Spending
a lot of time in New York and surrounding states on business each
month, it occurred to me that it would actually be cheaper and
smarter to buy a small place to hang my hat on during my visits. I
found a nice little place about a half hour from Kennedy airport,
but being from California and not normally using bad language, it
took some getting use to to be able to function in the salty Long
Island South Shore society. Showing up at the coffee shop just
before the sun came up on what was going to be a bright sunny day
with a smile on your face usually elicited some unpleasant
questions.
“What
the fuck you smilin about? Find someone drunk enough to screw you
last night?”
“Goin
fishing and I stopped by your house to rig my pole on the way
here.”
“Yeah,
asshole, you’re gonna be smiling until the Coast Guard catches you
with a short, you get your boat stuck, and your engine plugs up with
mud. Don’t let us stop you and don’t come crying in your coffee in
the morning.”
“How
much do you weigh? I think my boat will carry you. Wanna
go?”
“I’ll
meet you at the dock.”
“Don’t
start thinking that you gotta have this and you gotta have that and
hold me up til noon. Just get your fat ass down
there.”
“I
just gotta stop by the church. If I’m going out in a boat with your
dumb ass, I’m probably not coming back.”
“Yeah,
you better do some confessing. With the mouth on you, lightning’s
gonna get us when there’s not a cloud in the sky. Since you’re going
to be the only turtle out there, you’re going to need a head start.
Better get going while I finish my coffee.”
“Fuck
you.”
About
a half hour later, with the first rays striking the water on what
would turn out to be a glorious day, the conversation would begin
again:
“I
thought you had a boat. You call this piece of shit a
boat?”
“You’re
more trouble than 10 women. Just try to get in without falling in
the water. I don’t wanna have to get a Coast Guard crane out here to
get you out and screw up my day.”
“Don’t
worry. Piece of crap is going to sink right here at the
dock.”
“What?
Are you scared?”
“I
ain’t afraid of shit.”
“Just
shut up and get your ass in the boat. I didn’t get up at 4AM to have
a hen party with you.”
After
a short period of time spent cruising while quietly enjoying the
sight of the coast coming alive, the views along the shore, the wild
life, and looking at the other boats, we would drop our lines in the
water.
“You
gotta bite.”
“I
know I gotta bite.”
“Well,
catch the damned thing.”
“Jesus.
You gotta life over there? Just live your life and let me live
mine.”
“Who
the hell wants to live a life like yours?”
“Fuck
you.”
About
four hours later on the way back in:
“Wanna
get a sandwich.”
“OK.
At the coffee shop?”
“Yeah.
What we gonna do with the fish?”
“You
take the fish.”
“I
don’t want the fish.”
“God
help me. Then what the hell did you come fishing
for?”
“I
like to live dangerously.”
“You’re
dangerous putting your socks on.”
“Fuck
you.”
While
eating our sandwiches and talking with the other guys in the diner
about our fish and the things that we saw, the subject about the
fish would come up again.
“Tell
you what. I’ll take the fish home and clean them. Grab the wife and
come over about 3 and I’ll cook them on the
grill.”
“Bring
the kids?”
“You
got kids? Poor things. Yeah. Bring them
along.”
“You
know how to cook?”
“Here
we go again. No. I don’t know how to cook. I’ll just clean them and
you cook them like the bitch that you are.”
“I’ll
get the old lady to make some potatoes or
something.”
“Sounds
good. Whatever. We can whip something up. Just don’t make me wait
again while you’re figuring out what you’re
doing.”
“Fuck
you.”
“Fuck
you. See you at 3.”
Word would later get back to me that I was a
pretty good guy to be from California.