DAY 2
The six of us are two to a bed. My sister and I share the pull out couch, a minefield of sinkholes, wily springs, and (maybe) imaginary bed bugs. Once I contort to a manageable sleeping position, my sister slings the deadweight of her leg over me or something bites my ankle and I jolt awake, the manageable spot lost to the temperamental, poor excuse for a mattress. I imagine you’d get better rest on one of those cat-ravaged, stained couches you see on the curbside that makes you wonder a.) what took the person so long to get rid of it, b.) what the tipping point was (the first nine times the cat threw up on it was acceptable, but the 10th? Put it on the street—now it’s ruined), and c.) who do they think would ever take the thing into their home. I consider the floor, which would definitely be more comfortable, but also more disgusting, so the couch-bed wins.
A combined four hours of this type of spotty sleeping finally gives way to the day. We get dressed and lotion up and head to the deli across the street for our complimentary breakfast: a single scrambled egg with a blanket of cheddar cheese laid over the top and a two-sip cup of orange juice. Not what you’d imagine it’d be, especially with the way the motel advertised it on the scrolling marquee out front: free full breakfast every morning. “Well, it’s a great breakfast for the price,” my dad points out. I suppose he’s right. You definitely get what you pay for.
Far from being full, we load up the car with drinks, snacks, beach towels, and books, gearing up for a long day at the beach. We arrive 15 minutes later to Island Beach, a rustically beautiful state park that splits the ocean and the bay. We see osprey, dragonflies, jellyfish, and even a small red fox. We’re there for maybe two hours when the rain starts. We think it might blow over. We defy the sky’s empty threats and really push it until the last minute before we have to pack up and make a run for the car.
With the entire afternoon left to kill, we venture to the interpretive center, a wildlife museum of sorts that takes about five minutes to fully tour. The rain stops, but not convincingly enough to set up camp again, so we compromise and decide to take one of the trails to the bayside. We get about 100 feet before the biting flies, mosquitoes, and rampant poison ivy along the path make us to turn back. We call it a day and go back to the motel for a round of showers and naps before an early dinner.
We’re seated almost immediately at the restaurant with the 45 minute wait from the night before. We’re led upstairs to a table next to a family with a severely mentally disabled child who yells out through the duration of the meal. “That kid has a loud voice,” my dad remarks after about 10 minutes of consistent squealing. “Dad!” My brother reproaches him. “He’s retarded.” My father, the hopeless semantic, responds, “So? Whether he is or he isn’t is beside the point. He has a loud voice.”
Our waiter arrives apparently stoned and clearly disheveled. He introduces himself as Jared and addresses us all as man. He seems more like a caricature of a California surfer than the Jersey menfolk we’ve been seeing. It’s refreshing. He races downstairs to check with the kitchen at least four times before he puts our order in. He’s unsure of the soup of the day (“I don’t really know, man, but I think it’s vegetable soup or something”); he tells my brother they don’t carry Smithwick’s though it’s on tap at the bar; and he’s really thrown when my mom asks if they have anything gluten-free on the menu (“Umm the chef says the burger, the steak, and the pasta.” “The pasta? Really?” “Well, that’s what he says and it’s his place so, I dunno man.” I imagine the chef is another 19 year-old dude). He returns out of breath and apologizing each time; it’s only his second week, he explains. He grabs his brow and nervously shifts his weight and pulls up his pants. His reaction time is slow—he instantly agrees with whatever we say and then seems to snap out of a daze and asks a question. He repeats all our orders a few times, wiping his forehead as if to clear away some of the haze. The ordering process takes 10 minutes longer than it probably should, but for some reason we all really like him and aren’t at all bothered. It sort of feels like rooting for the underdog, cheering despite all the errors and the more they lose, the more you love them.
And so it goes through the end of the meal, when a bewildered Jared returns my dad’s credit card and says it’s been declined. This really confuses him, and we half-suspect that maybe Jared doesn’t know how to use a credit card machine? My dad calls the credit card company right at the table, while a completely overwhelmed Jared runs around to other tables. We leave the dining area to make room for waiting diners and Jared runs after us. As it turns out, someone tried to steal my dad’s identity and deposit $16,000 into their account, so the bank froze the card. My brother explains the situation to Jared, and he stares blankly, looking down the barrel of a $150 bill. “Well, I still need the bill paid, man,” he quivers. “Yeah,” my brother assures him. “We’re going to pay up at the front; we just wanted to clear the table for you.” Jared seems unconvinced, but eventually gets rushed away, perhaps by something shiny, and we resolve everything with the front of the house.
We head to the boardwalk for the second night, my dad calling for Snooky like a cat (“Snooky! Snooky, where are you?”). We all laugh because for some reason, it’s hard to be embarrassed in front of this crowd. We throw baseballs at beer bottles and plates for prizes and watch a five year old pose for a picture next to a cut out of the elusive Snooky. But we have to leave the spectacle of the boardwalk early when my mom starts to feel the effects of Jared’s mistaken gluten-free dinner recommendation. My sister tries to pawn off the Mardi Gras beads we won to a father with two little girls. “Do you want some beads for your kids?” she asks sweetly and he crouches away from us with a protective shoulder. “No, I’m good,” he says with wary eyes, like we’re gypsies trying to swindle him.
The Maiers try to go on vacation and somehow end up the freaks at the Jersey Shore carnival.
