Saturday I went to the Mermaid parade. I ran into a bunch of people from school who I had no intention or desire to see. We walked around while I waited for this Indian kid who was to bring mushrooms. I ended up losing all but one of them, Mike, in the throngs of Mer-people. I met the Indian kid and a bunch of his friends who've I've never met. Through Mike I ended up hanging out with a bunch of people I actually do enjoy the company of.
I cursed the mermaids as they blocked most of the available avenues of foot traffic and my way to the beach. We had to walk down a couple of blocks to cross a bridge onto the Coney Island Boardwalk only to find out way blocked by more bloated women with clams glued over their nipples and fake scales on their skin.
On the beach we dole out the shrooms between myself and the Indian kids. They left to go get some hamburgers while I chilled out on the sand with some friendly and familiar faces. They were sober and I was decidedly not so as I watched the sands shift subtly whenever I tried to focus on them. I decided to recline in the sand and focus on how wonderful the sun felt while I waited my turn on the chess board. I was to play winner, or at least third winner as it turned out.
The Indian kids came back, barely in control of themselves. One of them sat down next to me. Prostrate, he said, "I feel... like... iron... like iron is in my body." It sure is kid. It was my turn on the chess board and I kept getting distracted by the people behind me. Bizarrely they reminded me of seals on the beach, young and full of energy; stupid and not entirely coordinated on land. I managed to get check mate against Mike fairly quickly. I've never been a great chess player; I'm mediocre at best but I have gumption.
After awhile the beach started getting kind of old and I left these poor little Indians writhing around in sensational ecstasy on the sands of Coney Island. They didn't have much of an idea what the present reality was or where they were. I got a corn dog instead. Perhaps I should feel guilty because these people had never done any drugs or alcohol before in their lives, but I didn't. The pleasure of a nice corn dog has a way of erasing guilt. I'm sure Hitler ate a lot of corn-battered wienerschnitzel.
I took a train back into Manhattan and I wandered around for a bit downtown. I managed to go to a party in the Village and I grew bored quickly. It was some swanky digs but a lame party. It seemed no matter how much I drank I couldn't get drunk. It was a shame. I spent most of my time chatting it up with a pretty girl outside while we smoked cigarettes.
I passed out on the hardwood floor of the apartment using my bag as a pillow wishing I'd eaten at least another corn dog.
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