SellingMannysGrill.com

We had been planning the vacation for a little over a month. Fire Island is a body of land that lies just southeast of Long Island. Despite being about 9mi², it’s home to less than 500 people. For years, the stigma that came with it had been that of a quick getaway for the homosexual community when they needed a a place that accepted their relationships. The culture matured, the rightfully applied stereotype faded, and now the island is a quick getaway for all those who need it, regardless of their orientation.

The only problem for me was getting off of work. Of course, no dilemma is unsalvageable for the meticulous liar, and I quickly came up with a plan to get the weekend off without any repercussions. The make-up of the typical Long Island beach club staff is very simple — 10 to 20 college students with a taste for sunshine, cash and marijuana. We live with our parents for the summer until returning to school in the fall. The weekdays are monotonous. The weekends are back-breaking. The pay-off was the hundreds of dollars of cash every Sunday.

Taking weekends off was out of the question. Not only was it unacceptable for my boss, it was unfair to both my partners and my wallet. Luckily, my particular court featured a young up-and-coming, soon to be verbally abused cabana boy named Evan. The kid was only 14 but I swear he could pass for an undersized 25 year old. He worked with his mother in the arts-and-crafts section, catering to the children while they’d draw a bunch of shit that looked nothing like anything that’s ever existed. His most important responsibility was to make sure they weren’t shoving googily-eyes up their noses. Evan, like any 14 year old kid, looked up to the college students that worked the courts. Any time a chance arose to impress us, he’d jump from his chair the same way we did for our members. The only difference is he was trying to earn respect while we were selling it for tips.

As it was, Evan was more than eager to slip right in if any of us had a conflicting responsibility. My responsibility was getting trashed on the beach without having to worry about 80 year old Jewish women ratting me out. The kid agreed to fill in for me, so now all I needed was a believable excuse to get me off duty. For reasons I’ll never understand, despite being insanely demanding and in a few cases cruel, almost every single member at that club seemed to take a liking to me.

I fucked up just as many food orders as I got right. I squirted their children with the hose. One slow afternoon, I was caught blazing a joint in the ice room by a portly old man who spent the last year of his life fishing on the Atlantic. They would berate me constantly. They tipped their weekly tips with the same look of disgust you find on a woman who’s trying to pay her housekeeper while holding in a sneeze from all the dust. I was the most average employee ever, and yet, they adored me. Few would ever find the need to tell me this to my face, but my boss was constantly reminded. I quickly became one of the most popular cabana boys with the members and got along fantastically with the staff. It’s amazing what a good rapport with the people in your work life can do for your social one.

The lie I came up with was one of the most brilliant bullshit concoctions ever created. Rather than claiming I had something to do over the weekend itself, which had been tried by countless other cabana boys to no avail, my plan was to tell The Boss that I was moving all of my possessions back to college on a Monday and wouldn’t be returning to New York until Thursday afternoon. He already knew I went to school in Columbus so it was believable that the trip wouldn’t be a one day affair.

The best part about this plan was the aforementioned comradely I had formed with the Sunny Atlantic community. I was known to be a good person. A hard worker. An idiot at times, sure, but never someone who would try to weasel his way out of responsibilities. With the illusion of a halo levitating above my head, I played the good guy card one more time. It wouldn’t have been fair of me to take off the entire week and then return for the weekend and collect the tips that Evan had worked so hard for, would it? Mike Walsh would never do such a thing. Amazingly, my lie had evolved right into the persona I had developed. The Boss was made aware that, despite of course wanting to work that weekend, I didn’t think it was good spirited to swoop right in and collect Evan’s money. It was only fair that he remained in service through Sunday and get his due.

Jackpot.

Not only did I manage to get the weekend off I so desperately wanted, but Monday through Thursday would be spent in leisure as well — and keep in mind, weekdays at a beach club translated into slave labor. It’s a weekend business, and the week is there basically just to justify the pay-off.

All that was left to do was board the ferry for Fire Island. The eleven of us squished into two separate cars and drove an hour and fifteen minutes out east to Bayshore where the Fire Island ferries docked. I can quite honestly say that ferry ride, speaking reflectively of course, was one of the happiest moments of my life. The smell of sea life has long been one of my fascinations. It’s repulsive in the majority of civilized settings. Any man who can walk through the fish markets of China Town without wanting to vomit is a better man than me. Yet, when you’re out there on the water, with every ounce of responsibility being whisked off your shoulders by an endless ocean breeze, you’d swear the scent of fish, dead worm bait and seaweed is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever known.

