Bikini Beach and its principal characters are copyright 1998 by Elrod W.

The lines at all the checkout stands were long. That was to be expected on SuperSale Day, Black Friday, the Day after Thanksgiving, and I kept fidgeting impatiently. Ahead in line was an old woman and a pretty lady who looked like she might have been a college student, or in her lower twenties.

I didn't realize that I was rocking back and forth, until my shopping cart bumped the old woman.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, as I backed my cart away. I tried to concentrate on standing still. Relativity kept bugging me. Velocities are relative. That meant one could be considered stationary or moving as one pleased. But another consequence of Relativity was that moving clocks went slower than stationary clocks. If you view the earth as approximately stationary, the spaceship clock should be slower. But if you view the spaceship as stationary, the earth clock should be slower. So which was it? My mind was spinning over the paradox.

Oh crap, I bumped the old woman again. "Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry!"

What could I do? I stood along side of my shopping cart instead of behind it. Again, I tried to concentrate on standing still. But I just couldn't concentrate; I kept feeling so antsy.

"Would you please watch yourself, young man!" the old woman exclaimed when I bumped her the third time. I realized I was rocking back and forth again.

By now, they were almost at the check-out stand. I stood still, letting space build up between my cart and the old woman.

The young lady with the old woman was piling goods on the conveyor belt of the check-out stand, and I kept telling myself, I really should be home doing homework, when I bumped the old woman one last time.

The old woman turned and glared at me. "You've done it, young man!"

I stood still, face down, utterly humiliated. *Here we go again* I thought. This was an all-too-familiar sensation. I'd realize only too late that I'd committed a major faux-pas, that I'd really done it. Damn, damn, damn! I cursed myself, and whatever it was inside me that had a death wish or was intent on driving me insane.

Humiliation kept flowing through me like a drug, as I handed over my two large canvas bags to the checkout lady to fill instead of the usual small plastic bags. Not only did I want to do my part to avoid waste and preserve the environment, but the large bags were much easier to carry on the bus home.

I piled my items onto the conveyor belt. As I put the last few items on the belt, I spotted something resembling a credit card at the edge of the cart. I picked it up and examined it.

"Bikini Beach" "Ninety Days" "Membership" were the principal things on the card. The dates and name were left blank. Who did it belong to? Well, it was too late now. It was probably an ad or coupon for Bikini Beach. Surely, they wouldn't actually leave a blank Ninety-day membership in the cart for anyone to find. I should probably discard it, I thought. It was just another advertisement, another gimmick to make money, parting someone from his family's hard-earned money.

I kept it. Surely, it wouldn't hurt to look into what this Bikini Beach was all about.

"Have a good day, Mark Holder," said the checkout lady, as she gave me the change. She got the name from the sales slip, that printed it from the store membership card I'd given. It was truly my name.

"You too," I answered.

I lugged the goods out to the bus stop a block away, and caught the bus home. My ten-year-old brother Ian was watching TV when I opened the door, but he quickly got up and helped me carry the things in.

"Thanks, Ian," I breathlessly said.

"Sure, no problem." He continued to help Mom and me sort through the purchases and put them away.

The three of us together finished the job, and then I went up to my room to use the computer and look up this "Bikini Beach." I went to my favorite search engine, and entered "Bikini Beach". I couldn't keep my mind away from the humiliating guilty experience of having bumped an old woman four times.

The Bikini Beach web site caught my eye immediately. It showed a number of pictures of girls playing on water slides and water rides, swimming in pools, and just lounging around. Pretty girls of all ages, mostly in bikinis.

I tried to read the text. As usual, my mind kept wandering whenever I tried to read a complete paragraph. I wound up skimming the paragraphs, reading mostly the
first lines, but sometimes skipping whole paragraphs.

Sounded like a wonderful place to visit. It sounded almost too good to be true.

