As in:
Despite the fact that Jerry had put the capital D back in Dysfunctional, it was hard to stay mad at him.
Hector remembered the day Jerry showed up for his shift as a life guard at Amador beach, zinc oxide on his nose, and sunglasses on the zinc oxide, his hair reduced to a blond mohawk, his brain somewhat impaired by a late breakfast of Cerveza Balboa. He set his boom box on the highest step of the elevated chair and had it blaring with Deep Purple’s Machine Head. The tape had rolled all the way to “Space Truckin’” before an MP approached and demanded he turn it down or put on something more “civilized.”
He went with more civilized. He dismounted the chair with a forward somersault, said “yes sir!”, and not only popped in some Jackson Five but actually started impersonating Michael Jackson, moonwalking down the beach. The MP tried to stare him down but dissolved into giggles and walked off with what was left of his dignity.
“Is that how you stay out of jail?” Hector called up to him, once Jerry was back in the chair.
“Hey smart ass,” Jerry called down. “I’m noticing a hole in the shark net out by the third pole. Why don’t swim out there and plug it for me.”
“I don’t know how to swim,” Hector replied.
“Then go get me a cheeseburger.”
“What about the sharks?” Hector asked.
“Looks like it could be a good day for the sharks,” Jerry said. “But we got crafty swimmers with that slippery Coppertone stuff all over ‘em. So you never know.”
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