I had forgotten what sand tastes like. Its tan dewy flatness was so appetizing. The gurgling mush that was in my mouth was sad, unsweet candy Pop Rocks. I lifted my head to find my once pristine sand city to be in the depths of unemployment, war and drug addiction. Spider leg cracks wrapped the once golden towers, bomb craters replaced the glowing green lawns, and civilians were strewn about like sprinkles. A strange yellow giant named Elijah had laid waste to my people. His silhouette rose out of the golden haze, a typical feature of the average Montauk beach day. My fingers trembled with rage. I must avenge my people. I violently charged the giant, my overgrown nails biting into his soft yellow skin. I threw him into the ocean. The infamous waves of The End elegantly drowned us, ripping at our feet and crashing on our heads. Mothra and Godzilla fought with no mercy. Beachcombers gawked in confusion; their open mouths and wide eyes were amazed by the atomic ocean battle. A whopper pummeled us, and as we crawled to shore, a sad Pop Rock slurry snaked down our legs.
The beach transforms from dunes to triple-decker motels and then to golden cliffs. The people of the dunes own homes here, packing at most a book, a chair, and a towel. As the beach narrows one may arrive upon a forest of umbrellas—a forest comprised of squealing, snorting hogs all jam packed into a strip no wider than the length of a school bus. As the hungry tide creeps, the umbrella people compress. Their orange leather skin is that of a gleaming hot dog. Trundles of lunch boxes, plastic assortments and lotions are schlepped across the sandscape. Their colors burn and pierce the golden haze, their aerosol sunblocks stain the air, their squeals defeat the waves’ roar. Beyond the waste lie the cliffs; the rocky coast lies vacant. Surfers rise, fall, and flip like acrobats. They are solitary men and women with the utmost respect for the water and the shore it crashes upon.
Elijah’s final objective was Camp Hero, far beyond the cliffs. I was content with remaining, face planted into my towel, enjoying the long strokes of warmth the sun painted on my pubescent, pimply back. We thought the beach was our rock. Shortly into sunbathing, Elijah was frightened by red-haired devils, their K-9s shredded his small heart, their claws ground his guts, tormented by the future.
This was our last adventure. He was going away for good soon, and I am still not sure why he left; I don’t think he was either. He dragged me off the beach. Like a fish on a hook, he reeled me away; I flopped and flailed as he grabbed my skinny rubber wrist. My sandy and rusty bike, suitably named Rusty Galore, looked like a boating rig out on Westlake Marina. A monster with cogs, cranks and chains—a ferocious torture machine. In an attempt to ride the bull, I was somersaulted to the warm asphalt. Its heat and texture gave the right side of my face the appearance of cellulite. The second time around I lowered her bristly seat, which soothed her. We softly galloped down the road; her once pristine sheen used to shimmer while turning. As I rode I stuck my tongue out like a dog. The air tasted like sweet seaweed. We passed the overflowing IGA, the drunk and high 7/11, and the red Getty station .
We arrived at our new rock, John's Drive in and Drive. We craved peace. My eyes twitched with confusion as they studied the endless menu board. The smell of burnt bacon crawled its way into my nose. I simply wanted a John Burger with fries and a cherry Coke. The animal that was the line pawed and chewed us. I was so hungry I almost lay on the floor, its grout tar-black from years of ketchup, vomit, and other children who lay down and threw tantrums. My flip-flops slid from the years of sand on the cracked red tile of the burger joint. The painful journey of five feet came to an end, and I ordered my long-awaited meal. My body slid into a yellow booth. As I stared at Elijah, I realized he had cat eyes—darting, vigilant and fleeting. He made his discomfort explicit as he demanded “STOP LOOKING AT MY EYES!” I found it interesting how he knew I was not looking into them, just at them, studying them like marbles. I’ll miss his eyes; he’s very good at talking with them. The miniscule sesame seeds of the bun were delightful. I think an important burger deserves a healthy bedazzling of sesame seeds. The bacon, American cheese, and John Sauce chimed in harmony as they massaged my tongue. The only thing missing was the fries’ complement, Heinz Tomato Ketchup. I pounded the condiment container like a hammer. I missed the nail but managed to pump the well after seven strikes. Sweet divine ketchup oozed into and overflowed the tiny paper cup, creating first a muffin top and then a flood of the gushing thick goop. Elijah laughed at me as I lazily dumped all of the ketchup into the fry cup, disgracefully soggifying the once crispy golden fries. As the lunch rush swelled, the screams of evil baby kids rose and made us leave.
I mounted the tamed Rusty Galore and flew into the beach-bound traffic. The vehicles shouted at us as we sloppily swerved and swished through the crunchy, sandy streets. Kids scampered in their tie-dye Montauk sweatwear. Ornaments hung from their chubby, sunburned wrists. Sacks of sugary worms, glistening chocolate turtles, and sparklers from the surf mall with the white repeating macaw and the dirty checkered black and green floor swung from their hands. The White Jeaners paraded the sidewalks. Their precious, straightened hair and over-caked faces were far too good for the beach. Their rosé to-go sloshed as they teetered on their heels, laughed like car horns, and stared at their phones. White Jeaners were Elijah’s and my go-to joke.
“I wonder how much rosé they drink in a week.”
“I bet their parents still help with rent.”
“Why do the jeans have to be so tight, it’s traumatizing.”
The salty sea men glared as they smoked their king-sized cigarettes and phlegmed on the gritty sidewalk. The sea men are repelled by town; their sole mission is to pay a visit to Paulie, the owner of the best tackle shop out east. He can always be found outside his shop, leaning on a hand railing, stroking his white feathery hair, smoking like a wet fire while wearing deep-blue jeans. We waved as we biked past.
