Barnegat Bay - 1. Chapter 1

Mary and Claire met me at the station. That had quickly become our Friday night routine. The train came in a little past nine, and we’d walk the half-dozen blocks to the boardwalk, catching up on the week while I found something to eat. I could have eaten on the train, since it was two hours with almost nothing to do. But I’d rather sleep.

“Easy ride down?” Mary would ask. Claire simply kissed me on the cheek, more a peck than anything.

“I dozed through most of it.”

“Good,” Mary said, laughing. “Then you can stay up later with us.”

Little chance of that. Claire could persuade her father to lend her the car when needed, but she and Mary still had a midnight curfew.

Sometimes after leaving the station, we didn’t make it immediately to the boardwalk. Instead, we’d wander in on a house party. There were always parties, and you didn’t need to know the owners or renters. They were glad to have a crowd. More often, I’d buy something at a snack shack or soda fountain. The food was never much, and there was no drinking, but it didn’t matter. I was hungry. Then the three of us would go to Jenkinson’s.

Jenkinson’s had only been built a few years earlier and was set on a pier off the boardwalk. The pier didn’t go far into the water, and there was a much longer one just to its south, for fishing. Before Jenkinson’s, there wasn’t much more to do at the beach besides fish, swim, boat, and get sunburned. For anything more exciting, you had to go to Asbury Park.

Jenkinson’s was primarily a dance hall – long, narrow, wooden-sided, and white-washed, with a high beamed ceiling like a barn. Off the main room, there were open porches on three sides. The back one was fitted with tables and umbrellas, though the side porches mainly had comfortable, padded, wicker chairs. All three were great places to escape to when it got too hot or noisy inside.

Despite the Depression, the business did fine. People liked a cheap way to get away, especially at night. The place did so well, in fact, that Jenkinson quickly built a miniature golf course and a swimming pool alongside. Some people just didn’t like the ocean.

Our guys would find us on the dance floor. For one thing, guys always found Mary. That’s how I met the gang – that summer’s gang – I didn’t really know many of them before. Our guys had started jobs on the beach in late May and by mid-September would be gone. I knew Claire but had barely met Mary and then only as a friend of Claire’s. I was at Barnegat all the time, but there was no reason for me to go into a dress shop, and that’s where Mary worked in the summers.

Once guys at Jenkinson’s, or even on the boardwalk, realized that Mary wasn’t with me, they’d hang around. But our guys would always find us because they knew we’d end up at the pier.

“There you are!” Mike or Larry would shout. Or “I spy! I spy!” Luckily, the music would drown them out – there was always a good band and singer. Larry and Mike would grab a couple of chairs and scoot away any other guys. Then, right behind them, came Spence and Al.

And – bam! – chatter! With Mary, Claire, and me, it was quiet small talk. Add Mike and Larry and Kerboom!

Spence and I would listen – as long Spence stayed. Usually, he’d grin – or nod “hello” – and then head back to the dance floor. Al would watch. More accurately, he watched the girls Spence was with.

Meanwhile, the others gobbled. “How are you?” “How’ve you been?” “You look great.” “Is that new?” It would ripple over me as I finished my sandwich. Then we’d all dance. Al and Mary. Larry and Claire. Mike and Mary. Claire and Al. I’d cut in, along with any extra guys. “You need to bring more friends,” someone would always tell Mary or Claire.

“It’s better with just the two of us,” one of them would cheerfully reply. Though they didn’t say who it was better for.

By midnight, they’d be gone. Claire could talk her father out of a lot of things, but she still had to be home. “As long as you live in our house,” she’d intone, sounding nothing like her father, “You need to follow our rules.”

Claire’s mother would merely agree. She was a force in their family, but not its voice. And Claire only followed some of the rules. Even her father knew better than to say “all of them” or “all our rules.” Definitely not “my.” Claire would too easily fight. So she cherry-picked her restrictions, the way some people did the limits of their religions.

By one, Jenkinson’s would have closed, and the guys would be stretched out on the dock near my boat. Al and Spence were quickly sleeping, but Mike and Larry talked. And talked. Since they all worked early, at first I thought the two of them grabbed naps during the day. But when I saw them on the beach, they were as active as anyone else.

Smiling. Chatting. Flirting. Helping. Tearing up and down their chairs as if it were nothing. Scanning the water, then jumping to the sand, blowing their whistles. Sometimes, they’d grab a life preserver and race toward the ocean. Or yell for someone to help push their rowboats out of the sand.

“Let me go with you,” a kid would often beg.

“You know the rules,” Mike or Larry would bark.

“C’mon. You need me. I’ll help.”

“I’m fine by myself – you know that. But thanks, And I can always whistle for assistance.”

