“My bra. The bra’s got to go. And I mean right now.” I jumped to my feet, stretched and twisted. “I hate this garment. Don’t know why I didn’t take it off sooner.”
“Jeez Louise, Michaela. You look just like an exercise maven in the throes of warming up for her Pilates routine. Chill.”
I just glared at her. “I despise this thing. Who invented the bra, anyway? It’s torture. I hate it.” I stormed off the porch and into the condo. Two minutes later I returned, relaxed and smiling. Engulfed in an over sized T-shirt, I clutched a sweating bottle of hard lemonade to my recently unshackled bosom. I caught Bernie’s bemused and condescending grin from the corner of my eye but chose to ignore the unspoken jibe.
Seasoned friendships are the best. Aged to perfection. You can sense a punch line, explode into painful, gut-wrenching laughter, and comprehend the poignancy of any meaningful moment without so much as a spoken syllable. Only half a day and we were already giving ‘Southern Comfort’ a whole new scope of delightful innuendo. We had ten glorious, relaxing days ahead of us. Smooth sailing all the way.
“We’re heading to the beach tomorrow,” I announced to break the silence. “Did you bring your trunks?”
Bernie, who’d been slapping at mosquitoes, froze. I cocked my head and gave her The Look. “What? Please don’t tell me you didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
A pained expression spread across her face. “Oh, Lord,” she groaned.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“Sweetie, the prospect of emerging from the privacy of my bedroom, trapped and suspended in lycra and spandex heinously crafted for maximum coverage of dimpled buttocks and gravity-challenged cleavage is depressing and extraordinarily painful.”
I did a double take. “You’re kidding.”
“Uhm hummm,” she murmured.
“Uhm hummm, yourself,” I countered. “You’d better be teasing me, Mrs. North, because we are going into the water—hideous spandex and lycra or not. Now, let’s go inside and watch some TV. Too many mosquitoes out here.” I bounced out of my chair. “C’mon, deary…time for the news.”
Bernie’s face was a mask of reluctance but she ambled into the condo after me and fell into the over-sized easy chair. After placing both feet on the ottoman, she reached for the remote and switched on the TV. Just in time for more on the missing twins I’d read about in the Charleston paper that morning. Flopping onto the couch, I groaned. “I read about those sweet little girls in the paper at the airport. I hate stuff like this.”
We listened in sober silence as the announcer described how the identical three-year-old twin girls were snatched from a mall in Columbia while their mother’s back was turned and hadn’t been seen since last Saturday. An Amber Alert had been sent out, authorities everywhere notified, but as yet no word from any kidnappers had been received. Just plain tragic and I didn’t want to think about it. Another thing to add to my already too-long prayer list.
* * * *
A raucous symphony of sea birds heralded the brilliant morning sun. Through the palmettos, Lionel and Vicki emerged from 318 in all their radiant glory. Peering at them through the Venetian blinds, we witnessed Lionel treating the world to neon orange Bermuda shorts, bright green pool shoes, a Budweiser beach towel draped over one doughy shoulder, and a tacky baseball cap announcing, ‘I’m With Stupid’.
Like a water sprite on hallucinogens, Vicki pranced down the steps behind him on the way to their Lexus. Tight jeans shorts enhanced a muffin-top torso that spilled out from beneath her tie-dyed midriff shirt. Enormous dangling dolphin earrings called to mind native tribes in Zambia, who stretch their earlobes to unnatural proportions for the sake of beauty. Masses of orange hair were swept up in a metallic scrunchee.
“We can’t possibly look that bad,” I muttered as the Lexus kicked up sand and pine needles in reckless disregard of the posted 13 mph speed limit.
Releasing the blind, I stepped back from the window and exhaled a loud puff of air. I was desperate to leave, already clad in a smart black and white ensemble, complete with matching straw hat and trendy beach bag. No bra. Viscous, cream-like ooze from a liberal application of sunscreen glistened on my exposed body parts. Bernie, on the other hand, was taking her own sweet time getting ready. Finally she slapped a straw hat on her fluff of hair, gathered up her beach bag, and sent me an evil look. I smiled.
“Why,” Bernie spat the word, “this palpable exhilaration at the prospect of swallowing gallons of seawater?”
