1977, the week of August 16th.
We had rented a block of repulsive apartments just up the hill from the pier with a group of friends. I’m about to turn 11. A tropical storm stirs up and it’s rainey and rough the entire time we were there. I go skin diving off of the casino, and the chop is so bad I can barely clear my snorkel. I then develop a fever and a tennis ball sized lump under my right armpit — it remains for a week. My mother informs me it is a "pulled muscle," while I think it is something else. Elvis dies on my birthday. I start feeling worse, and we return to Long Beach on, as Elise said, "the most horrible, lurching carnival ride of a boat in existence."
I’m not sure if we ever ate out while there. Good times. Good times.