"There's showers at the beach," she interrupted.
I knew there were showers at the beach, but this existence she was exposing was weighing heavy on my heart. How could she exist this way? She seemed so unaffected by her situation, so matter-of-fact in her attitude. It seemed to bother me more than it did her. Her eyes never showed the sad circumstance she was living. Her voice was so soft, so rich and full of life. How could she be so unaffected? How could she maintain such a positive energy about her? Who is this ex-husband, so important she needed to find? Why did he---how could he have left her?
She followed me as I walked to the front. What more could I say, what more could I ask? I paused at the door, gesturing the remnants of the joint if she should want a final toke.
"No, thanks."
I took one long final draw, pinched the end, and placed it into one of my trench coat pockets. Never knowing it fell through to the floor, finding it there the next morning. Once outside, even in my coat, I could feel the chill. Exhaled, watching as the smoke dissipated upward to the stars so vivid, so defined against the pitch black of night. There were a few scattered clouds. The ground was damp, it had been raining.
The air was washed clean of the ocean scents. Taking a deep breath, the chill penetrated deep into my lungs.
I locked the door.
"Where do you live?"
The silence was broken.
"Up on Atlantic City," as if she was to know where that was.
"Where's that?"
Pointing down Grand, the same direction as the beach.
"Could you walk with me," she asked.
"Sure," I would walk with her pretty much anywhere right now. I could not help but feel for her. her eyes still held me, paralyzing each beat of my heart.
Her hair played in the sudden gusts of wind. Brushing strands of it across her face. I reached out and gently moved them aside. Touched her skin ever so slightly, my heart trembled.
She smiled. The moonlight glistened in her eyes.
"Kind of chilly, huh," I asked.
She looked at me, I had to offer her my coat. I wanted to offer her my heart.
Assisting her with the coat, we started walking. In fifteen minutes we would be at the crossroads, where I would turn right and head uphill to home, and she would continue straight to the beach.
I could not let her stay at the beach tonight. What if it rained again? How could I ask her to spend the night at my place without my words, my intentions being interpreted as a "come on". I was genuinely concerned about this Florida vagabond. What if "something" did happen, this night would stay with me forever. These intense feelings, forever imbedded in my soul. Would she stay forever? Stay forever in my heart? And if nothing happened, this night would still stay with me forever. Her eyes, her smile, her spirit would stay with me.
This legend would stay with me---forever.
We walked those fifteen minutes in silence.
"Well, this is where my trail goes up hill," I said to her, as we approached the intersection. My heart hoping for a response that would allow me to extend an invitation. Desperately searching for words unique.
Words unique in verbal composition; unique from my lips, unique to her ears.
God, my attire is exactly as it was then.
I thought about the events that led to this crossroad, where I now stand. Thinking of that night, the moments shared. Kind of a "trick of the tale', circumstance leading to and from situations, without control---without conscious control.
I remember standing here at the corner for what seemed like an endless moment. Her with my coat, looking at me. I close my eyes, visioning her face. Forever will I remember the way she looked. I lean against the stop sign post. I could see her hair dancing in the gusting wind.
I can hear the ocean now, soft like her voice, beckoning me. Would she be there? She could be right there near the showers or she could be anywhere in the dunes, anywhere on that beach that stretched for miles in both directions.
I can definitely smell the ocean now.
Though the cannabis buzz is fading, the emotions are still intense. I can feel my heart, urging me to answer its quest. I will never know if I turn right instead of continuing towards that siren song.
I look up the hill, then look down grand towards the beach. Which is the longer walk? The walk up the hill, to the apartment---to another lonely night. The walk to the beach, to the uncertain, to the most of unlikely hopes.
I start towards the beach. I could feel the biting cold of the ocean air grow, the stench of salt and seaweed hit my olfactories. I look at my Timex. It's 1:45am, should I turn back. Across the street I see Mini Mat, my somewhat personal laundromat. Smiling to myself, I remember when we moved from the apartment on North 16th to our current residence, we raided that laundromat early on Sunday morning and occupied 27 washers. There were a few upset late comers to find that there were eight washers left. That was a different legend. I better do laundry on Sunday.
