Cupcake

by Rachel Cohn

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  with Sugar Pie. "It seems a shame that you finally moved out of the old folks' home and in with Fernando at the apartment at the side of our house, and then I'm not around to hang out with you more. Do you think I should move back home?" I didn't add the "with Shrimp" part, for the sake of blind judgment and all.

  "Follow your heart." Sugar Pie has always been a mind reader.

  "What if my heart's in conflict with my mind?"

  "Mind!" Fernando shook his index finger at me from the rearview mirror. "Use your mind more, already. What's that I heard about you never bothering with culinary school?"

  Sugar Pie added, "You've told me about all these gentlemen in your life in New York--but what about friends your own age, girls, like Helen and Autumn?"

  I told them, "First, I did try a culinary class. School is not for me. And, I did make one friend, this girl who works at a nail shop in the neighborhood. But then I guess I came on too strong or something, must be cuz I don't have that restraint lock placed on my mouth yet, since what seemed like it started out as a cool friendship just went nowhere."

  At the same time Fernando and Sugar Pie both said, "Did you try again?"

  Their evolution into coupledom sync-talk is truly off-the-charts impressive. I liked that when I looked at them through the car mirrors, the reflection of contentedness on their faces was not a

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  false mirage. They're another year older, and they looked it--but another year happier, and they looked that also.

  As the car approached our destination in Ocean Beach, Sugar Pie told me, "The cards have confidence you could make a successful go of it wherever you chose to live."

  "But what do you think, Sugar?" I asked.

  "I am the cards," Sugar Pie intoned as Fernando stopped the car to drop me off. "How have you not figured that out yet?"

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  ***

  FORTY-FOUR

  Maybe I should have caffeinated more heavily before showing up at Java the Hut, the coffeehouse owned by Shrimp's brother, Wallace, aka Java. Along with looking forward to dosing up, I'd been looking forward to revisiting the sight of my first barista gig, where Shrimp and I used to work together, but instead the sight of a Dumpster in front of the café, and the sounds of workmen with saws and drills working inside, greeted me. The old café was in total disarray--that is, if total disarray meant totally closed for coffee business.

  As I peered through the window, Wallace stepped outside, next to the surfboard rack, to light a cigarette. It wasn't the first time I'd ever seen Wallace smoke, but it was for sure the first time I'd ever seen that surf rack with no boards parked inside the metal grates. Java the Hut's hard-core urban surfer paradise at the end of

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  the continental U.S., where the Pacific roared away just across Great Highway, had turned into surfer ghost town. Stupid impermanence denying me yummy visions of hot-bodied boys wearing wet suits and chugging lattes.

  Wallace grinned when he noticed me. "I had a feeling you'd be dropping by here soon." Ohmygod, why did he have to smile at me like that, with those full red lips and seductive white teeth that should be way darker, given the amount of coffee he drinks? Java's getting older, true--and more gorgeous, if that's possible. Gone was his long brown hair, replaced by a buzz cut that only highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones on his smooth rosy-tan face, and his deep-set sea eyes that look just like what's-his-name's--yeah, Phil's,--"CC, are you listening? You tranced out?"

  "Huh?"

  My body tensed in anticipation of Java moving in for the California surfer dude hug-shoulder nudge thing with me. Any touch from him would be too temptingly close. So like the loyal girlfriend I am to his errant brother, I fake-sneezed as Wallace approached me, successfully warding off any attempt at hugging. Wallace backed off a couple inches and said, "I was saying I knew once Shrimp appeared home with no warning, spouting all kinds of spiritual dogma, then left almost as quickly to return to the embrace of Iris and Billy, that you'd probably follow behind not much later.

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  There's one boy just begging to be found." Wallace glanced down at his waterproof surfer watch. "And here you are, right on schedule. You look good--New York agrees with you. Wanna come inside and see some pictures of Kelea? Please excuse the mess while we remodel."

