I dropped by that Starbucks on the shore to
drink coffee and who should I find there but
Memory drinking a decaf caramel macchiato
and nibbling apple crumb cake, he'd gone bald
since I last saw him, now he wore thick glasses
and a wrinkled raincoat, like some washed up
philosopher. LIfe hadn't treated him well, he'd
been reading Levine and fhe next thing
he knew he was in Shelbyville working
the Kwik Trip Lotto and hot dog carousel.
I felt bad, standing there with my Venti
coffee, my bermuda shorts andf flip flops,
I'm on vacation, I told him, could I
join him? He shrugged his shoulders and said what
he always said, "it's a free country, suit
yourself." There were some awkward moments, there
always are, I told him I'd made it, I
manage accounts for a large data processing
firm (it sounds like I'm on a game show, I laughed,
but that's what we're required to say), I get
four weeks off a year, can you believe it?,
I'd quit the booze after the divorce and
found someone who gives me my space, she's
just returned from some spa in Taos and,
hey, wouldn't you know it, I'm writing a novel.
Well, it's mostly vignettes, slices of life,
but I know they'll add up to something.
It's my chi, Donna says. I asked him what
he'd been doing with himself all these years
and he said, well, since the Great Disruption
he'd lost his house on the gulf, it was just a
shack, really, but still a shock, now he just
combs the beach -- really, I comb the beach
looking for anything of value. I collect
driftwood, I find coins, I study the waves.
You remember that time when we plucked conchs
from the shore when we were kids? He'd spent a year
in Petoskey working in a lumberyard
and living in a trailer under a radio tower.
He'd foud his way to Cairo where he
planted trees and sold books, he'd given up
the writing and figured he'd get a houseboat
and just drift away until he found something
new. I grew uncomfortable, suddenly,
thinking of Donna back on the beach
flinging sea stars into the surf, I've
got to be going, I said, I fetched sixty
dollars from my pocket and said here,
get yourself something to eat, maybe at
that little crab shack up the shore, and then
I walked off, a little self-conscious, he'd
lost it, it was sad, even poignant, I
felt an ache in my ribs, the smell of lilac
and curried chicken sandwiches and
words floating in the wind, just out of reach,
but I kept walking into the sunlight
and the faint sound of the surf hissing,
and the smell of hibiscus and that sweet
dying of the gulf. This would not be the last
time we'd meet, I knew, but it would be our
last together here. I hoped he'd understand
but knew, of course, that he wouldn't and that
he'd grow to begrudge me in the future,
as I too would begrudge him.
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