Your Sucking Funny Day (thing)

I think the only reason it seemed so bright was because we were all coming down from our Cap'n Crunch-induced sugar highs, but, then Saturday afternoons were always like that, all sunshine and not so harsh as reality, like every weekend afternoon could be paradise if we all just tried a little harder. Like the folks out there in TV Land should clap their hands. Like pine trees are palm trees.

The top was down. Cut off, specifically, with a band saw because Aitchy was tired of not looking at the sun specifically on these days. we had to be careful where to stick our hands along the edge of the Mercedes, lest we incur upon ourselves... injury.

We passed a neighbor hosing off the sidewalk. We smiled and cheered as he flipped us off.

The volume knob twisted to the right.

What we did first was cruise out into the country. Jammy would sit in the back every week so everyone could hear him and shout above the wind, reciting the synopses of his own personal Saturday morning cartoons. This week's was about an end of the cold war secret agent who gets trapped in a small Arkansas town that has been subverted by the commies.

The agent is a rat.

The commies are kitties.

Still driving along rolling fields, Aitchy acquired the brass to suggest that we weren't really driving at all (despite the fact that he was the one at the wheel). The fields were backdrops, the sky was painted on. "Is all too perfect, ken?" he'd say in an accent of mixed and dubious origin.

We were Hollywood refugees. We were waving our arms at the sky.

By the time we rolled back into the city, the buildings seemed fuzzy and pointless. We were talking about lost loves and architecture. There was nothing safer, nothing more beautiful.

Cunningham was a disaffected thirty-year-old art student who lived in a Dali-esque apartment complex on the east side of town. He met us in front with a towel in one hand and a hooch flask in the other.

"C'mon, kids. This is Saturday. We're not getting any older."

Everyone at the beach was, of course, jealous of our hairy chests and our mean grins. Aitchy, always quick to anger, kicked over a sandcastle masterpiece after some kid told him to go fuck himself in a whirlpool.

Jammy, his senses abandoning him, ran into the ocean, tearing off his clothes as he went. If I had a camera, if I could take photographs with any semblance of skill, it would be like this: a bright blue background, Jammy running along the sand, first a man, then a blur, then a streak, into the ocean. To look at this photo would cause the sound of laughter.

The damn kid wouldn't leave me alone. I was trying to read The Rum Diary and she, in her polka-dotted tutu swim dress, stood and just stared.

"What?" I asked in a voice that implied the second part of the sentence: "...the fuck are you doing even bothering to exist?"

"I've got a friend!"

"Who's your friend?"

The girl tagged me in the solar plexis and ran off screaming and giggling. I stood up to see where she had disappeared to, but the surf and crowd had swallowed her. At least somebody loves me. I think.

Cunningham appeared after a brief departure with a cooler full of Coronas and a handful of limes. I sipped at one of the beers and figured the sun was getting to me: Cunningham had never never never never bought any of us beer.

"What's this for, then?" Aitchy asked.

Cunningham just flashed an alltooth smile and fluffed his pompadour. "You know what I love more than Saturday afternoons? Saturday night."

I shook my head and peered into the ocean. Jammy was visible, his head bobbing. You could see the smile in his eyes from Mars, probably.

Behind us we could still make out the city. The buildings were backbeats and we were the dancers.

That made life extra nice.

I didn't ever want to go back, but umbrellas were being gathered up. It was time to do something about our lunch situation.

Getting off the beach was another sordid adventure. Jammy had lost his shorts somewhere in the search, so he ended up covering his dainty bits with water wings and a disarming smile. He lept across the tarmac to the car in giant cartoony steps, dancing and stomping like a madman.

How could this man be so infectiously happy? I blamed Saturday.

Traffic was never a problem because we always had the right music. Fearful drivers with AM radios would glance in their rear view mirrors and pull aside to make way for the danciest car on the planet.

Cunningham was reading us passages from his tattered, yellowed, dog-eared copy of V for Vendetta. We all shouted along to the stereo: Alan Moore knows the score.

The Web Slinger Deli has always been a favorite of ours. It was only there could we simultaneously escape the pressures of adulthood while stuffing our faces with some of the best food on the planet. Jammy got his Archie Club Sandwich, Cunningham ordered an Amazing Hulk green salad, and Aitchy, the smug fucker, had his Galactus ready by the time we hit the counter.

Not hungry enough for a meal, I ordered Spidey, a drink for all ages, and cowered in the corner, absorbing the Silver Age.

We walked from there. The buildings were a rhythm section, we were solo fills and horn hits. Jammy was dancing with random women on the sidewalk, twirling past them and kissing them on the hands. Everything was falling into place like a grand orchestration.

Why were the Saturday afternoons always like this? Surely the sugar buzz had worn off. There must've be a deeper equation that regulated the flow of happiness in sun or thunder. I couldn't help but notice we were rapidly approaching a bittersweet moment.

As we walked back to the garage, a calico cat jumped from a fence and in front of Aitchy.

"Wha' you wan', little kitten? You want food?" Aitchy bent forward and pursed his lips, making a clicking noise.

Cunningham coughed. "C'mon, man. I've gotta meet someone soon."

"Hold up a tick, aight? I've got a kitty kitty here. 'Ave ya got a home little kitty? I could use a kitty."

Jammy bent down and jingled the little bell and collar that hung from the cat's neck. "Looks like she probably belongs to one of the Latinos around here. C'mon, Aitch."

As we continued on, Aitch looked back. The cat cleaned itself and then lept back into the alley.

Back home I realized that I was, indeed, rather hungry.

Here's what I do with tuna fish: press the water out with the lid of the can, dump out the fish into a small Tupperware container, mix in some Miracle Whip, sweet relish, and chopped jalapeños. Sometimes I stuff it all between two slices of oat nut and devour, but on Saturdays I eat it straight from the container while sitting in the window and taking in the sunny peace of the city.

By the time I finished my tuna, the clock chimed four o'clock exactly. Had it only really been an hour? Had we done too much or too little? It was our perfect sucking funny day, and it would repeat itself through the years until all of us were too tired to lift a longneck.

At least, that was the plan.