A thirst was slowly developing. Seven-Eleven was only two more blocks. I will stop there for a soda, then the final stretch to the beach. Would she be there? The question weighted heavy on my heart. Was I expecting too much? Was I expecting anything but disappointment?
"You live up that way," she had asked.
"Wanna come up?"
"Okay."
I could not believe it was that simple. A simple response to a simple question, a simple request to share some more time together. The roller coaster ride started again as we began the trek up the hill.
I wonder what my roommates were up to. Jim had stopped by Shakey's earlier and said something about going with Don to the Jetty in Shell Beach.
"Live alone," she asked.
"No."
We were getting close to home. Even in the chill I was developing a slight sweat from the long steady incline.
"Two roomies, but I think they're out on the town tonight."
"Oh," she replied.
"It sure is a long walk up this hill," I said, stating the obvious.
"Sure is," she said, winded from the walk too. I had not noticed that I had been on an unusually fast pace up the hill. I had been too focused on the situation developing.
I began to look at her more closely as we came underneath one of the street lights. It was hard for me to believe she had been on the streets for the past few weeks. Maybe it is all a put-on, I had thought to myself. Then, what would have she gained by putting on a charade?
She was so pretty. Why was she with me? I could not find an answer, not even "fate" or "destiny" could satisfactorily answer that question. I could not understand. I wanted to.
I smelled of pizza and anchovies. I stunk.
We reached the top of the hill. I looked down Oak Park, towards the freeway, checking the blind turn for headlights. Fools come blazing up the road and run the stop sign all the time.
We crossed the street, rapidly approaching the row of duplexes. No sign of Don's yellow Roadrunner. No sign of Jim's pale yellow Nova. Just my white '67 Charger, awaiting its new transmission. I had to push it around the corner into the cul-de-sac to prevent the second ticket and getting towed away. Hoping someday to get it fixed, someday when the money was there.
"Half a block and we're there," I assured her, "That's it, the fourth duplex."
"Looks nice."
"It is, but no view," I tried with a little humor.
"Huh," she looked at me puzzled.
"Yeah, I've always wanted a place with a view," another attempt at humor, nervous that the attempts are failing, "All we got is a bunch of trees blocking a perfect view of the freeway."
"Why would you want a view of the freeway?"
"Then whenever I get bored I can count how many VW's drive north or south on 101," realizing my humor was missing terribly. God, I felt so stupid.
Thinking of how to change the focus of this conversation from my bombed humor. Realizing my keys ere in the coat pocket she was wearing.
"Excuse me," I said as I reached for the coat. She did not move. I unbuttoned the front to access the inner pocket. As I opened the coat, I caught the fragrance she wore. Sweet, mixed in the fresh air. I felt drugged. Intoxicated by the visual, the physical, the feelings.
Fumbling through the pocket, somewhat deliberately to prolong the moment, I retrieved the key chain. Pausing to inhale more of her scent, before I pulled the keys out.
"A few seconds and we'll be out of the cold."
A few more seconds and I will be at the Seven-Eleven, I thought to myself as I awaken from my memory visitation, my daydreaming sleep walk. I could feel a cold chill run down my spine. A few more minutes and I will be at the beach. A few more minutes and the moment of truth. A few more minutes and...will I be out of the cold? It was unimportant now. Anxious just to get this episode over with. I could have taken the safe route home. I could have been escaping into "sleepland", disconnecting myself from this consciousness. No, like a lemming I continue this march to the water.
D.W.'s parking lot is still full. The band must have stopped by now. It was past last call. One of the band members had stopped by for pizza tonight.
Into Seven-Eleven. The electric eye triggers the bell. The clerk looks up from his Penthouse.
I walk over to the cooler and pull out an RC Cola. We must have 50 to 60 empties stored in the garage. I wonder if I got a winner under this cap. I look down the aisle of munchies. Nothing exciting my appetite, the buzz was gone. Feeling in my pocket I find my wallet. I give him a dollar.
"Will that be all," he asks in the same manner I ask customers at Shakey's.
I pause---just like the Shakey's customers. I hate the way they pause. Not thinking, just pausing, "no, I mean yes."
