“The moment that happens,” I spread my hands out on the table, “as soon as you accept something as truth in one sentence, if it compliments your life choices, and then reject the next, the entire building comes down at its hinges. You might as well start up your own religion.”
“Yes, but you more than anyone I know in the church should understand,” Alex finally chimed in. “You’re one of the most free-thinking religious people I’ve ever spoken with. Don’t tell me you actually believe that the world is only six-thousand years old.”
I didn’t immediately answer him.
“Did man walk with dinosaurs, Mr. Chamberlain?” Gracie spoke rather flirtatiously, seemingly amused as she rested her chin on both knuckles.
“Well, I guess you have me there. I’m stumped.” They waited on a more concrete answer. “That entire concept is certainly very hard to swallow, considering our understanding of the fossil record. I’d have to say no.”
“And tell me.” Alex grinned. “Did Noah really put two of every animal on the ark? And did the entire earth really flood?”
“I don’t know.” I spread both hands out on the table. “Again, I’m at a loss for words.”
“It’s the slippery slope, my friend.” Alex sarcastically grinned, laying an arm around his wife. “Pretty soon you’ll be shaking your head at the Apostle Paul.”
“I certainly hope that doesn’t happen.”
“So Mr. Chamberlain, now that we’ve solved all of the issues plaguing religion and western civilization, how would you feel if we reclined on the back porch and lit up some cannabis?”
I almost choked on the last of my mushroom tortellini. “I’m sorry. Did I hear you right?”
“Surely you don’t think smoking weed is any different than having a pint or two of beer,” Alex said. “Come on, buddy, there’s a first time for everything. It’s my personal treat.”
“No, I’ve never smoked before. I couldn’t.”
“Care to express your moral obligations to it, Mr. Chamberlain?”
“I guess I haven’t put enough thought into it.”
“So you’re saying you don’t have a moral obligation to it,” Gracie said.
“No, I guess not, at least, not at the moment. But I think I’ll pass.”
“You’re loss.” Alex rose to his feet. “I’m going to the bathroom. If you change your mind while I’m gone….”
“I’ll let you know.”
Gracie and I gazed down at our empty plate of food after Alex left for the bathroom. I suspected she might be staring at me. I looked at her to see if she was looking at me. Just as I had suspected, she was. Or perhaps she simultaneously looked at me to see if I was looking at her.
“Gracie, I have to say this. Not only is your cooking masterful, but you’re also a superbly photogenic woman with a stunningly intelligent mind.”
“Mr. Chamberlain,” she blushed. There seemed to be a lot of blushing going around. “Are you hitting on me while my husband is in the other room?”
“No, of course not. I’m a photographer. It’s my job to observe and report these sort of things.”
Mm-hmm, she beamed. “Lucky for me I like dorky pick-up lines.”
“Hey Alex.” I called into the other room. “Your wife thinks I’m hitting on her because I said she’s photogenic!”
“Stop hitting on my wife while I’m taking a dump!” He called back.
“See,” I grabbed my wallet and keys, “I’m clearly not hitting on you.” I extended my hand to proclaim my evening good-byes.
She didn’t take my hand. “In this household, we don’t shake hands, Mr. Chamberlain.” She hugged me. And then I hugged her back. And then I waited for her to absolve me from her hug. I kind of liked that. Whoever dictated the handshake as the superior method of hello/good-bye civility probably had intimacy issues.
Then she kissed me…. on the lips.
I didn’t kiss her back. I reeled on my heels and took a step in the opposite direction. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Gracie.”
“Oh stop it, silly,” she said. “You’re making me blush again. That’s just how we say good-bye around here.”
Apparently, whoever settled on the hug as the method of hello/good-bye civility had intimacy issues also. I liked this a whole lot better. I wondered how Alex would react if I tried it on him sometime. Then again, maybe she was flirting with me. Just to be sure I plaid the She loves me/She loves me not game later that night with a daisy that I’d picked from the yard. Just my luck, the last pedal was She loves me. Oh hell.
