Scotch Beach is where the locals hang out. When we arrive, a massive bonfire made from wooden pallets boosted from the ferry dock throws flames fifteen feet into the air. Big, lifted F-250's and tricked out Jeeps with diamond plate panels and winches bolted to the bumpers are haphazardly parked in a semi-circle around the fire. Van Halen's "Hot For Teacher" blasts from one of the truck's open windows.
The people are a motley, shaggy-looking crew decked out in de rigueur surf wear and flip flops. They clutch Coronas, pass joints and play fetch with happy go lucky dogs all free from leashes. A group of pretty, young waitresses fresh from work wear t-shirts that say, "Mohegan Cafe, The National Hotel and Finn's Seafood". They smoke cigarettes while huddled around a keg half buried in the sand. The buzz of a dirt bike engine rips over the din as a scraggly-looking guy in dirty jeans, no shirt and a leather cap tears off down the beach into the darkness. Seconds later, he turns the bike around and guns it towards a small ramp made of packed sand and a piece of washed up plywood. He hits the jump at full speed and clears a seven foot sea kayak set lengthwise. The party goers erupt in a chorus of, "Whoohoos!" before chanting, "Josie! Josie! Josie!".
I turn to Boomer who has just come back from the keg with fresh beers. "So I take it his name is Josie".
"Ha! Yeah! That dude's crazy. He's the moped mechanic at the shop I run. He basically lives on Budweiser and cigarettes."
"So that's what you do? You run a moped shop?"
"Yeah. Well...during the summer.", says Boomer.
"And what about the rest of the year?", I'm intrigued.
"I carry sticks around".
"You're a landscaper?", I ask confusedly.
"Nah man- I'm a caddy. You know, like- Golf?"
"So let me get this straight. During the summer you rent mopeds. During the winter you're a golf caddy? That's what you do?"
Boomer takes a gulp of beer, wipes the runoff from his chin then shrugs, "Beat's workin'..."
Teddy, the lighthouse keeper, approaches with a small group of friends. "Boomer- I keep trying to tell these guys that the Doc here is that rapper everyone's been talking about but no one believes me."
"Yeah- this is the guy", reassures Boomer.
"This guy?!", pipes up a long-haired kid wearing a Pabst t-shirt. "He looks like a history professor or some shit!". The group erupts in laughter. "Yeah- if this guy's a rapper then I'm Kelly Slater", mocks a tatted up kid in a Rip Curl hoodie. More laughter...
Boomer and I exchange looks. My gaze turns steely. Boomer gives me a slight nod before turning back to the group. "Well if you monkeys want a show- you came to the right place".
I stand up and brush the sand from my amazing brown polyester pants and sports jacket before adjusting my orange tie. "Any of you Point Break rejects got an iPod adapter in your rig?"
"Yeah. I do.", says Pabst boy.
I produce my iPhone from my pocket and cue up my groundbreaking track, "413". "Put this on and crank your shit to eleven. If you think you can handle that."
The kid in the Pabst t-shirt scoffs, takes my iPhone and obediently plugs it in. Moments later the beat drops as I jump on the hood of his jeep as heads turn and a crowd gathers. As the first verse kicks in, the entire beach party has surrounded the makeshift stage. Heads bob up and down as I launch into the first verse...
"Yeah yeah I'm from the 413 off of 91 south of Chicopee
Across the river from the C-I-T-Y the city of Springfield I drop dope beats
With a signature flow that I call my own it rings true like a solid gold telephone
Dr. Westchesterson ringin' your bell, I'm doin' it and doin' it and doin' it well..."
It take the kids a minute to catch the chorus but once they do, the entire beach party has their hands in the air chanting, "413! 413! 413! 413!".
Per usual, I've just rocked another muthafuckin' party. But that's what the Dr. does so you know...no big.