Beach Diary Chapter 3

The picture above almost shows how we would have looked in Bethany Beach in 1997 if this were a picture of us. But it is not us, and therein lies the rub. 

Quick recap from the last two episodes: I gave away all my business secrets to a perky-voiced woman I could not see. She was in a church van from the Bethany Brethren Church. A day later the church set up pop-ups all along Delaware Rt. 1, including one that sold a cornucopia of drugs. That one was where I usually set up my margarita stand. The competition was too great. I could only leave.

I felt rode hard and put away wet. Decade’s worth of work developing my margarita brand, and some upstart trumps me in only one day with unlimited drugs for sale. Further adding to my malaise, the next issue of “People” magazine opined the margarita is no longer a popular drink among the Delaware shore glitterati. “If you are going to drink margaritas, go where the losers go: Lewes or Bethany.”

Harsh! I peddled arduously back to Bethany Beach, leaving the drug pop-up stand in my rearview mirror. Pulling into the projects, I was dripping gallons of sweat and my legs felt like rubber. I could hardly wait to see my little loyal family. However, I was also nervous, as I knew I had to explain why I earned nothing that morning. Little 4-year-old Ana set expectations by leaving a note for me in the morning, written in purple crayon, saying, “Earn some money, Daddy, or don’t come home. I love you (maybe), Ana.” Harsh!

The silence in the condo was deafening, like those Mexican gentlemen putting me out of business. Anxiously, I checked all ten bedrooms, and no one was home. “Ahh,” I said out loud to no one. Fortunately, no one answered me back.

How to come up with money at this point? Picking up my gun, I ran down to the lobby, out the door and down the block to stick up a branch of the Dupont Toxic Chemical Bank. Quick in; quick out. Exiting the bank in a sprint, the bag of cash exploded, with purple paint and dollars flying everywhere. Fortunately, the explosion slowed the bag down and I caught up and grabbed a wad of bills. I ducked back into the condo and I hitched a ride up on the escalator.

Luckily, the condo was still empty. I put the cash on the dining room table as if it had been there all along. As icing on the cake, I left a note instructing my wife to take what she needed for the kids’ shoes and to leave me some walking around money. I am exhausted and I half-walk, half-stagger, into the bedroom.

I quickly fell asleep and dreamt I was in a dungeon being whipped by a dom. Jerry Falwell, Jr., was in line behind me waiting for me to scream my safe word so he could go next. Finally, I had enough exquisite pleasure and yelled, “Rumpelstiltskin!!” My eyes popped open and I see daylight. WTF? Where am I? Was I dreaming? My brain fog dissipates, and I see my wife standing over me, hitting me with a beach umbrella. I yell, “What the…”

She interrupted me. “You idiot! You let people buy margaritas with money from a bank robbery??!! What the hell were you thinking?!?”

“Huh? What’s wrong with purple money?” Of course, I knew. But this was not the time to admit it.

“Are you shitting me?” Grammatically, she was asking a question, but her tone of voice was very accusatory. She left to find a kitchen knife, and I ran.

In the evening, we all drove north to Rehoboth Beach where they have good food. Thank God, so many gays are foodies. After dinner, we had Kohr’s frozen custard. Maybe the silky-smooth rich flavors of the custard soothed everyone’s disposition. [Kohr’s: please contact me for paid product placement.] The purple money issue was forgotten.

Sunday dawned as a beautiful day with the sun pouring down like French’s mustard on Rt. 1 from Lewes to Bethany. Up in Lewes, the people closed their blinds, rolled over and went back to sleep. That’s the way they roll in Lewes. Later in the day, the town’s two serial murderers struck again. In Rehoboth Beach, fifty-three same-sex couples got married on the beach at sunrise and then went for breakfast at the Pride Café, a gourmet vegan breakfast spot nestled inside a trendy lesbian-owed bookstore. Meanwhile, in Dewey, several thousand couples woke up and asked each other, “Who are you?” As for Bethany, well, it was what it was. Several thousand husbands woke up on their futons in the living rooms and dispiritedly started making coffee.

I never set up the Margarita stand on Sundays, as alcohol consumption is illegal in Delaware on the Sabbath. We all got up, got dressed, and pilgrimed our way to church, just like Chaucer’s old English procession. The family-oriented drug gangs in Bethany Beach also respected the Sabbath, so we did not need to take our guns to town. Fortuitously, the closest church to us was the Bethany Brethren Church. [The plot thickens.]

