by Ryan Downey
The waves were calm today turning boogie boards from amusement to furniture. Arms around her knees, she gently rearranged grains as he stood up for another dip. Without hardly any warning he took off sprinting toward the surf anxious to rid himself of sweat and heat exhaust. Leaping gallantly into the air, he landed with what had to be the least graceful dive she, or any other beachgoer that day, had ever seen. There must have been no sharks in the area as all that flailing would have secured him coming back in more than one piece.
When he was done horsing around he lumbered back to their spot chasing gull and crab into opposing directions. She was where he left her sitting on his board. Right where he wanted. He plopped down in the beach chair with a “Phew. Be a dear and pass me my towel.” Following request, she picked up his Bugs Bunny beach towel, which he still sported with beaming boyish pride. As she lifted it, she heard a thud on the board. While he dried himself with an image of his childhood hero leaning nonchalantly against a mailbox and casually chewing a carrot with plenty of green leaves on the end over a hole in the ground, she inspected the source.
A dark blue velvet jewelry box that matched the ocean when the sky was overcast lay on the sandy, unused, light blue 40” boogie board that matched the sky when it wasn’t. “Hmm, that’s weird,” he said as if she wasn’t already making a face that screamed she knew it was for her. She hesitated. “Can I open it?” He shrugged. “I’m not stoppin’ ya.”
She could have fooled prying sun tanners through shaded glass to thinking Atlantis had been discovered. Two shiny starfish appeared. Pipers against shore and pelicans perched near dune blinked from the glare. Not real diamonds, but close. Rocks unearthed of the same design.
As she book ended her face, melancholy struck. “Oh no.” Head tilted, he asked, “You don’t like them?” “I love them, but your present is nothing this good.”
“Did you get it for me?” he asked lobbing up an easy answer. “Not yet.” He laughed. She always managed to surprise him with her answers. “But it will be from you?” She nodded. “Then I’ll love it. Can I expect it soon?” he changed directions. She inhaled deep. “Yes.” “Right now?” he pushed. Another inhale. “Yes.” She stood and walked behind him, putting her hands over his eyes. “Close your eyes,” she commanded. He obeyed without pointing out the obvious defeated purpose. “Now march.” Step to, he also stood and began walking forward. The sand from their blanket to the boards was scorching, but he paid it no mind. No mind was paid to the threat of splinters once they reached the boards either. He knew where they were going. And he couldn’t wait.
There was no line. Which was good because he couldn’t see where he was going. She didn’t have a lot of money. It had been insisted that she focus on her studies. Strongly insisted. An insistence that precluded her from taking a part time job. So a sundae at his favorite ice cream parlor was really all she could afford. So happens it was all he really wanted.
Three scoops of homemade peanut butter ice cream with chocolate swirls and broken peanut butter cups infused, dressed with “Reese’s Piec-ees” (a misnomer he perpetuated), topped with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. On a bench at the edge of the boards in front of the shoppe, it would have precious little time to melt given the ferocity with which it was consumed. A double scoop of French vanilla on a waffle cone was her indulgence and naturally it prompted him to tease her with his guttural, over-the-top, cartoonish French stereotype impression, exclaiming “Sacre Bleu” and laughing “haw-haw” with every lick.
People watchers took hold. They were boisterous and playful and not embarrassed in the least when trails of ice cream landed on chest and breast. Elation halted only briefly when their future came up once more and she slipped and told him of the time she almost took her own life. For but a moment the treats weren’t swallowed so easily. Sentiments exchanged and they soon returned to jesting and cheap stereotypes. ‘Mon cheri’ had done well. It was the best gift he had ever gotten.
Orbis Non Sufficit
He couldn’t sit back. The couch was off white and she would be in big trouble if he did. He really needed to, but he was waiting for her to return with peas. She was also fixing him an iced tea and dampening a rag. It had been raining all day. He was such a boy. Whenever it did, he would always ride intentionally through puddles. The spray kicking off his back tire would rooster tail and speckle a line down his back.