He looks at me as if my answer didn't answer his question. He gives me my change.
"Could you open it for me?"
He opens the bottle.
"Can I have the cap too?"
I pull out my keys and pry off the cap lining---Keep Looking---it says. I place the cap back on the counter and am out the door. The bell rings as I return to the night outside.
I walk out to the curb, looking both directions. "Keep Looking".
I opened the door and flicked on the light switch, only to have the light bulb burn out with a feeble "pop".
"Wait, I'll get a bulb," I left the door open, letting the moon light a path to the hall. In the linen closet I groped in the dark for a minute, finding the last light bulb.
She entered as I changed the bulbs. Taking off the trench coat, the top button of her blouse came undone, exposing the lace of her white bra. Exposing the light ones of her skin. Did she notice? I did. She did nothing.
She handed me the coat. I tossed it across the back of the deep green recliner, the seat covered with a towel to cover the split in the vinyl. The green vinyl that sticks to your skin if you sit in it for any extended period of time. The recliner the we reserved for those who do not know better.
I sat on the couch, next to the round white marble coffee table. The table that would forever symbolize the years rooming with Jim and Don. It was cluttered with some textbooks and empty cereal boxes. Sugar Pops. Sugar Smacks. I took off my shoes and socks. placing them under the coffee table.
She sat in the recliner, "Can I have some water?"
Leaning back, she was surprised that the recliner continued the motion. Falling backwards into its full reclined position. She laughed.
"Should've warned you on that," I said as I exited to the kitchen, hoping to find a clean glass.
"Are those all your records," I could hear her asking.
"Most of them," I return to the living room, "Want to listen to anything in particular?"
She was standing by the stereo system, a conglomeration of three systems, the 600 plus albums (only a handful of duplicates between myself and my two roomies).
"No, you choose."
I pulled out the album CLOSING TIME by Tom Waits.
"Remember the Eagles' song Ol' 55
"Yeah, I like that song," she surprised me.
"Well, Tom Waits wrote it," I pulled the record from the jacket.
"Tom who?"
"Tom Waits," I cued up side one, "I like this version better. This was before his voice got all raspy," I realized that she would not even know Tom Waits pre or post his raspy vocals.
Ol '55 made its gradual beginning.
That song reverberating in my memory as I approach Riviera Seafood, right across the street from the public restrooms and showers. How appropriate, when I ate there last I got indigestion from their french fries that even Rolaids or Pepto-Bismol could not cure. They must clean up during tourist season.
I can hear the surf mixing with the song in my brain, as I approach the end of the street.
The intensity was building.
Onto the ramp that leads down onto the beach. The moon and stars glittered the ocean and shore. I look at my watch, holding it up in the moonlight. It was 2:17am.
I walk down the ramp onto the beach. I turn, facing the shore leading to the sand dunes to the south. A pair of headlights approach the ramp. I step aside. The car passes. The exhaust fumes exentuate the song, Ol' 55, fading in my head. There is a silence of man's noises. Just the surf and my breathing.
The waves seem so much smoother and gentler now than during the day. Peaceful. Continuing down the ramp onto the sand. The beach appears empty in both directions. Looking north I can see the Pismo Pier off in the distance, the city itself standing in the background in its humble supporting role of sparkling lights.
I reached underneath the couch, located the tray of weed and placed it on the coffee table. Grabbed the empty cereal boxes and escorted them to the trash in the kitchen. Returning, I gathered the textbooks and stacked them next to the couch.
I sat on the floor, opposite the couch.
Sam, sat on the couch, placed the emptied glass on the coffee table. She sank in the middle section and started to laugh.
"I should've told you about that too," I laughed. Reaching out, offering her the privilege of lighting the joint.
The joint passed back and forth through the completion of the first side of the album. I leaned back, propped myself with my elbow, just lost in her eyes. No words were spoken. The album ended, leaving just the hissing of the speakers.
I, reluctantly, got up to put on another album, "Any preference?"
"Whatever."
I turned and looked at her, relaxed on the couch.
"I really liked that album, Tom Waits?"
"Yeah, Closing Time," I put the album back in its designated spot, taking the album next to it. Gino Vannelli, GIST OF THE GEMINI, side one.