We were staying at a very modest house in a small town called Ocean Bay Park. The life of Fire Island in the summer was over in Ocean Beach, about a 45 minute walk away. I stress that Ocean Beach was 45 minutes by foot, because no other form of transportation other than a bicycle is allowed on Fire Island. There are no roads. No traffic lights, stop signs, crossing guards, or gas stations. While the rest of the world catered to the automotive revolution, this particular nook in the planet managed to remain true to it’s nostalgia and charm. The cops exist only to break up the occasional bar fight. There’s no such thing as McDonald’s. The moonlight guides your steps in the evening.

The nights there can be quite frightening. Wildlife, which include anything from raccoons to deer, have just as much of a right to the land as we do. We’d find ourselves walking along completely unlit walkways, using our cell phones as flash lights, shuttering at every sound we’d hear from bushes. The sheer presence of undomesticated animals can scare a man to the bone, although in this case it was completely unjustified. They had to be so used to the tourists coming through in the summer that a part of me likes to believe they’re the first creatures since humanity to develop a sense of humor. How could any living thing on the Earth not get a kick out of two stoned college students clinging to each other, rotating their cell phones like glow sticks at a rave?

We arrived at the house early in the morning, and to our dismay, the description of house was just a tad exaggerated. The ad really should have read “room + bathroom.” Granted, it clearly stated that the house was not meant to entertain more than three people, but we figured we’d somehow find a way to sleep comfortably within an entire house. We arrived in shifts since we didn’t want to get caught by our renter, having promised him only four people were coming for the weekend.

The “room,” as it will be referred to from now on, was about 15×15 feet. It had a bunk-bed along one wall and a pull out couch on another. The two remaining walls were occupied by one window (which had a small, humming air-conditioner), and a television which was surprisingly equipped with Direct TV. The carpet was red, the walls were brown, the furniture was uncomfortable. How eleven people, six girls, managed to share one tiny bathroom for three days will go down as one of the most fantastic achievements in the history of mankind.

I saw our undersized dwelling as a minor inconvenience. My plan was to spend 99% of my time out by the ocean, anyway. Tanning, listening to music, swimming, throwing a baseball around, and of course, drinking excessively. I found a small corner to store my suitcase and we all headed out towards the beach to begin our last weekend before going back to college.

On the way out we noticed we were not alone. Sounds were coming from the house next door. Neighbors! I always thought of Fire Island as this ultra excluded beach resort where finding people outside of the bars was along the lines of finding God at the local church. People say they’ve done it but I couldn’t see it happening to me. We made our way across the wooden boardwalk from our house to find a bigger, entirely more inviting house on the other side. This was the house I had envisioned. Inside two glass sliding doors was a couple sitting on a sofa watching television. They looked to be right out of Jersey without that bullshit sense of self worth attitude about them — and by that I mean they were Jerseyians who actually knew how to smile.

Outside the doors on the porch stood a man. A man that will go down as one of the greatest human beings of all time. A man who taught me that I better have fun now, because fifteen years down the road I could end up like this guy — clinging to the last particles of my youth with kids who never knew what hit them.

His name was Frank. I never found out his last name, but last names for guys like this aren’t necessary. In fact, they’re detrimental. They give a real, tangible identity to people who need to remain mythical. I prefer to think of Frank as the God of Entertainment sent down from Heaven for all of us on that fateful weekend. He did not exist outside of Fire Island. He didn’t exist outside of those moments. The film Old School came out two years earlier, and because of that, Frank received a nickname so fitting, it was as if the movie was only made just for us. He’d of course, go down in history as the real “Frank The Tank.”

At first, Frank was much like any other man on the surface. Late 30s. Dark, thinning hair. Dopey eyes. A little short. A little stupid. Very friendly. He looked like a dangerously humorous hybrid of Tony Shalhoub and George Costanza.

“Hey what’s going on, man?” Eric said, trying to come off as innocent as possible. We didn’t want to give off the impression that we were going to use our of-age neighbors to help us get into the local bar scene. We were simply being affable.