That might stop the kids, but only for a moment. Till the next emergency. Fortunately, almost no one ever drowned at Barnegat. The beach was buffered by sandbars, and it was mainly newcomers who needed to be rescued from tides they didn’t know were a threat.

When I met the guys, near Memorial Day, they still needed to be back in the city weekdays, for classes and finals. We often rode the same Sunday night train. But by mid-June, they were living full-time at the beach.

They could have seen Mary and Claire every night, though I suspected they saw other girls – especially Spence the silent, who always seemed to have one or two around. He didn’t encourage them but simply accepted they were there and didn’t seem to mind. Also, when the other guys asked to be introduced – and they often did – he was accommodating.

“But they don’t want to be with us,” Al or Mike would quickly complain. “Half the time, they just want to talk about you.”

That night – maybe towards mid-June – the guys weren’t analyzing girls. Instead, Larry was saying, “Even if I had the money, I’d kill myself before putting it in the market.”

“Your old man would kill you first,” Mike said, laughing. Then he explained to me, “He lost a bundle in the crash. He’ll be chasing it the rest of his life.”

“At least, till he’s 60,” Larry admitted.

“60, Jesus!” Mike went on. “He’ll never live that long.”

“He’d better – I don’t wanna inherit the family business.”

“Could you really run it?”

“Of course, I could. I’ve been watching it for years. But I don’t wanna.” Suddenly, he yelped. “Ow! What’re you doing?”

Mike laughed again. “Same thing I’ve always done,” he said, grinning. “Testing to see if it’s real.”

He’d been tugging the hair on Larry’s leg.

“I’m gonna drown you, ya stupid little…”

“Don’t you guys ever sleep?” Al suddenly growled. “Some of us need the rest.”

“Then go back to the cottage,” Larry shot. “Ya got a bed.”

The lifeguards all shared a cottage with other lifeguards – four in a room, on bunk beds, no matter what the room had been originally designed for.

“It’s too hot,” Al grumbled. “Besides… I’m comfortable.”

“How can you be comfortable on wood?” Mike asked, knocking his knuckles on the dock.

“How can anyone jabber at two AM?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yeah – what ya gonna do? Set your little chimp friend on me?”

That broke Mike and Larry up, which only woke Spence.

“Guys,” he said.

And the guys shut up. Spence had that effect. Though even before they quit, Spence was probably back asleep.

After Mike and Larry had settled in, I slipped onto my boat, thinking how funny they were. “You ever go on stage?” I once asked. “You’re better than any vaudeville team.”

“We got suckered into that once,” Larry admitted. “In one of those amateur nights. Let me tell you, that was hell.”

“We may be funny to our friends,” Mike picked up. “And when we’re drinking...”

“But on stage, with all those people watching...”

“And not laughing...”

“It shrivels your soul.”

“That’s not what you said it shrivels.”

“Hey! We barely know the guy.”

“You are funny,” I insisted.

“We weren’t that night,” Mike went on.

“Our mouths went dry.”

“Our brains went dry. We forgot everything we practiced.”

“People were hooting at us. We stunk.”

“So we scrambled over the footlights.”

“That, they thought was funny.”

“They gave us a big hand.”

“But we weren’t going back.”

“Not for all the tea in Morris Heights.”

“An the worst thing was – our families were there. And our friends.”

“All so sure we’d win.”

“When was this?” I asked.

Larry and Mike looked at each other. “I don’t know... four years ago? We were seniors in high school.”

“Trying to make money for college.”

“I thought we might have a career.”

“He thought. I never did.”

“Oh, come on,” Larry insisted. “Not way back... Back in the tiniest corner of your brain?”

“Never,” Mike rebuffed. “I mean, how many amateur nights’ve you seen?”

When Larry hesitated, Mike filled in. “A hundred... easy.”

Larry had to agree.

“And how many guys’ve succeeded?”

Larry couldn’t guess.

“Well, how many’ve you seen again?”

Larry considered. “There was that girl... that singer.”

“She was beautiful. She didn’t have to sing.”

“But she did... and pretty well. I think she went on to the Follies.”

“Just above walking the streets.”

“Oh, come on...”

“You meet the same kind of guys...”

“You meet rich guys...”

“Who’ll wreck your reputation.”

“Hers, maybe... not ours. It’s almost impossible to hurt a guy.”

“I don’t get it,” I interrupted. “Why didn’t you do this on the stage?”

“You don’t think we tried?” Larry admitted. “It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“It’s so much easier not knowing what you’ll say next. We overpracticed.”

“That’s why pros are pros.”

“They know what’s coming and still make it funny.”

“You couldn’t have been that bad,” I insisted.

Mike just laughed. And Larry laughed. Then the three of us were laughing. And that’s how we spent so much of the summer – at least on the weekends, when I was there. It was that much fun.