CHAPTER VII. THE BEACH

Your hero takes a trip.

Let’s go for a walk. Not interested? Too bad! Anselm Merrywood is the name, and I’m in charge around here, lest you forget. But though Canute was king, even he could not command the waves.

 The girl did have some sense. The small feet were bare again. Wooden steps led down through dense ice grass to a public beach, and a mother’s contempt. Frightful people. No respect for common decency, there should be a law. But it is a tsunami zone. We can only hope! My companion skipped ahead, and occasional evening strollers were exercising their birthright to the sands. But the sea’s surge has first dibs, sparing no shoes!

Let me sketch the shore. The ocean meets the sky in hiding, a band of fog hanging over the horizon. In the foreground, a diminutive girl with hair blowing over her leather backpack and a tall, thin man with cold, wet feet are pacing side by side. She relied on her cardigan; he retrieved his sneakers from the car, which sorry items now received a soaking. Ambling over to a driftwood tree trunk on the sand above the tide line, they plopped down on the seaward side, where a depression hid them from the row of rich real estate.

 She was a woman. I found a safe distance, where a small blackened stub stuck out from the sand.

“Not the first time, apparently.” I waved the evidence.

“Not me, dude. Lizzy hangs out here, with her hoebags.”

The ceremony calls for concentration. She extracted a small cigarette from a Ziploc bag, flicked open the cardboard folder, struck a pliant match, and brought the cradled flame to a pout. A small cough followed the intake, and the pungency of infraction marked off our lair from a disenchanted world.

“Wanna hit? Hella strong bud. Don’t want an old geezer going apeshit on me.”

“You’re kidding.” I smoked pot with the band, it must have been twenty-five years. “Stronger the better.” All right, I did spend the night in the woods, aborting our rehearsal. But I wasn’t disoriented at all, just have an affinity for owls.

She passed the baton. Our fingers brushed. Lungs burning, I hacked against the wall of the log.

“Another one?” The gremlin has a grin.

“I’m good. More for you.”

We had touched. She took a deep draught, crushed the end against the wood, and fell into a spasm of dry cough. “Don’t do this every day.” Her fit faded. “Or do I?”

“Smoking up a storm back there.”

“Trying to keep the bugs away. But here you are!”

She closed off the investigation. I sketched an outline under her outfit and praised our privacy. My transportation yet to arrive, the driver was fussing over nothing. Her hands wrapped her knees while feet massaged the sand.

“Nice spot.” I am well-versed in the travel section. “Quiet.” A pod of surfers bobbed in and out of view, but the beach was now deserted.

“Quiet.” She lay back on the sand, head pillowed in hand, and an open cardigan fell to either side. “Wouldn’t come here with anybody else, just you.”

Stay calm man, stay calm. Tobacco breath affirmed the suggestion. No one would see, the log completely shielded us from the view of any window, and the surfers would be otherwise occupied.

“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”

“I brought Cedric here once, but he just drinks Coke. My mother wouldn’t have him in the house—”

“I’m not surprised. Coke!”

“Such a bigot. You’re different. You don’t impose. I’m good with that.” Her scrutiny confirmed my essential goodness. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” Discretion is the better part . . .

“Feeling anything yet?”

“Nope. Never affects me that much.”

 “Wanted to be nice.” She gestured towards the twinkle of party lights. “For Daddy’s sake. You’re only fifty once, don’t be harshing the mellow.”

“Your mother went all out, wanted a memorable occasion, she told me.”

“So she throws the most boring party in human history, for the win. Old farts are all the same, what am I going to do when I graduate? I’m like, going to fuck like a rabbit.”

“I thought the men looked excited.” One man tried to stay calm.

“Wish I’d said it. What am I going to do when I graduate? Where’ll that bird be tomorrow?” A solitary tern swept over the breakers, blown here and there on the wind.

“Amen.” I nodded in sympathy. And I had to give thanks, about to pursue the same line of inquiry. “They’d have got more joy from your siblings. Speaking of which, I noticed Lily has a friend.”

“Julio, the dealio?” Nefertiti traced a slow rune in the sand. “The folks went to visit her, Cambridge. Daddy never shuts up, but he doesn’t want to talk on the phone, and as soon as they walk through the door, oh my God. My mother’s all peeved, Lily lives on the fourth floor, no elevator. Daddy goes, ‘your sister’s decided she’s a dyke.’ He’s got a mouth, gotta love it, but jeez! I’m thinking, curtains for Lily. Then he goes, ‘I’m okay with that, her life.’ But I guess we’re talking major scene. My mother likes to yell, you should see how she treats the housekeeper, makes me vomit. And Daddy, poor guy.”