“We’ve got the house next door for the weekend. We saw you guys had this place, and we just wanted to introduce ourselves to the people we’re sharing this walkway with.”

The Jersey couple from inside the glass doors, nodded and smiled, while Frank seemed thrilled with our presence.

“Hey, man. Welcome to the house!” Frank said. “I guess you’re the kids Anthony and Tina rented it to, eh?”

He took a look at my friend Mickey, who has always looked young for her age.

“Wow! What are you guys, in high school?”

“Nope, all in college, actually,” I intervened. “19 and 20 year olds.”

“I see — you’re a young looking group. I love it. Maybe you’ll bring a little energy to the place. I’m guessing you’re all too young for the bars though, huh.”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Eric said. “But we’ll be out here drinking a lot if you guys ever wanna come through.”

Frank’s eyes lit up.

“Oh absolutely. We’re heading to Flynn’s tonight, but yeah, we’ll throw a few back beforehand. Just let us know.”

I have to admit, I for one was excited by the prospect of drinking with an older crowd. To that point, my experiences ranged from beer-pong to keg stands. I never experienced the “refinery” that comes with drinking with adults. They were all so much older and more experienced than we were. It intrigued me to hang with what could possibly be a caricature of the future Mike Walsh.

We spent the remainder of that first afternoon lounging seaside with potato chips and plastic cups filled with Coors Light. The ocean on Fire Island is a far more dangerous beast than the one I was used to in Nassau County. Riptides pulled you right off the shore and out to sea, and if you weren’t careful you could find yourself in serious trouble. Eric and I were often confused as to whether or we should dive under the wave or run away from it. We’d jet out towards the water hoping to hit the wave before the break, but more often than not we wound up running for our lives towards the shore after not getting there in time. The girls tanned on towels in the sand, occasionally making their way into the water for a dip. People from all over the island had migrated from the walkways and pizza shops in town to the sun-soaked beaches they had paid for. Everything was going more perfect than I could have imagined.

We returned to our room and grilled burgers & franks outside on the porch. When we had arrived on the ferry, disappointing clouds loomed over the entire island, but they’d soon vanish, revealing sunny skies, and eventually, a starlit evening. Marijuana came into the equation at this point. I continued to work on the 72 Coors Lights I had brought in for the weekend, and Nicole and Gabby began rolling blunts for later on. Meanwhile, our neighbors were over on their porch doing the same things we were, minus the contraband. Since Eric and I were still intrigued by our new friends, we walked over to see if they wanted to drink with us.

“Are you guys playing beer pong!?” Frank asked the second he saw us turn the corner. He had an ear-to-ear smile that managed to spread across all of the island.

“Um, sure, we can.” said Eric. “Yeah actually, that’s a great idea. Only thing is it might be tough to throw the balls with the wind and everything — but yeah I’m definitely down.”

“Same here,” I said. “We don’t really have much room, but we can slide one of our tables over to your porch. Is that cool?”

“Let’s do it!”

I could already tell from my limited drinking experience that Frank the Tank was soon to become the ultimate shit show. His hair was a little disheveled, and his t-shirt had wet stains from beer that couldn’t have been spilled more than ten minutes before we walked over. He had that goofy smile that only results from the euphoria of beach-side beverages and excitement. I love a good drunk, and Frank seemed to be the potential highlight of the weekend.

Eric and I were teammates, and Frank’s friends, the couple, were outside in loungers drinking Heinekens, not all that interested in the tomfoolery that comes with drinking games. In contrast, Frank had the look of a puppy who just found his way back to the owner. It was if we weren’t just neighbors, but buddies from the old frat with whom he had long lost touch. The only thing left to do was find Frank a teammate, and that’s when Gabby uttered two words that she will regret for the rest of her life.

“I’ll play!”

