rolling his eyes at his friend, “the Scout truck was not ours, and we got the man out of the sand quickly. We’re simply helping a citizen of this town.”
Bucky surveyed the disarray before him. “You sure that dangerous safari vehicle didn’t belong to a camp parent?”
“I have never seen that man in my life,” Kona lied.
“Hey, Kona,” Bucky said. “C’mon, work with me a little. You know this is a town beach, no vehicles, no businesses that attract such vehicles, no . . .”
“Exactly. Town: as in catering to the citizens. Meaning we, as lifelong residents of said town, can do what we want here,” Kona answered, sounding like more of a stuck-up ass than Bucky. “Including teaching kids and adults to respect the power of the ocean. And keeping them safe.”
Bucky guffawed, “Safe? With boats that don’t work, Jet Skis that are a dozen years old? Just look at this equipment!”
“Yeah, safe. Speaking of which, we noticed you foundering around in the flat shore break today. If you want a quick ocean swimming lesson, there’s a spot in the six-to-eight-year-old swim class, we could squeeze you in. But you’re going to have to wait about twenty minutes for that egg salad to digest. I don’t want you to cramp up in those scary, ankle-high waves.”
“Your camp is a joke, barely legal,” Bucky scoffed.
“We’ve been over this every summer. We do what we want on the ocean as long as we take payment in the public lot,” Luke claimed, noticing that Bucky once again turned his back to him, only talking to Kona.
“Why do you have to gather here, at the top of the beach entrance, with this vista,” Bucky answered, ignoring Luke, then waving his hands over the Atlantic like Jesus at the Sea of Galilee.
“Just curious,” asked Kona. “How exactly do twenty pieces of equipment laying in the sand destroy a ‘vista,’ and your two hundred yellow chairs and umbrellas and ropes do not obstruct our view?”
“The Seabrook serves the community. We provide a wholesome family environment that generations of . . .” As Bucky listed his people’s superior attributes, he witnessed a rather attractive young mother running down to camp headquarters. She was clearly rushed.
Kenny, a huge beast of a bearded man and a few years older than the rest of the crew, raced to go talk to the mother, away from this group. Mrs. Saltzman reached into her purse and grabbed her wallet while Kenny tried to yank her up the lot. Too late, she pressed several bills in his hand, screaming, “It’s all there plus tips!”
Bucky smiled. Bingo. Exchanging cash for a business on a town beach: very, very illegal. Even better, this Kona from some loser Hawaiian island was so busy defending his filthy enterprise, he didn’t notice. These guys were nailed, done, and it wasn’t even June.
“You may feel comforted to know we are, in fact, doing the same thing as your club. Catering to our clients. Now if you’d . . .” Kona made a quick head-butt motion at Bucky.
Bucky jerked his head back and then leaned right into Kona’s face. “You do know I’m running for town trustee? And you do know trucks driving on sand in public areas could run over and kill people?”
“Wasn’t us and . . .”
“Are you sure your ledgers are clear and copacetic?”
“Copa-what?” asked Kona slowly, trying to sound like a doofus surfer dude. He made another head-butt motion right at Bucky.
“You know what? I’m not making any progress here; you don’t get it,” Bucky answered, pulling his head back in defense, with no particular riposte in mind except, “Jesus H. Christ!!!”
It was important to know one’s limits when dealing with people who had less of a brain in their heads, like that Lenny character in Of Mice and Men. Bucky matched up physically with this gorilla before him, but he realized Kona could still do something to harm him. After all, he was hardly accustomed to fistfights, as this local shithead surely was.
And so, Bucky retreated, spinning around to mingle with the more genteel types behind the ropes, and silently vowing, once elected, to get these local, uneducated, unrefined pieces of crap back where it counted.
Chapter Nine
That Memorial Day Monday Thing
Huck studied the wrinkled Lego manual with defeat. “Mom, can you help me find the piece with six holes? It’s flat and red and I think it didn’t make it with the rest.”