Around noon, I pack my lunch. Usually a half sub from Dean’s, 15 Pringle-light chips, some grapes, and ice tea. I check to see that there are enough chairs and beach towels in the golf cart, assure my mother that Alexander knows what he’s having for lunch and that she needn’t worry about his food, promise that I'll wear a hat, put on suntan lotion, get in the golf cart and go.
Today is hot and sunny. I arrive at the beach and even before I have a chance to eat my lunch, my friend Barbara beckons me over and says, “I have something for you to do. See that guy over there, go tell him there’s no smoking on the beach.” I ask her why I’ve been elected for this job and she tells me that I’m more gutsy than she is. I decline (I mean really, I don’t even live here). But the guy is bothersome. He’s a guest too (no one recognizes him). He’s sprawled spread-eagle-like, listening to his iPhone, and smoking a cigar. The slight wind is enough to transport his smoke up the small beach.
Barbara decides to tell him. But instead of being diplomatic, she charges over to him and yells, “Hey. There’s no smoking on the beach.” He unplugs his earbuds, looks at her, puts the earbuds back on, and continues to smoke. An argument ensues. A rather loud argument. His attempt at an insult is, “I bet you’re from Massachusetts.” Another woman nearby joins in. Also without diplomacy. “Why are you being such an a-hole? There are young kids on this beach. You shouldn’t smoke.” I decide to join in as well, but with a new tact. One uncharacteristic of me. I walk over and in my sweetest voice say, “You know sir, we really can smell the smoke from your cigar halfway up the beach. I know we’d all really appreciate it if you could put it out.” He looks at me and says, quite nicely, ”For you, I will. For them (meaning Barbara and the woman who called him an a-hole), I’d light another one.”
I’m usually the one who needs a mediator. Just not today.
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