4
It was the morning of July 4, a Friday. I sat on my new surfboard at Bolsa Chica, both legs looking like decapitated stubs as they draped off either side and disappeared into the ceiling of the murky Pacific, when a 1958 Ford F-100, red from the waist down and white from the hood up, pulled into the parking lot. From a couple hundred yards away I watched my surfer girl hop out of the driver’s side in flip-flops, skinny jeans, and a hoodie sweater. She wrapped a towel under her sweater and removed each piece of fabric, one at a time, until only her G-string, if she was wearing any at all, remained. She struggled to wedge the wet suit on. I watched that with immeasurable pleasure. Several other guys enjoyed the show too, including the two surfers with rock hard abs who walked past her in the parking lot. They turned shaggy heads without a thought to gentlemanly discretion.
It took Elise fifteen minutes from the time she located a parking spot (coincidently right next to my Ford Country Squire) to pull her clothing off, dress again, retrieve her flowery board from the pick-up, stretch, scan the waters, and then paddle out to where I was.
“What are you doing sitting here?” She called from a short distance away. “You let two impeccable waves pass you by.”
“I didn’t want to pass you by.”
“Aw, are you waiting for me?” She paddled closer.
“Indeed I am. I was hoping you’d show. You’re my surfer girl.”
“Yes, I am,” she smiled, cruising to a halt at my side. “I’ve come out here several times looking for you. I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Any good waves while I’ve been away?”
“I wouldn’t know. You’re the only reason I’ve ever come out here. In other news, I’ve been making a lot of progress.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I haven’t seen Tom since last weekend. All we ever seem to do, ever since the incident when you met him, is fight.”
“You’re in the BIG leagues.”
Elise splashed a handful of water my way.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not. Elise, what you did to me was so very hurtful. I can’t even begin to express the pain I’ve been feeling inside. I wish I’d never seen Tom, either. I wish I could wipe the look of him from my memory.”
“Joshua, I’m very sorry for what I did.” Elise looked like she wanted to cry but couldn’t, despite her best effort. Maybe she’d used them all up. Maybe her tear ducts were a dry well. Perhaps she’d cried more tears than what was humanly possible.
“I know you are. And I know you must be feeling all sorts of pain and guilt inside. We’ve been together too long to throw this all away. We were just babies, you and I, when we met.”
“Yes,” she smiled. “We were so very young.”
“Elise, I’ve never been with another woman. I don’t know what that’s like. You’re all I know, and when I married you I didn’t state my vows as for better or better. I was in this for the worse, however many psychological bags we’d acquire along the way. If you’re willing to put Tom forever behind you, then I want to work again on us.”
“Really, you mean it?”
“We can talk about what you’ve been through, and what I’ve been through.”
“And us,” Elise said.
“Yes, how we can continue on from here. Are you willing to seek help?”
“I wish I would have sought help a very long time ago. I wish I’d
told you about it, my feelings, my dark desires, how very lonely I was long before Tom came along. I wish none of this had ever happened.”
“How about I cook you dinner?”
“I like when you cook me dinner. I can’t even cook a microwavable.” She bit her lower lip as she thought about it. “I even burn broccoli when I’m boiling it. How about my place? I can show you how cute I fixed it up.”
“That sounds nice. I’d like that.”
“It’s July Fourth,” she said, keeping her teeth on her bottom lip. “Do you think there will be any fireworks tonight?”
“I’m almost certain of it.” Blood flowed between my thighs and kept me warm.
“Do you think they’ll crackle and go bang-bang-bang?”
“By the blood of Saint Valentine, I hope so.”
“Joshua,” she said after a silence. “I’ve really missed you.”
“Let’s change that…after we catch this wave.”
“Yes. Let’s catch it as husband and wife.”
“For better or for worse.”
“And for better this time.”
And that’s what we did.
5
Despite zigzagging the country from one end to the other, I almost always spent my Fourth of July at home. It was easily my favorite national holiday. You didn’t have to spend an entire month fighting for the last parking spot and emptying your bank account on gifts that nobody wanted or needed in the first place. Independence Day was a festive weekend of gluttonous eating, tanning, girls in their summer clothes, and pool hopping that was catered to friends, not the emotional expectations and unhealthy boundaries of family. And even better, it involved the celebration of America, explosions and barbecued ribs and beer and lots of women in string bikinis.