“Are you kidding? Just imagine bobbing up and down in the rhythmic enchantment of waves and tides. The ocean and I are simpatico.”
“Humph.”
Bernie locked the door as I trundled down the stairs ahead of her. A final glance toward our complex revealed a tiny face at an upstairs window, peeking around the edge of a drawn shade. We looked at each other, then back to the window, but the pixie had vanished. Just then, Jorge the grounds keeper arrived in a whirlwind of sound and fury, billowing leaves and pine cones from his path with his mighty leaf blower.
“Can’t wait to get far, far away from that damned nuisance,” Bernie grimaced.
No argument there. It’d be a pleasure to leave the noisemaker behind and let Jorge go about his daily routine, grooming the area—humbly, unassuming, ever-observant. “Ohh, yeah,” I agreed.
SIX
My hands at two and ten on the wheel, I glanced in the rear view mirror, adjusted the seat although it was in the same position it always is when I drive. Then I rectified my creeping swimsuit bottoms, twisted my neck until it popped, re-positioned my floppy-brimmed hat. Satisfied, I reached forward to turn the ignition key, which wasn’t there.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I moaned as I flung open the car door, almost decapitating a venturesome squirrel. “I forgot my purse.”
Bernie gave me The Look, propped open her door, desperate to coax in a waft of warmish air as she melted into the front seat, and grunted. “Great. I suppose your keys are in the purse?”
“Of course.”
“And yet…silly me…I went and locked the door.” Her sigh teetered on the downside of dramatic.
“Not to worry. I hid a key this morning beneath the shell under the table beside the—”
“Go.”
It only took a few minutes before I re-emerged, bag-in-hand, cool and collected. But Bernie was scowling. “What took you so long?” She dripped sweat and sarcasm.
“I didn’t want to forget anything else. Here—let’s do a last-minute check.” I ignored her irritation on purpose. “Let’s see…sunscreen…”
“Of course,” Bernie exhaled.
“Is it SPF 30 or above?” I asked although Bernie’s focus was on something other than me. The sullen look on her face spoke volumes. “Okay, okay,” I continued, “beach towel? Flip-flops? Beach book? Swimsuit cover-up?”
“I’m wearing it.” Bernie interjected. “Could we just go? The beach will dry up before we even get there.”
“Oh, what a grouch. I’m just having some fun. Lighten up, will you? Sheesh. Do I sense a wee bit of anxiety and trepidation in my dear sidekick? I realize beach stuff is foreign to you, coming from the Midwest and all, but I, coming from Seattle and raised on Puget Sound, am one with the ocean. The salty, crashing waves, the majestic pelicans, and cackling gulls are all part and parcel of my spirit, melded into the untamable power of nature and timeless beauty and—”
“Enough.”
“Okay, okay. Jeez, Bernadette, give me a break.” I started the engine, backed the car out of its space and maneuvered around a Live oak. Bernie, meanwhile, had removed her straw hat and was clutching it in a death-grip to her bosom. I was wise enough to refrain from uttering even a teensy-weensy comment.
We’d driven a few yards when something tickled my nose and then my ear. “Gnats,” I sniped, my attention on the road thwarted by annoying little flying teeth, buzzing around my head. Groping, swiping, and grabbing at the invisible demons, I swatted. “Blasted gnats.”
I yelped again as one landed squarely on my cheek.
“All right, that’s it.” Bernie shrieked as her final shred of patience slipped through her manicured fingernails.
“Sorry. But they’re flying all around my face.”
“You’re crazy. I don’t see a thing.”
“Then you’re the one who’s crazy. They’re everywhere.”
“Would you go already. Forget the invisible gnats, for crying out loud.”
“Fine. Ohh. There. Got one.”
“Go.”
“Fine.” I pressed down on the gas pedal. “Okay, sweetie,” I chirped in my best conciliatory tone, hoping to soothe and placate my riled up friend. “Do you want to go to the sound side or the ocean side?”
“I don’t care,” grumped Bernie. “Just go somewhere, for god’s sake. You pick.”
“Well,” I began in my best teacher cum tour guide manner, “the sound is delightfully pleasant and lovely…probably just right for someone like you.”
