Six
of us were lined up in beach chairs judging the gym rats on parade at the
water’s edge.
“Why
does that guy have ‘Bondi’ printed on his ass?” I inquired. “I love Make Way for Tomorrow, too, but it’s a
strange film to be referenced on a musclehead’s butt.”
“It’s
not Beulah Bondi, darling. It’s Bondi Beach in Australia.” This came from my
partner, Dan, who then turned on me: “Did you hear what Dr. Film Studies just
said?” he trumpeted to the others, who made snorting noises at my expense.
Jack
Fogg yawned, stretched, and said, “Let’s make Long Island Iced Tea.” “You would drink that,” his boyfriend Sammy
replied.
Jack
became defensive: “What’s wrong with Long Island Iced Tea?”
“People
will think we’re from Massapequa,” Chipper explained.
“Or
Hicksville,” Paolo added. “Can you imagine saying you’re from Hicksville? You
might as well be from East Jesus.”
I
agreed. “We’re making ‘Fire Island Iced Tea’ because we’re on Fire Island, not
Long Island.”
“What’s
in it?” Sammy asked.
“We’re
inventing it,” I declared. “What should be in our drink?”
“Lots
of fruits,” said Dan.
“And lots of alcohol,” Paolo added.
“It
needs a fire component,” Chipper said. “What’s tastes hot?”
I
had an inspiration: “Absolut Peppar!”
Chipper
got into the spirit(s): “And Citron for the fruit. And Orange Curaçao.
And your inevitable lime juice.”
“Why
do you always have Orange Curaçao?” asked Jack, the reporter. He was prone to interviewing people, which
irritated me, so I answered, “Because Blue Curaçao turns an orange Screwdriver
the color of vomit.”
“Aha,”
said Jack, buying my made-up reason. I’m dementedly jealous of Jack, so I put a
notch on the Ed vs. Jack scoreboard I keep in my head.
Michelangelo’s
David strolled by. “What can we add to represent him?” Dan asked.
“Coke
Zero!” Sammy shouted to our communal delight. The poor, perfect hunk thought we
were laughing at him and glared.
We
tried a few recipes before we found one that worked, which meant we were
hammered by dinnertime. I grilled the Lemon-Dill Lamb-burgers to death. Dan
burned the buns. But Paolo, always under control, pulled off a lovely Caprese
Salad, and since we bought a peach pie from the grocery, dessert was fine.
“Where do these great pies come from?” I once asked the Long Island teenager
behind the counter. “Poh’t Jeff!” she answered, meaning Port Jefferson. The
accent alone proved why we had to have an “Iced Tea” of our own.
