Redemption

 

I spent most of last week on vacation with my daughter at Old Orchard Beach, Maine. It took me away from the inanity of my current dating life and let me enjoy some time at the shore doing my favorite thing - sitting at the beach reading trashy novels.

We stayed at a campground where surely the term "white trash" was originated. Wild Acres promised "75 acres of serenity." I suppose if you lived in Hell's Kitchen, Wild Acres would come across as serene. But for us two country mice, it was a mass of humanity pressing itself against the shore on this hot August weekend.

We made reservations late and I committed the cardinal sin of chewing out a fellow tourism industry worker. The young-ish man behind the counter looked up at me wearily when we checked in and I complained about our site. It was muddy. It was small. It wasn't nice. "You know it's been raining for, like, a month right?" Of course I knew it but I complained anyway. When I got over myself a few hours later I felt badly for abusing him but it felt good at the time.

We were greeted almost immediately while setting up our tent by our "neighbors," one of whom was actually sitting in a taxi-cab. The disconnect of a taxi-cab at a campsite took a while to digest. The couple explained they were camping together but that the boyfriend was working until 3am most nights and then returning to the campsite. "Hi, my name is Brandy," the girl introduced herself. "Of course you are," I replied. I expected nothing more than someone named after a cheap liquor. Said boyfriend did indeed return "home" every night at 3am and proceed to cuss out Brandy, obviously forgetting that tent walls are thin and his f-bombs hit the ears of all the children in adjacent sites.

But we were there for the beach and the beach we got. It was back to back to back humans right up to the water line. It was honky-tonk all the way but we went whole hog, riding the ferris wheel, the roller coaster and eating trashy junk food like deep-fried oreos. While my kid rode her boogie board in the waves, I sunk back in my chair and dozed while an airplane flew banners overhead with messages appealing to the tourists. "Bella's - Best Pizza on the Strip" and "US Airforce Band Concert Tonight on the Common."

Maybe it was heat stroke. Maybe I was dreaming. But through a haze I stared at a new message on the plane's banner. "Not Good" it read. That wasn't quite right. "Not Good Enough." Not Good Enough for what? The little plane circled and circled then flew away. Then I woke up and realized it was indeed a dream - but in this state, my mind shared what my heart knows. Not Good Enough. Not one of them. Not even close.