Toothless and Pooped Upon: A Tale of Two Siblings

In the class hierarchy of trashy beach culture, we had the upper hand. For one day, the Sikdar family, with our plethora of advanced degrees, air of multicultural elitism, and token Mainline WASP in-law, rose above the fray of working class riffraff and thought, “These white people are actually louder and more embarrassing than we are.” And there was much rejoicing. In the form of golf-claps and hearty handshakes, as our traditional celebratory blowing of air horns was deemed inappropriate for the occasion.

We had the upper hand right up until we started losing our fake teeth and being shit on by seagulls.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware is not exactly the classiest beach around. We’re not talking hookers on the boardwalk and dirty needles in the sand; however, there is absolutely an arcade (maybe two), a Gravitron, and a wide variety of T-shirt/hermit crab/hair wrap shops.

As I sat there during the first glorious day of vacation last week, basking in the sun, frolicking in the salt water, and trying desperately to heal the aesthetic blight that has become my acne, I surveyed the sizzling masses of humanity around me and thought, “Is it possible that we, the Sikdar clan, are the classiest people on this beach?”

Automatically, this raised a red flag. If we set the bar for class, you’ve got yourself a problem.

Beaches of this ilk—forget that fancy cottage-on-the Cape/Hamptons-private-beach business—are remarkable magnets for some of the trashiest folk around. And ah, how I love getting on my high horse and marveling at the trashiness like some kind of interactive habitat diorama.

There are a lot of bad tattoos, a lot of cellulite and American flag bikinis, a lot of screaming toddlers in swollen, ocean-filled diapers. It’s a general kaleidoscope of stupidity that numbs the brain and warms the heart in a how-have-the-Chinese-not-taken-us-over-yet? sort of way.

First there was the group of stupid, stupid boys who dug a pit deep enough to stand in, and then had their female relations bury them neck deep, dump potato chips and popcorn over their heads and huddle around waiting to snap photographs of seagulls feeding on them. (And when I say “boys”, I mean young men who were about 18 years old.) Ultimately their plan failed, which was disappointing for everyone involved because I think we all really wanted to see those seagulls flock in and start pecking out eyeballs. As it was, I felt myself half-wishing spontaneous sterilization upon the buried-boys, so as to protect future generations from the idiocy of their potential offspring.

Then, of course, we had the women who played their radio boombox on the beach. Loud enough for all to hear. I just— I— The level of total inconsideration— I don’t understand. Do these people not know that about the personal music player revolution? Talk about prime candidates for “re-education through labor.” Just kidding. Not really. I have nothing more to say on the issue.

Finally, there were the loud families—of all races—who each had about eight children under the age of 13 and chose the beach as the appropriate forum to try and remedy systemic discipline issues. Between the shouting, the swatting, the bawling—and all out in the vast frying pan of public space that is the beach—these families made me want to freeze off my baby-making parts with liquid nitrogen, just in case. Who’s to say I, too, couldn’t one day spawn a gaggle of entirely recessive-gened children? I’d rather be impaled with a runaway beach umbrella.

Now if you’re sensing an undercurrent of hostility toward this menagerie of trashiness, let me clarify that what is really at work is ye ol’ Sikdar family superiority complex. The depth, breadth, and severity of our family-centric elitism are a point of longstanding debate between my mother and father—a topic to be tackled at a later date in time. While on the beach that Monday, our sense of superiority manifested itself benignly enough. We all sat there and thought, “Well, at least we’re not as classless as that.”

Tuesday would teach us differently. Tuesday put us right back in our place.

By Tuesday evening, my brother—Big Brother Two—had accidently swallowed his temporary front tooth with a mouthful of cheese steak It’s the first ever Indalian Job PHOTO SURPRISE! And you didn’t even have to click a link, you lazy motherfucker.

Poor boy, who initially lost the tooth in an inebriated wrestling challenge about a week before and didn’t have time to get a permanent replacement, walked around all day and all night with nothin’ but that little stub of a baby tooth in his head. Missin’ teef. Not the classiest look. Needless to say, we all laughed heartily at him and his totally country grin.

In fact, I laughed and laughed all afternoon till plop! splat! ooze.

And before I knew it, there I was, sitting in my beach chair feeling dazed and mildly violated. Seagull shite in my sea-salted locks. Shite down my cheek. Yes, shite quivering on my lips. MY LIPS! Shite pooled in the concave of my collar-bone. [There is no photograph of shite-covered-Jana because I would have punched said sibling paparazzi in their faces.]

After being tenderly dosed with water bottles, consoled by my sister [interesting how the seagull didn’t shit on The Pretty Sister!], and heckled by my people, I was appropriately humbled into realizing that as we were—toothless, pooped upon, and bombastically rowdy—The Family Sikdar was, in the end, just as trashy as our fellow beach goers.

No matter how we try to hide it.

No matter how we try to compensate for it.

We are what we are.

And those are the just-slightly-less-than-the-classiest Indalians around.

We were humbled; yes. But broken? No.

Neither missing teeth, nor seagull shit could break our unflappable grace.