grayspike

After the Fourth of July what is there? Between Independence and Labor Days stretches summer, a long humid lake of heat. We ought to have another three-day weekend the first week of August. It should be dedicated to cold beer and laziness. The perfect American occasion to celebrate.

I read that Siren comes from Philly. I wonder if she bagged New York last weekend to re-visit the City of Brotherly Shove. The kind of trip where you catch up and after doing so remember why you left in the first place.

I went to Philadelphia twice week before last. Both trips reminded me why I never considered living there.

That said, one of my best July Fourths ever was in a town north of Philly. Independence Day in New York lacks rah-rah. Maybe its too big and diverse. Perhaps the patriotic razzle needs a close-knit community for fervor to infect. Then again maybe those people here are at the beach, on the Island, or at the Shore.

Anyway, years before bucolic drew city-dwellers and rustic became expensive, a bunch of us Middle Wingers mobbed up at a pals house. Even now we still have open invitations. Which only proves we didnt break enough stuff.

He doesnt live in a desolate part of Bucks. Unlike here the houses there dont shoulder each other. When night comes no streetlights push back the dark. Pitch black isnt a phrase there but a physical condition. A particularly woodsy part of Pennsylvania, urbanites like me could almost believe that shielded by darkness surrounding trees would start creeping towards his house.

Sometimes Disney and weed are too effective a combination.

Wed all gone down to celebrate the Fourth. The locals were not blas. The whole day resembled a carnival. No stress. Nobody needed impressing. They were just grateful for the day.

That night the residents produced a fireworks display. While modest, and best viewed from a pick-up trucks cargo bed, it was as, or more so, appreciated as its New York or Boston equivalents.

Oh, yeah, there was also a girl. In a town as small as that, she was the one. I neednt have to explain the one, should I?

A petite brunette whose bangs epitomized inky, she seemed to be some delicately carved figurine come alive.

Tennis had muscled her thighs and firmed her arms. Hours on court had also basted her sun-bunny brown. Her smile wasnt white, but phosphorescent. Which probably enhanced her tan and further blackened her hair. She often wore as much white as her wardrobe held.

Naturally she flirted. I dont know whether this an acquired or inherited trait. I do know nature and tailoring issued her a hard round behind that made her short hemlines shudder with every strut.

Knowing now how her life turned out afterwards provides no satisfaction. If she had given me or any other of us out-of-towners a chance, we all gladly wouldve been her fools. For a while, though not forever. I suppose I should always be content that she once actually stooped low enough to give me the time of day.

No, in New York there is little magic on the Fourth. Overeating, yes. Enough beer to bloat into a parade float, surely indeed. But that could pass for an ordinary weekend.

I think the ideal place for July Fourth indulgence is Rhode Island. Starting in the western shore towns, all the way up to Newport if you have enough scratch.

Its out of the way for New Yorkers. Bostonians, near as they are, dont flock there preferring to jam onto the Cape, the Vineyard or Nantucket. Good. More for me.

I like how the girls along that stretch try and place my accent. Then again after ascertaining that Im a wolf in wolfs summer clothing, let me demonstrate how to lay down with lambs.

The girls are long and slim. They barely contain their skittishness. Steady sea breezes constantly sweep hair across their eyes. Well aware of their allure, too few have learned how to channel that advantage into manipulation. Yet.

On one hand, theyre suspicious. They should be. Occasionally I suspect my own motives. On the other, while their guard is up it isnt high behind a moat.

Proximity to the beach and distance from affluence eases the social swirl. The ocean air, those crashing and receding waves, its an invigorating mix. After all, were human. Our bodies are attuned to natural forces. Whereas the farther from money, the less need to dazzle or morph into a bitch in heels.

So, no, you aint gonna see some debutante slinging back Sammy As at the Wreck.

Lookin up and hookin up are far more comfortable, way less stressed deals. As if the proper order is restored with fun back in its No. 1 spot.

Man, I lusted to hang out in Rhode Island last weekend. Instead, I did something mature. Knowing Im hitting the Southwest this fall and Europe possibly twice next year, I decided to keep that discretionary cash unspent. For now. (Somebody suggest a Montreal trip, though, I might say, aw reverse to my steely fiscal resolve.)