“Daddy can do no wrong.” I happened to notice the skirt. “Just like me!” The hem was enjoying a little hike.

“Daddy’s all wrong.”

“Birds of a feather?”

“I don’t really belong.”

“Hell is other people?”

“I like everyone. They just don’t like me.”

“Just quoting. Plenty more where that came from. You should visit my bookstore. We welcome the serious student.”

“I’m not spoiled. Working in a coffee shop.”

“Helping Starbucks take over the world?”

“Dude I know owns a café, Valencia. Great guy.”

Cafés offer a place to meet. But a great guy? I was unable to find the words to ask about the establishment, without intrusion, without interrupting the precious silence, without indicting a tedious old man, without making appalling suggestion, without falling off an existential precipice, without remembering what I wanted to ask in the first place, and the verdict was in. A bird was flying high. Someone lay back and gazed at the fog streaming inland overhead. How could he cultivate his mystery, how much silence is golden, had he outstayed the welcome? They had been quiet for hours, whose voice was this, why do others always take charge, had he done something wrong? What was he doing here, who is this girl, what does she want? Ding-a-ling, he doesn’t understand a thing. I’m high, how do I know I’m high, everything is so clear, what was the question . . . ?

 “Mister, where you going?”

“Just a little walk. I want to check out those birds. I think I saw a phalarope.”

“We’ll say goodbye then.”

“Might have just been a common sandpiper.”

“Sex Machine isn’t happening, I’m here to tell you.” She chuckled in reproof.

“Do you need to call me anything?”

“For real. Who else could I be talking to? Except myself. And the ocean. You’re Mr. No-Name.”

Triumph turns transcendent. We had a deep connection, understood each other perfectly, without verbal compulsion. She was wise beyond her years, but only I could see. She needed me. Right here, right now, there is no other place I’d want to be. Thoughts chased each other’s tails and disappeared, like the strands of fog overhead.

We had company. A pair of beady eyes was spying on our council from a post at the end of the log. The girl had a feathered follower, the spy its handicap. The limping sparrow showed no fear, shuffled closer to our hollow, studying the strangers. And one study was ready, reached for her backpack, unwrapped a paper bag, withdrew a fistful of some mix. I was witness to a ritual. Saint Francis preached to the birds; his daughter fed the faithful on her hand? The little cripple fluttered to the floor, found some hallowed ground, awaited the consecrated bread. To witness was a privilege, the world worshipping as one.

“Stupid bird!” She smacked away a pest. The fragile felon narrowly escaped with its life, flapping frantically for freedom. A comedienne collapsed into giggles, sinking chops into the candy.

“Good grief, Alice!” The witness was beside himself. “You think that was funny?!”

“Told you, I don’t really belong.”

“Stupid bird!” I too found myself in tears. Our choir joined in celebration, laughter howling from the hollow. A charmed exit leads off the congested freeway, invisible to the daily traffic.

 “Mr. No-Name, you make all good and proper. Tell me something depraved. And I mean depraved.”

Pity the poor mouse. The most tempting piece of cheese lays a mortal trap. If I took the bait, I would reveal myself a pervert, if I refused, a bore. Surf pulsed over the sands, and a chill blew through my bones. An enormous seagull hovered overhead, with a mew of menace. The cruel vulture attacks a stricken deer by first pecking out the eyes. I should sit up, shield my sight, show some sign of sentience, but could not stir. My feet could take no walk, but my fancy would still wander, watching the whirling wings, a wisp of waders wending over the waves. Christine shut the door on our marriage, sentencing me to exile with neither fair hearing nor hope of reprieve. Anselm, I’m sorry, you’re a good man, but I’ve got to move on. Your road runs straight, my road is winding, and I need to see what lies beyond the bend. The girl wanted depravity. A good hour passed, without a word. My tongue had frozen, the canvas of my thought splattered like a Jackson Pollock. Or was it just a second?

“You’ve got to tell me one too.” My tongue paid another visit. “Fair’s fair.”

“Tell you what?”

“The worst thing you’ve ever done. We had an agreement.”

“Liar. I only make oaths in blood.”

She was a woman. And she lay with her back to me, ringlets parted to reveal the pale skin of her neck.

I have a hand. And I accepted the invitation with a gentle scratch. I was high, but this was no hallucination. I scratched her neck.

 “All right, Alice, you asked for it, depravity. I was an Aztec high priest in a past life. The gods demanded human sacrifice. And I was preparing for the festival, held a beautiful virgin personally captive in the temple—”

“My nigga! Against the rules to talk about your past life. Want to know about this man here, not no fucking Aztec.”