She returned and rag was applied to shirt and tea was applied to throat and peas were applied to eyes. The shots the other kids got in made his shirt the least of his worries. But not the least of hers. If a reverse skunk stripe was left on the couch, she was a goner.
He had never been in love before. And as far as he knew, no one had ever been in love with him. It was unsettling in the best way possible. Emotions weren’t really his strong point, at least not in a traditional sense. Never cried at funerals. Didn’t think most people were funny. Never felt guilty if the other person deserved it. Never felt slighted if he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t even understand the concept of ‘being happy for someone else.’ Let them be happy for themselves, what the hell did they need him for. Babies, puppies, and piglets were never ‘cute.’ He wasn’t a psychopath. At least not in a traditional, textbook sense. For him, to be this overwhelmed with an emotion, directed towards another human being no less, was a big deal. A very big deal.
An aimless afternoon bike ride. One street led to another and before he knew it, he was blocks away. One too many afternoons where the phone rang and she was in tears on the other end. No longer could he stand it. And she left to clean his mess.
What an idiot. What a… big dumb idiot. Her frequent warnings were futile combating teenage ego.
Those boys wouldn’t bother her anymore. He joked that they walked away unscathed, but in actuality he didn’t do half bad. There was some considerable damage done to the three and the fact that he’d gotten away with a few minor, quick to heal injuries and his trusty, hand-me-down Mongoose was something of a miracle. The bike was in better condition than he, but given he couldn’t presently afford a new one, he was fine with that. She inspected the couch when his nose started bleeding again and he ran upstairs to the bathroom to rinse. Not too bad. As he stumbled his way back downstairs he almost stepped on poor Galileo who had scampered halfway up the stairs and meowed to ask if he was ok. When Gal took off back down, her parakeet with broken wing, Icarus, started chirping up a fuss. Icarus was one of many feathered Skittles to pass through her house. Birds had always taken a liking to her, they seemed drawn to her magnetism. He sipped, then placed his tea down. She moved it to a coaster he couldn’t see as a Jolly Green Giant halved his vision.
In her best Ravenwood, she kissed each of his respective wounds. The damage was done and the ‘I told you so’ could wait. The back of his shirt was nearly mud free, but it still had to dry. He laughed under frozen veggie and she aped. “You’re such an idiot.” At the very least he kept things interesting. Back dry enough, he emptied his pockets and took off his watch. Scratched in a scuffle, it still told time. With empty pockets, swelling subsiding and back demudded and less damp, he sat back and relaxed. She rubbed his head as he turned to her and looked at her with one good eye to casually ask what was for dinner. Realizing she wasn’t even the slightest bit mad, she exhaled and told him he could have whatever he wanted. Immediately succeeding a grossly inappropriate comment, he handed her the remote. Channel surfing commenced and pizza was ordered.
Glare
It wasn’t his fault.
Had they been at the beach or in the mountains or back home or anywhere in between he might have made something out. Sure, given some time he would have eventually spotted a dragon, or at the very least, a centaur. But here, where city meets the sky, he just couldn’t get a visual.
The movie was probably over or ending by now. Dwindling night owls were being reminded that it’s not whether you win or lose; it’s whether you get the girl. A
nd speaking of which, Gillian what’s-her-face still had a few more hours of restful slumber before he would craft a clumsy excuse and convince her to leave without being fed breakfast.
There was a stillness in the air now. In much the spirit of the band playing on for only two, crickets crossed legs in soothing familiarity.
He knew why she was there. Even before she had told him, he knew why she was there. They had possessed a sixth sense about one another since the day they met. When he opened the door and stepped outside, and she finally got to it, he had allowed her, for the first time in their relationship, to tell him her news without guessing it first. And, quid pro quo, seeing right through him and having picked up on his intentional ignorance, graciously accepted his courteous gesture. She rubbed her eyes to set back the contacts, which had drifted at glacier’s pace over the tears. Her stance shifted and she looked up at him with the same expression as the night of that house party so many years ago.
