The Beezer

 

By Fielding Goodfellow

 

We were pretty high during that reading week in Ft. Lauderdale. I couldn’t tell you what we were on, but we had been seeing some pretty weird shit. There was me and Tate, and Farberman and George Beezer. None of us really liked Beezer, I mean he was an ass, but Farberman’s mother insisted that we take him along. He was, after all,  dating Farberman’s sister, the same sister that I had been banging quite regularly at the Pinecrest Motel. We really had no choice, I mean Mrs. Farberman could be quite insistent.  The four of us went down there that February, but only three of us came back.

Sitting by the hotel pool, Farberman set his sights on the big boobed lifeguard in the skimpy bikini who he believed had been smiling at him while Beezer was bombarding us with the random thoughts that desperately seemed to want to get out of his head.  He was an opinionated little shit with views on everything which seemed quite ironic considering he knew absolutely nothing about anything. It didn’t take long for us to devise a plan to hold his head under water just to shut him the fuck up. “He may drown.” Tate pointed out.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I said. “As long as he stops talking”  We didn’t really do it, but man, we came damn close.

Farberman had finally got up the nerve to talk to the pair of tits in the bikini. As we waited for him to strike out yet again, Beezer informed us that he had not laid a hand on Farberman’s sister. Ever. In fact he had never seen her naked, or copped a feel through her clothes. She had managed to convince him that she wasn’t ready, and the poor bastard believed her. He should have asked me, I mean, the girl was at The Pinecrest Motel so often that room number five was suggestively referred to as Rikki Farberman’s hole. Beezer told us that he was still a virgin. “We need to get you laid.” I said.

“It’ll probably lighten you up a little.” Tate said. And so we had a mission. We were going get Beezer laid. And get high. We were definitely going to have to get high if we were to succeed in our mission. We didn’t say anything to Farberman. He wouldn’t have handled it well, I mean the guy was dating Rikki. Farberman had no idea that most of his friends had at one time or another banged his sister but then Farberman usually had his head buried so deep in his science stuff that he rarely knew what the hell was going on.  While he was busy chatting up the lifeguard, we headed off with the reluctant Beezer in search of a woman who was both willing and able to set him free.

We found her in the hotel lobby, one of the many prostitutes who had wandered off of Federal Highway in search of anyone who was willing to pay for an hour long game of ‘I know where you hid the salami’.

“He kind of looks like a pelican.” she said.

“Yeah, but he’s a virgin.” Tate informed her. “I don’t think it will take very long.”

“It’ll be $50.”  It seemed like a bargain to me and Tate, so we agreed. She was right though, I mean I had never noticed it before but The Beezer did kind of look like a pelican. We left him there in the bar and returned to the pool  only to find that Farberman talking to a snack vending machine.

“Did the lifeguard always look like that?” Tate asked. “Or are we really tripping?” We had been doing mushrooms all day, and I suppose anything was possible, but Farberman was getting all bent out of shape with a vending machine.

“Let’s just hope he gets some chocolate, or pretzels.” I said.

We must have fallen asleep on the deck chairs, and wound up spending the night at pool side. We woke in the morning to find Beezer and his prostitute eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Farberman was nowhere to be found and we assumed that he had probably got his hand, or worse stuck in the vending machine he had been feeling up the night before. When we left Florida Beezer stayed behind with his prostitute. He said that there was nothing for him back home. It was the last time any of us heard from him. Farberman caught the flight and never spoke about that week in Ft. Lauderdale again despite the persistent urging of Tate and myself. Its too bad really, I mean it would be good to know if he wound up with pretzels or chocolate.

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THE SMELL OF SUMMER

When I was young and little, when the maple tree in the backyard seemed impossible to climb, I started going fishing with my father, and older brothers. I wasn’t aware of it then, but this singular moment would forever be summer for me. The smell of summer at 4am on a hot July morning, is wonderfully unforgettable. The grass. The air. The flowers and trees. My brother throwing up in the car: He did not travel well. The warm salami sandwiches on rye my mother packed the night before. The lake. The worms. My brother throwing up trying to bait a hook. The can of cream soda exploding in the sun. The fish we caught, now in the car, as we headed home. Yep. That was summer. I have tried to recapture these memories, but my wife and kids never really had any interest in getting up at 4am, and I could never get any of them to throw up.