Sensing a challenge in my condescending comment, Bernie bristled with disdain. “What do you mean, ‘someone like me’?”
Still relishing my role as Queen of the Sea, but sensing I was losing my edge, I hastened to amend, “No, no, dear, don’t misunderstand what I said. It’s just the ocean is, is, well…it’s a bit of a challenge for landlubbers like yourself.”
“And just because I’m from Missouri, I’m not up to it?” sniffed Bernie, perspiration trickling in rivulets from the masses of already disproportionate-sized hair, that seemed to be swelling by the minute.
“Okay, then…” I brightened, swatting again at the bothersome gnats that congregated for karaoke on the bridge of my nose. “We’ll go to the ocean side, come hell or high water—no pun intended.”
“Fine.” Bernie knew she’d snapped so hastened to add, “It’s been thirty-something years since I even poked a toe into the ocean so,” she coughed, “this should be fun.” She leaned toward me. “And I mean that.”
“Oh, good,” I chortled. “I love the ocean. And I know you will, too.”
Within minutes, we were rolling into the beach access lot, startled to see so many neon-colored umbrellas peeking over the dunes. Folks got an early start around here. The crashing of breakers onto the rock jetties announced the in-coming tide, and we paused to gaze at the swelling whitecaps pounding the shore. The sounds of summer: laughter—from both gulls and people…shrill cries from children…the coast guard helicopter flying overhead…the ranger, four-wheeling it from turtle nest to turtle nest across the sea grass dunes…the tinkling of sea shell shards ebbing and flowing in the frothy surf… Summer.
Stepping out of our tent-shaped cover-ups, eyes darting hither and yon for potential critics, we waddled to the water, noodles bent around our middles, ready to embrace the sea.
It didn’t take us long to be engulfed in the wondrous ocean, bobbing about like corks, light on our toes, filled with awe at the buoyancy provided by the chemical relationship of saline water to pouchy flesh, wondering how we managed to touch the sand at all.
Minutes melted into timeless euphoria, bouncing and drifting with the flow, leaping into each billowing wave, slapped by an occasional and unexpected crest. Need I say how good life was?
However, how often do the realities of life sneak up and surprise us when we least expect it? This, I believe, is what folks call “Murphy’s Law”. While I continued to lull about on my float, Bernie bobbed closer to shore then stood straddle-legged in thigh-deep surf, hands on hips, to watch a gaggle of little ones playing in the sand—her back to the monotonous waves. Boogie boards skimmed past as lithe, tanned teens marketed their skills for willowy girls in itsy bikinis who paraded up and down the sand with nothing to hide and everything to show. I relaxed into the moment, content to just watch Bernie experiencing my beach and my ocean. Then the unexpected hit like a lightning bolt.
To my horror, an enormous rogue wave rose up behind Bernie and without ceremony yanked her feet out from under her. Bernie was tossed head-over-kiester once, twice, three times—which was no small task, even for the ocean.
Her black-clad bottom flashed the sky, disappeared then reappeared like some tormented sea creature in the throes of frenzied turmoil. Flopping in mere inches of sand, silt, and shells, there was no doubt Bernie was in extreme distress.
My lightning-like reflexes responded with yelps of surprise and fear, screaming, “Bernie. Bernie. Are you okay? Get up. Get up. Say something—anything.”
Bernie rolled over—her suit barely covering the necessities—shells and sand streaming from her mouth, nose, and ears. Disoriented, she sat in three inches of sea and sand with a bemused smile on her face, belying her acute distress. Then, with deliberate and awkward machinations, she got to her feet and, listing from side to side, staggered onto the beach like a party-goer who’d tallied one too many Smirnoffs.
“Oh, my dear…I am so sorry,” I sympathized, smile wobbling as I made vain attempts to refrain from laughing outright at the image of slow motion somersaults, face in sand, wide hiney winking at the noon day sun.
“Just…get…me…out…of…here,” Bernie sputtered, in a game attempt to avoid the pitying yet amused stares of the accumulated by-standers and beach combers. Bernie could be the poster child for ‘This Could Happen To You’—a sincere warning to all landlubbers to never, ever underestimate the power of the sea…or the capriciousness of Murphy’s Law. Mustering every ounce of dignity remaining in her sandy and shell-bedecked body, Bernie strode with purpose up the beach, snatched up her beach towel, and, refusing to even look back, marched toward the parked car.