  I had plenty of time for inspection of the latest round of procreation, since Fernando had to drop Sugar Pie off at the dialysis center before returning to pick me up, so I stepped inside, despite the danger I felt at wanting to pull Java into a supply closet and do with him in there like I used to do with his brother. But Java's a solid family man, and I am long over my jailbait stage. It was just a hypothetical wanton desire. I have 'em all the time.

  Java's like this perfect reflection of who I imagine Shrimp will be several years down the road--devoted partner, devoted to his business and to his community, a real man who still looks really good in a wet suit. Keep imagining, CC. It's such a happy place. Shrimp will be devoted to me all right, devoted of body, soul, and art--so long as that devotion allows him the freedom to not have possessions or be bound to any one place.

  Wallace said, "Delia's at home with the baby right now. She'll be sorry she missed you. Looks like Kelea got mommy's red hair. She's beautiful, yes? Not like I'm biased or anything." I thumbed through a photo album of Wallace and Delia with their new baby, named after the Maui surf chiefess in Hawaiian mythology.

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  This baby could be my baby's cousin ... someday, I thought. I decided that when Shrimp and I reached the stage of cousin-making for Kelea, Helen and Autumn would be aunties, and Fernando and Sugar Pie would be godparents, and my mother would make up some name our kids should call her like "LaLa," because she'd die before answering to "Nana." Come to think of it, Shrimp drew our family right, our babies probably would have my hair and his lips, and whoa, hopefully that would be long after I got more livin' on my own accomplished.

  I turned to a picture of Iris and Billy with their baby granddaughter. "Kelea's as gorgeous as her name. Are Iris and Billy enjoying being grandparents?"

  Wallace smirked. He built the Java the Hut business with no help from them--they'd pretty much flung him out in the world on his own by the time he was sixteen. "Let's just say if the new grandparents were not offered a place to live in our new house with our new baby when they returned from New Zealand, there's a reason. They're Iris and Billy, you know? They're into the cute, cuddly moments, but when the real business of baby-tending comes into play, they've got a joint to light up, a nature hike to explore, a global political demonstration to attend."

  "Any idea how long Shrimp intends to stay with them up in Humboldt?"

  "Well, since Iris and Billy have chosen to live in a caretaker's

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  house with no phone--tell me the logic there--and Shrimp refuses to carry a cell phone, the answer to that would be no. I asked him to stay. I could use his help with the remodel, and he's welcome to live with us as long as he wants, even if Iris and Billy's living privileges with me and Dee have expired. But Shrimp mumbled something about big questions he needs time and ocean to figure out, and then he headed up north. He gave me no idea how long he's intending to stay up there, but I can tell you where to find him."

  "Yes, please."

  Wallace drew a map on a paper napkin. "I'm writing down directions to Iris and Billy's, but if you want to dodge a visit with them, try this beach first. If I know my brah, he'll be hitting the waves there around noontime any day he can. I'm writing down a message for Shrimp on the back of this napkin. Something that might help him with those big questions. Read it on your way up and see what you think." The map Wallace sketched, zigzag lines of barren coastal highway leading to unmarked parking spots leading down to an isolated beach nook, looked like a treasure hunt mission to find our lost surfer boy. "And, Cyd Charisse?"

  "Yes?"

  "You know you can't save him, right? Shrimp has to find himself.
" I thought I didn't believe in aha moments anymore, but just like that, I was snapped out of the Land of Indecision. I am Chaos. I am a hellion. I am not a cupcake.

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  I am sick of everyone looking out for my and Shrimp's supposed best interests. That's our job. Aha, and so there!

  Shrimp and I will not go back to the old stalemate that broke us apart last year. If I have to move home to lock him into a future--whether it's finding a Buddhist teacher or getting his GED and finding some direction in life--I will, so long as he wants me by his side. Why shouldn't we get in on the procreation action too? I'm not saying I plan to find Shrimp and propose babies and marriage, but can I propose we create a life together here? Hella yeah.

  Life is too short not to compromise on something as easy as a city, if I want my true love served up to me on a permanent basis.

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  ***

  FORTY-FIVE

  Buddha teaching number 208: Therefore, follow the Noble One, who is steadfast, wise, learned, dutiful, and devout. One should follow only such a man, who is truly good and discerning, even as the moon follows the path of the stars.

