Josh and I are laying in the sand. We’re on the beach at Limekiln State Park. We’re high on Lexapro.
“Tired,” I say. Josh laughs. We’re both tired.
Lexapro is an antidepressant. Heather and Larry gave it to us. They’re our camping neighbors. Originally Heather had told us that the pills were klonopins, but when we were talking to her after the fact–that is, after having ingested them–she told us otherwise.
“No, those are Lexapro,” she said.
“What the hell is Lexapro?” I asked.
“It’s an antidepressant,” she said. “It’s like twelve times stronger than klonopins.”
Heather is probably pushing 400 pounds, her hair is bleached blonde, she has hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes, and she’s wearing a muumuu. Larry is considerably thinner, has big ears, and weird scars of mysterious provenance punctuate his face. While Josh and I talk to Heather and Larry, Heather complains about what a terrible camping buddy Larry is, and she points out how ugly his toenails are (they are), and she generally does her best to knock him down whenever he tries to assert himself. I feel bad for Larry, but I don’t go as far as telling Heather that she could stand to lose 200 pounds before she starts disparaging her husband’s toenails. It’s really not my job.
The principal effect Lexapro has on a non-depressed person is exhaustion. Josh and I are exhausted suddenly, and neither one of us can complete a yawn–another side effect, apparently, this inability to yawn–so we excuse ourselves from the company of Heather and poor, poor Larry and go down to the beach to sit on the rocks. When we realize that sitting isn’t cutting it we lay down in the sand. The thing about the beach at Limekiln State Park: it’s mostly rocks, and the parts that aren’t rocks are usually part of the trail. So, what I’m saying is, Josh and I have just lain down in the middle of the path to sunbathe with our hoodies on and have a bit of a nap, and you, sirs and madams, are just going to have to walk around us if you want to capture your goddamn Kodak moment. Just don’t step on my crotch.
Before we go to bed, Josh will be taking a piss by the river when he calls my name:
“Tom,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “Come here.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just come here!”
When I walk over, he points to Heather and Larry’s tent, where a bright light is illuminating their silhouettes inside and Heather is spreading her legs wide open. She’s pretty flexible for an obese chick.
“Stop looking,” I tell Josh.
“I can’t,” he insists. “It’s like watching a car crash.”
“Tantric shadow puppet sex? It looks like they have a fucking projector in there. Let’s go to bed.” Josh watches as Larry goes down on Heather and as Heather mounts Larry. I don’t. I crawl into the bed. Josh will tell me all about it in the morning.
First day in Big Sur–you wind your way down Highway 1 through Monterey and Marina and Carmel and then suddenly, around an uninspiring bend, the land thrusts up into the sky from the sea: Planet Earth having a stretch.
First day in Big Sur–Josh and I are registering at Andrew Molera State Park, paying our $25 for the campsite, inquiring about the amenities in the town four miles down the road.
“What’s the deal with the store in town?” we ask the park ranger. “Can you buy beer and cigarettes? Butanol? Batteries?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” the park ranger says. “You can buy all that crap down there. The one thing you can’t buy is a bargain.”
Ha, ha, ha, we say. Then, realizing that firewood is for sale on site, “How much for a bundle of firewood?”
You can’t buy a bargain at Andrew Molera State Park, either.
Jim and Cindy are from Delaware. Those aren’t their real names, but they act like a Jim and a Cindy. They’re driving back down south to San Diego. Josh and I met them because we pulled over at a turnout to take pictures of the bluffs and the fog, and they pulled over after us.
Jim says, “Aw, shucks, you never can capture the majesty of the landscape with a camera.” Click, click, snap, snap.
“Nope,” we say. “Sure can’t.”
Click, click, snap, snap.
Jim is wearing a t-shirt that identifies him as a veteran, he’s got a handlebar mustache, and cowboy boots. Cindy gets out of the car. She has immense cleavage. That’s all I can really remember, because half the time I spent talking to her I was making a concentrated effort to avoid looking at her tits.
“We really must be going,” we say. “Need to find a campsite and all, before they’re all gone.”
“Yes, yes, but…”
We talk to them for what seems like hours, but which is actually closer to 45 minutes. We finally escape, and when we do we get the last campsite at Limekiln State Park, which is nice because all of the other campgrounds are full and sleeping in the car isn’t on the agenda. Jim and Cindy come close, in other words, to ruining our trip, and for that Josh and I make a revenge rap about them, much of which is dedicated to the various sexual acts we would perform on Cindy due to Jim’s implied impotence.
“I got my balls on your chin / ‘Cause your husband’s impotent.”
I don’t see the plane when I’m saying this:
“It’s unspoiled!” I’m quite animated. “It’s just, like, no houses and no boats.” We’re on a bluff, watching waves crash into a rock island that we hypothesize has never had a human atop it (the constant surf would make rowing or kayaking to it impossible, swimming to it deadly). “I mean, no boats! Look! No boats! This is, like, ancient!” I am astounded by the beauty of Big Sur. “This is, like, the same as it was thousands of years ago. It’s fucking ancient!” I mention the ancient-ness again for emphasis.
I notice Josh is barely containing laughter, and he points to the plane which has just now become audible over the waves–mmmuuuurrrrr, mmuuuuhhhhhhrr–and says, “It’s fucking ancient, alright,” before keeling over and laughing his ass off.