LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
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CAMPOUT: A Rehoboth Journal - Even a really bad day at the beach is better... |
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by Fay Jacobs | |||
It was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. When the proprietor of a Florida gallery asked where I was from, I said, "Rehoboth Beach, Delaware." That was a first. Apparently my left brain has moved to the beach, reducing my Maryland home to the status of temporary shelter. And rightly so. More and more, that proverbial bad day in Rehoboth is better than a good day anywhere else. Two weeks ago I went to a card shop near my Maryland digs where they had every magazine ever published. Along with Newsweek, Brides, Kiplingers and Field and Stream they had a tremendous selection of filth. Appalled as I was, it was like passing a horrible turnpike accident. You dont want to look, but cant take your eyes off it. The rags were lined up on display racks at about pre-teen height: Hustler, Busty, Big Butt, Small Tops (that one took me by surprise), Leg Show, ("Fabulous Foot Fetish edition") and Pulsating Pink Pix. Disgusted, I retreated to the more mundane racks to pick up the Advocate and OUT. You guessed it. There were no gay magazines in the whole store. Bonnie marched to the counter, asked if they had the Advocate and got an attitudinal "No" with the sanctimonious clerk pointing to a bibles display. "You have..." I glanced back to the displays, "World Class Ass Club, you have Nasty and you wont stock a gay news magazine?" I hollered from the doorway. "This is your idea of religion? Rump Runners?!!!" Bonnie hauled me outside before I popped a carotid artery. When I got back to our womens shelter the phone rang. It was my Rehoboth realtor calling with news that Wednesdays Noreaster sent half our roof shingles to Jersey. I authorized repairs. "Even a bad day at the beach..." I muttered. We got to Rehoboth on Saturday to survey the damage. The Dolles sign was reduced to Golles, but theyd cleaned the seaweed off the ceiling and were once again selling caramel corn to a boardwalk teeming with peopleall gathered for the charity Polar Bear swim. Naturally, I wasnt planning to participate since its against my nature to take part in any event with an ambulance standing by. I was, however, waiting to photograph the 800 nearly-naked, generous lunatics willing to donate their nervous systems to charity by leaping into 42 degree water. And, thanks to the storm, that cold water lapped at the boardwalk directly below the white bench I was standing on. With a mass of spectators behind us, the whistle blew, screaming bears hit the water and onlookers surged forward to watch. At this point youre probably remembering that our lovely boardwalk benches have swivel backs for ocean or arcade view. The surging spectators leaned on the back of the bench, sending it forward, and if an intrepid guy behind me hadnt made a quarterback sack, I would have been a very pissed Polar Bear. Now that would have made for a bad day at the beach. I did, however, get an extra close look at the fabulous shells washed onto the beach by the storm. Later, a friend came by with a large, pearly pink conch shell for the condo. We gave it a cursory rinse and left it on the stove to dry. Back at our halfway house (heart in Rehoboth, butt in Maryland) I forced myself to go to work. I was in a meeting about employee health insurance when Sigourney Weavers aliens hijacked my brain and asked my boss if we could cover same-sex domestic partners. When this man, whos been friends with me and Bonnie for years said, "The trouble with covering you guys is where do we draw the line? Who else will we have to give special rights to?" I knew I was cooked. I could get on my soapbox and get fired or shut up and keep my salary to pay for my beach house. I clammed up and fantasized about quitting and moving to Rehoboth. Mid-week the realtor called again. Last Saturdays $850 roof repair blew off again Wednesday, sending new and improved shingles to New Jersey. "Fix it," I said, hearing the giant sucking sound of a Noreaster blowing through my checkbook. On Friday we arrived to find Rehoboth under martial law. Humvees patrolled the end of Maryland Avenue, guarding the boardwalk. Obies By The Sea was Obies In the Sea. The former D for Dolles, a.k.a G for Golles, was now missing entirely, making our new landmark simply Olles. As we approached our house, we sniffed something really awful. Had terrorists unleashed biological agents of mass destruction? Was it the dreaded Anthrax? Something from July left in the refrigerator? Bonnie and I waded bravely through expensive roof shingles to gain entry and traced the aroma to the kitchen. Apparently, Mr. Conch was still residing in that shell we left on the stove last weekend, but he went code blue during the week. "Even a bad smell at the beach is better than a bad smell at home," I said, holding my nose and escorting the shell back out to its natural environs. After a weekend of assessing the damage in town (crumpled boardwalk, streets washed out and lots of dune damagebut, whew! the bars were okay), we stopped at Cloud 9 for one of Randys trademark chocolate martinis and reveled in our hometown ambiance. Then it was off to Florida to visit my parents. Now Im not saying it was a bad tripwe got some sun and managed to get out of the state before the tornados hitbut we werent in openly gay-friendly company for an entire week. Which is probably why, when we stumbled across the gallery in St. Armands Key and began chatting with the earringed, rainbow-clad proprietors, it seemed natural to answer "where are you from?" with "Rehoboth Beach, Delaware." As we zipped back up I-95, mean-looking bubbas sneered at our cars rainbow decals even as their trucks bumpers flashed the ludicrous "I 9 Strom" and my personal favorite, "Show Me Your Hooters." By the time we got back to Delaware we were more sure than ever that a bad day picking up shingles at the beach is better than a good day anywhere else. Fay Jacobs is a regular contributor to LETTERS. She and Bonnie live and work in Maryland but manage to play in Rehoboth most weekends. |
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LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 2, March 13, 1998. |
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