Styrofoam Throne (22 page)

“Wanna get high?” Renaldo said, taking out a joint and lighting it up.

“Nah.”

“Why not? It’s not like you’re working today,” Renaldo said, laughing.

“I’m weird enough, dude.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Renaldo said with the weight of understanding.

“Fuckin’ A,” I answered.

Another gap in the conversation came and I felt like Renaldo wanted to be alone.

“What are you gonna do now?” I asked.

“Now? Right now I’m taking a piss,” Renaldo said, putting his hands on his hips.

It bummed me out to see Renaldo this way. I tried to think of a way to leave on a high note.

“Dude, next summer, let’s start the band.”

“Castle Dunes, that’s the name.” He didn’t miss a beat.

“Fuck yeah, it’s a killer name.”

“We’ll just write songs about the Castle. It’ll be like a concept band. If it’s not Castle-y, it’s not us,” he said while shaking his head in future disapproval.

“Yeah, man. Totally.”

A souvenir button from the pier’s gift shop floated by. I picked it up. It said, “I survived Castle Dunes!” I put it on, told Renaldo “Later,” and walked to shore.

I never got a chance to jam the metal songs of the Castle Dunes band because I never saw Renaldo again. He disappeared in the same puff of pot smoke that he arrived in. Everything had. Renaldo, if you read this—call me, bro.