“Tomorrow…tomorrow we’ll try the sound,” I offered, knowing I would pay for this outing for the rest of my life.
SEVEN
Still sputtering and spitting out sand and flecks of shells, Bernie squished into the steamy front seat of my Neon, while I offered conciliatory little clucking sounds in hopes of soothing her. “Are you sure you’re okay? Oh, honey…I am so sorry. You don’t hate the water now do you?”
Bernie blew off my concerns and stared straight ahead, mermaid dreadlocks dripping and clinging to her sand-encrusted scalp.
The car veered into the condo’s parking lot and had barely come to a halt when Bernie forced her way against the door and stumbled up the path to the condo. By her muttering and wincing, I could tell the grit between her thighs chafed as she waddled toward the door like a toddler with a load.
Dragging our beach bags, I trailed after her, ever mindful of her explosive wrath when challenged. I found the key—an amazing feat in itself—unlocked the door, and ushered her inside. I followed at a respectful distance, trying not to react to the plinking, scratching sounds of beach debris that marked her path down the hallway to the bathroom. “We can sweep up later,” I called after her, sensing that my forced cheerfulness probably irked her something fierce as she wanted nothing more than a shower and shampoo.
Sensing there was no more I could do at the moment, I changed into dry clothes then slumped down onto one of the plastic deck chairs, contemplating the wrath of Neptune and, what could be even worse, the wrath of Bernie. A flash of color and the cloying scent of heady cologne alerted me to someone’s presence. I looked up. The caftan queen.
“Hello, dear. I’m so glad you’re back. It gets kind of lonely here when your condo is empty. I’m Melba…like the toast… Where is Constance?”
“Bernie,” I corrected. “My friend is Bernie…short for Bernadette.”
“Of course she is, dear,” Melba patted my hand like I was the one tottering on the brink of dementia.
Swatting at the horde of mosquitoes organizing their family reunion on and around my glistening face, I muttered, “Drat these little buggers,” through clenched teeth then grinned up at my neighbor. “Sorry for the visceral display there. I’ve sprayed but the little demons don’t seem to mind, and I’ve just about had it with their torture.”
Melba just shrugged and offered a bemused e
xpression almost impossible to read. “Ohhh…yes…yes…so annoying. One of our Low Country scourges,” she tittered. “I just ignore them.” Her plump pink hands did a little hula-like wave and then, like a specter, she disappeared back into the dark recesses of her condo, to the company of Maury Povich and Montel Williams, and God knew who else.
Before I could settle back in my deck chair, a creaking floorboard overhead hinted that the elusive family a floor above might be ready to show themselves. Tilting my head back and gazing upwards as though capable of penetrating the floorboards, my neck froze in that ridiculous position. Plagued since my thirties with these muscle spasms, I leaped to my feet, head back, nostrils flaring, grimacing in pain.
“Oh, ow, ow, ow.” I yelped, stumbling into the condo, hands outstretched, waving wildly like Patty Duke in Helen Keller. “Ow. Oh, jeez…ow.” I moaned, seeking comfort and solace from one of my Lidocaine patches and a dose of aspirin. It was times like this I wished I had a massage therapist living right next door. Therapeutic neck rubs worked miracles. I’m a firm believer that they were what kept me going during my teaching years. I’d long ago tried to talk my Joe into taking classes but he’d refused, proclaiming his expertise as good as any professional’s. Well, his backrubs were pretty good, but, still, it wasn’t the same. I twisted my neck this way and that and the spasm subsided. A minor miracle. I could move again. Thank God.
Turning on my heel to return to the veranda, I froze, detecting the faintest whiff of smoke, wafting on the breeze. Nose tilted toward the wall vent, I sniffed then bristled. “We have rules about smoking around here,” I shouted.
“What?” Bernie screeched from her bathroom, floundering beneath cascades of water and shampoo, barely able to hear through sand-encrusted ears.
“Smoking,” I hollered.
“Who’s choking?” Bernie bellowed from the shower.
“No, I said smoking. Someone’s smoking.” I tried to explain.
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