Gabby is very emblematic of your typical social collegian. Loves to drink. Loves to smoke. Loves meeting new people. She has the type of personality that makes everything about a situation easier when people don’t know each other. You’ll rarely say something to her that won’t crack her up, even if it’s the corniest, most pathetic joke of all time. Sometimes they’re courtesy laughs, sometimes they’re real. In addition, you’d be hard pressed to find yourself struggling to keep the conversation going in her presence, because Gabby loves to talk. She could get on the phone with one of the scummiest, fast-talking brokers on Wall Street and he’d be begging to get off the receiver. She’ll out-talk anybody, and when your playing pong with a stranger who you’ve known for all of six hours, you need this kind of girl to keep things from getting awkward. Unfortunately for Gabby, she didn’t know she was dealing with a man who would eventually say things that just are never said in real life.

Frank the Tank was tanked. I knew he was drunk, but I had know idea about the levels he had reached. I guess a part of me rationalized his slurred speech, blurred vision and gigantic smiles as a part my own misunderstanding. Maybe I’m totally black-out hammered and I need to give this older gentlemen a break. After all, I’m sure he’s far more suited to handle his buzz than I am.

We started playing beer-pong, and Frank decided it would be funnier to throw the balls at me and Eric instead of at the cups. He aimed correctly initially, but when he realized he was way too uncoordinated to even come close, he thought he’d save face by shooting at my face along with my partner’s. This was by no means malicious on his part. In fact, he thought he was the funniest thing since Jim Carey. We laughed along, and did everything in our beer-pong power to drill the cups quickly and end the game. Clearly, Frank wasn’t much of a player and perhaps we’d all be better off just casually enjoying beers together and relaxing.

“Drink itttt!” Frank would yell, aiming for our personal beers or our faces.

“Frank you missing, man,” Eric laughed. “You’ve got to hit the cups. You don’t just drink every time, regardless of your shot.”

“Oh f-f-fuck that. I know this fuckin’ game. I’ve been — you know I do, right?”

“Yeah we do, man.” I said, each word squeezed in between a chuckle. “You know your shit, for sure.”

“You bet-chur ass I do. I’m — you know i do. I love this game, and I love you Gabby.”

This guy wasn’t real. He couldn’t be.

“I love you too, Frank!” Gabby giggled. “You’re hilarious.”

“–and you’re beautiful. You’re one of der most beautiful people I’ve everrr seen.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, thank you.”

After Eric hit our final cup, Frank once again aimed for my face, and Gabby missed her rebuttal on purpose to end the game. We moved over to our porch where Nikki’s blunts were rolled and we were ready to smoke. Frank accompanied us while his friends remained at their house. He wobbled behind Gabby, messaging her shoulders while she tried to politely shoo his hands away.

“Where-err… Where’s the fuckin’ pot, gang?” said Frank, while plopping down onto one of our loungers, nearly breaking it. All of us were sitting around a giant circular table, surrounded by 10 foot weeds in every direction. There was nothing that could be seen, nor could anyone see us. This was our small, porch-sized world for us to manipulate however we wanted.

“It’s coming, Frank,” said Derek, who who had been drinking with the rest of our group. “Man, you’ve had a lot, huh man?”

“You know it!” His head whipped from side to side with his eyes closed.

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

At this point it was painfully clear that not only was Frank the Tank at an unprecedented level of stupor, a level that exists only in a strange place of consciousness where you should be blacked out, but he had fallen in love with our dear Gabby. The man’s eyes would move from her breasts only if someone manages to call his name loud enough to grab his attention. There was nothing subtle about these death stares. He was transfixed — hypnotized even.

“I’m up here, Frank.” Gabby would say, now getting to a point where she was rightfully uncomfortable.

A sort of unspoken understanding managed to move its way throughout our group. Frank was in love with Gabby, and clearly, she wanted nothing to do with the maniac. We had to come up with some way to get her out of this mess without things getting insulting. It wasn’t in our nature to say “back off, asshole.” That’s just not who we were. We were friendly to outsiders, and on some level, a little too friendly. I sometimes wish we had one piece-of-shit douchebag in the group to set things straight when people got out of line.

“Gabby, I love you — I think you’re so fucking beautiful. Can I kiss you, pwease?”

I have no idea where the baby talk came in, but slowly but surely, Frank’s lingo went from a slurring drunk to that of a retarded four year old.

“I wove you, so much! You — hey where’s that weed? I think you’re beautifowl. I think you’re da best.”

He leaned over and was now hugging Gabby while she awkwardly laughed, not hugging back.