The visible dilapidated Fort Hero was more than ten miles away on 27. My oxford flipped and flapped, Galore squeaked and groaned, and my flip-flops chirped. I took the lead on our adventure, quite the rarity. He never trailed behind me—it was not in his nature to follow. Elijah was a strange kid, perhaps stranger than I. He was sensitive, selfish, red and blue. I never really understood him.This would be our last time in Montauk together. When he was lonesome he decided to abandon his last golden year of high school, skip past the Montauk Lighthouse, over the bitter Atlantic, and live somewhere in Europe. The friendship was fleeting; we would never be the same people again. He chose to leave. Meanwhile, Elijah had decided to replace his damp bathing suit with his grandfather's gray Tom Ford dress pants. His yellow, nub-nailed hands gripped the bike handle, his turquoise ring imprinting the memorable rubber. The hum of our bikes calmed our wild minds. The road was our rock. As we flew, we watched the clouds pass, the leaves shimmer and grass blow, rolling in nostalgia while we chatted of years past. I halted Galore with all my might. Elijah’s chestnut hair brushed my cheek as he narrowly rear-ended Galore. Hot tears scuttled down my face. My laughter zigzagged through the thick, salty air. The fattest man on earth decided to ride a bike suited for an Ugg-wearing seventh grader on Route 27! It looked like a giant grapefruit riding on a Hot Wheel, its soft exterior, molding and pressing around the hunched cycle. Elijah lay on the ground exasperated yet cackling. He had almost faced the wrath of Rusty Galore. “YOU COULD HAVE KILLED ME!!!” he slipped between giggles. I was always trying to kill him and he was always yelling at me for it. We laughed as we remounted and rode away. The flat highway wound,slithered, and eventually lifted its serpentine head, readying to strike. This hill sent shudders through Galore. Elijah and I creaked up the hill, my legs twitched and burned. I was to show no mercy to the snake hill. There was to be no walking; the honor and legend of Rusty Galore depended on it. I would make it to the top. My legs spun faster than a washing machine, a swirl of suds and gray. I was turning out loads by the dozen! Rusty and I roared in unison, our scream poured over the summit, cascading into the dense forest below. Rusty and I had successfully defeated the serpent. I had never felt so accomplished in my life. The hill peered through the mossed trees onto Oyster Bay and the sound. Birds the color of Elijah’s pants kited over the greens, the grays, and the holes of blue. This overlook was our rock.
The forest densified as we neared our final destination. A fine, cool mist draped the swampy ground. The smell of dead leaves replaced the sea salt air. Our chariots sped as we neared the entrance. A sloppy white booth and a rusty chain fence guarded the abandoned park. Elijah hoisted our bikes over and watched them soar over the gate. Galore gallantly landed. We followed them, and as my flip-flops clapped the ground, my legs vibrated in agony. Elijah always did tricky things like that for me, and in return I gave him all the praise he needed to hear.
As we summited another hill, a clearing gave way to the centerpiece of the Montauk Project, the one of a kind AN/FPS 35 Radar. The tower stares down upon the Montauk Lighthouse. The only reason it is still here today is that fishermen find it more visible from the ocean. According to conspiracy and most locals, the Montauk Project tested mind control, time travel, and teleportation beneath the tower. It was an army base with a strong interest in the paranormal. Elijah and I had visited on many occasions; it was a special place, maybe our rock. As we walked into the clearing, we saw people on top of the enormous structure. They looked like gray toothpicks in comparison to the red Pringle-shaped dish. “HOW’D THE HELL YOU GET UP THERE!” screamed Elijah. They did not respond and quickly scurried away. On this hill the Atlantic air kicked up. The tall wild grass blew in the golden light as we decided to climb the adjacent smaller building. The grass swayed around my skinny tan friend. We propped a half-burned plank against the wall and squirmed up. The concrete and dried tar pushed on my John-filled stomach, leaving scrapes. The smaller building had countless layers of neon spray paint, which sang in the late afternoon light. The building itself was a hodgepodge of concrete rectangles sloppily stacked on one another, around ten feet tall. As we sat on the roof, we watched the climbers scurry out of a small hole in the radar tower and run away like mice. There was a strong sense of hostility in the clearing. Their eyes twitched and scanned with fear. My trembling hand wiped a single tear of sweat that had rolled from my freckled forehead to the tip of my nose. Echoing yelps from children vibrated from the structure we had sat on, like a wooden music box. Children’s hands squirmed out of the crevices. At least ten kids anywhere from ten to eighteen years old spat out of the concrete mess. They were coated in Walmart clothing and appeared as if they had been raised solely on a diet of pink insulation and McDonalds. They marveled at their discoveries—half-broken bolts, cracked marbles, and purple paint chips. A deep ungendered parental-sounding voice cracked, “Time to go!” The hoard of kids leaped from the ten-foot platform, their knock-off Skechers blinking as they landed. They rolled and dove, disappearing in the tall grass. They all ducked as if they were to be shot at. Elijah and I quickly jumped off the roof, my flip-flop snapping in half as I landed on the coarse ground. Our heads owled as we tried to understand. Danger and fear tainted the opening. A radar climber reappeared, her face a deer staring into the eyes of a sixteen wheeler. At the sight of her, Elijah and I bolted. My legs were coated in tar, sand, ocean salt, and ketchup. My hands were dry, scraped, and charcoal black from Rusty’s cheap handle grips, and my fallen-leaf hair crunched. We flew over the fence and rolled as we landed. Galore sensed my fear as I dragged her out of the brush and rode to a quieter part of the park. The abandoned barracks, library, and a church stared at us in the dead silence.
We decided to lie down and calm our hearts, digesting final memories together. A pebble pressed into my back, as I lay on the sad lawn. We played classical piano music and watched the forest gray as dusk emerged. Goodbye my friend.