“He proposed,” she said reaffirming her big announcement. Confirmed was his theory that this was no ordinary visit and that her boyfriend had found a niche in her heart that he never could.
“And you said…” he asked in comical defense. In a falsely supporting gesture he kissed her forehead and contemplated how the man whom he had consistently viewed as inferior, both for her and to himself, had succeeded where he once failed. He assured her that she would be very happy and joked that she could do a lot worse, though he wasn’t sure of either.
They talked on his front stoop for a considerably long time, even for them. As per usual, he hid behind sarcasm. She did her best to hide her remorse. She would later be overjoyed to tell her people and others, but as for the first person, he who specialized in making people feel bad in good situations and even worse in bad situations, it was particularly difficult. And it should be placed into minor consideration that a part of her still loved him. Finally came the part he used to hate. She had to go.
When they were together he always pushed for her to stay an extra hour or even half hour. Every minute counted and it would often lead to fights, but he never minded for as far as he was concerned he was battling for a noble cause.
This time he made no plea for her to stay longer. Another first. “Are you happy for me?” she asked as innocently as could be. “Of course I am,” he lied.
On tip toes she hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, perhaps missing her true target, and held tight. She would never admit it was a moment she wished would last forever and had her arms not begun to hurt she may have never let go. He smiled weakly and assured her he would ‘see her later,’ still incapable it seemed of ever saying goodbye to anyone. It was truly goodbye, if ever there was one. She was leaving him behind for a life of Christmas cards, occasional phone calls, and chance meetings at public events. For cookouts and picket fences. Doing her best not to avoid another tidal contact shift, she walked home shivering in the coolness of late night. The kind of night that reminded her of long walks on the golden sands of the Eastern Shore with her best friend and first true love. Longing to come up with just cause, but unable to find any, he watched silently as she disappeared down the street where he lived. Turning his focus upward once more he looked hopelessly beyond the skyline at what was left of an ocean of stars. Instead the cosmos played hide and seek for someone whom for once was in no mood for games. Through tear filled eyes he gazed upon a lonely night sky and whispered in a voice he had only ever used for her. “I’ll always love you,” he said. “Just like I promised I’d do.”
PART II
Special Delivery
She still got up early. The kids were grown now and the years where she had to be up early for them and the days where they still spoke to her regularly had long since passed. She still never slept. The pills saw to that. Luck presided only in that her curse never led her down darker paths to cheaper, stronger demons. Against all odds she tight-roped between favor among friends and loved ones and complete isolationism. Her map maintained the ruins of a few burned bridges and scars of scorched earth and until that morning she believed him to be one of them.
She watched as what she could only conject was a moving truck for one of her neighbors parked across the street. Three workers, very Union, unloaded themselves before turning to the cargo. Joe Kelly, 47, looked 67, lumbered over as she reached down for the morning paper. His suspenders had their work cut out for them, but the sun didn’t. Barely up and he already couldn’t keep the sweat from his eyes. Clinging to a dying tradition, he passed a clipboard, with actual paper, and pen to her. In order to free her second hand she placed her coffee cup with the crudely drawn sailboat down and signed. The other two teamsters had lifted the back hatch and had correctly guessed that she would, as they already had the enormous package halfway onto the ramp. Joe returned to their side to bark directions. The package itself looked entirely too immense for them until she moved to the street to get a better look, giving them a better view of her in her bathrobe and her a glimpse at the extra two movers still in the truck.
The five men very slowly and very carefully allowed the box to roll down the ramp, Joe snapping at her to back up so she didn’t get hurt, or in the way, and snapping at them to take it easy. As if they wanted to do otherwise.
