Steve Tourettes
I was blissed out, sitting in lotus position, at my favorite spot on the beach, the one I came early every weekend to stake out for the day. I was enjoying the multi sensory delights of sun, sand, surf, the scents of coconut suntan lotion, the sounds of beach vendors, hawking their products, Get yer knish here, hot knishes! Or Cold beer here, cold beer. Get your ice cold ones here. 1 dolla. One dolla. My eyes were closed, face upturned toward the warmth of the sun, enjoying the tangy, saltiness of the ocean, and the rhythmic sound of the surf at low tide, gently lapping the shore line, then receding just as softly.
I was shocked out of my bliss -and nearly scared to death – when a rough pair of hands grabbed me by the shoulders and laid a bristly, steel wool, lip lock on me. I gasped as my eyes flew open and beheld the broken down remains of a wreck of a man.
He looked dusty, dehydrated, and dark tufts of hair sprouted from his scalp, with similar patches covering his face and neck. Hair crept out of his nostrils and ears, and more, thicker fur covered his back and shoulders. The few teeth he had were chipped, yellowed and stained, and his mouth reeked of beer and decay. His beady, black raven eyes were magnified by coke bottle thick eyeglasses, of which, one earpiece was lopsidedly taped to the frame with a filthy band-aid, which itself was curling around the edges, its adhesive long gone. His ribs and hip bones protrude from his sunken belly, and the threadbare denim cutoffs he wore, stiff from filth, hung on his frame, kept in place only by a thick piece of sisal rope fashioned into a crude belt.
He looked like a lab experiment gone horribly wrong, and for once in my loquacious life, I was speechless, and completely unprepared for what happened next.
His head twitched uncontrollably on his neck as he gurgled, his mouth laboring to spit out words that seemed stuck in his throat, strangling him.
“Ts, ts, ts, eeee, fa, fu, fu, ffff, FUCK!” The word exploded out of him. His head bobbled and rolled on his neck, up and back, down and around, one way then the other. “K, Ka, ka, ka, KUNT!” His whole body seemed to come undone, skinny arms flailing like windmills. “Ga, ga, gu ba ba b b BITCH!”
I wanted to get up and run, but was rooted. My heart pounded in my chest. Other people started crowding around us, and a muscle bound dude in a too skimpy bikini, threw a fistful of sand at my “admirer” shouting, “Shut up asshole, get outta here.” Skimpy bikini’s buddy waved a beer bottle, “Yeah, fuck off and leave her alone.’
The onlookers anger disturbed me as much as the scraggly cursing man before me, and the flee instinct kicked in. “I have to go,” I said calmly, and began tossing my stuff into my beach bag. But as I stood up, my knee buckled, and the twitcher reached out and grabbed me by the elbow and saved me from falling.
“Uh, uh, are you alright? Lu, lu, luh, let me help you. Du, du, don’t ba, be afraid,” he said, reading my fear. “I wu, wu, won’t ha hurt you.”
“I don’t need any help, but thanks.”
“I, I, have b-b-been wa-watching you all su-su-su-summer. Ya, you are so pu pu pretty. Uh, I’m st st Steve. I hu, hu, have ta, ta Tourettes. Wu, wu, will you sh sha share a bu bottle of bu bu beer with me? I have ba, been saving it fu, fu for a sa sa special occasion. It’s from ba ba Belgium. Bu bu best bu bu beer I ever drank. I’m n not ca ca crazy or a su su serial ku killer. I am ju just la lonely. “ File under, ya never know…
According to whom you ask, I can either be a sensitive soul, compassionate, empathetic, or a schmuck of epic proportions. Perhaps I am a little of each. Like I have done with other broken and bedraggled creatures, though usually the four legged variety, I took pity on this person and agreed to have a bottle of beer with him. We would have to use paper cups, he had to drink first. But first the mob would have be dealt with.
“Hey, calm down everyone, it’s alright. Just go back to doing what you were doing, he’s not going to hurt anyone. Leave him alone.”
Muscle mouth said, “S’not any kinda way to talk in front of kids.” I looked around and spotted a few playing by the water’s edge.
“Then I suggest you don’t.” Reminding him that he’d used some choice words just a moment ago.
“Just sayin…” and he and his buddy walked to the water. He turned around and shouted back at me, “Was just tryina help.”