Instead, Saturday I occupied a stool at my favorite bar. There, Stella my favorite bartender, kept setting up cold ones. Its not telepathy between us, but habit. I seldom wonder whether shes aware of my infatuation with her. She knows but shes not going to tumble until I admit it. Which I wont until she gives me one blinding green light.

So does this make us stubborn or reluctant?

I met Stellas brother. Hes a much nicer guy than her ex-husband or her boyfriend. Hes one smooth dog, too. The woman he charmed exhibited little resistance. Hot syrup over ice cream couldnt have gotten over easier than him.

Another reason I should learn Portuguese!

Past my admiring Stellas brothers skills, I noticed an odd couple. She was lively and attractive. He was about to blow point-two. A wife-beater topped his sartorial splendor.

Frankly I was just going to sit there and tsk-tsk her waste when alcohol overtook his coordination. He insisted he was able to drive. His girl had doubts. Major ones. She started recruiting Plan B.

There I was.

Dahlia lives in Queens. I know her neighborhood. Weekdays theres a sausage guy curbed on the nabes main drag. Expensive but good cart grub. I detour when Im close.

No hesitation before Dahlia accepted my offer. A part of me was happy. The other became wary. Im a stranger whom she had just readily bummed a ride. We hadnt spoken much before then, and that mostly about baseball.

Shouldnt she have shared my concern?

Apparently not only can Stella keep the beer coming but her word equals the gold standard. She vouched for me.

Ciao, Stella! Learning Portuguese moves up my to-do list.

Its an easy ride to Queens. Sparse traffic and the late hour have allowed the cops to end drunk checkpoints. The ride is smooth enough for Dahlia to get me current on her lifes story. Though years apart, were from the same part of the forest. Dahlias tour included a daughter whose deadbeat dad she never married.

Dahlia has aspirations. Shes struggling to book voice-over jobs. That fits. Her voice is distinctive, her laugh even more so. Bourbon filtered through gravel. Such vocal traits suit her face, a pretty mug poised between tenderness and inflammatory.

It pleased me to encourage Dahlia. The right break, I assured her, at the right time was right around the corner. We ought to be hearing her in a cartoon or commercial sometime soon.

She could either sing a lullaby or jump hot. Like I said, a girl from my part of the forest.

Somewhere along the telling and the ride Dahlia suffered a nic fit. Naturally shed smoked her last cigarette outside the bar. Because of the extortion charged for machine-purchased smokes she bought none there.

Fortunately, I carry several spare packs in the car. I dont puff but I meet a lot of girls who do. The frequency they run out of this vital necessity astounds me. And, no, I wasnt a Boy Scout. That be prepared motto also works for reprobates.

Dahlia viewed and received those smokes graciously. They were even her usual brand. Her thanks exceeded the gift.

We started talking about me. Or Dahlia started. She liked my voice. No, she liked how I spoke. Yeah. Proper grammar always beats devastating handsomeness.

With a lot of her neighbors crowding somewhere else last weekend, parking was easier than it wouldve been on a normal Saturday night/Sunday morning. Her six-year-old at a sleepaway in Coney, Dahlia invited me up.

Dahlia apartment was cozy. Which is New York-ese for small. Shed acquired plenty throughout the years. Everything but a storage locker.

She had dressed to attract. Her child elsewhere, it was, obviously, a rare night of liberty. Although she looked good in tight clothes, Dahlia wouldve been better presented had she flipped the tones. Light stuff on top, dark from her waist down instead of visa-versa. Her way reduced her already small chest at the expense of widening her hips. But once her clothes came off balance was somewhat restored.

I asked about her tan lines. They were courtesy of the beach. Tar beach. I didnt bother asking about the red string around her wrist. No need to jinx the moment.

Dahlia has a soft wide mouth. I bet even her casual kisses are deep and generous. Quickly I decided that to engage her in PDA would become one of those extravaganzas that so often piss off the thoroughly repressed among us.

On the right crowded sidewalk I hope to test that theory soon.