Friday, August 26, 2011

Guess Who's Coming to Wreck the Place?

Every brick in the wall?



At the shore we often have unexpected, uninvited visitors.  It is the beach town's culture.  It is something we love about Margate.  Until you get the visitor that breaks your porch.

On Sunday, the boy who grew up in our house came knocking at the door.  Only, he was no longer a boy, but a man.  With a mustache and a too long nose hair.  He had with him a kind and quiet wife, and two teenagers, Max and Merri.

I am nice, mostly, and have a sweet spot for reminiscing.  So, I welcomed him in and offered the  nose hair  man an opportunity to see how his home had shrunk over the years.  He was ever so grateful and showed his gratitude by talking my ear off for 90 minutes.

For an hour and a half he told me stories about his childhood: how his room (which is no longer a part of my house, apparently) was only his room until his sister moved out,  how his cousin, Flip, who is now assistant Mayor of San Francisco, threw up in my den in that (with a pointed finger) corner when they were playing.   This image nearly made me vomit, though it did, temporarily, take my focus off the pendulating nose hair.  

When the nausea settled, he was still talking, only now, he had pictures?!  PICTURES! OF!  HIMSELF?!  As a young man, I guess.  I wasn't paying that much attention because his teenagers had turned my mellow-and-quiet-at-that moment 5 year olds into hyperactive lunatics who had now taken to swinging wiffle ball bats at each others heads.  I had never in my life been more proud of them, they had finally given me a reason to walk away.

But still, even after I convinced the twins NOT to bash each other, nor Max, over the head by promising them a bike ride the dude was still talking.  I heard something about his high school reunion and something about the elderly couple that lived next door but I don't think the two were related.  


Then, it happened.  Our "fuck you" from karma for being our wonderfully kind and inviting selves (wink, wink.) 

Their teen-aged son broke our porch.  Really.  Bricks just started falling.

Now, to say it was entirely Max's fault would be saying he is superhuman and can crumble concrete.  But, still, MacGyver climbs that wall everyday and never a piece has fallen.

So, one hour and thirty minutes later I am down one ear, holding back my vomit, and needing to fix my fucking porch because Mr. Nose Hair was Sunday Strolling through his memories IN MY HOUSE.  He is lucky the Phillies were in rain delay or I would have really been pissed.