“You run a tight ship. How about this, I once tried to murder my wife.”

“Now we’re talking.”

“Christine was the name, cheating the game.”

“Still in love.”

“You know the guilty party, she came to your house often enough. At least she enjoyed some people’s company. We were sitting at home one evening, I’m reading my paper, she’s all tense, not talking. She spills her tea, never happens. She wants a divorce, seeing another man. She was going to live in the guest room. I didn’t get any sleep for weeks. Couldn’t take it anymore, so I crept into her room in the middle of the night, smothered her face with a pillow—”

“Bad boy.”

“I felt like a zombie. And I didn’t know what to do next. Should I confess or bury her body someplace? Or should I drive to the bridge and jump off? I opened a bottle of whisky and drank myself to sleep. Next morning, she was up and cooking breakfast.”

“You gave it a shot.”

“Your turn.”

“Listen up, America. You want to know what I’m going to do when I graduate? Maybe I don’t dig your wonderful careers.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, everybody thinks they’re different.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Your depraved thoughts?”

“See myself as a hooker.”

“Don’t all girls have that fantasy?”

“Doing my daddy. You know he doesn’t get enough.”

“You win.”

“Francine says I have the complex.”

The sand was steady. The surf broke in regular time. The world walked upright. A young man wandered past, his nose in a book, but betraying no other sign of aberrant psychology. My back was bound to bother, a ringed plover could still balance on one leg, luminescent fog confirmed the sun’s steady descent, yet we knew a different law. Alice had introduced me to Wonderland. I had stumbled into another realm, a place where girls lie next to older men, no secrets are kept, no wishes forbidden. This world had been here all along, waiting the key. A girl had let me stroke her neck.

 She was staring at the breakers. “Wonder what it’s like to drown. Only the dead know for sure, and I haven’t asked them.”

“I’ve never drowned, myself.”

“Shall we try?” Her whisper presaged an anguished confession, or meant nothing. “What do you think happens—”

“When we die?”

The meaning of life. Her enlightenment posed a risk: I was well baked. I might rise to brilliant disquisition. She would hang on my every word, place me among immortals. I might spew out gibberish.

“I want to come back as a swallow.” My tongue now took flight.

“Nice to meet you, my swallow. What’s up?”

“I’m heading for the moon.”

“Tell me about the dark side when you get back.”

“You’re a funny bird.”

“My personality is out of whack with my age, my mother keeps saying.”

“And ground control would like a word.”

“She wants me to talk like a teenager.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Dysynchronicity!”

“Is that a word?”

“It is now.”

“Fucking showoff!”

 “You’d like to be a swallow. Praying mantis over here.”

“Some guy making you miserable?”

“Men have it easy.” She would unburden, as I wrapped a friendly arm around her muffled sobs.

“No question, I haven’t had a bikini wax in ages.”

“Me neither. And it shows. Often take a dip when I come here. No checking me out, my swallow.” Her dress revealed no swimsuit. The garment in backpack, she would have to get changed!

“I’m game, if you’re going for a swim. I’ll jump in just like this. I’ll be driving home in wet clothes, what the hey.”

She yawned. I had made a complete fool of myself. I had to get away. I joined the gulls, looking down on a displaced soul with terrible clarity. The detachment folded in on itself. Why did she want to drown, should I follow up, or was I just incapable of insight? I was too high to figure out if I was too high to figure if I was . . .

“I am he, as you are he, as you are me, and we are all together.” The girl has a voice.

“I am the walrus.” And I would keep following her lead, no matter how cursed the road, how heavy the toll. What did I ever see in her? The truth is blindingly obvious: a complete mystery. A voice carries part of the blame. She could sing the song.

“Yes, you are. Happy you’re here, my swallow. Good talking to you, and not talking to you. Thank you.”

 Sand broke my fall. The lights came up for intermission. I lay back to review the show. They will jump to conclusions. All right, I wear no wedding band, spend evenings behind a nameplate, but the scoundrel was not always single. Party of one. The waitress relegates me to the end of the counter, pours my coffee with a hon’. If only she could see the dame! Music please, Gilberto. The girl had let me stroke her neck. At least I think she did. Words drifted away, leaving a pleasant tickle. The ambient noise resolved into breaking waves, retreating waters, mewing gulls, and shouting surfers. And I heard the sound of her breath. And I felt her warmth.

 I woke to darkness. A strip of lighter sky lay beyond the fog bank; the sun was gone. The tide had risen, though water’s edge kept a distance. Surf glistened in the twilight. I was hungover. And I was alone. Had I been dreaming? The dim light showed an impression in the sand to my side.