I wanted to go home, my vibe was shot. But first I felt obliged to drink the beer and listen to his story. I didn’t know much about Tourette’s, and sure didn’t know anyone with it, before now. I did not feel threatened or unsafe in any way, though, I was gaining quite a reputation as a girl with questionable taste in boys and men. I considered this an act of kindness, a mitzvah, to lend my ear to a lonely soul for an hour of my time.
Steve carried my beach bag while we walked from Brighton Beach to Sheepshead Bay, where we found a bench under a tree and sat. We listened to the water slap against the pilings below, and neither of us spoke for a while. There were no obscenity-laden outbursts either. Huh.
It occurred to me that I didn’t have a single friend who could sit in silence with me. We all felt the need to fill the dead air with mindless teenage chatter. At home, my mother never shut up, and my siblings were never quiet. Steve was the first person I ever sat with in quietude. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe we both were. I wondered if stress triggered his mostly vocal, violent outbursts, and why or how he was still and quiet now, when he seemed unable to control himself a while ago..
He rummaged through the army green duffle bag he carried with him, and once again, burst into a frenzy of FUCKs while he looked for the bottle of beer. He got distracted by things he found while rummaging, some paper work from the department for social services that needed attention, which upset him, and exacerbated the tics. He said he was trying to apply for Section 8 housing, and be free from his mother, who still bullied him, though he was a grown man. At 26, he seemed old as the sea itself.
He said he had been a Merchant Mariner, and thought he’d spent too long at sea, in less than ideal conditions. During the VietNam war, ships crewed by civilian seamen carried 95 percent of the supplies used by the Armed Forces. Many of these ships sailed into combat zones under fire. Steve had a meltdown on what would be his last assignment, and was mandated to attend therapy.
His parents had institutionalized him as a teen, believing he was mentally ill, or possessed by demons. They tried to beat both/either out of him to no avail. He’d had shock treatment, and been prescribed dozens of different medications. Going to sea was how he escaped that torture, and now that was no longer an option. He only stayed with his mother, in what he described as a filthy, roach ridden hellhole in the Projects, when the weather was too extreme to be outside. He said he was fine sleeping on the beach, or in the park, shirtless and shoeless, throughout the summer. He said swimming in the ocean everyday kept him cleaner than showers. He used the various public bathrooms on the beach or boardwalk for his other business.
He handed me 2 red plastic cups, then showed me the bottle of Duvel he been talking about. All I knew about beer was Miller, Rheingold, and exotic Heineken. This beer had a wire wrapped cork, like champagne. Some fancy suds from the man with Tourette’s. I couldn’t imagine how old that bottle was, or if the contents was still beer. And it would be hot, not warm, hot.
As if reading my mind, he said, “It’s too warm. We n n need ice.”
I was over my mitzvah moment, and was getting antsy. I didn’t want to drink hot beer, or hot beer on ice.
“I think I should go home now. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the beer after you’ve had a chance
to chill it.”
His head started twitching again. “Gaaa, fuu booo ggrrrr COCKSUCKER. Let’s drink.”
I sighed. “alright just one cup, OK?” A spark lit within his black eyes. mitzvah accomplished.
He uncorked the beer and poured some into one of the cups. Thick foam topped the dark, yeasty brew. He poured some into the other cup, and handed it to me. “Skol” he said, tipping his cup to me. I sipped the heavy-bodied beer, felt it expand and fill up my mouth. It was less sour than the beers I knew, but I wasn’t a beer drinker. I already had a taste for more potent spirits.
We watched sea gulls perched on the pilings, and saw fishing boats return to their slips with the day’s haul. Bluefish was plentiful as several boats boasted tours to catch them. I remembered that, once, Dad had gone fishing for blues, and Mom was delighted and disgusted by the prospect of cleaning and cooking the little stinkers for dinner. It was the only time I ate bluefish.
I’d had enough beer, and mitzvah, and started to get fidgety.
“I have to go.Thanks for the beer, it was good, even warm. Good luck with your application. Hope you get a place of your own.”
“Mu maybe I’ll see you again.” He cocked his head to one side, like a puppy trying to understand a new command. “Maybe. Ya never know.”
I was hoping I could make a quick get away. I hoped I hadn’t given him any reason to think there would be an encore. I hoped I hadn’t made a huge mistake.