“Dude, we gotta do something,” Derek said to me. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Unfortunately, I’ve never been one to let the severity of a situation take precedence over the hilarity. I was so absolutely thrilled with this mindless entertainment that I didn’t even take into account that not only was Gabby ridiculously uncomfortable, but the guy really was out of line and borderline offensive. After not giving much of an answer, Derek just waited for the right time to make a move and tell Frank to go back to his house, but Gabby beat him to the punch with a stunner that none of us saw coming.

“Sorry Frank, I’m a lesbian.”

His eyes darted up from her breasts to her eyes, and the massive grin that had been plastered onto his middle-aged face all evening immediately turned into the saddest puppy-dog frown I’ve ever seen. He sat back in his chair, submerged in catatonic shock, looking up towards the sky in reckless despair. His dream girl was a lesbian. A real live dike. Why would God do something so cruel to such a fine gentlemen?

“You’re…. a wesbian!? No you’re not!”

“I am, I really am. Ask any of these guys.”

Frank looked towards Eric who sat directly across from him.

“Yep — Sorry Frank. She’s a total lesbian,” he lied.

“Loves the vagina,” said Adam, grinning at Gabby.

“What? Weally? No — you can’t be.”

“I am — I’m really sorry.”

It was at this point that Frank’s disappointment turned into rage. The thing is, when you’re a man in the midst of a drunken midlife crisis, rage doesn’t result in violence — it results, apparently, in the greatest rant I’ve ever seen.

“Well why didn’t you tell me earlier?? All — all I wanted to do was eat your pussy. That’s all I wanted to do.”

With that, none of us could control it anymore. The eleven of us let out a collective roar — a mix of stomach-turning laughter and tears as we tried to understand why this man had been brought into our lives that evening.

“I don’t see whats so funnnayy. I just wanted to eat your pussy. I didn’t — I didn’t even need to fuck you. I just wanted to eat your pussssaayy. Hey where is that fuckin’ weed!? Hold on, I’ve got a cwall!”

“A what?” I said.

“A cwall. A phone cwall. Hello!? Oh hey honey. No, no I’m not dwunk. I’m just with my new friends — and one of them is a wesbian.”

“Um — did you say honey?” Derek asked.

“It’s my girlfwend… shhhh,” Frank said, holding a finger to his mouth while trying not to giggle.

No. Fucking. Way.

“You have a girlfriend!?”

“Hushh guys… shhh. You there honey? What, no, I’m not dwunk at all! I’m just with my friends and their lesbian. Yes. I wove you, too! Here, say hi to my fwend Dewek.

“Nah, listen man I dunno–”

“No it’s okay. Say hi!”

Derek took the phone.

“Um, hello? Hello? I’m sorry, um… I can’t. I can’t really understand you — at all.”

Derek stood up, stoned, and couldn’t take it anymore.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on, man! This chick’s not speaking English!”

I took the phone, and with Derek hollering in the background I listened to this woman talk in a language that I had never heard in my life. Not only did she not speak English, but Frank managed to have a conversation with her about not being drunk and his new friends and their lesbian.

The Angel of Mercy finally showed up in the form of the Jersey couple and told him that it was time to go to Flynn’s. Frank forced himself up, still stunned that his future English speaking wife/co-girlfriend was a flesh and blood lesbian – a testament to the old days of Fire Island. He used ever ounce of bodily function he had, and stood up to leave with the Jersey couple. Nikki passed the blunt to him for a single courtesy puff.

The next morning a few of my friends ran into Frank at one of the local restaurants for breakfast. Sweet Jesus I wish I was there. They’d later inform me that not only did Frank remember the entire evening, but claimed that he knew the whole time that Gabby was a lesbian and he was just messing around. Part of me wishes that were true. Most of me loves that it’s not. Frank and the Jersey couple left Fire Island that afternoon.

We returned once again the following summer, only this time we stayed in the much trendier, tourist friendly Ocean Beach. Derek and I took that 45 minute walk down towards Ocean Bay Park and sneaked onto the porch of our old house to see the scene one last time. I held onto an inkling of hope that maybe, just maybe, Frank would be next door again — sipping gleefully on a Heineken, waiting for the gang to return along with the girl who got away. Frank wasn’t there. Their entire house was empty. So was ours. Perhaps that’s the way it ought to be forever.