"I should just put it out of my mind, forget about it," I told myself. I vaguely recalled seeing something about it being for girls only, but I couldn't find it. But forgetting about it? Hardly. In fact, for the rest of the day, the only thoughts that dominated over Bikini Beach were my cringe-inducing guilty memories of having bumped that old woman four times.

The next morning was Saturday. I kept wavering in deciding whether to visit Bikini Beach or not. I dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and tee-shirt -- the weather was nice for late November – but wrapped up a swimming trunk in a towel and stuffed it in my knapsack. I made sure I had my bus-card and some cash with me.

I got on the bus, intending to go either to Bikini Beach or the library. I kept thinking of all the pretty girls of all ages I would see at Bikini Beach. I also kept reminding myself, cringing and wincing, about how I'd repeatedly knocked that old woman with the shopping cart.

I changed busses at transit station near the mall, taking the bus to Bikini Beach. Not surprisingly, a lot of girls were on the second bus.

I couldn't help checking out a chattering gaggle of girls younger than my fifteen years, probably eleven or twelve years old, all in tee-shirts over bikinis. They were all very cute, very pretty. Two were bright redheaded twins. One pointed at me and said to the others in a stage voice, "Lookee, there's another guy trying out Bikini Beach for the first time!" Obviously, she meant for me to overhear. I wondered how she could tell.

The other girls laughed. "Clearly doesn't know that Bikini Beach is for girls only," said another girl.

"He'll learn," said the other twin.

"Yeah, he'll learn what it's like to be a girl," said the first twin, to the laughter of the girls.

I turned away from the mocking girls, to focus on the scenery out the window, trying to keep the tears of humiliation out of my eyes. One wanted to look at pretty bikini-clad girls; one wanted to talk with them. One wanted to swim and play games with them. I'll admit, one wanted to go even farther with them. One didn't want pretty bikini-clad girls laughing at him, mocking him.

I told myself that pretty girls were poison, the proverbial black widows: hyperattractive with a deadly sting. I'd never forget the redheaded twins, and I only hoped that the experience wouldn't sour me on redheads in general, or ruin the Lindsay Lohan version of "The Parent Trap" for me.

I considered staying on the bus and just returning home, but finally decided to get off with everyone else at Bikini Beach.

Girls and women were all around -- children with families, 'tweens, teens, young ladies, middle-aged ladies, even a few old women. Groups of girls, two and three friends together, singles on their own, families with men and boys as well -- a surprising number of men and boys. Almost everyone wore their swimwear -- openly or under tee-shirts or sundresses.

I would have enjoyed the view of the girls, maybe even worked up my nerve to talk with perhaps one of the loners. I thought I might have even recognized some girls from school; I wasn't sure, though. But the memory of the girl gaggle's mockery kept haunting me. The humiliation felt almost like a drug.

There were two series of lines. Signs indicated that one was for those already with membership passes, while the other was for the sales booths. I didn't know which to use. I got out that membership card, and did my best to read it through, despite my mind jumping around. It apparently was a genuine membership card.

I got in a line for the ticket booths. I was having serious second thoughts about trying out Bikini Beach, after the mocking of the girls. It occurred to me that perhaps this membership card belonged to someone else, and that it would not be a good thing for me to use.

Eventually, I reached the ticket booth. I showed her the membership card. "I think that someone may have misplaced this membership card -- left it at Macy's yesterday."

The saleslady took the card, turned it over, examining it, then turned back to me. "Thank you very much for returning this."

That was it? I didn't know what to say or do now. I said, "You're welcome. Good day, miss."

"Have a great day," she replied.

I turned back, and returned to the bus stop to wait for the next bus back to the city. I kept wondering if I'd blown away an opportunity. But the memory of the girls mocking me kept reminding me that I really didn't want to play among pretty bikini-clad girls.

The bus came. I got on and returned to the city, and spent the rest of the day at the library.

My life continued, haunted off and on forever more by memories of bumping that old woman and being mocked by the pretty girls.

The End