I invited Alex and Gracie to go water-skiing with Michael and Susan in Marine Stadium, just north of Second Street and west of PCH. Michael’s boat was a runabout replica, built of mahogany, the kind of speedboat you might find slicing waterways in the forties or fifties. We spent an hour teaching Alex how to ski. He stumbled, fell forward, skidded on his butt and ricocheted across the water for the first thirty minutes and picked it up rather well on the concluding thirty. Gracie had a slightly more difficult time adjusting to the concept of gliding over water. She couldn’t figure out how to lift her butt up, and after forty-five minutes of falling back or getting snapped forward she floated helplessly in the water and cried. I encouraged her for one more try. She wiped her tears away and agreed. That time she stood.
Her face was priceless, the way her mouth dropped open and stayed there, baby doe eyes widening even further than I thought imaginable. Watching her olive-skin body, fatty breasts tucked into her neon green bikini (with the slight hint of extra padding clinging to her thighs), I tried not to think about the kiss as she journeyed the entire length of the stadium, stiff as a board but screaming wildly and laughing as she went, and staying on her skis for a good three minutes before letting go.
Then it was my turn. Not too shabby, if you’re curious to know. I skied a little on one leg, carved a plume of water into the air, preformed a few three-sixty degree turns, and jumped the wake whenever I was bored. Alex and Gracie were impressed. Michael wasn’t.
“Is that all you got?” Michael frowned as he towed me in. He placed a stovepipe Uncle Sam hat over his head and attached it with a string around his chin. Then he tied a red cape around his neck. “If that’s your idea of skiing, you bloody loyalist, why don’t you go back to celebrating King George the Third Appreciation Day and leave the real all-American water sports to us patriots?”
Michael dropped his towel, revealing an American flag bathing suit underneath, and jumped into the water. From behind the wheel, Susan tucked her head into a hand.
“Oh lord, this is so embarrassing,” she said.
“Hit it, babe,” Michael called from the water.
Susan shifted their boat into gear and lifted Michael out of the water. STARS & STRIPES FOREVER started up over loudspeakers.
America. Hell yeah.
6
Elise and I had planned to meet at her new apartment by five o’clock. It was four-thirty when Michael dropped me off at the dock in Marine Stadium. I returned to my Ford Country Squire to find that the rear tire had been flattened. On closer inspection it looked like someone had slashed it. Kids these days. Where was their respect for Star & Stripes Forever and the good old red, white, and blue?
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said from my hands and knees.
Michael slowed his Ford Mustang convertible down. “If you crawl like that on your hands and knees all the way to Elise’s apartment, it’s likely to take you longer than if you drive,” he said.
“I’ll crawl if I have to… grovel too.”
“You got a spare?” Susan pulled up in her Dodge Ram, towing the boat behind.
I opened up the trunk.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Michael jumped out of the Mustang without bothering to open the door. “Time me,” he said to Susan. “NASCAR will be calling in the morning.” Susan picked up her watch, shook her head, and sighed.
Not exactly NASCAR clockwork, it was five o’clock by the time I was back behind the wheel and on my way to Trader Joe’s, which just so happened to be less than eight hundred feet away on the other side of PCH. The battery in my cell phone was dead, which meant I had no way of telling her I’d be late. I hoped to buy the appropriate groceries and make it to Elise’s apartment before she fainted from boredom.
For dinner I’d planned to barbecue steak and lobster, maybe grill some onions, artichoke, and corn on the side with garlic butter for the cob, bread freshly baked and a bottle of cabernet to compliment the steak. Elise was so excited about the potential menu she’d gone out earlier that morning to buy a miniature George Foreman grill that could be set up in the front of her apartment.