It was right about the center of the front yard when her boyfriend/fiancé finally emerged from the domicile to witness the shadow fall over his freshly mowed lawn. Blinking several times he strained his neck sideways and almost resisted the urge to ask. Though he’d only known her a few months, Mike knew better than to question the insanity that seemed to follow her around. But the delivery that eclipsed, leaving his hydrangeas in darkness was enough to drag him in. The paper she had signed came with a letter. Complete with a not so familiar return address, but very familiar name. Good thing her robe had pockets. “Hunny, what is all this?” What a silly question. The box wasn’t open yet. “I don’t know.” She didn’t. “Well, who sent it?” She assured him she had no earthly idea. “Hmm.” He pondered. “Ok, well be careful and have fun. I’d stay, but I’m already late.”
A quick kiss and a scuttle to his luxury sedan and she was free to unsheathe the letter. Her mouth was watering. Catching any run off, she bit her lower lip, her eyes gleaming. Lacking a letter opener, her finger slid confidently beneath the fold with nary a paper cut. As she removed the sheet from within there was a rather unceremonious dropping of just one of the box walls. She expected a reveal through full blossom, but with the other walls erect her only clue was a mysterious red glow suddenly cast on the side of the house. The five plodding brutes continued prying as she unfolded the letter.
Event Horizon
He’d been warned. The ride was providing more than enough distractions. Pagers buzzed ten minutes ago and they were on their way. Karl Schwartz, male, 24, factory worker. White, tall and thin, with a chin strap and a real sense for street fashion. He ruined his knees in high school playing baseball. The former Wildcat faced the mound for three years and one blowout too many later, found himself overprescribed to painkillers. A hop, skip and a jump over to heroin landed him unconscious in the back of this ambulance. There wasn’t a whole lot these two EMT’s could do. They had brought back from the brink. Maybe his heart wouldn’t give out.
Sirens blaring, the ambulance bounced up and down as it blazed through red lights and stop signs. Schwartz lived in the back annals of the rough part of town, a far cry from the hospital. The driver was moving like a bat out of hell and maybe this guy had a fighting chance. Already a rough week, they weren’t going to lose another. The roller coaster ride and imminent death did little to take his focus off of her ponytail. Even as he numbly checked Schwartz’s vitals.
Her roots were starting to peek through. Swinging from side to side with every tremor, dangling gracefully from the back of her ball cap as she drove. He wasn’t staring. Such close quarters would never allow a voyeur discretion. And he wasn’t the type. Healthy curio
sity, not obsession, kept his eyes darting. Something about it was causing arousal to well up within. They’d known each other for over a year. She worked night shift for the heightened pay so it was the rare treat they got to work together. His usual partner was in the process of leaving and he needed the extra money anyway, so it seemed as though it may become a regular thing. While waiting for calls their favorite pastimes included doing the Metro crossword, playing cards, and flirting, which ranged from casual to straight raunch. Harmless enough. Afterall, she was married. With children. But he rarely flirted without motive and his track record had grown to be something to admire. He knew how to talk and was quick with the draw. The golden loop wrapped around her delicate digitus medicinalis made him slow to fire. Most looking in would have said they were the last two likely to get together. Cliques, gossipers, and judgmental social circles could make no sense of it. They all laughed. Night in and night out, four weeks passed in that ambulance so close to his new partner. By the time they would get together, it was serendipity.
They had arrived. The doors popped open and as carefully as they could, pulled their cargo out to be passed off to actual doctors. Schwartz was in even more capable hands now. They were the best two EMTs at St. Mary’s. It didn’t matter. St. Mary’s sported some of the best doctors in the region. Didn’t matter. Before the dawn he would lose to the big H. Didn’t matter. Sometimes they got follow ups. But usually unless the patient/victim died at the scene or in the ambulance, they wouldn’t know what became of them. Educational guessing would have given them their answer with this one. She needed a smoke.
Standing against the wall, his foot on the ambulance tire, he placed his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, and breathed the sweet smell of menthols. Smoking really was never his thing. Every so often he’d bum one. He would try unsuccessfully to convince himself it was because he had grown a taste secondhand knowing full well it was to impress her. How sophomoric. But it worked. He looked surprisingly natural holding a smoke. Maybe not Marlboro Man cool, but it passed. Like any cowboy, he was trying to lasso something big.