Beach Ants

Do they gather for fear of friendship? Drifting in a drunken stupor of money and margaritas, pleading for affirmation on the beaches of Puerto Rico. It is all here under the San Juan sun, on the sand and shore. The palm trees lean in and whisper a secret: You made it. “But where?” they cry, to no reply. Maybe it was just the wind. With an empty glass of Don Q rum punch in my hand, I stumble into the sea of umbrellas. The delusional smell of sunscreen blinds me, but I forge on. I will find the Queen Ant and the meaning to this madness.

The Panama Hat’s are crashing out on their long-awaited 401Ks. The pyramid holds strong. There is an air of dignity among them, shaped from the decades of corporate beatings that leaves these men blind eyed and indifferent. A great amount of monetary wealth accumulates here between the vested stock options and lifelong money grabbers. They know their place and worth, which is sufficient, but some left to be desired. Margarita glasses are raised up, pulsing down in a steady IV drip. Right to their rotted brain. Their skin is falling off its bones, as if decomposing into the earth beneath them. Greedy inheritances await. They dance along the shore burning Marlboro Reds in their defiance of death. The tobacco cloud wafts across the shore, killing small children who did not stand a chance. Thankfully, they will never wear a Panama Hat.

The whim of the world bends to the hot women of San Juan. To be clear the local women are stunning, but I am addressing this tourist microcosm. They lay on beach towels, playing intellectual with their smutty books or hot girl walking under the watchful eye of their benefactor. They are aware of their worth and their diminishing returns. Everyone takes a hopeful glance, maybe, just maybe. They take selfies, and boyfriends their portraits. This appears to be the main objective, however useless the function. The vanity vortex is consuming, and all must suffer.

Head to the beaches of Ponce if you wish to escape the delusional tourists, otherwise the local hustler is the only culture to be found. They stroll the beaches selling $5 fresh coconuts. They hack the nut, which is actually a fruit, to fit a straw for your Western convenience. Or you are heckled by the messenger selling you a tour. Who the hell buys these, it beats me. Too bad there is a rotten demand. While avoiding the assault, I saw a local on his day off. It was a refreshing to see the sand enjoyed as intended, with no Tommy Bahama chair or pastel striped beach towels. The man was equipped in a ratty black tee and jeans, an American snapback and his work bag. He worked on a tight rotation of Marlboros and joints, which was only interrupted for his mango ice vape. He downed a Monster energy drink and nodded off.

Coconut rum splashes from all sides. A couple is fighting over their child’s custody. Two strangers are beating each other for no apparent reason, one striking with a tumbler and the other defending with a portable speaker. I am running, the needless violence is intoxicating and I am sick. Umbrellas spin by, and I collapse into the sea. The lifeguard blows his whistle and drags me out of the riptide and rocks. I take off and run till my feet strike concrete. I look up at the white plaster tower before me, the Condado Vanderbilt Hotel. I have found the nest.