Gut Instinct: Counter Intelligence
Like Cinderellas gown reverting to rags, I feared July 17 would transform me into a haggard wino with a bulbous gut, Shar-Pei wrinkles and a hairline hiding behind my earlobes.
Happy birthday, old man, my girlfriend says that morning. Youre now
Dont say it.
Youre now
Dont say it, I plead.
Youre 30.
I remove the blue bed sheet and scrutinize my carcass. Aside from dilated blood vessels pinpricking my chest and shoulders and crinkly crows-feet, I remain remarkably preservedperhaps Gods payback for making me 5-foot-4 and furry as an Arctic critter.
See, 30 isnt so bad, my girlfriend says.
Youre only saying that because youre 30.
Maybe. But arent you excited for your party?
Damn straight. For eight years, Ive hosted my get-older bash at Coney Island. The formula: swill lakes of beer, ride the Cyclone and urinate in the ocean. Not necessarily in that order.
The most necessary ingredient is beer. To stock up (and avoid the beach beer surcharge), I turn to Park Place Food Corp. (539 Park Place at Classon Ave., Bklyn; 718-399-9055). Since 2003, this 24-hour Crown Heights bodega has sustained me with meaty sandwiches and bargain beer. Twenty-four-ounce cans of Coors cost $1.25. Today, on this most special day, I want them cheaper.
Can you cut me a deal? I ask the mustached counter guy. He owes me. I know his secret.
Several years ago, the counterman asked my bygone roommate Cory to hang out.
Sure, Cory replied, lets watch a movie. The counterman came over. They retreated to Corys cramped room.
Got any porn? the counterman asked.
Uh, no, Cory said. Lets watch Point Break. Cory flicked on Keanu Reeves surfing flick, featuring numerous shirtless moments.
Did I ever tell you about my blow job? the counterman asked, perhaps stirred by Patrick Swayzes fuzzy torso. Some guy at my store wanted to give me a blow job. I sat on the ice cream freezer and, he, you know The countermans head bobbed in the international sign of oral pleasure. Cory concentrated on Keanu.
Ever blown a guy? the counterman asked. Cory shook his head. Never just a little?
Lets watch the movie, Cory said, as they silently observed Swayze surf into the great beyond.
How about a buck a beer? I ask the counterman today. Ill buy 50.
He ponders my offer. $1.10 each?
One dollar.
OK, only for you, my friend, he says. Tell Cory I say hello. I overload my granny cart with cheap liquid pleasure, and my motley birthday posse subways it to Coney Island. The sun is blazing. The sky is blue. We plant my birthday flagsparkly fabric featuring my image hoisting kielbasa like a greasy trophyand commence beer intake. Hours evaporate. Sand is flung. I wrestle partygoers with Hulk Hogan abandon.
Honey, you should probably eat some food, my girlfriend says. My eyes are as glazed and red as candied apples.
Beer is food.
Not today.
To stave off drunken doom, food troops stomp to Nathans? No way, wiener: La Plaza Doña Zita (Bowery St. betw. W. 12th St. & Stillwell Ave., Bklyn). This Mexican stall specializes in chewy corn quesadillas ($4). A griddle-crisped moon is packed with mushrooms, fiery chicken and queso fresco, then folded and showered with cream fresca, cotija cheese and lettuce.
Uh, wheres the silverware? I ask upon receiving my spicy quesadilla.
Eat with your hands, animal, my girlfriend says. Like a toddler, I sloppily smush quesadilla between my lips. The treat is crunchy-gooey goodness, with a hint of heat. I burp in appreciation.
More beer. Its my birthday!
First wipe your cheeks, my girlfriend says, napkining off creamy schmutz.
The sweaty, sunburn-y day sludges toward dissolution, as do I. Watching a 30-year-old binge with college-freshman abandon is barely more appealing than a Verne Troyer sex tape. Amid youths blossom, debauchery appears rebellious and debonair. At 21, nothing was more punk rock than when my pal Steve upchucked, then tinkled, between several subway cars. Wild days! But as years mount, common sense suppresses self-destruction and hangovers become skull-bludgeoners, drunkenness seems less ha-ha than: Maybe he needs help.
Stop thinking so much, my friend Aaron says. Its your birthday. Youre supposed to be a moron. He hands me another beer.
Youre right, I say, cracking another Coors, maybe my seventh or 11th. Im already feeling dumber.
And you know what else you gotta do on your birthday?
Oh, yes.
With bare feet and sunburned shoulders, we rush to the Cyclone. Kiesters are planted on the antiquated coaster. It clanks skyward, providing eagle views of ant-size beachgoers, the yawning Atlantic, the imperiled amusement park, and thenwooshwe plummet toward our reckless future.