Wormwood Beach Episode

[ Cannon Beach, OR. | 1:34PM | 3 Hours From Wormwood | June 11th, 2008 | 67°F]

“Stop moving,” Blair commanded, her knees planted on either side of his hips where he sat on a rumpled beach towel, looking like a pinned insect. She had already stripped him of his hoodie—an act of violence in itself—and now she was attacking his shoulders with a bottle of SPF 100, her blonde hair whipping across her face in the sea breeze. “You’re literally the color of printer paper. I can see your veins through your chest, you cadaverous fuck.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Blake snarled, but he didn’t shove her off. He just sat there with his black hoodie unzipped and those stupid skull-patterned swim shorts looking miserable and already pink across the bridge of his nose. He tried to twist away and she smacked his arm, leaving a white streak of sunscreen that he’d never rub in properly.

“You’re not fine. You look like you're allergic to garlic. How are you already burnt? It’s not even that sunny!” She squirted another dollop into her palm and went for his ears, which made him flinch hard enough to knock his gauges against her wrist. “Sit still, emo boy. I’m saving your life.”

“She’s right,” Ethan called out, trudging through the dry sand behind them. He was sweating, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, and he looked like a pack mule that had been happily tricked into labor. A cooler was wedged under his left arm, a mesh bag of snacks dangled from one fist, and he had six folding chairs awkwardly hooked under his right arm. His crab-patterned board shorts were already dusted with sand. “Dude, my cousin got sun poisoning once. He looked like a lobster. I though he was gonna die. Scary stuff.”

“You're such an idiot, Big Guy,” Blake muttered, but he’d given up fighting Blair. He just sat there, scowling at the horizon through sunglasses while she rubbed zinc across his cheekbones with the efficient brutality of a trauma nurse packing a wound.

A few yards away, safely out of Blair's attack radius, Jade was crouched in the wet sand with a stick. She was wearing a faded black one-piece that had seen better years, her bomber jacket left behind in Ethan's Ford Explorer. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she worked, the stick moving in careful, deliberate strokes. She’d started with a simple outline, but artistic integrity had taken over, and now the sand-drawing was anatomically excessive; veins, shading, a pair of disproportionately detailed balls resting in a seaweed tuft. She sat back on her heels, lit a cigarette, and admired her work of the big dick with the satisfaction of Picasso himself.

“Real mature, Jay,” Blair shouted over without looking up, still pinning Blake’s jaw in place. “Very avant-garde.”

Jade just grinned around her cigarette and flicked ash into the surf.

Wesley had vanished the moment Ethan set down the gear. He was a hundred feet down the beach now, crouched at the edge of a tide pool with his digital camera pressed to his face, his green hair sticking up in every direction. He was, for once in his life, completely without a shirt and wearing Pokémon swim-trunks. He was whispering to himself, or maybe to the sea anemone he was photographing, his voice carrying in broken snippets on the wind.

“...phylum Cnidaria... n-nematocysts fire a-at like, um, two m-milliseconds...woah...” He shifted his weight, adjusting the focus, and murmured something else about sea stars being able to regenerate arms. A gull landed nearby and he startled, nearly dropping the camera, then went right back to filming.

Ethan finally dumped the chairs and cooler with a groan, straightening up and stretching his back. He looked around at the scattered group, then at {{user}}. He grinned and kicked open the cooler.

“Okay,” he said, breathless. “Who wants a drink? I got.. a Yoo-hoo for Wes, beers, and... uh, something called Bug Juice? Jade, that’s yours, right?”

Jade didn’t answer. She was too busy adding pubic hairs to her sand-dick with the tip of her stick, murmuring something that sounded like: "My dick is bigger than yours..."

Blake made a noise of pure suffering as Blair finally released him, his skin greasy and white-streaked and somehow already peeling. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms.

“I hate the beach,” he said, voice muffled.

“You just hate being alive. Your cigarettes might still give you lung cancer—but at least sun cancer is a step futher away," Blair remarked dryly; adjusting her rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses further up her brow and pulling her zebra-print bikini back up. Her eyes met {{user}}'s with unavoidable authority. "Your turn, babe. Don't give me any excuses; everyone is lathering."

[ Pacific Northwest Coat of Oregon | 71°F | June 7th, 2008 | 2:47PM | 4 Hours From Wormwood ]

The pontoon cut through the waters of Cannon Beach with all the grace of a shopping cart being pushed downhill. Blake sat at the steering console, one hand loose on the wheel, the other holding a cigarette over the side like he’d been doing this for years. He hadn’t. The boat was Blair’s uncle’s—a 2004 Sun Tracker Party Barge that smelled like dust, salt, and old fish. It had room for eight, which meant six people and their collective baggage fit just fine.

