A BOARDWALK RHAPSODY

(Copywrite 1999 Jim Bergmaier)

I swear, I can always tell when I need a vacation. I have
this recurring dream: We're on the beach -- the wife, the daughter, the baby and me -- at water's edge, marinating in sun and brine. Hot sand gently tickles the soft skin between our toes and the salt air transforms our lips into warm, swollen anchovies. In this dream, the sun shines endlessly on
this gentle ramp of sand while the music of Springsteen, the Drifters and the Beach Boys floats like windward gulls in the air.
But one day, I'm staring like a lobotomy practice dummy in front of the TV daydreaming my favorite pre-vacation fantasy when the wife butts in.
She wants to go camping this year, in the mountains.
"C'mon honey. You'll love it," she says.
"No I won't," I answer. "I like my vacations at the beach."
"But we've spent the last 12 vacations at the beach. I think it's time for a change."
Change is not in my repertoire when it comes to vacation. I am a creature of habit. I've not only spent one week in each of my married years in the sun and surf, I've never gone anywhere else for vacation in my entire life. In fact, my will states that when I'm dying, the priest is to skip the holy chrism and annoint me instead with tropical fruit scented oils.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think so," I tell her. "The mountains are dangerous. Remember the movie 'Deliverance'? The hills are filled with horrible beasts, slimy bugs and perverts with bad teeth."
"Be serious," she says, "Try to imagine a fresh mountain breezes, swimming in cool, clear mountain stream-fed lakes and sleeping under the stars. Can't you just feel it washing your cares away. No crowds. No traffic."

Obviously, the wife's brain was locked in a York Peppermint Patty commercial. I like crowds. Traffic jams bring out the best in me. When I think vacation, I can close my eyes and smell re-heated boardwalk pizza and feel the hot needle of a searing, blinding sun poisoning my pale skin. She, however, is existing on a different plane. Her addled mind right now is conjuring up images, no doubt, of tick-infested trees, choking campfire smoke and inclines steep enough to suck the horsepower from an F-16 fighter.
"I'm sorry. I can't," I tell her. "I can't risk it. Some crazed
mountain man is up there waiting to run off with the kids. And, of course, there are the spiders."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Who's being ridiculous. Nobody who normally lives in a home with a foundation wastes their vacation camping in the mountains. Has anyone other than that noodle John Denver ever even written a song about camping? Did the Drifters sing 'Under The Canvas'? No they did not! They sang about real things like arcades and sandy blankets and broken seashells under your feet. That's living! That's American! And that's for me! End of discussion"
She continued to whine about it, but I could not hear her. My mind was a jukebox on replay. Benny King was like the voice of God in my head, singing 'Un-der the boardwalk...Down by the sea...e...eee...On a blanket with
my ba-by ...That's-a- where I'll be...' as I danced the Calypso out of the room.
* * *
Ok, I caved. The wife cut me off until I agreed to her crazy plan. I'm only human. There are, you know, some things men must have on a regular basis. Otherwise our domination of the planet would be in jeopardy and the
women might take over. And God knows how they might screw the place up?

* * *

I pull the Dodge into the campsite and begin unloading as the wife held the baby and directs and the daughter watches while applying another layer of purple makeup under her eyes. Within an hour, I have the entire contents of the car spread out on the ground before me

We travel light, bringing with us only the basic necessities for four or five days and nights in the wilderness: Deodorant, hair dryers, TV, radio, portable CD stereo, fan, extension cords, food, drink, utensils etc., etc.
Our vacation home is a borrowed "Deluxe" model canvas tent. I study the pictures, and in a shade under three hours, the tent is up. I am on my way toward a relaxing vacation when the wife calls.
"Time for lunch," she chimes cheerily. "Honey, do me a favor? Get out the cooler and the high chair, and run over to that rusted hand pump way over there and get some water. And set up the gas grille to heat the baby's food. Then put on the baby's bib and get his bottle, his dish, spoon and
diaper bag. Then pour the drinks, slice the tomatoes, unpack the cold cuts and potato chips, the mayonnaise, mustard, pickles, napkins, plastic ware...Here, wet this rag...And you'll have to slice the rolls..."
"What rolls?" I ask. "I don't see any rolls."
"The rolls are in the bag with the bread and flashlights," she says.
"Bread? Flashlights? What bag would that be?"
"The bag that was on the porch. You put it into the trunk, didn't you?"
"I thought you did."
"No, honey. I asked you to get it."
As we eat our ham and cheese slices dunked in mayo, I swear I hear the distinct sound of bug laughter coming from the woods just off the perimeter of our campsite. It's those damned spiders. They think this is real funny. The bastards.

