A summer memory

Gerda Cohen

Between the long tidal creeks, the moist tangly armpits of Long Island Sound, lie numerous beaches open to the public. Not all or any public, but certain categories of public. There's Jewish Center beach (short of funds so non-Jews are admitted), Catholic Center beach (ecumenical to boost revenue), town beach where town residents pay a nominal parking fee, Fairfield Coun- ty beach for residents of Fairfield County, and there is also State beach. 'No one,' Debra told me with finality, 'goes to State beach'. No one? 'But no one,' she reiterated in a loud drawl, slewing her silver landau away from the broiling foreshore, 'nobody goes there.' This puzzled me, since the vast pitted parking lot at State beach already seethed with motor caravans, coaches from New York, battered Cadillacs from Queens and Yonkers and even fur- ther, disgorging families by the score, bent double by their supplies for the day, sacks of barbecue briquettes, collapsible fur- niture, full colour television; on to the sand they stagger, weighted by plastic vermilion sarcophagi and cyanide yellow buckets. State beach looked as if the entire contents of homes had been vomited on to the gritty shore. 'See what I mean?' Debra let her engine rev to afford me a closer view, 'no one goes there.'

People sat in clans like an ethnographic text, each clan barricaded by plastic im- pedimenta in colours so violent they fought mutely against the next clan and the weighted, sweating sky. 'Blacks love it here,' Debra turned for confirmation to her timid cousin in the rear seat, 'blacks truly prefer State beach, don't they, Charleen?'

`They-sure-do,' Charleen let out a shrill burst of agreement, 'like they wanna be together, blacks, like they avoid non-black contact.'

Both Debra and Charleen were doing Ad- vanced Humanities at a rather expensive private college; both had uptilted noses, ruined skin, and wore their bleached metallic hair in a little-girl mane, a sulky toss to match the sulky, Bloomingdales smile. They had allocated me a whole mor- ning to show me the best place for bathing. Gratefully, I tried to avoid awkward sub- jects. No talk about Israel, weight pro- blems, or divorce. That limited conversatgidn:

`State beach has everything they nee ;0 Debra toured the perimeter stockade 6.,.f show off the concrete block-houses male and female showers, the inarntir, ice-cream-n-pepsi purveyor, already sP;

ting alternate globs of white and bred to `Know what I intuit,' Debra dravileo

Charleen, 'this trash food, like, welfia,', recipients need trash diet to comPenstie., `Sure,' agreed her cousin after a w'g. `they need Food Stamps just to collo sate.' We sat in the stifling silver lan the

watching them compensate. Across brackish grit, by the long slurp of Atlannci; gigantic picnics were being ingested, each

clan barricaded behind crates of card Budweiser, 'King of Beers'. The obes.,;D(oge general and unrelenting: no racial Pr' like here. Whitish putty thighs and wornerlv,.of

uncooked dough alternate with butt

glossy brown, immense, mounted on Ida bling pyramids of flesh. 'They're Pri cage fat,' Debra told me, 'cos their carbo in the is surrogate success.' That very da,Y;e New York Times had reported a In""-,ro crease in the numbers 'entering P°;e6 status'. The Census Bureau figures sh°00 a disproportionate number of blacks be of the official poverty level, 34.2 Per e,11;per blacks compared to an overall rate of cent. Here on State beach, however' black pink or sepia bulged in grotesque (3" regardless of the statistical gap. all of

'C'mon Debra,' shrilled her cousin

a sudden, 'let's go some place else, Je:1:to

Center beach, let's move!' g°'‘,Iet

Jewish Center,' Debra pointed out, `tbet:od) in Episcopalians, for God's sake, la() 00 will touch Jewish Center.' She flickcerthet the air-conditioning, which made Iti.

argument impossible. (ola

Stupefied by din or hunger triost) homogenised coconut juice for brea,:ople we bowl swiftly through the driPPing woods andn,ad nstiecaembeyarhd. uyloatuiornesgoofetijollove it.' They promise. of LOIS Heat rises from the reedy inlets 0L ttic Island Sound, hazing greenery, blurringade5' neo-Colonial mansions whose colonond Ip neutered, bland, toothpaste white, sta osifi silent evidence of wealth. Even c°

Sharleen forgot her timidity to praise a fake

facade of speckless beige. 'That's bucks, real old. Guy there spent 25 thousand Ducks, revitalising.' Every American aspires to such a home. 'Four bathrooms,' said Charleen dreamily, 'and a butler from England.' None too soon, we arrive at Fair- field County beach. It's unexpectedly small, Posted with signboards each end: ''''eighborhood Watch Area — OBEY THE r Two hulking policemen patrol the ,Tower hut, gun handles on hip. Outside in g her

cicadas are sizzling like hot fat. Is You a resident, mam?' the car park at- tendant, sun-blackened and wrinkly, gave

an approving nod. He knew Debra; .41.1't even ask to inspect her Fairfield ant's Parking Parking permit. 'Enjoy your swim,' Priroval screased his old face, 'salt water

er did no harm, partickly if you drink auth girls collapse in obsequious

tor. 'Wow, that Yankee humour s;leatcs me up.' Apparently, this beach is '0`,.,ect. Only a few people sprawl inelegantly s" the burning sand, their freckled limbs Hispanics and shiny with oil. No blacks or "IsPanics here, only off-white, blotchy skin

and hair chemical-bleached. Sun-ravaged matrons chat about divorce, their metal seats plonked in the slurping wrack. Others sit solitary on wicker chairs, perusing the New York Times magazine. Debra and Charleen anoint their long thin femurs, noting that the life-saver goes to a rather select prep school in Vermont. At that mo- ment, a curious sound of disagreement marred the hush.

`Is you a resident, sir, or ain't you a resi- dent?' The car park attendant was having an altercation with a coffee-coloured man in a big Buick. 'I sure is a resident.' A sheaf of papers went angrily through the car win- dow. Behind the driver, several dark- skinned children waited to get out and swim. `No sir,' snapped car park man, 'you ain't exactly a resident. This beach is for Fairfield residents and you reside in Walnut Drive. Sir, that's borderline. Now just go some place else.' Both police drew near, silent. Everyone pretended not to hear. Debra practised breast-stroke in the turgid, cola-brown swell. Charleen swam behind, fearful of losing her contact lenses. After- wards, I thanked them for a lovely outing.