Where the Locals Go

I'm not sure exactly what prompted the last-minute change of plans, but we somehow decided to drive to New Jersey instead of Long Island for a little beachside R&R. As we sat nearly motionless in a freshly paved glue trap on the Garden State Parkway, I began second-guessing the switch. "Whatever," said Deborah, "there'd be traffic no matter what. Besides, we're in no hurry."

Off the Parkway and onto Route 36, things didn't get any better. Only ten miles from the park's entrance, we sat in traffic moving 10 miles per hour. Construction delays, the signs warned, though there didn't seem to be any workers or backhoes or dump trucks anywhere. Just miles and miles of cars lined up as if evacuating a disaster area.

"I guess we should've left earlier," said Deborah.

"It's going to be a bitch trying to get back into this mess, but I need to get gas," I said, and pulled into a service station.

"Whatdaya need?" the gruff, white-haired, ruddy-faced attendant asked. He looked to be in his sixties, though his weather-worn skin may have been misleading. He was wearing navy blue chinos and a light blue polo shirt.

"Fill it with regular, please," I said.

He lifted the nozzle and jammed it into the tank with enough force to shake the whole truck. "Heading to the beach?" he said as he pumped.

"Yeah." A beach umbrella and a couple of chairs in the truck's bed, as well as Deborah in a bikini, must've given us away.

"Staten Island? You guys from Staten Island?" I suppose he'd seen the New York license plates on our truck and assumed we'd driven from the closest borough.

"No," I said.

"Where yas from?"

"Brooklyn."

"Hmph. They don't have any beaches in Brooklyn?"

"Um, yeah, they have beaches in Brooklyn," I said.

"Then why'd you drive out here for?"

Maybe because this is America, and I have a car, I wanted to say. "I don't know. For a little variety, I guess. Besides, I grew up in New Jersey, and old habits die hard."

"You grew up in New Jersey?" The fact seemed to take a little edge off of his attitude, but he was suspicious. "Where?" he said.

"New Providence." He didn't seem to have ever heard of it. I wasn't surprised; it's not a very big town. "My parents live in Barnegat," I added, to give myself a little shoreline cred. He was unimpressed. I think the only thing that would've satisfied him was if I came from the same town as he did, or at least from a town whose high school football team played his high school's team.

"You goin' to Sandy Hook?" he said.

"Yeah."

"You gonna keep your clothes on?"

As I've written about before, Sandy Hook has a nude beach. I guess he figured if we were bothering to drive from Brooklyn, it was probably to hit the nude beach. He might've been right, but we hadn't decided. "Yeah, we're gonna keep our clothes on," I said. "Well, not all of 'em. It is a beach after all."

By the time our tank was full, he was convinced enough that we weren't a couple of perverted New York City weirdos to give us a little friendly advice: "Sea Bright is a nicer beach," he said. "It's where the locals go. Sandy Hook is like the fuckin' League of Nations, know what I'm saying."

Yeah, I think I did.

"Did you hear me when I said we live in Brooklyn?"

"Pfft," he said, rolling his eyes as he handed me my change. "Good luck."

We pulled out of the gas station and into the line of traffic, which had thankfully picked up its pace. "If by 'locals' he means Sea Bright is where his like-minded cronies go, then I'm not interested."

In fact, we headed to the clothing-optional beach, just on principle. It turned out to be not such a great idea, but that's another story for another day.