The day I felt delightfully white trash

The alarm went off at 7:15 am blaring Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop Thinking about Tomorrow". Wondering why the hell I set my alarm for 7:15 am in the respite of a teacher's summer, I reached over and snoozed. Then I remembered- today was crabbing day! I rolled out of bed, splashed some water of my face, got the hubby to wake up and hit the road ready to conquer each and every crab worth crabbing. We set out for two other destinations before finding our way to Keyport, New Jersey's lost playground for all sorts of handicapped. Not the type of handicapped you are thinking about, but rather the kind that you may think could be prevented.
The lone skinny black man on the dock wearing a scuzzy white tank, (notice I do not call it a wife beater because this man...I am SURE had no wife) shorts that were held up by a leather belt bound with black electrical tape, a fanny pack (also clasped shut with tape), a backpack shut with a diary lock and a toupee, wandered up and down not so much crabbing but admiring the view. The young boys on the dock crabbing with their friends, brothers, fathers, seemed to be of most interest to him. And when one boy bent down to place a crab in his bucket, the effeminate man with the kinky toupee actually checked out this kids legs, then his butt, then stared at his shoulders and arms, all the while playing with a piece of what looked like empty Dentine Ice gum wrapper. It was enough to make me want to puke all over his crusty Walmart sneakers. Instead, I watched him and everyone else on the dock. Noone seemed to take much notice of him, either because he frequented the dock, or because they thought him harmless. A teenage girl approached the sickly man, her D.A.R.E. shirt practically touching her knees, asking if he wanted a bite to eat then offering him the bucket of crabs. In a James Brown sounding voice he replied, "Get on outta here. Aheehee. Aheehee." This man was not on the dock like the rest of us, crabbing or fishing or keeping company to crabbers or fishers, no he seemed to have his own agenda, fishing for little boys. I sat on the bench and watched him, avoiding eye contact was easy. I was a girl and apparently not interesting to him. I wondered what was in the backpack, the one closed off from the rest of the world with a tiny diary lock that could easily be pulled apart. I imagined pills, little bottles of rum and tequila, socks, handcuffs, pictures of children playing, close ups of little boys' legs. I pictured candy wrappers and lollipops, the ones with the white smiley faces. All these thoughts, although fabricated, disturbed me. He seemed to fit the part of a lusting pedophile all too well, asking the boys "Catch any yet?" or "Oohhwee, that was strong cast boy." The fathers or brothers or friends barely paying attention. Soon, I too became distracted.
A lady sat on the bench next to me, her toes bright red, smoking a Pall Mall (I didn't know they still made those), rubbing her neck and shoulder with the free arm. I wondered what her story was, smoking, neck stiff, her husband or boyfriend or whoever he was, walking to the edge with a limp to cast his lines, coming back to smoke a cigarette. Waitress by night, probably at a local tavern, serving beers and shots and french fries. Her husband or boyfriend, unemployed, collecting worker's comp, needed to be seen in public limping around.
At the end of the pier, a father was with his two sons who were probably still in elementary school, both wearing red "Knights" t-shirts.The father, cane in hand, Hawaiian print shirt wide open revealing a tight XL blue tank top, fitted around his breasts; bitch tits. His story? Probably prostate, pumped up and juiced with so many hormones, he had developed tits. Now he brought his kids fishing to show them he was a real man yet.
There was this voice I kept hearing, a high pitched voice that belonged in the seventies, echoed over all the other commotion. It took me a few minutes to place the voice, one that sounded like a female's. An Italian woman, with short hair, spiked, big earrings, eyeshadow fresh, looked like the ideal candidate. But it wasn't her. It was the man she spoke to. An average Joe that sounded more like a Susan. He reminded me of that twerp on Lavern and Shirley with the greased look and the leather jacket.
My senses were full, as was Keyport. Full of all the rejects the rest of the state chewed up and vomitted on a pier in Keyport. The feminine pedophile with his sinful backpack, the waitress smoking her Pall Malls, the father with the bitch tits, the guy with the squeaky chick voice and the crabs all accidentally displayed on the dock. I rested on the bench, wondering how so many rejects ended up on one pier in Keyport, somewhere in New Jersey, next to me.