Waylaid. Ed Lin

at her tits.

      “Hey, what are you doing, kid?” someone yelled. I stuck my head up. It was Vincent, smiling and standing by the garden hose that was coiled up near the shallow end. The hose was for people to wash sand off their feet and only carried cold water. Very cold water. The nozzle was in Vincent’s hand.

      “This is how you do it!” he yelled, turning the faucet on full blast and pointing it at the woman. The nozzle wasn’t focused, so he sprayed about 10 people with freezing pellets that smacked against the skin and hurt because they were so cold. Everyone screamed and jumped up, including two women who forgot that their tops were untied. They scampered for cover on the deck near the deep end, hands cupping their tits.

      “You fucking asshole sonovabitch! Motherfucker! Cocksucker! ’Talian faggot piece of shit!” they screeched. One was a blonde, the other was a redhead. Vincent was doubled over with laughter, but he didn’t turn the hose off. He held the nozzle between his legs and jerked it around, like he was pissing on everyone.

      I searched for the two missing bikini tops but only found one, tangled up with a pair of sunglasses. Looking at the pattern, I was glad to see it was the blonde’s. I stretched it out and felt at the insides of each cup, as if I could squeeze the nipples that were once there. I went up to her and handed it back. If it were a Penthouse letter, she would have given me a deep French kiss and led me back to her room for a blow job and a hard fuck.

      Instead, she snatched her bikini top away and slapped me hard as she yelled, “Fucking little chink pervert!” She had rings on her fingers. I ran my tongue through my mouth to make sure all my teeth were still there. The mark on my face stung and my cheek was slick with a suntan lotion smear.

      Afterwards, I was looking forward to sitting back on the office couch and playing Atari, but when I went into the office, I found my father already lying there. He was wearing jeans, a thin t-shirt, and socks. His eyes were closed.

      “What’s going on here?” I asked.

      “Back hurt,” he said, not opening his eyes. His arms were folded across his stomach.

      “Shouldn’t you go see a doctor? This keeps happening.”

      “No, don’t need doctor. No big deal.”

      “Do you want more aspirin?”

      “No, doesn’t do anything. Just have to lie down more.”

      “Why don’t you lie down on the living-room couch?”

      “That couch broken and hurt my back. And too hot there. Nicer here.”

      “You’re too cheap to turn on our air conditioner.”

      “You spend most of your time in office. I’m downstair in the basement with cool air. Mommy is out cleaning rooms. Why should I turn on air conditioner?”

      I heaved a sigh and set up the Atari. In about a minute, I was sitting on the office floor, playing

      Superman.

      “Is that video game?” asked my father from the couch.

      “Yeah,” I said without turning around to look at him.

      “What game is that?”

      “Superman.”

      I heard him shift on the couch and clear his throat.

      “Can you get me some water?” he asked.

      After dinner, when most of the Bennys had left the pool for the bars, I jumped in and held myself underwater just to see what drowning was like.

      It was dark, quiet, and nice for about 15 seconds. Then the urge to breathe began to pound in my head and chest like knocks against Death’s chamber. Drowning had to be the worst way to go because you couldn’t scream and your thoughts bounced around as your head was being squeezed by water pressure. I could imagine the ache you would feel tearing away at your insides until you died.

      I came up for a breath and went down again.

      I sat in the office, playing Adventure on the Atari. I’d finished the game a zillion times before, but I was sick of Superman, and all the other cartridges required two players to be any fun.