On the terrace where the parents drink margaritas there’s a tiny radio. The sound is quiet against the sea noises taking up all the rest of the space. They are giddy with their neon green slush, poured carefully in glasses with tops like tires. They swing each other’s wives around, barefooted and snagging cheek kisses. Sometimes someone’s dad will catch someone else’s mom’s side-mouth. They exchange a giggle and call it a margarita accident.
On the terrace we get hot tortilla chips and watered-down pink salsa. The parents love Jimmy Buffet and plastic Hawaiian leis. Mom likes to shake her boobies in her loose top with her bikini strings dangling like a tail. She wears sandals with rhinestones before she kicks them off to wave her arms freely and wiggle up on the other dads.
When the sun is gone, they get wild. Their day-scorched vacation faces are raw and red, and they let us sip their drinks. The salt is enough to keep us away and we think they’ll die from being so drunk. And when it finally starts to cool down, the parents realize they don’t serve dinner on the terrace. We get an appetizer platter adorned with leafy things, fruits and sauces to dip all the tortilla chips we can eat. In the morning our stomachs are aching and the parents drink tomato juice on the beach. Mom asks me to fetch the tiny radio.