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There is no interaction between us and them. Yet, we stand in silence for a good half hour, sipping our ciders, observing the Florida color from beneath our dark sunglasses. Dad’s notoriously sociable, so I don’t want to call him a liar, but I’m damn certain he’s just humoring me. He says we like to watch the weirdness happen, but only from afar. The crowd swells around us and Dad remarks he loves to people-watch, that we’re the same in this way. We stand against the outdoor restrooms’ mural: sunset clouds painted like fire hovering over the tumult of the ocean.
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Dad complains that the folk duo performing sounds like Deliverance, sounds like the score for that one movie where Nic Cage drives real fast. In the center, a rustic stage curtained by the branches of a majestic Eucalyptus tree. Tottering out into the golden afternoon, pints in hand (Coco Loco for me, Summer Sipper for him), we head toward the bar’s sprawling expanse of picnic benches. We don’t shift our conversation to greater depths.
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In the industrial-style bar, all copper and exposed pipes, we discuss which is the cleanest, the driest, the most refreshing. We order a flight of ciders, stoner-friendly flavors bordering on the obscene: Coco Loco, Habanero Peach, Orange Blossom Vanilla, something called “Summer Sipper,” a hard lemonade with 10% ABV. Dad knows I’m a friend of the well-meaning fuck-up. Dad knows I prefer the local dive over the oceanfront tourist trap. My dad slaps my sunkissed shoulder and chuckles, “This is your kind of place, Jill.” I take no offense. Billy is this establishment’s resident Florida Man. The caption underneath winks: Billy, Employee of the Month. He’s 80% beard, 100% pickled by booze and unkind, yet memorable, years. Friends I thought would abandon this town long ago but never did.Ī wizened dirtbag lolls on a bench just outside the bar. Old childhood friends have tagged this location on social media, friends with baby bangs, decent tattoos and checkered pasts.
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This place knows how to appeal to its clientele, convince them to trade their cheap draft beer for something exotic and fruity. The bar’s logo: an apple-shaped skull impaled with a ring gauge. A banana-yellow wood-frame home recently converted into a brewery. “Pierced Ciderworks,” reads the sign outside. Today’s goal is to fill our bellies to the brim so all the alcohol has a soft and safe place to land. Fried calamari, fried alligator with spicy ranch. We pore over the menu searching for maximum gratification. Each burp, a misplaced kiss.ĭad insists we obey our appetites no matter what mercy our bowels may seek later. Each bite, a cherished morsel of intimacy. No matter the awkward distances and bitter resentments, Dad and I find our way back to each other over a sticky table piled high with the greasy and piquant.
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Today promises multiple opportunities for gluttony, for communion. It’s been a year.īut today promises sunshine, a balmy lagoon breeze, extra spicy Bloody Marys. It’s been a year since we’ve seen each other. Dad and I are in downtown Fort Pierce, Florida, close to where I grew up and where he still lives. We show our love by slurping oysters, three dozen to be exact-two dozen raw and unadorned, a dozen served “dirty,” splattered with sour cream, red onion and red lump caviar.