Rode by that Thai place that’s also a jet ski rental place. They were filming something. The owner was on a tiny dais, floodlit, and kept flubbing her lines. It was a pretty hot day, and being pancaked and floodlit on a hot day is flustering, no doubt. Asian woman with a British accent, which shouldn’t be interesting, but which seemed interesting enough, alas. And in fairness, this was the dowdier bay side of Rockaway and not the cosmopolitan beach side. The bay side is mostly red-faced locals with meaty New York mumbles.
An explosion up the street, sounded about what it sounds like when you toss an M80 in a dumpster. Contained, resounding, a dumpster-sized cookie sheet being whapped. The woman pictured here mouthed at me “What the fuck was that?” I mouthed back a mildly excited I-don’t-know. She came over and complained about the heat in a stage whisper. Turns out they’re doing one of those renovation shows. A man shows up at your restaurant, screams at your staff, unfurls a blueprint, has a vision for what your business should be and, in three days, is going to be. She is part of the crew doing this rapid renovation, is consequently covered in paint. Her cat lacerated her this morning, and the blood blends right in. Mostly. You can find it if you look. Her voice was flinty and violet, and it seemed like a burdensomely hot-toned voice to have on a hot day.
Biking away, over a bridge, had a clear view into the back patio of the Thai place. Was filled with paintings of dragons, now.