The Bethany Brethren Church was nothing to look at. Imagine a big square metal sheet cake pan flipped over sitting on a five-acre asphalt parking lot. An ugly square one-story building made from old sheet metal panels and painted landlord green. Someone sprinkled randomly a few barred windows around the outside. From the center of the building rose a 190-foot-tall steel cross with microwave antennas attached to the top. Being an old facilities guy, I appreciated the church was smart enough to lease the top of the cross to communication companies.

From the road, before we entered the parking lot, we smelled barbecue and then spotted billows of smoke from at least 100 charcoal grills. A Weber here, a Char-Griller there, here a Coleman, there a Pit Boss, everywhere a Kenmore, old Bethany Brethren had a tailgating party, Ee i ee i o, and everyone was there. Bud Lite had about a dozen trucks dispensing beer, but not a trans influencer in sight. I tell ya’, this was a mouthwatering experience.

A heavy set bald middle-aged man came up to me, smiles a toothless grin, and asked, “Y’all kind of overdressed, aren’t you? Did you come up the road from the Catholic Church?”

“That’s an excellent question,” I said without answering his question. He had thinning hair and was several inches shorter than my 6’2”. I’d say he’s about 75 pounds heavier. Even by the standards of 1997, he was not stylish looking, a flat top, a hairstyle I had not worn since elementary school graced his head. Under all his chins, he wore a dirty white T-shirt tucked into his black shorts. That reminded me of the old saying that if you wanted to smell your crotch getting undressed, tuck your T-shirt into your shorts. I laughed when the thought came to me and I glanced at the ground to prevent his seeing me laughing at him rather than with him. I noticed he wore white socks in black high-top Keds. 

“You don’t talk much, stranger. Would you like something to eat or not? We’ve got hamburgers, hot dogs, sausage, turkey legs, and ribs. To wash it all down, we’ve got some cold Bud Lite.”

Damn, these people are nice. “Thanks, Mister,” I said as I picked up a serving tray and loaded it with a couple of pounds of grilled meat, a quart of baked beans, a quart of slaw, and a six-pack of Bud. “Say, Mister,” I said. “Can you spare some of these fine fixings for my little loyal family back there?” I tossed my head sideways toward my wife and eight children. Our neighbors were also there with their four kids, anxiously waiting to eat.

“Sure, we welcome everyone here at the Bethany Brethren. Tell them to go mosey on up to the trough and get what they want. But only the kids over 14 can have a beer.”

My wife, Ana, Anna, Annna, Anah, Kyrstyn, Chrystyn, Kristen and Kriston shuffled over to the food line and started grabbing all the food. Their gluttony was a little embarrassing, but everyone loves free food. “Pardon my loyal little family, Sir. Sometimes they forget their manners when they haven’t eaten fur a piece.”

“That’s okay. I know what you mean. My trollops feed with the pigs.”

After we ate, we joined the flock, filing quietly into the church. It felt like we were on a buffalo trace and I heard a couple of people say, “Moo.” Inside, the sanctuary was no more decorative than the outside. The walls were painted white and there was nothing on them but crosses. We sat in brown steel folding chairs. The air smelled of burning incense mixed with the barbecue smoke wafting in from outside. The altar, such as it was, was a raised flat wood platform with a podium in the center. Behind the podium was a semi-circle of brown folding chairs facing the audience.

The pastor came in from stage right, followed by 10 young people who stood in front of the chairs. We all stood up as the paster’s group entered. The pastor approached the podium like a man on a mission, giant strides with his chest out and head held high. This show of self-confidence impressed me. I could tell this man, unlike so many boys in rural areas, had not been buggered by every grownup in his family. He slowly and authoritatively opened a book that looked like an accounting ledger.

“Welcome members of the Bethany Brethren Church.” He sounded like Jerry Falwell. “Let us pray.” Pregnant pause as he hung his head in a prayer-like position. “God, thanks for all our stuff.” Another pregnant pause and I eagerly waited for fire and brimstone. Instead, he meekly instructed them to be seated. “That concludes the religious portion of our service. Next, we’ll hear from the head of our Young Christian Investment Committee, Miss Ashley Williamson III.”

