In early June 1973, with a few wins in New York under my belt, I moved to New York. The city, with a selection of gyms, provided a better array of sparring partners and the environment to create some buzz. However, as the weather began to heat up, the gyms, including mine, the Gramercy, lacking A/C, started clearing out. With nothing on the horizon and nursing a cracked knuckle, I obtained permission from my New York managers to flee to the Jersey shore. Specifically, Ocean City, a dry town—meaning no bars or liquor stores—and reasonably close, in case something came up.
Disembarking in Ocean City with pockets full of cash and a suitcase, I drew in a couple of breaths of the salty air and headed off to find a room. Typical of the Jersey shore, the town's boardwalk, packed with countless pizza counters, hamburger and chip joints, and cotton candy stands, ran parallel to the beach. Significantly, for me, it had a wide, gleamingly clean, sandy beach. Being July, rentals were easy to find, relatively cheap, and the choices were between rooms in nearly identical late eighteenth or early twentieth-century two- and three-story homes.
Soaked with sweat after just a few blocks, I put my suitcase down and chose a place solely because it stood out, its clapboards brown instead of the near-ubiquitous white. The rent, 'one hundred fifty dollars' a month, was posted, a reasonable rate and within my budget. Handed an application by an older woman—her hair whiter than the sand—and after filling it out, I was handed a list of house rules. Upon reviewing and agreeing, I handed over one week's rent plus a deposit.
My first days were spent taking walks on a beach that in the morning was so fresh it appeared to shimmer. The major concern on these walks was the debris of shellfish and expired jellyfish washed up overnight, which I avoided by maneuvering much like a knight on a chessboard. Following a late afternoon dip in the ocean, it was evenings on the boardwalk and slices of pizza or a meatball hero, either washed down with a Coke.
One afternoon, five days after my arrival, forgoing a late swim and choosing to explore the town, I found one place that stood out. Its outside walls adorned with weathered clapboards, the terrace with a blue awning shading a multitude of tables, the place looked classic but more relaxed than the hotel restaurants. On closer inspection, I found a promising menu enclosed in a glass case near the gate; the words "Peche Blanc" written in script at the top. The menu featured the standard appetizers of shrimp, a choice of chowders, and steamed clams, along with main courses of various grilled fish and, of course, fish and chips. And a note declared it legal to bring alcohol as long as food was purchased. Further, it stated that liquor or wine could be bought at Somer’s Point, located across the bridge that linked Ocean City to the mainland.
Encouraged, I returned at 5:30 and seeing a short line forming, it confirmed the restaurant’s popularity, yet was not so long as to try my patience. Patiently waiting to be seated while observing the tanned and attractive wait staff buzzing, I spotted one solitary gaunt waitress whose hair, a dull bone color, cut pageboy style, and gangly legs gave her an extra special look. Visually clashing with her shapely bronzed fellow workers, she indeed stood out, much like how a pearl onion would appear on a banana split. Intriguingly, her eyes, a metallic gray color, betrayed an elevated intelligence—the special kind acquired through life experience.
Seated at a table and slurping fish soup, I watched as this waif-like waitress took orders, delivered orders, dropped off dishes, picked up dishes, filled coffee cups. More or less, doing the work of two girls, she was crucial to the workings of the Peche Blanc. At one point, a manager at the far end of the place, looking for a waitress but finding none, yelled “Laurie,” leading to our heroine to scamper over.
“Laurie!!!”
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