  The noble man to seek out, according to Wallace's treasure map, ran the general store in an off-the-beaten-trail little town in Humboldt County. All I wanted from this man was fresh caffeination and the day's secret surf code, which seemed my due after the five-hour drive north from San Francisco, but the ZZ Top doppelganger man hedged.

  ZZ handed me a cup of coffee so strong I almost lost my balance from the heavy smell. He said, "Whatcha so curious for? Folks passing through here know not to ask questions." This one store on this stretch of one-lane highway had more than one person inside

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  to nod agreement to ZZ's statement. For a ramshackle shack in the middle of northern California nowhere, it felt possible that every town resident--all ten of them, all looking like refugees off the FBI's Ten Most Wanted Stoner Outlaw list--was in attendance to back up ZZ and make sure CC did not find her man.

  You'd think I'd asked for da Vinci's fucking code rather than made a simple request for how to find the hallowed surf spot. According to Wallace's directions, morning surfers set out a daily beacon each day on top of the unmarked hill above the obscure beach to let the afternoon surfers know the wave quality. The beacon--some days it might be a Harley flag dug onto the hill, some days it might be a stop sign nailed into a tree--also served to tip off would-be adventurers as to whether the fuzz happens to be bored that day and might be found harassing the lone surfers on the renegade beach that was officially closed to the public by the state because of safety concerns.

  Through the open door to the bathroom behind ZZ's stand at the shack's cash register, I eyeballed the premium toothbrush resting on the sink counter and sensed my in. I whispered, "If you tell me where to find the beacon, I'll tell you the secret for getting your electric toothbrush perfectly clean. I also know stuff about the big bang theory, in case you're interested."

  On the down low, ZZ muttered, "Meet me at the back behind the '58 Chevy truck. Make sure no one sees you."

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  And so the noble ZZ man learned the CC on the DL, and revealed the path to reach the Shrimp.

  I parked the car in a ditch behind a forest of trees off the highway, under the redwood tree with the Bazooka gum box dangling from a branch (good waves, no cop interest), and set out on my trek down the steep cliff. I think I've decided I am a New Yorker at heart, but it was impossible not to be awed by the sight of the mighty Pacific, surrounded by forest and mountain, as I stumbled down the cliff scattered with mist and fern. The secret path offered no simple jaunt for a city girl--it was more like a path for serious hikers who carried all those complicated rock-climbing gizmos that often go along with the cool clothing at mountaineer gear stores.

  A city girl on a quest for her man would not be dissuaded by the fact of her inability to rappel such a terrain. I reached the bottom promptly at noon, surprised to find myself still alive--but delighted to find myself alone at a slice of California ocean paradise of spray, sand, and surf. Make that almost alone. In the distance, near to a beach cove, I glimpsed Shrimp.

  Simple and soulful in his solitude, he sat on the sand, wearing a wet suit and waxing his board. Love sigh.

  I wanted to run to him, fling myself into his arms, but I also wanted to savor watching him in his element.

  His element. Not mine.

  Shrimp finished waxing his board and stood up, walking toward

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  the sea, but still I paused. Now was my opportunity to approach him, before he immersed himself in the water, but his movement at, not inside, the ocean, stopped the motion of my feet in his direction. He placed his board on the sand and stood tall against the sea, reverent, his beautiful blond hair spiked high, glimmering in the sun. He reached his arms up from his sides, almost like a victory pose, then brought them down as he leaned over, as if he were taking a bow.

  I may have been kicked out of yoga class, but I've been a surfer's girlfriend long enough to recognize the sun salutation yoga pose that an actualizing surfer offers up to the sea before communing with her.

  The Pacific goddess owns him like I never will.

  A slight gasp, maybe it was a wince, I don't know, alerted Shrimp to my presence. He turned around from his sea stance and caught me standing several yards behind him, at the base of the cliff.

  "Hey," he said, like he'd been expecting me all along.

  "Hey," I said.

