I have been staying at some sort of resort, perhaps a stay of three days. On the last afternoon of my stay, I am hanging out with many strangers or brand-new acquaintances on a restaurant patio; it is not clear whether the establishment is part of the resort or just nearby. This is a spring celebration, perhaps Cinco de Mayo, perhaps just somebody's graduation. In any case it is not religious and not earth-oriented: in no way ancient or archetypal. Everyone is having a good time socializing. Then we all hear the sound of helicopters and everyone is delighted because they know that the helicopters are bringing: decorations, trinkets, goofy souvenir gifts and whatnot. The helos make a flyover and drop such stuffs directly on the party. Among the booty are great sprays of tinsel, dozens or hundreds of skeins connected at a central wire ring. (It is just possible they are Mardi gras beads, but that would hurt falling from a helicopter; and this didn't hurt.) In any case, we the celebrants are meant to use these decorations to decorate the place, but when I set about freeing the skeins of tinsel from their ring, I realize it's a terrible design: every single strain is physically hand-tied to the ring and must be hand-untied. This is boring. Change of scene.
So this place is in some sense, or at certain times, a seaside resort, very much the same locale where of late I misplaced both my car and an amusement pier; on the other hand, the "cottages" along the one side have aspects of the Uninhabited Long House, a quite separate dreamspace I frequent that is very much inland and Pine Barrens-y.
In any case, my official stay here is over but for reasons undiscerned I wish to hang around this vicinity for at least one more day. Thus after visiting the adjacent convenience store—a huge affair, really, the size of a pre-supermarket A&P—I speak to the youngest (adult, but not seasoned) son of the proprietor and we make plans for me to crash on his couch. This may be tricky because he lives in one of the cottages, the farthest one on the right, and so all arrangements he makes are subject to his mother's approval. And this is apparently a no-no.
From a vantage point not 10 feet away—don't ask me how I'm not perceived—I overhear the proprietor chatting with a friend; they are taking sun. The proprietor, whom for expedience I'm going to call Sheryl, already has a notion that I'm still around the premises. Perhaps she has seen my luggage, or perhaps my demeanor at checkout betrayed my wish to stay longer. She certainly has observed that I am friendly with her son, and says something along the lines of, "If I find out that kid has so-and-so staying over with him..."
And friendly it is. There is no hormonal yearning here. He is a pleasant and kind young man and we enjoy each other's company. And as always, I am much younger than I am. So we are peers, or nearly. I follow him back to his cottage, which is...rustic, to be kind. Brokedown, to not be. The door is just a doorway and much of the wood in sight is ruined; it looks like a disused shed. But he is comfortable enough with his situation, I suppose. It is shaped vaguely like Maestro's Witches' Cottage
(TM) though nowhere near as charming: one big room downstairs with a kitchen at one end; presumably just the bed and bath upstairs, the space constrained by the slant of the roof.
My friend heads upstairs and just a moment later I hear his mother heading our way with her tanning friend. She comes right in and hollers up the steps to her son, with her back to me the entire time. I have the absolute knowledge that she knows I am behind her and this keeping-her-back-to-me thing is an insulting affectation. In any case, I have nowhere to go, and the longer I sit there silently the more culpable I am for imagined sins; so my best course is to announce myself ([Clears throat.]) and pretend I'm day-visiting with her son but will be off soon to my next lodgings.
This she accepts but probably does not believe. As a businessperson, Sheryl may or may not be a nice or kind person—I really don't know—but she is at the very least a civilized person, a bonne vivante. Who knows; maybe her opposition to my stay is token, as she seems if not to enjoy our interactions thus far, at least not to be annoyed by them. Maybe it's solely about her power relationship with her adult-but-onsite son. In any case, she asks the assembled company, "Who wants an American margarita?" (Don't ask me what that is.) I shoot my arm up in hopefully charming, comic schoolboy fashion. And so we're having drinks.
This turns into an evening of socializing; at least my young friend and I are preparing for one. We are in his living room: I am making some sort of baked hors d'oeuvres; he is working at a sewing machine. I want to ask him whether his machine does embroidery tricks like Paul's, but he's concentrating with trademark Peanuts tongue-out effort and I don't want to disturb him. The process of assembling my hors d'oeuvres is laborious (phyllo?) so by the time I've got them all ready I'm antsy, perhaps late to the festivities over yonder, so I ask whatsisname, Can I just cover these with plastic wrap and put them in the fridge to bake later? Yes, I can, he says.
I head over to the terrace where Sheryl and her guests are assembled. This is not the same patio as the tinsel party; this is definitely on the resort campus and is a triangular tables-and-chairs affair much like Cafe du Monde in New Orleans. Sheryl greets me jovially but I still get the sense that I am in her good graces on spec and I had just better be worth it. I am the guest in a game of "get the guest" and I must sing—or at least be witty and entertaining—for my supper. Unfortunately, the wittiest thing I can think to do at this point is wake up.