* * *

After lunch we head for the lake. A mile and a half walk is an excellent way to digest food before a swim, I tell myself, and good digestion prevents leg cramps and the subsequent death by drowning that would otherwise happen . I carry the baby, a mere 20, 25 pounds. A relaxing swim should ease these back spasms in no time...
At the lake, we spread our blanket on the sandy slope and run toward the cool, clear, mountain stream-fed water.
"Pweeeeeeet..!!!" It's the lifeguard, blowing her whistle. "No
running on the beach."
We walk the rest of the way and I dive in.
"Pweeeeeeet...No diving!!!" she screeches. She twirls the whistle overhead so fast that she momentarily lifts off her high white chair.
I ease back into the cool, clear, mountain stream-fed water. The daughter follows and her lips immediately turn the same shade of purple as her eye shadow.
"Nyeahhh...This water's freezin'," she whines.
"No it's not," I tell her. "It's cool, just like your mother said
it would be. Cool, clear, mountain stream-fed water."
"Mountain ice water, you mean. And what's all this junk floatin' around here?"
"That's nothing," I assured her. "Just mountain stream debris."
"Looks like sewage to me."
"It's not sewage. This water's fine."
"No it's not," she says through now-chattering teeth. "This is
freezin' cold brown water with turds in it!"
Behind us the baby squeals.
"This water's too cold for us, and too dirty," says the wife. "We're getting out."
"Owww...Something bit me," moans the daughter. "Wait for me mommy."
"Your loss," I say and turn my thoughts to a cool, relaxing swim. Just then, a fly the size of a sparrow lands on my back and starts gnawing. I turn and twist trying to dislodge the persistent insect.
"Pweeeeeeet...No dancing in the lake!" bellows the lifeguard. She twirls her whistle savagely, rising several dozen feet above her chair. Miniature cyclones suddenly form on the lake and suck away an elderly couple
shivering together in chest-deep water. The fly digs its fangs deeper into my flesh. Instinctively, I plunge to the bottom and swim until my lungs are about to burst. I come up briefly for air, and dive back under trying to
dislodge the hungry fly.
Suddenly, my left calf muscle seizes like a knot in a wet rope. The pain is intense. I surface, nearly ramming my head into a passing iceberg. A half dozen polar bears lounge on the ice surface; nearby, a flock of penguins fight over a clump of raw sewage. My molars ache from the cold. I
scream, thrashing about the water like a madman.
"Pweeeeeeet...No screaming," screams the lifeguard. She twirls her whistle and hovers over me and points. "No feeding the flies...And no bleeding, no cramping, no splashing and no turning blue...Ok...That's it...You...Out of the water."
As if on cue, the fly disengages its fangs and flys away, leaving a lump on my back the size of a grapefruit. I stagger out of the water.
"Ewwwwwww...Mommy mommy...Look at the lump on that crippled man's back," shouts a little boy. He throws a handful of sand in my face as I limp past.
"Don't stare at the handicapped," his mother says, staring in
revulsion at the bulge on my back. "He must have elephant man's disease."
The little boy throws another handful of sand in my direction and runs off chasing a penguin.
I hobble to the blanket and lay in the warm sun to dry.