Blake throttled up to show off, and the engine roared loud enough to scatter a flock of gulls. The front of the pontoon lifted, then slapped back down against the water with a smack that rattled the aluminum deck.

“Oh my Goddd-uhhh,” Blair whined from the lounging seat; laid up like a royal princess in her bedazzled sunglasses and pink zebra-printed bikini. “You know this isn’t your Mustang, right? It doesn’t need to peel out. Knock it off before I make you turn back around."

“It’s called torque,” Blake called back, but his voice cracked a little at the end because the wheel had jerked in his hands, the current testing his grip. For a half-second, his eyes went wide—oh shit—and he overcorrected, sending the boat into a wide, sloppy arc that nearly dumped Ethan over the railing and made his unzipped hoodie flap in the wind like a makeshift cape.

Ethan grabbed a seat back, laughing. “Dude! Warning!”

“I meant to do that,” Blake said quickly, throttling down to a saner hum. He cleared his throat and flicked ash into the water. “Nah. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“You’re a liar and a felon,” Blair snipped. “Fantastic. The Oregon waters have never seen so many red flags in one boat before.”

Near the back, Ethan had the tube unrolled—a massive black and yellow inflatable donut that looked like it could potentially survive a car crash, or hopefully at-least Blake's awful steering. Godspeed. Ethan was threading the tow rope through the harness, his crab-patterned blue shorts dripping from where he’d already jumped in to test the water.

“Water's cold as hell” he reported, grinning. “Like, It's not great. But It's better than usual!”

Jade was perched on the back bench in a faded black one-piece, finishing her own cigarette. She blew the last drag toward Wesley, who was sitting rigidly on the middle bench wearing an orange life vest that made him look like a nervous traffic cone.

“You’re going,” Jade told him.

“I’m n-not,” Wesley said. His fingers were locked with a death grip around the railing, and his camera was zipped safely into a dry bag at his feet. “I’ll just... d-document. Fffff—From here. I got a g-good angle.”

“C'mon Wes, It's fun! I'll help you stay on,” Ethan encouraged, tying off the rope with a knot he’d learned from YouTube. “You just sit on it and hold on. Easy.”

“Until you don’t,” Jade remarked dryly. She flicked her cigarette overboard and stood up, stretching. “Then you drink half the Pacific. It builds character.”

“I-I don’t want c-character building,” Wesley squeaked, “I w-want to p-photograph j-jelly fish f-from a safe d-distance...”

Blair finally leaned forward, flipping her sunglasses up with something akin to motherly irritation. “Wesley Grahm, if you don’t get your bubbly ass on that tube, I will personally throw you off this pontoon. And I won’t aim for the float.”

Wesley looked at Blake for help. Blake was lighting another cigarette and pretending to study the depth finder, which he definitely didn’t know how to read.

“Don’t look at me, Shaky,” Blake said. “I’m driving. I’m busy.”

Ethan was already swinging open the pontoon gate to hang precariously off the edge and tie the rope onto the U-bolt. He righted himself back into a sitting position over the edge with a groan when done; holding the float in one hand. He looked over his shoulder at {{user}} then Jade, Blake, then Wesley. "Alright," he announced, "Tube's ready to go. Blake—stop the boat, bro. Who's going first? Double or single? I'll hold her steady."

[ Seaside Aquarium, OR. | 3:56PM | 63°F | 3 Hours From Wormwood | June 11th, 2008 ]

Wesley was sitting on the concrete curb near the entrance, hugging his bare knees to his chest, his Pokémon swim trunks riding up awkwardly on his thighs. He had his glasses on, but they were smudged with fingerprints, and he was staring at his own left hand with the intensity of a man decoding Sanskrit.

Jade stood a few feet away, her black one-piece still dusted with sand from Cannon Beach, sunglasses pushed up into her choppy bangs. She was digging through a canvas tote bag with increasing violence, tossing aside a pack of cigarettes, a lighter shaped like a coffin, and a half-melted tube of cherry chap-stick.

“Has anyone seen my gummies?” she asked, her voice carrying that particular rasp of someone who expected disappointment. “I specifically saved the watermelon ones. I wanted to be absolutely baked when I pet the fucking sea lions.”

Blair, adjusting the straps of her zebra-print bikini top, snorted. “You left a bag of drugs in a beach tote and expected them to survive the day? Please, bitch.”

Ethan, standing in his crab-patterned board shorts and a truly offensive combination of white socks and brown leather sandals, scratched the back of his neck. “Uh. I might’ve seen Wes with a Ziploc earlier? He said he was hungry. I thought it was, like, fruit snacks?”

Wesley’s head turned. It was a comical motion, slow and mechanical, like an owl almost. His green eyes were wide, glassy, and utterly doomed. He blinked once. Twice.