I turned and looked at her, sinking further into the couch, "Are you going to be able to climb out of there?"
"Could you give me a hand, I seem to be stuck."
"I smiled and walked over. Her hands stretched out, I clasped them and pulled her out of the couch "sink hole". She stood but a few inches from me, still holding firmly to my hands. Both of us looking, for what seemed an eternity, into each other's eyes.
"Why do you exist this way," I asked.
Suddenly the mood turned serious. A tinge of tension ran across my upper back. She released my hands.
"It's the only way for me now," she placed a troubled grin on her face.
It was a painful expression. One that revealed the hurt she had been concealing. It cut me, I felt the pain.
"Something wrong?"
"No," she turned her eyes away.
I reached for her hands. Touching them, they were cold.
"Your hands are so warm," her eyes returned to mine.
I just looked at her and smiled. I felt a rush, my head somewhat spinning from the combination of being tired, the weed, and the emotions. I leaned forward, kissing her lips softly.
She at first started to pull away. Then she stepped forward. I put my arms around her. Holding her close as she rest her head on my shoulder. No words were spoken. I could feel her tears on my neck. I held her firmly, hoping she would find comfort. Hoping she could find refuge from the pain she had been denying.
"Do you want to make love to me," she whispered.
I said nothing. I did not know what to say.
The surf rolled towards me as I stood at its edge. Suddenly, I am ankle deep in the cold salt water.
The emotions welling up inside, searching for tears in this moment of loneliness.
I turn, looking towards Oceano, towards the dunes. I back away from the water's edge. I start walking back towards the ramp, my shoes making squish-squash noises. I redirect my angle to a sign in the middle of the beach. "No Clamming" it said to the night. Sand collecting on my soggy shoes, making each step heavy. Heavy like my heart. I take the final gulp of the RC Cola, placing the empty bottle in my coat pocket. Reaching deep, searching for what was left of the earlier joint. Finding it and he one from last Friday. I light tonight's joint.
I lean up against the sign, the post in the middle of my back, as I face the vast ocean horizon. I light last week's joint. It smells of pepperoni. Glad it was not anchovies.
Remembering those moments shared. Our silent walk into the bedroom. The stereo still playing, the words muffled as I closed the door.
I lit the candle, on the small dish, on the nightstand.
Quietly, she unbuttoned my shirt. Each sudden surge of sensation suspending my breaths, my heartbeats. My shirt slid off my shoulders, falling to the floor.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
"Is something wrong," she asked.
"No," I replied, "this is kinda overwhelming."
She proceeded to undress. Exposing herself, she sat next to me. Looked directly into my eyes. Her arm around me, she rested her head on my shoulder.
Dancing silhouettes from the flickering candle flame. I am hypnotized by her beauty. Drugged by the passion in my veins. My heart pounding, sending the potions to my brain. Lost in the moment. The world, the universe, nonexistent for that moment. We became one. Enveloped in the intensity. Our bodies entwined, our souls merged. We were making love.
In the stillness of the afterglow, as the night's light crept through the partially opened curtain of my room, my soul found a moment of peace. I turned my head, looked at her as she laid next to me. In a sleep so tranquil.
I glance over at the clock on the nightstand. 4:30am it said. Three more hours and back to work I had to go.
I looked at Sam again, cuddled next to me, resting on my arm. I felt it falling asleep, but dared not move, afraid I would wake her from her solemn rest if I should move.
I smiled and laid awake until I had to go to work.
I could feel the cold of the hard metal post through my clothing. I smile, thinking about her. I tried to get off work early, in fear of losing her. Only to return home to find a note. A note of sadness, a note of happiness. It said she had my phone number and that she would call. Now a week later and no sign of her returning. It was hard accepting that we were only able to share that moment, but it was better than not having that moment at all. It all seemed so poetic.
I look out at the ocean. The smell of fresh seaweed on shore fill my nostrils. I look at my watch, it is 2:34am.
"Sam," speaking softly, "wherever you are, I will always remember you."
I scratch my left ear. Remembering the chicory coffee, unopened, in the cupboard back home.
Sam, my Original Florida Vagabond, forever a legend.
