morningtomorning.net 

PART I:

by Timothy Scott

 

It begins with sunsets somewhere between Kentucky and Georgia I never saw because of the upholstered roof of our mini-van. It continues with the horizon stretched gaping across the Gulf of Mexico. I was always partially distracted because of everyone who swam in the hotel pool I found to be much dirtier than one I would swim in (both part of the same hotel). I was disappointed that no one’s beach behavior was as lude as I had expected and hoped for. Everyone’s body was too soft and too covered to please me, but luckily I paid almost all attention to a pink, wonder of a hotel with some horrible generic Spanish name. Albeit boring, this was all exotic to me; eating bad pizza for lunch, shirtless and sunburnt, uncomfortable with prepubescent pot-belly. I would spend the day imagining it hit me that “This was relaxation, that which we live for!” because it seemed to be what everyone in the strip of beachside hotels was actually thinking.

 

My thoughts would inevitably digress into dramatized fear of the hotel shower and towels irritating my prickly heat rash as I sat beneath an umbrella contemplating the long lasting effects, if any, of swimming with a t-shirt on. I would hope I would be able to eat steak again tonight. In a revolving restaurant on the top floor of that building resembling the Space Needle. I would hope as we arrived back, at our hilariously laid-out, large hotel room for six, after dinner to find wild young men behaving badly and homoerotically in one of the two hot tubs we had to pass to get to our room, of course this never happened. Neither did my solo, heroic morning walks on the beach lead to contentment, self-fulfillment, or any kind of greater (and immediate) understanding. I continued to kill time while everyone else reveled in their release of the past fifty-one weeks. Ahh, vacation--still to be seen in the blank, open-pored faces of everyone at the beach (who had no movement behind their sun-shut eyes). Though faithfully hesitant to relax and fall victim to the swaying powers of sunshine for fear of brainwashing, on occasion I would try to imitate the gesture. Laying on the beach I would ask myself “what could be better than this?”, as I listened to my freshly burned copy of what I think might be Michelle Branch’s only album. That mimetic approach never worked as restlessness would settle in fast.

 

It was deeply troubling during these seven day fasts from reality to ponder the sublime experiences one would have in their lifetime. I perhaps didn’t have the propensity for R&R that my family or Jimmy Buffet has, so on the beach I would passively let my mind wander through confusion about what would satisfy me. I lost a lott of hope about ever finding a greater truth through foreign experience after visiting Disney World and seeing people from all over the world waiting in the same line to ride on poor Dumbo’s back. The search for a deeper release than vacation was slow and muddled with fits of quiet anger. It seemed my only reprieve was to practice my two favorite pool-side hobbies:

1. Posing on a chaise-lounge as naturally as could unnaturally be done (the ultimate goal of this was to be sexy, eye-catching and really elevate the overall ambiance and image of the pool. This practice was performed across the country at many pools, public and private, and has really lost momentum in recent years...though I wouldn’t be surprised if this graceful and horny activity ever made a comeback).

2. Imitating the noises Venus and Serena Williams made/make while playing tennis as I would slowly wade through the pool (they were very popular at the time, are great performers and are still very admirable).