Undertow: A compilation of short beach stories

by Patricia A. Knight

  “Well, Max, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I was having an epic sinking spell, think Titanic, until this guy turned up.” I leaned down to scruff the Lab behind the ears and looked up at his owner. “He lifted my spirits. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood around him.”

  Max’s smile widened and he nodded.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Snafu.”

  I tilt my head and cover the Lab’s ears with my hands. I try not to use bad language in front of impressionable youth and the pup’s too young to hear what I’m about to say. “Excuse me? As in the anagram, Situation Normal All Fucked Up?” I whisper.

  Max’s smile spread to his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “That’s a terrible name.”

  Max lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  I straighten with a laugh. “Would you mind if I come back tomorrow to see Snafu? My days are free for a while and, well, he cheers me up.” I watch his mouth carefully form words.

  “Sure. What time?”

  I thought for moment. “Is 7:00 too early?”

  His eyebrows flew up, but he shook his head. “No. 7:00 it is.”

  “Thanks so much. See you tomorrow...Max, Snafu. I’ll bring a Frisbee. Does Snafu play Frisbee?” Max nods. “Great, good…and, ah…yeah, okay…tomorrow.” I wave and back away grinning like a lunatic, unwilling to lose eye contact with this gorgeous man. Max watches right back until I have to turn toward the beach or risk looking totally ga-ga, smitten and seriously uncool. I walk a little way down the beach and glance back. I can’t help myself. I am totally ga-ga, uncool, smitten. I don’t care. Max and Snafu are walking toward the big house that overlooks this part of the beach. Max places each step with exaggerated care and my exuberant, boisterous playmate walks quietly at his side like a gray-muzzled pensioner. Hmm. Even the dog thinks Max is fragile. There’s a story here and I want to know what it is.

  It’s dark by the time I get back to the cinder block, one-room studio I rent in a former Motel 6. Two weeks ago, I moved out of the fully furnished two-bedroom apartment I had shared with Carl. Number one, I can’t afford the rent with no job, and number two, I figure Carl needs it more anyway now that he and Allen are in a “committed relationship.” Whatever that meant. I thought that was what we had. Carl offered to help with my deposits, but he and Alan aren’t any better off moneywise.

  My studio is, ah, basic, but I’m good at scrounging stuff up and there is always the Goodwill Thrift Store and St. Catherine’s Bargain Basement. Right now I have a chrome and red pedestal table of dubious stability that probably came out of some 1950’s diner, a couple of matching chairs, a hula-girl lamp with a fringed shade, an old wooden cable spool that functions as a side table and a three-legged upholstered chair. I’ve stacked bricks to make the fourth leg and it is the premier seating in my glamorous abode. Not a bad haul for $12.00. Add my double mattress on a rusty iron frame, two floor fans that run 24/7, and it is home sweet home. I know what you’re thinking. But really, it’s not that bad and it’s not forever. Just until I get back on my feet.

  Not even the scritch of roaches in the sink the size of cocker-spaniels can spoil my good mood. I slip between my sheets with a smile on my face that won’t go away. Tomorrow I will see Max and Snafu. A last thought drifts through my mind before sleep claims me. I’d never felt like this about Carl.

  ***

  “You’re a babe-magnet, bud.”

  Snafu circles on his pad on the floor at the side of my bed until he settles with a thud. I set my alarm for oh-five hundred hours. I’ll need the time to get my PT in before I ask my left knee and ankle to make the walk from the house to the beach.

  “We can’t oversleep, Snaf. Holiday is coming tomorrow for a play-date and we need to be at the gate by oh-seven hundred hours.”

  Snafu raises his eyebrows, casts a “whatever, dude” at me and then rolls to his side with a groan. I chuckle. The pup’s worn out. Today was good for him. I’d been working my way through the weeds in the flowerbed by the pool when Snaf had woofed and taken off. I’d followed to see where he went and watched the adorable blond sprite play with Snaf for a couple of hours. I was so damn glad for my boy. I’m a pathetic playmate. The whole time I kept telling myself, “Go down to the beach. Introduce yourself to the pretty girl. Thank her for giving your dog the kind of attention you can’t.” But each time I walked toward the back gate and the path that led to the beach, the old fear returned.

  What if I couldn’t speak? What if I tried and all that emerged was stuttered bits of garbled nonsense like every other time in the past eighteen months when I’d tried to form a coherent sentence of more than two words? I can talk to my dog just fine. Pretty women? Not so much. My head doc says it’s a psychological defense mechanism to stress and I’ll get over it. Fuck, I’m such a coward. I didn’t used to be. I’m just sick of the pity.

  I waited until it looked like she was leaving before hobbling down to the sea grape hedge and whistling for Snaf. When she’d waved and backtracked across the beach to introduce herself, her artless, innocent admiration—first of my dog, and then of me—eased the knot of tension coiled in my gut. I’d never wanted to be free from the succession of Ground Hog Days my life had become for the past year and a half as much I wanted it then. She charmed me. I wanted to pursue her.

  I went to sleep with a smile on my face for the first time since I’d been medevacedfrom Kandahar. Tomorrow I will see Miss Holiday Jones.

  Chapter Two

  A sense of joy and anticipation fills me when I awake. I get to play with Snafu again today. My heart skips unevenly. I get to see Max. I leave the house at five to make certain I’ll be at Snafu’s gate by seven and I practically trot the five miles to the beach. I’m at least a half hour early. I know it’s silly for a single, brief meeting to affect me so…but it did. I can’t wait to see Snafu and perhaps unravel a few threads in the mystery surrounding his gorgeous owner.