Everyone in the congregation stood up and gave a loud, enthusiastic round of applause. An attractive woman, about 30 years old, approached the podium. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She dressed a little too sexy for a church with her painted-on florescent white tank top and tight black running shorts. I could not guess her height and weight, but her proportions were perfect, from the top of her blonde head to the tips of her Jimmy Choos. Miss Ashley Williamson III had a leather portfolio with her which she opened on the podium. She cleared her throat with a cute, sexy cough and spoke.

“I am so excited to inform you that our pop-ups in Rt. 1 were an amazing financial success…”

She continued talking, but I did not hear a word she said. I was struck dumb for once in my life. That voice. My step-mama raised me never to forget a perky voice. There she stood in front of me, in front of my children, in front of the entire congregation, in front of God, the woman a few days ago was in the black church van to whom I aired all my business plans. Miss Ashley Williamson III stole all my ideas and run me out of business with them. Dastardly woman!

I started listening to her again. “… by asking ourselves “Where Would Jesus Invest?” we opted to purchase significant positions in two defense industries. A well-positioned one is a supplier of land mines standing by to sell them to Russia who is planning to invade Ukraine. The other makes nerve gas used by Syria for putting down their rebels. That finishes my report.”

Once again, the entire audience rose in applause and started singing Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. “Onward Christian Soldiers,” followed it.

During the second song, I snuck out to the lobby and called my stockbroker Guido. I told him about the upcoming large purchases by the Bethany Brethren Church in land mines and nerve gas. I did not know the names of the stocks, but weirdly he did.

“How do you know what they are going to buy?” I said, flummoxed.

“I am their broker, too. The problem for you is they bought all their shares late Friday and on Monday, those stocks are going through the roof. But I’m talking to them about buying several hundred thousand shares of Monsanto. They have a monopoly on all food seeds grown in these United States. Monsanto is in discussions to be acquired by the Chinese Army. I can get you a piece of that action.”

“No thanks, that’s unethical.” Before hanging up, he told me to give his love to Miss Ashley Williamson III.

I came back in the tabernacle, angry as all get out. My wife leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Dear, your hair is on fire.” Quick thinking, Anah took her flask from her purse and doused my head with triple distilled vodka. A plume of alcohol steam rose off my head but no one else seemed to notice it.

Everyone in church was singing the “Ballad of the Green Berets” (a colonial war song) as I purposely strode to the podium. Ashley Williamson III was totally focused on following the bouncing ball over the song lyrics and didn’t notice me. She had a black patch over her right eye, so I approached her from her right. She was shocked when I elbowed her out of the way and grabbed the mic. I couldn’t help but cast a male gaze her way. [I’m not sure what the male gaze is, but it is a thing and worth mentioning here.]

“This is an abomination! The abomination of the Egyptians as told in Exodus 8:26!” I yelled into the microphone. “Brothers and Sisters, I beseech you to follow the will of our Lord and eschew sinful practices that will bring plagues on us all!” Unfortunately, that shot my knowledge of the Bible, and I didn’t know what more to say. Lucky for me, the congregation knew more than me and they all started mumbling about abominations. Their mumbles grew to a roar that shook me to the core. Even the crosses on the wall were vibrating.

I found my voice again. “Jesus would not tolerate me being put out of business by a bunch of foreigners! Those of you with me march out of the church and stop this abomination. I will be there with you!!” Of course, I had no intention of that, but it worked in the crowd. About half the congregation stood up and marched out of the church. Those that remained huddled in groups and mooed. Miss Ashley Williamson III encouraged people to stay with the church.

Most of those that walked out with me were older, veterans of civil rights and anti-Vietnam War demonstrations. The younger ones stayed in the church, checking the Dow Jones on their cell phones. This is war, and the Revolution will not be televised! On their own, the marchers started marching north on Delaware Rt 1 towards the Indian River Inlet Bridge. Things were looking ugly.

To be continued. Next chapter: the Battle for the Shore.

Music from the Bethany Brethren Church Spotify Play List: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5WJJVSE_BE

For those of you too young to remember, this song was very popular among pro Vietnam War folks. The war was not going well until we sent in the Green Berets. Enjoy!