starts all the crappy business with breath holding, too.
In the water I was free. By a small movement, I could go up and move in all directions without effort. But it was slower, thicker, darker. I could not stay. Every effort would not let me stay more than five minutes.
We have left the water. Air is man’s natural place. Even if we are forced to walk in the depths of it, we live in the air. We cannot go back. It is the age of mammals and birds.
One hundred billion birds, fifty for every man alive and nobody seems to notice. We live in the slime of an immensity and no one objects. What must our enslavement seem to the birds in the magnitude of their environment?
We decide to take off down the coast to Wildwood. That’s the place my family usually goes every summer. Atlantic City is bigger but Wildwood is more open, more natural.
We roll down on the bikes. We’re still looking out for cops. It’s terrific, free feeling, no house you have to go back to, nobody waiting for you to come in and eat; nothing to do but roll along and look at the scenery. I never knew before how much I was locked in by everything.
On the way down, we decide we’ll sleep on the beaches at night, spend the days there in the sunshine. We’ll lift whatever we need from the stores. There’re also lots of garbage cans behind the restaurants where we can find all the food we need. We’ll buy a couple old blankets at the Salvation Army and a pot to cook in under the boardwalk.
It works out exactly like that. Things hardly ever do. All we spend any money on after we get the blankets and the cooking pot is the rides at night and saltwater taffy. We get to be dedicated saltwater taffy addicts. We both like the kind with red or black stripes and a strong taste.
We don’t have any trouble with cops. There’re all kinds of people down on vacation, and so a couple strange kids are hardly noticed. At nights we’ve fixed a hidden nest down where the boardwalk is only about three feet higher than the sand. We tuck ourselves in there and hide our cooking pot in the sand during the day.
Birdy is going crazy with his swimming. All day long he practices holding his breath, even when he isn’t swimming. I’d be sitting there talking to him and I’d see his eyes are bulging and then he’d blow out his breath and say, ‘Two minutes, forty-five seconds.’ He asks me to count for him sometimes. The way he wants me to count is Mississippi-one, Mississippi-two, and so on; really nuts. All day he’s in the water ‘flying’, coming up once in a great while and taking a deep breath. He’s found the local public library and is reading about whales and porpoises and dolphins. He’s a maniac. When Birdy gets started on something like that, there’s nothing you can do.
The worst thing of all is the sideshow freak called ‘Zimmy, the Human Fish’. Birdy spends a fortune watching this guy. This is a truly creepy set-up. Zimmy has both his legs chopped off just at the top, so he looks like an egg with a head and arms. He’s fat with gigantic lungs. He has a big sort of swimming pool with a glass front, like a goldfish bowl, and people look through the glass to watch him do his tricks. This guy is Birdy’s hero. You see, Zimmy can stay underwater without breathing, doing tricks down there, like smoking cigarettes, for as much as six minutes at a time.
I get tired of watching so I spend my time at the act just next to Zimmy. Two madmen drive motorcycles around the inside of a wooden bowl. They race each other. It’s wild. Then, there’s a woman who climbs into a motorcycle with a sidecar and they put a big hairy lion beside her. She revs up the motorcycle and spins around the inside of the bowl, hanging out sideways with that lion roaring all the way around. Christ, it’s amazing what people will do. There’s one young guy in the act who does acrobatics on this motorcycle – standing up with his hands on the handlebars while he’s hanging out sideways on that wooden wall. He has tremendous deltoids and forearms with tattoos all over them. He looks like he’d be one hell of a tough nut to pin.
Nights, Birdy and I ride the rides. Birdy chooses all the rides that throw you against the sky. There’s one where they start you spinning so you go faster and faster till you’re upside down, with nothing to hold you in your seat. Everybody screams except Birdy. He sits there with a big grin on his face. I do that once, that’s enough.
Another time I’m trying my strength on one of those things where you swing a sledgehammer and try to ring the bell. I ring it three times in a row and win a little Teddy bear. There are a couple cutee girls watching us and I give it to one of them. We get to talking. They’re from Lansdowne. Birdy stands around but he’s bored. I talk them into going on the roller coaster with us. One has red hair and nice beginning tits pushing out her sweater. The other is quieter, more the type for Birdy, if there is any type of girl for Birdy.
On the roller coaster, I hold her hand in her lap, tucked sort of between her legs. I can feel the slippery flesh under her dress.
I put my arm over her shoulder and she leans her head against me. While the car is clickety-clicking up for the downhill run, I look back at Birdy and his girl. He’s leaning over the edge looking down and she’s looking straight ahead, holding her own hand in her lap. She smiles at me; Birdy doesn’t notice. He could even be thinking of climbing out of the car and jumping. I wouldn’t put it past him.
After that, I talk them into going for a walk along the beach, and we walk over to where we have our nest. We get out the blankets and spread them. The girls are getting nervous. They’re here with their parents and have to be home by ten o’clock. I ask Birdy what time it is; he looks up and says it’s about nine-fifteen. I’ve never known Birdy to be wrong about the time. Birdy’s girl is more nervous than mine. She wants to take off right away. My girl, whose name is Shirley, says maybe Birdy and Claire, that’s the other girl, ought to take a walk down to the clock at the parking lot to see what time it really is. She looks at me. Now, I’m getting nervous myself. I’ve got a hard-on, and here it is coming right at me.
As soon as they’re gone, we get down on the blanket and start kissing. She opens her mouth and sticks her tongue between my lips. I begin feeling her up and then, bango, I come off. I try not to let on but she must know. We keep kissing, but it’s not the same. She lifts her sweater and puts my hand under. I touch her bra and can feel her little nipple, hard, under it. She looks around, reaches back, and undoes the bra. I put my hand over her whole tit. Jesus, my hard is coming on again. Just then, we hear Birdy and Claire. Shirley pushes away and hooks herself up. She brushes back her hair and stands up. I get up, too.
‘It’s almost nine-thirty, Shirley. We’d better get home.’
Claire stays out from under the boardwalk. Birdy stretches himself on the blanket where Shirley and I just were.
‘OK, party pooper. Good-bye, Al. See you, Birdy. Maybe tomorrow night about eight, near the merry-go-round, OK?’
I say OK and they leave. I’m still shaking, and the inside of my jockey shorts are slimy with jit. I go down toward the ocean as if I’m going to take a piss. I wipe myself off. I never knew any girl like that before.
We meet a couple more times before they leave. Birdy’s bored with the whole thing and Claire’s bored with Birdy, but Shirley and I are going hot and heavy. One night, we’re down on the blanket and I get my finger under her panties. I can feel her little hole and I slip my finger in. That’s getting close. But she pushes me away, and that’s it.
When the girls leave I’m ready to go, too, but Birdy’s still wrapped up with his swimming. I swim some myself, but Birdy’s in all day long. He keeps going without stopping till he’s pooped, and blue with cold. Then he’ll come out and lie face down in the sand till he gets his wind back, then out he’ll go again. It doesn’t look to me as if he’s having any fun, but he has a big ear-to-ear
