Read Online The Summer of Naked Swim Parties by Jessica Anya Blau - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Anya Blau
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Jimmy opened doors. Jimmy helped Betty clear the counter. Jimmy actually went to La Cumbre Plaza with his mother and retarded twenty-eight-year-old brother (who drooled and held Jimmy’s hand) and wasn’t embarrassed to run into friends. Jimmy’s eyes were so huge and brown you’d think you could dip a finger into them and taste them.
“I bet Jimmy’s a Christian,” Tammy said. “He reminds me of the boys at church except he’s got white sun streaks in his hair and he doesn’t have acne and he surfs.”
“Jimmy Golden?” Debbie said. “Isn’t Golden Jewish or something?”
They both looked at Jamie.
“I don’t know,” she said. “My dad’s the only Jewish person I know.”
Tammy put the glass canister on the tile, then dove off the raft and swam underwater. Debbie stood, tied her suit in the back, and dove in. Jamie was too sun-drunk to stand, so she rolled, as if she were rolling down a grass hill, across the tile until she tumbled into the pool. When she came up, Tammy and Debbie were laughing.
It didn’t take long for Debbie and Jimmy to become an official couple. And once Tammy turned her full attention to Brett, they were a couple, too (a consortium that allowed Tammy the guiltless freedom to pause and then quickly advance from each of the stations of sexual exploit). And so Flip’s gang of many became a gang of three as Flip, Brett, and Jimmy passed the summer days with Jamie, Tammy, and Debbie.
Jamie had a romantic fantasy that had persisted since she was eight years old and had watched a teenage couple make out on the Pinocchio boat ride at Disneyland. She wanted to go to Disneyland with a boyfriend; she wanted to sit cozy, pressed against his lap on the Jungle Cruise, hold his hand, and maybe even sing along on Small World, or kiss in the darkness of the General Electric Theater. When Jamie learned that Debbie had a similar fantasy, they were both astounded. When she heard that Flip, Brett, and Jimmy were enthusiastic about the idea of a day at Disneyland, Jamie felt that her already lovely life was becoming so painfully good that guilt for her sister’s chaste life slipped under her skin like splinters you’d need a magnifying glass to find.
Brett’s father gave him the mobile home for the trip to Disneyland—he even filled it with gas. Brett went to the driver’s cushy, loungelike seat. Tammy sat right beside him in her cushy, loungelike seat. Jamie looked at them and imagined Tammy thirty five years old, the mother of two clean, towheaded kids, wife of someone less like Brett and more like Brett’s big-bellied, Ken-doll-haired father. Flip slouched into the booth seat at the table, picked up the brick-sized, beige remote control, and clicked on the TV.
“Reception’s no good here,” Brett’s dad said, leaning into the doorway. “Wait till you get on the San Diego Freeway and you’ll be able to pick up channel eleven in L.A.”
“Met-ro, me-dia, television,” Jamie and Debbie sang the theme song for channel 11, “eleven, eleven, eleven . . .” The girls fell into each other, giggling, then Debbie broke away and went to examine the kitchen cupboards.
Brett’s mother was leaning in the doorway, her head tucked under Brett’s father’s arm. Her eyes looked wild and mousy as she watched Debbie.
“The stove’s not hooked up, dear,” Brett’s mother said.
“But the fridge is working.”
“Darn!” Debbie said. “I brought brownie mix and everything.”
“You know the Electric Parade isn’t running,” Brett’s dad said. “They’ve got some special parade instead.” No one seemed interested except Jamie.
“But I love the Electric Parade!” she said.
“They’ve got America Parade, or something like that,” Brett’s dad said. “You know people wearing those giant head costumes, playing out scenes from United States history.”
“Yeah, yeah, Dad,” Brett said, “the whole bicentennial thing—I saw the ads for it on TV.”
“God, I’m so
“I bet Jimmy’s a Christian,” Tammy said. “He reminds me of the boys at church except he’s got white sun streaks in his hair and he doesn’t have acne and he surfs.”
“Jimmy Golden?” Debbie said. “Isn’t Golden Jewish or something?”
They both looked at Jamie.
“I don’t know,” she said. “My dad’s the only Jewish person I know.”
Tammy put the glass canister on the tile, then dove off the raft and swam underwater. Debbie stood, tied her suit in the back, and dove in. Jamie was too sun-drunk to stand, so she rolled, as if she were rolling down a grass hill, across the tile until she tumbled into the pool. When she came up, Tammy and Debbie were laughing.
It didn’t take long for Debbie and Jimmy to become an official couple. And once Tammy turned her full attention to Brett, they were a couple, too (a consortium that allowed Tammy the guiltless freedom to pause and then quickly advance from each of the stations of sexual exploit). And so Flip’s gang of many became a gang of three as Flip, Brett, and Jimmy passed the summer days with Jamie, Tammy, and Debbie.
Jamie had a romantic fantasy that had persisted since she was eight years old and had watched a teenage couple make out on the Pinocchio boat ride at Disneyland. She wanted to go to Disneyland with a boyfriend; she wanted to sit cozy, pressed against his lap on the Jungle Cruise, hold his hand, and maybe even sing along on Small World, or kiss in the darkness of the General Electric Theater. When Jamie learned that Debbie had a similar fantasy, they were both astounded. When she heard that Flip, Brett, and Jimmy were enthusiastic about the idea of a day at Disneyland, Jamie felt that her already lovely life was becoming so painfully good that guilt for her sister’s chaste life slipped under her skin like splinters you’d need a magnifying glass to find.
Brett’s father gave him the mobile home for the trip to Disneyland—he even filled it with gas. Brett went to the driver’s cushy, loungelike seat. Tammy sat right beside him in her cushy, loungelike seat. Jamie looked at them and imagined Tammy thirty five years old, the mother of two clean, towheaded kids, wife of someone less like Brett and more like Brett’s big-bellied, Ken-doll-haired father. Flip slouched into the booth seat at the table, picked up the brick-sized, beige remote control, and clicked on the TV.
“Reception’s no good here,” Brett’s dad said, leaning into the doorway. “Wait till you get on the San Diego Freeway and you’ll be able to pick up channel eleven in L.A.”
“Met-ro, me-dia, television,” Jamie and Debbie sang the theme song for channel 11, “eleven, eleven, eleven . . .” The girls fell into each other, giggling, then Debbie broke away and went to examine the kitchen cupboards.
Brett’s mother was leaning in the doorway, her head tucked under Brett’s father’s arm. Her eyes looked wild and mousy as she watched Debbie.
“The stove’s not hooked up, dear,” Brett’s mother said.
“But the fridge is working.”
“Darn!” Debbie said. “I brought brownie mix and everything.”
“You know the Electric Parade isn’t running,” Brett’s dad said. “They’ve got some special parade instead.” No one seemed interested except Jamie.
“But I love the Electric Parade!” she said.
“They’ve got America Parade, or something like that,” Brett’s dad said. “You know people wearing those giant head costumes, playing out scenes from United States history.”
“Yeah, yeah, Dad,” Brett said, “the whole bicentennial thing—I saw the ads for it on TV.”
“God, I’m so
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