* * *

"Honey, wake up...It's time to go back and cook dinner," says the wife touching my shoulder and shaking. "Yeooowwww!!!!!" I scream. My back is on fire. The skin feels thick and detached, like a dried banana peel. Her fingernails are like razor blades. The baby funnels a thousand needles of sand onto my reddened flesh.
As I lay in pain, the family heads off in the direction of the
campsite. Slowly, I lift myself, grab the corner of the blanket and drag it across the sand. The backs of my knees feel as if they'd been scrubbed with a wire brush.
Back at camp, I can hear the spiders snickering at my misfortune as I limp toward the stone hearth. After crumbling several sheets of newspaper into balls and covering them with kindling, I light a match and watch the
orange flame sneak around the edges of paper and surround the twigs.
Suddenly, the wife squeals from inside the tent. "Eeeek... Come quick!"
"What's the problem," I call, busy building the fire for our dinner.
"There's a bug," she whines.
"Well kill it," I say, not thinking clearly through the searing pain in my back and legs. "I'm busy."
"No, you come and kill it...Hurry!"
I have no choice. I hobble to the tent and duck in to find the wife holding the baby and pointing toward the far corner.
"Behind the sleeping bag," she whispers.
I pull the rolled up bag from the corner and stand suddenly frozen, toe to toe with a large brown spider tensed for battle.
"I warned you about these damned spiders," I mutter. "Quick, hand me a shoe." Not taking my eyes off the enemy, I reach back like a relay runner,
grab a shoe from the wife's outstretched hand, take aim and throw. The loafer bounces off the taut canvas and catches me in the shin. I bend to pick up my weapon and the spider, obviously a seasoned gurella fighter, pivots on one hairy leg, climbs the side of the tent and hangs upside down. He stares at me from the ceiling.
"Look out!" I shout. Shoving the wife and baby toward the exit, I pitch the shoe in the direction of the spider. Again I miss, and the shoe crashes into our small battery powered lamp. Its tiny bulb disintegrates with a "pop!". The spider disappears.
My pulse revs like a red-lined engine as I search for the brown killer. Then, not more than two feet in front of me, he suddenly appears, charging in the direction of my sandaled foot. His fangs glisten and his bloodshot eyes are ablaze as he prepares to inject my toe with a lethal dose of venom.
Instinctively, I turn, grab the nearest heavy object -- a beer laden cooler -- and drop it on this kamikaze. The tent falls silent. I stand breathless for a moment, then gently, gingerly, with fear's high powered vacuum sucking at my guts, lift the cooler. And there, in almost perfect outline against the green canvas floor, lay the ink blot test of my victory, the squashed remains of a no longer-living arachnid.
The wife pops her head back into the tent and surveys the damage.
"You broke our only light," she says.
"Yes, but I escaped with my life," I tell her, limping triumphantly out of the tent and across the campsite.
Back at the grille, the kindling smolders wimply I ball some more paper, toss on a handful of twigs and strike another match. I can already taste those ribs.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't get the fire started," the wife asks as the sun sinks quietly behind the trees. "Did you use newspaper?"
"The entire Sunday edition."
"Kindling?"
"Yes, I used kindling, but it is as useless as the logs they left us. All the wood here is damp and won't burn." She looks around the campground, focusing on the clouds of smoke mushrooming from dozens of hearths.
"Obviously they had dry wood," I tell her.
"Obviously," she says dryly. "Well it's too late to cook ribs now anyway. It'll be dark soon and we don't have a light. How could you pick a campground without electricity, anyway? Who do you think we are, the Waltons?"
I stand there silent, shuffling my feet and absorbing this abuse but not really paying attention. No, I am more concerned with the goings on in the woods to my left. I can hear them moving about -- the spiders -- and I sense their numbers growing; I envision their leaders making plans to avenge the death of their comrade, the bug I rendered one dimensional.
"We'd better eat soon," I say. "The spiders'll be out as soon as it gets dark."
"Spiders? What are you talking about?"
"The spiders in the woods there." I point to the dark, green curtain of forest not fifty feet away. "You can't hear them, can you? That's OK, I understand. You're not attuned to their vibrations like I am. It's kind of like a sixth sense."
She looks at me quizzically and walks away in the direction of the daughter, who was busy applying yet another swipe of shadow under her eyes. And the baby, he sits in his playpen. A handful of flies orbit his lumpy diaper as he mutters something that sounds like "Buh". He puts his hand to his mouth, and for just a split second, I see what I swear was a set of spider legs kicking their last desperate kicks as they disappear between his smiling lips.