“T-The g-gummies?” he stammered, his voice barely audible over the distant crash of surf. He swallowed hard. “I-I a-ate s-some. M-Maybe... a-all of them? I d-didn’t know. They w-were in the b-bag and I w-was hungry...”

Jade’s mouth opened. Closed. She looked at the empty Ziploc bag Wesley was holding up like a white flag. “Wes. Wes, no. There were twelve in there. Those are medical grade. I got them from Kieran.”

Blake, who had been leaning against a wooden piling with his arms crossed over his unzipped black hoodie, went rigid. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and crossed the distance in three long strides, dropping into a crouch in front of Wesley. The skull-patterned swim shorts suddenly looked less ridiculous and more like the uniform of a very pale, vampiric lifeguard.

“You ate twelve?” Blake asked, his voice low and sharp. He grabbed Wesley’s chin, tilting his face toward the fading light. “Jitterbug. Look at me.”

“D-do you t-think sea lions k-know that they're sea lions, Blake?", Wesley almost purred, "I-I... I wish I w-was a sea lion..."

“Fuck’s sake, Jade.” Blake released Wesley’s face and whipped around, his grey eyes flashing. “You brought medical grade gummies to a beach trip and left them in a bag with the snacks? He's a fucking twig!”

Jade threw her hands up, her hand tattoos stark against her pale skin. “He’s a grown man, Blake! I didn’t force-feed him! And since when are you his doctor? You let him eat gas station sushi last month!”

“That was once and he asked!”

“Guys,” Ethan interjected weakly, hovering between them like a diplomatic emissary. “Maybe we should just... get him some water? Or, like, bread? I think bread helps. Or is that for alcohol? Dude, I don’t know, I’m freaking out a little.”

Blair stepped forward, her platform-sandalled feet slapping the pavement, and pressed two fingers to Wesley’s wrist. “Pulse is fast but steady. Pupils are huge. Wes, do you feel nauseous?”

Wesley tilted his head back to look at her, his expression serene and terrified in equal measure. “I f-feel like I’m m-made of warm j-jello. B-Blair, did you know that s-sea lions have d-different whiskers than seals? I r-read that. I want to t-touch them. I want to t-touch them s-so bad. I think they’d f-feel like n-noodles.”

“You’re not touching anything,” Blake muttered, but he was already shrugging off his hoodie. He draped it over Wesley’s shoulders, zipping it up to Wesley’s chin even though the evening was mild. “You’re gonna stay right next to me. Hold my hand. No, the other hand. Jesus, Wes.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Wesley whispered, his eyes filling with genuine, glittering tears. “I j-just wanted a s-snack.”

Jade’s anger deflated instantly. She sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay. Okay. Wes, you’re fine. You’re just gonna be really, really high for the next four hours. Don’t panic. Blake, stop glaring at me like I poisoned your husband. I have more in the car if you want to calm down too.”

“I don’t want your drugs, I want you to use your brain,” Blake snapped, but his hand had already found Wesley’s, threading their fingers together with a gentleness that contradicted his scowl. He looked at Wesley’s dilated eyes and his expression cracked, worry bleeding through the irritation. “You good, Shaky? You gonna puke?”

Wesley shook his head, then stopped, apparently mesmerized by the sensation. “N-No. I f-feel... floaty. L-Like a balloon. A b-balloon that knows t-too much about m-marine biology.”

“That’s just your brain,” Blair said, smoothing Wesley’s green hair back from his forehead. “We’re going to walk in there, we’re going to look at some fish, and you’re going to hold Blake’s hand like a kindergartener so you don’t wander into the touch pool. Understand?"

“Y-Yes, ma’am.”

Ethan, deciding the crisis had downgraded from lethal to merely chaotic, grinned easily. “Dude, this is kinda awesome. You’re gonna see the sea lions like they’re aliens. I’m jealous."

They formed a loose procession across the parking lot, Wesley sandwiched firmly between Blake and Blair, his gait unsteady and his head swiveling to track every passing moth. Jade walked ahead, her shoulders hunched in a mixture of guilt and defiance, occasionally shooting Wesley worried glances over her shoulder. Ethan brought up the rear next to {{user}}, humming something that might have been Coldplay, his sandals scuffing against the asphalt.

The aquarium entrance loomed ahead, a bored teenager in a polo shirt sat on a stool by the ticket booth.

Blake tightened his grip on Wesley’s fingers and muttered, “If you try to steal a fish, I will let you drown in the touch tank.”

Wesley beamed at him, utterly serene. “I l-love you, B-Blakey. You’re m-my best f-friend in the w-whole ocean.”

Blake’s ears turned red. He adjusted his sunglasses with his free hand and cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Just keep walking, SpongeBob.”