Page 46 of On Fire Island

Two of the guards, visibly pissed at Shep’s lack of respect, climbed the fence and physically lifted him over it.

“Which one is his bike?” the third guard asked.

“Oh, come on. Don’t take his bike!” Ben pleaded.

“Not so funny now, huh?” Mr.Kerchaiken piped in.

One of the three guards had been in Bay Harbor for years and wasn’t a fan of the Kerchaikens either. They called security for every little thing, and while this certainly wasn’t a little thing—especially with the whack-a-mole escalation—it was evident that they could have handled it in an easier fashion from the start. Now, given the condition of Mrs.Kerchaiken’s crop, he had no choice but to take action.

“Sorry, Shep. You know this is your third strike with a bicycle,” he commiserated.

“That first one was ’cause he cheated,” Shep protested, to no avail. The men held Shep by the arms. He made a feeble attempt to break free and go after his wheels, but he was no match for two guys half his age with security-guard egos.

“We’ll bring him home. You get the bike,” one instructed the others.

Ben stayed behind in an effort to help Mrs.Kerchaiken fix her garden. Still drunk, he kept trying to stick two halves of a tomato back together. He pulled off a leaf from another plant and smelled it.

“Is this basil? Maybe you can make a nice sauce.” He laughed, still holding on to that joy.

As the remaining security guard walked off with Shep’s bike, Mr.Kerchaiken smiled with satisfaction. Matty steadied himself, his gaze running from Kerchaiken’s pompous expression to Shep looking back longingly at his bike while being led from the scene. Matty mustered up whatever gumption he could find and began rambling in protest.

“You know what, Mr.Kerchaiken? One dollar for six bags of groceries is not a good tip!” His slurred words came out jumbled, and Mr.Kerchaiken asked him to repeat them. Matty got right up in his face to do so. He gathered his insult in his head again, but this time, all that came out was vomit.

Five shots of tequila and the remnants of Elissa Cron’s five-meat lasagna splattered all over Mr.Kerchaiken’s bare feet as the Mrs.looked on in tears.

Shep was ecstatic—“Thanks, kid!”

Matty beamed back at him with a big, proud, puke-faced smile.

twenty-seven

The Hangover

The next day, Matty and Ben were sprawled out on the bleachers, hungover. It definitely took their standings down a few notches when the teams were being made—they both looked useless. Shep, on the other hand, was fine. Though he was quick to brag.

“I haven’t been that drunk since 1983, when I fell asleep mid-Slurpee at a 7-Eleven!”

He sat next to Matty and commended him again for both his aim and his timing when tossing his cookies the night before.

“That was great last night, son—really—I’d be hard-pressed to think of a time that I was more proud.”

Two tennis guys walked over. Their outfits alone—collared shirts with matching shorts by old-time tennis designers like Sergio Tacchini and Lacoste—made a striking contrast with the attire of the softball players. Shep was wearing a threadbare Eastern Airlines T-shirt circa 1979, and Ben, a threadbareBorn in the U.S.A.tour shirt circa 1984. I had taken it out of his rotation, and it made me laugh that he must have dug it out from the giveaway pile that was never quite given away, like a consolation prize for my passing.

The man in Tacchini called out, “Hey, Shep! Catch!” and threw a tomato at him. Shep instinctively reached out his glove and caught it. He opened his mitt to take a look.

“Very funny,” he responded with ire.

Ben sat up and inched closer to the conversation. He was in no shape to defend this guy again but, considering the small stature of the two tennis guys and the backup on the field, he wasn’t worried. Besides, throwing the tomato was probably the extent of the torment they were capable of.

“We’re here on official business, to discuss the rules with you guys,” Tacchini Man continued.

Shep still needed backup. On his best day the old man wasn’t a big fan of diplomacy.

The nastier of the two tennis guys, the one in the alligator shirt, added, “After losing your bike last night, maybe you should consider playing by the rules.”

“I’ll get my bike back.”

The whole lot of them sounded more like ten-year-olds on a playground than grown men with receding hairlines and mortgages.

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