  He picked up his board and walked over to me. He kissed me soft and sweet, first on my cheek, then on my lips. But his hands, holding on to his board, with prayer beads now wrapped around his wrists, made no movement to touch my body. Up close, I saw new words painted on the tip of the board, on the reverse side of where he'd painted a skull years earlier. Happy indeed we live, we who

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  possess nothing. Feeders on joy we shall be, like the Radiant Gods.

  Stalemate while I paused to rethink my moment of truth with my true love.

  I had our reunion moment all planned out. I intended to say: "Shrimp, love of my life, if you need to be by the sea, I will stay in San Francisco with you, even if New York seems more suited to me. It was rather lame of you to take off without any notice and make me come find you, but I needed the adventure. You always give me what I need. You are all I could ever want in a soul mate. And if you feel like you want to move home to San Francisco, then my answer is clear: I choose you. Wherever you are is where I want to be." Shrimp would then pull me into his arms for a deep kiss, there'd be a non-lame Beach Boys soundtrack song playing from a nearby boom box, and we'd fall to the ground in the passion of our embrace as waves broke over us in this total cinematic moment of true love, The End, forever and ever, baby baby baby.

  The actual words I said were: "Shrimp, Phil, whoever you are-- I love you. But I don't belong here. I belong in New York. If you want to be there with me, I will be waiting for you." Betrayed by my own lips.

  Sun salutation, you and I are no longer friends.

  A Nancy sigh escaped my lips as I reached into my pocket and handed Shrimp the napkin with Wallace's message scrawled to Shrimp--a napkin I hadn't been sure I would have the courage to

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  deliver until I saw the sun salutation that kissed my fate with Shrimp.

  I'd crayoned my own haiku at the side of Wallace's message, and that was what Shrimp read first:

  Kathmandu café

  Everest climbing season

  Dante will school shrimp

  "Say wha?" Shrimp wanted to know.

  Doing the right thing is completely overrated, and yet the concept seduced me. "Dante contacted Wallace, trying to track you down. Dante's got some gig at a café in Kathmandu. It's the season for tourists who travel there en route to Mount Everest, and Dante of course is the stupid barista man of choice for climbing season in Nepal. Dante says he wants to show you the Buddhist monasteries, introduce you to the monks
who are his friends there. Nepal is the epicenter of the spiritual action you seek, apparently, and Dante wants you to join him there. You're, like, looking for a teacher, but I think you already found him. And I think someone as cool and talented as you should have that, pursue it, see where it leads. If you read through Wallace's message, he says he's got plenty of work for you the next couple weeks to earn your fare to Kathmandu, if you want to go."

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  I am a New York hypergrrl for sure, but the California free love free spirit in me will not be denied. No one's more surprised than me.

  The sunstruck smile on Shrimp's face let me know his answer. "There it is," he said. "The dharma path."

  I arrived here determined not to let Shrimp go like last time, but now I realized I'd made the right decision the first time, when he proposed marriage and I said no because I wanted us both to be free to pursue our dreams.

  Maybe I am smarter than I think.

  I want Shrimp to follow a path he's running to, not away from. I expected to cling to him, to fight for us not to repeat the old stalemate, but now I genuinely wanted him to go to Nepal. I won't be the girl to obstruct his answers.

  I have my path, and he should have his. If our paths are meant to intertwine, they will. The permanent intersection just hasn't happened--yet. If we force it, we lose it forever.

  I always thought at the end of the road, I would find him. Now I know--Shrimp will find me.

  I'm already who and where I want to be. Myself.

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  ***

  FORTY-SIX

  For old times' sake we said good-bye in the backseat of Shrimp's

  brother's hand-me-down Pinto parked near the top hill near the hallowed surf spot. Our lovemaking encompassed the soul-kissing-touching-talking-until-the-sun-set-over-the-Pacific variety The midafternoon nap inside his arms, with the sun cascading through the window as we lay enveloped in ocean breeze and in each other, more than compensated for the nakedness our bodies did not share, what with the Pacific cold and the sand all over my little man's little car.