I found a cart and pushed it towards the meat aisle. An eccentric fellow was blocking access to the steaks. He was oddly dressed in a baggy white shirt and pants with bold black buttons running up the front and white powder to mask his face, though his neck was exposed, tanned and looking bare without make-up. He wore black shoes, black gloves, and a black Barrett cap over his head of hair, with red lipstick to contrast the drab of his uniform. He wasn’t dressed at all as a traditional clown. He was one of those turn-of-the-last-century French mimes, what one might call a Pierrot, and he didn’t look happy.
“Late for a gig?” I said.
“Yeah, about a century too late, kid.” His frown was exaggerated by a heavy coating of lipstick.
As I reached for a slab of steak he jabbed my foot, grabbed the entire stack, all twenty or so of them, and dropped them in his cart.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
“It’s because I’m wearing make-up, huh? You think I’m trying to be funny because I’m wearing make-up. Well I’m a human being. Not everything’s a bloody joke. Really, it’s people like you that I’m on medication.”
Uh-huh, I said, and pushed my cart at an easy but hastened pace away from him, hoping he wasn’t carrying a gun or something. I guess I wouldn’t be having steak after all. I settled on the pasta aisle. Maybe I could cook up some breaded chicken to go with it. The Pierrot rushed past me, slid in front of my cart, and wailed an arm across a row of boxes, knocking them viciously across the floor. Very few landed in his cart.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you are the joke?”
“Buzz off, ass-hole,” he said.
I did. I pushed my cart around the corner, grabbed two bouquets of sunflowers before he could catch up to me, and made my way past the wine. The Pierrot cut me off again, cart filled with all the steak and pasta he could find.
“You gonna knock all the liquor over too?”
He flipped me the bird.
I picked up a bottle of Wild Turkey Kentucky Bourbon and a Francis Ford Coppola Cabernet and headed for the checkout stand. Once again
the clown beat me to it. Always one step ahead of me, it was like he had some sort of advance on time or something. I waited impatiently while he unloaded his ridiculous amount of meat and pasta on the counter. The grocer began swiping each individual item, but I swear he did so at the slowest pace imaginable. I studied the clock on the wall. It read 5:04pm. It must have been broken. That was the exact same time, according to my car radio, as when I’d entered the store. I looked around for another available register. Nothing was open. In fact, now that I thought about it, there was nobody else in the store, nobody but the Pierrot and the grocer. They both wore black leather gloves.
“Aw hell, I messed up.” The grocer frowned at me. “Don’t you just hate it when that happens? I guess I’ll have to start all over again.”
“I wouldn’t talk to him,” the Pierrot told the grocer. “This ass-hole right here is likely to think it’s all some big stand-up routine.” He patted his baggy clothes for a wallet. He couldn’t seem to find one.
“Is that so?” The grocer said. “Is that what you are, an ass-hole?”
“I know it’s in here somewhere.” The Pierrot spoke to himself as he patted his clothing down, pronouncing each word as slowly as he could.
“Yeah, I get jokes.” I pulled two twenty-dollar bills from my pocket and slapped them on the counter, left the Bourbon in the cart, retrieved the bottle of wine and sunflowers, and headed for the door. This was getting to be outrageously strange, and I was genuinely frightened. No food to cook with, I guess Elise and I would be eating out after all, so long as I wasn’t shot first by a lunatic clown time traveling all the way from early twentieth century Paris. If only he’d spoken French instead of English.
“Hey, ass-hole, you need to pay for those!” The grocer said. He may have not owned a gun, but he certainly clutched a Louisiana Slugger. He swung it as wildly as he could, rocking an entire display of Beefeater Gin from its foundation. He swung it a second time, uprooting an entire row of rum from its casing. Alcohol and glass bled everywhere. I got the hell out of there.
When I returned to my Ford Country Squire with two bouquets of sunflowers and bottle of cabernet (I did so with all haste), a red Volkswagen Bus was sitting idle in the next parking space. Its driver was bent over the engine, hood popped up. He was thin and handsome with a dominant jaw, tight blue jeans and a white t-shirt…. and he wore a pair of leather gloves. I was starting to sense a theme here.
Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1) Page 24