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Beach Stuff
by Albert Russo

Every second day I force my uncle to go to the beach. What’s the use of getting stuck on a forced vacation, when the only thing you are allowed to do is to dip your toes into the sea, which here is quite loverly. Even though it’s not really Bonka’s thing, on account that he has the skin of a plucked ostrich, too pale for his own good. If you remember, he has carrot-color hair, so thin that the least lil wind makes him look like an albino golliwog. That’s not what bothers him though, coz it reminds him of when he was young, spending part of the summer vacation in Montauk, while he was studying in New York. Then, he felt like a bobo hippy, coz someone told him that he was the spitting image of Montgomery Clift - poor Monty who apparently was a nervous wreck in real life and hated acting.

Yeah, my uncle has all the oldies of the 1950’s, and he runs them every time - at the turn of each new season - he has pangs of nostalgia -, which I have to look at, if I want him to take me to the movie theaters on the Champs Elysées, where they feature the newest movies. No, what gives him goose - I should say ostrich - pimples, is the bald pate which then resembles an airstrip for critters, specially that, I dunno why, mosquitoes love to land on it, leaving their pinpricks. Then you should see how he scratches himself, making it worse, as if suddenly a bottle of ketchup had accidentally fallen on his head, spreading its goo down to his ears. And he has to use a whole box of Kleenex tissues to wipe out the mess … too disgustingly siss for words. When he does that, moaning and grumbling under his breath, I slip away, tiptoeing, pretending I don’t know him. I go and hide in the shade of a tree, two blocks away. He catches up with me, on account that he has the flair of a Labrador, but there at least, we don’t risk encountering people.

One bright afternoon - the skies here are always so blue - we were sitting under a beach awning, shedding our city clothes, under which we wear our swimsuits, when, hearing us speak French, two hunks, who were lying on the sand, twenty meters away from our shelter, greeted us in their Hebrew-accented English with big smiles.

“Which parrrt of Frrance do you come frrrom?” asked the blonde stud.

Taken aback, coz when my uncle undresses, he is so purr-nickity and takes so long that a grenade could be rolling near him that he wouldn’t see it. When his eyes roamed in their direction, his face turned radish-red, and all he could udder was a bleating behhh, which I had to immediately cover by saying, with a sudden and unwanted bark: “Parrris”, imitating their accent, even though it wasn’t my intention to make fun of them.

CoronaZapy 10 / Beach stuff 1 Albert Russo