Nik Was Here

Being from the Chicagoland area, and having survived a winter of Roland Emmerich proportions, a summer day at the beach wasn’t something I could yet wrap my head around. But then my wife’s aunt called, and asked if we’d be interested in using their condo for the weekend. My head was about to do some wrapping.

The drive was a breeze, and we touched down on Friday afternoon. Their condo was the sort of place that offers a warm hug—the comfortable kind, not the drunken stranger ones. It also happened to be a block from the lake, so the bonus points were adding up. I contemplated purchasing them a trophy of some sort, to show our gratitude. Unfortunately, according to my wife, a trophy is not the type of gift you give to show your appreciation. I disagree, trophies are badass, no matter the occasion, but I digress.

With the kids in tow, we walked to the beach, to get a lay of the land, and a better idea of what tomorrow’s preparations would entail. Did I mention that we don’t do the beach that often? I took my mental snapshot. We would need drying materials, sun deterrents, hydration elixirs, digging implements, and of course, booze.

On the walk back, we encountered a group of what I suppose were college freshmen. Sophomores, maybe? Whatever the case, they were young, sunburned, drunk, and mildly retarded. One of these dudebros was shouting up to another small herd of dudebros that were residing on a rooftop deck. I couldn’t quite make out the conversation, but the dudebro nearest us, on the street, insisted that his dudebro brethren throw him down a beer.

I was fairly certain if they did, he would not catch it. He would be hit by the plummeting can, and end up even dumber than he already was. Thankfully, one of the smarter dudebros insisted he get lost. Our street level dudebro shouted “westsiiiiide!” and took off in a jog. At that exact moment, on some far off desert island, Tupac and Biggie collectively rolled their eyes, while Elvis ate pudding.

Saturday on the Beach. With good weather and lots of beachfront real-estate to choose from, we quickly set up our base of operations. Evidenced by my sweet pic:

Most of the day was spent on the beach. Sandcastles were built, the newspaper was read, snacks were eaten, our kids bartered, bickered, and frolicked, and a drink was created (pour half of a frozen margarita pouch into a cup, fill the remainder of the cup up with beer, and then repeat this process often).

A quick note about the lake. It’s chilly. I almost froze my nether regions during an ill-advised swim. On the plus side, this also makes jumping into it on a hot day, invigorating. The mistake I made was staying waist deep for too long. Finally noticing the error, I ran out of the lake, in what I can only assume looked like a hairless Sasquatch being chased through quicksand by hornets.

The pain in my frozen parts reminded me of a prank that I fell for in the eighth grade:

Prankster: “You know the capital of Thailand?”

Nik: “Why the hell would I—“

Prankster: “Bangkok!”

*nails me in the junk*

This was kind of like that, except this prankster was a giant lake, with anger issues, and really cold hands.

Moving on, for the sake of brevity (Not sure if this is a blog or a memoir at this point) I will wrap it up with some quick bits:

– We ran into another dudebro during a different walk. He was attempting to throw a football into a third story window from the street. Apparently, dudebros are fascinated by gravity.

– I forgot how to grill with charcoal. I hate to admit this, and I’m worried that all of my chest hair will now wilt, but it is what it is. This was especially pathetic considering I tried to Google it, but my phone service was sketchy, and my questions fell on deaf ears. I finally figured it out, but not before a neighbor observed my shortcomings as a man.

– Upon leaving town, I hit a pothole that was on its way to becoming a sinkhole, and a block later I passed a tire shop. This was no coincidence. Somewhere near Michigan City, a tire shop employee is using a jack hammer with a silencer on it.

– My wife told me a story of sleeping over at her aunt and uncle’s house when she was a child. In the morning, her uncle asked if the kids all wanted to go to the Lincoln Park Zoo. His children groaned loudly, apparently he took them to the zoo quite a bit. He clapped his hands together and said “Okay, that settles it. Maxwell Street it is.” He’s a man after my own quirky heart, I thought.