* * *

After dinner -- hotdogs fried in a small pot over the propane grille -- we retire to the tent. Darkness falls slowly over the campsite.
"Isn't this cozy?" says the wife as we sit on the canvas floor
playing in the shadows with the baby. Somewhere in the darkening tent the daughter applies yet another layer of eye shadow.
Suddenly there's a tap on the canvas.
"Uh oh," I say to myself. "They're here."
There's another tap, this time on the roof, then another, and
another, and another, all over the tent. The moment of truth had arrived. I brace myself for an invasion by a Chinese-Army-over-the-Yalu sized force of bugs. The tapping intensifies. Then, it suddenly stops. A few long seconds
pass. Then, in a flash, the sky opens and huge bolting raindrops pound the campsite.
"Quick, zip up the windows," cries the wife as gushes of water ride the inside walls to quickly form puddles on the floor. In no time the three windows and the door flap are zipped tight. The tent is quickly transformed into a sauna, the air heavy and thick with the smell of wet canvas and BO. We sweat in silence, our minds dancing numbly to steady rhythm of rain on taut canvas.
A few minutes later I crawl through what was now almost total darkness to where I remember the cooler to be. I lift the lid and dig my hand into the icy water. I think of the lake.
"Want a beer?" I ask the wife.
"Anything," she says.
We drink in the darkness, silent as spiders.
Before long, I've finished five or six beers and lay in a sweaty haze on the tent floor. The rain has let up some. My bladder is stretched like a balloon on a running faucet. I get up. Pains shoot through my bowels like electrical shocks as I try to stand up straight.
"That you, honey?" askes the wife, a voice in the darkness.
"Uh," I say, stumbling toward where I knew the flap to be.
"What are you doing?"
"Gotta take a leak." I unzip the flap and step into the slimy black night. My head brushes the underside of the tent's canopy. Raindrops tickle my scalp as I slap through mud to the edge of the campsite.
An "ahhhhhhhhhh" escapes my throat as I relieve myself. Drops of soft rain... maybe it was sweat...tickle the hair on my legs and gently scratch my sunburned back. I go and go, oblivious to the night around me until something tickles my arm and jolts me back to a foggy reality.
"It's only the rain," I say to myself, none too convincingly.
My heart begins to pound. I force my bladder to empty. My hair tickles, or itches, or something. So do my legs, my feet and my arms.
Something definitely more than a raindrop skates across my raw back leaving an itch. I finish and ran zipping toward the darkened tent. Again, my head brushes the underside of the canopy. Reflexively, I slap at my arm. Was that a crunch? Something -- and it is not a raindrop -- crawls across the back of my neck. I slap at my calf, my arm, the back of my neck. I am being tickled and scratched everywhere.
I can feel spiders crawling all over me as I stand in the darkness outside the tent, I swear. It feels as if they are trying to burrow under my skin. I grope for the zipper on the tent flap but can't find it. The spiders are overcoming me.
"Honey, what's all the commotion out there?" asks the wife from inside. "Are you all right?"
"No I'm not!!! I'm covered with spiders!!!!"
"Well don't bring them in here. Brush them off first."
I panic and sprint off in the darkness through the rain. "Get to the road, out of the grass, away from the weeds and trees," said a little voicefrom deep within.
Soon I feel sharp stones beneath my feet and stop. I've made it tothe road.
And there, in the darkness and the rain, I wipe with both hands, furiously, all over, trying to rid myself of the devious, snickering spiders that were scurrying in some mad attack mode about my wet body.
Suddenly, a beam of light cuts a tunnel through the darkness and the rain and shines on me as I wipe. I hear voices...
"What is it Earl, a bear?"
"No, it ain't no bear," says some invisible Earl. "Looks like some crackpot in his shorts takin' a shower or dancin' or doin' somethin' weird in the rain...Singin', too. Hand me my pistol."
And I'm sure more than one camper in those mountains that sweaty evening, besides Earl and his missus, swore they heard a jukebox, or a radio, or maybe even the ghost of the Drifters calling through the woods, singing to the beat of rain on tents and trailers that unforgettable melody of summertime:
"Un-der the boardwalk....Down by the sea...e...eee...On a blanket with my ba-by...That's-a-where I'll be..."
And somewhere nearby an army of spiders, laughing and having a wonderful time on their busman's holiday in the woods, danced and sang along in bug harmony. I know...I heard them...I swear.

- @ -

Hey everybody,

I'm publishing my stories for profit on a new venture called Fiction on the Web. They're in England, but are looking to spread the word across the US. I, along with all the starving artists around the world, would appreciate your spreading the address to everyone on your mail list and visiting the site, and asking your mail list to do the same. And for some quality ficton at a low, low price, please bookmark the site and patronize the writers who are posted there.

The URL is
http://www.fictionontheweb.freeserve.co.uk/

Gracias. Jim