Yesterday in the parking lot of the grocery store, an old, brown Bronco, driven by a young, twenty-something boy, passed by me. The windows were rolled down and the boy had his music blaring so loudly that you couldn't make out anything but the pounding bass. On the back window of the SUV were the written words, "Benny Go Home", in large painted letters. I walked away wondering two things. I wondered how many times the kid got his heiny beat because of his freedom of speech. I also wondered if the kid understood the meaning of "Benny" because he certainly wasn't being respectful of the locals with the way he was forcing us to listen to his tunes.
I live at the Jersey Shore, a beautiful area that is overrun with tourists in the summer. A lot of the summer guests rent homes for about three months out of the year. The season begins Memorial Day weekend and ends Labor Day weekend. For the people who live here all year round, those 12-13 weeks can be filled with some annoying encounters.
I am a pretty friendly person. But when I cross paths with an actual Benny, it is hard not to want to tell them to go home. I really have to bite my tongue sometimes.
For instance, last night Mr. Schmitty was working an all night, overtime shift and W. was sleeping at a friend's house. T. and R. were restless, so I decided to take them to McDonald's for dinner. When they were done eating they wanted, of course, to go into the Play Place.
While they were playing, I sat in a chair and watched them laugh and chase each other. I also watched, as a two year old boy stood on another chair, screamed for his mother, and smeared his tear-ridden snot all over the glass window. Where was Mom? She sat in the dining area. She smiled at him, waved, and continued to take turns chatting on her cell phone and then to another woman who was seated next to her eating an ice cream cone.
I also watched,as a six year old girl climbed up the play structure, and mooned the entire room. She was wearing a skirt, I would refer to as a hoochie skirt, if she had been older. It was about two sizes too small for the girl, as must have been her underwear, because that was up her butt like a thong.
The mother must have noticed the display of flesh because she suddenly appeared in the room and shouted in her NativeCityThatIWon'tMentionByNameButRymesWithYouFork accent, "Nina, get down and pull your panties out of your crack."
She then picked up, the now slobbering two year old boy, off the chair and placed him on the floor. Oh fancy that, he's hers too. She plopped down on a bench and shooed him away so her friend could sit. She then began complaining about not being able to find competent cleaning ladies in this town. She then turned to a Mexican woman, who was sitting next to me, and asked her if she cleaned houses.
I couldn't take anymore. I called for T. and R. to get their shoes. As I was strapping R.'s sandals, I heard the obnoxious voice again. She was now standing and looking down at her feet. Her son had puked on her freshly painted pedicure.