  I suspect from the name of the dog, Max has a military background as many men of his age have nowadays, what with Iraq and Afghanistan a constant hot spot, and of course the “Ranger Up” on his ratty t-shirt was a dead giveaway.

  I am still five minutes away from our meeting point when I see Max standing in the break of the sea grape hedge. My heart gives a leap. He’s early, too. He looks down at the Lab sitting obediently at his heels and says something, motioning my way. Snafu woofs and bounds toward me, his tail gaily wagging. I wave at Max and holler, “Hey, Max!”

  He waves back. “Hello, Holiday!”

  And then a seventy-pound bullet of happy dog takes my knees out from under me.

  “Arggh!” I scream, collapsing in a heap on my back and then laughing while Snafu slobbers doggy kisses all over my face and bounces in circles, barking, around my prone body. I get to my knees and dig through my backpack for the Frisbee I’d brought. Finding it, I whip it sixty-feet down the beach and watch Snafu go flying after it.

  “Hey, Holiday.”

  I look up at Snafu’s owner and grin. “It can’t be more than 6:30. I figured I’d have a wait. You’re early.”

  Max chuckles and shrugs. “Thanks for yesterday. For…p-p-playing…with Snaf.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. I think Snafu did more for me than I did for him, though. I wasn’t kidding about my personal crisis.”

  Max nodded. “Yeah. Snaf’s g-good…therapy dog.”

  Snafu trots up, drops the Frisbee at my feet and looks at me expectantly. I zip it down the beach again and off he goes. “Snafu is a therapy dog?”

  “Yeah. Mine.”

  “Ah.” Part of me said not to pry into what could be a painful conversation for this handsome man, but the curious part of me wanted to know everything there was to know about Max. Coke or Pepsi? What toothpaste did he like? What was his favorite band? Boxers or briefs? How did he feel about global warming? How did he feel about penniless, unemployed, five-foot-nothing blonds with flyaway hair and tar on their feet who adored dogs? Curiosity won. “What do
you need therapy for?”

  “Oh man.” Max chuckles without humor. “G-got all day?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. So lay it on me. I’m a good listener.”

  His eyebrows rise as he holds my gaze. “Don’t f-forget. You asked.”

  I smile as I dig into my backpack, drag out a couple of beach towels and spread them on the sand. “Promise. I won’t forget.” I sit and watch as Max moves to sit beside me with painstaking care. His white cargo shorts, the same ones he’d worn the day before, gape at the leg and expose scars I hadn’t seen yesterday. I notice them now and Max sees me notice.

  “IED. Kandahar. Bad ankle. B-b-bad knee.” He points to his head. “PCS. Post. Concussive. Syndrome. Can’t…can’t…can…” Max closes his eyes, growls in frustration and fumbles at a pocket in his shorts.

  I ran a hand up his arm—his rock-hard arm. This man is ripped. Whatever was wrong with Max, it had little to do with not being fit. “Hey. It’s okay. You have all day to tell me—or not. I’m not going anywhere. Just spending the day hanging at the beach with a great dog and his incredibly hot owner.”

  Max snorts. “Hot owner?”

  I grin and nod. “Oh yeah. You’re a hottie.”

  Max relaxes and pulls out a pad of paper and a pencil stub from his cargo shorts and holds them up. “Fall…b-back…plan.”

  I laugh. “Okay. You have a wrecked knee and ankle and because of a severe concussion, you have trouble speaking. Did I get it right?”

  “First try.” Max winces. “One…m-more thing. Seizures. Snaf knows.”

  “Snafu is a therapy dog and he alerts when you are going to have a seizure?”

  Max nods. “Yeah. So…not-so-hot owner.”

  I get on my knees, sit back and face Max. “Oh…I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all. You’re just the strong silent type. It adds to your sense of brooding mystery.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Once a hottie, always a hottie.”

  Max grins. “Nut case.”

  I shrug and eye him sideways with a crooked smile. “Takes one to know one.”

  Pleasure glows inside me when Max cracks up laughing. When he sobers, he props himself up on his arms and looks at me. “Holiday Jones. Your turn. Personal crisis?”

  “Oh wow. Do you have all day?” I flop to my back and rest on my elbows beside him.

  Max nods solemnly. “Just h-h-hanging at the…beach…with Snaf and a hottie.”

  I feel the blush creeping up my neck. Wow. He thinks I’m a hottie? Wow. I peek up at him. He regards me steadily.

  “Ah, I’m a recently fired and dumped hottie.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh boy. You’re going to hate that you asked. My life’s a train wreck.”

  He simply shakes his head. “Spill it, Jones.”

  I spend the rest of the morning throwing the Frisbee and telling Max about Carl coming out of the closet, and Mr. Padhuwala and expired ravioli and tuna, and Bennie-Under-the-Bridge and Crazy Kate. It was easy…as if I’d known him my whole life, but all the time, in the background, my body hums with awareness of Max as a man.

  ***

  I shift to my stomach to hide my full-on erection. My cargo shorts are loose but I don’t want to risk Holiday will notice. Hell, I just met her and I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed this much. I want her to stay, not think I’m some perv. She’s right. Her life’s a train wreck. The way she describes the shit parade that’s rained down on her lately cracks me up. I admire her optimism. I admire her attitude. I admire her sense of humor…and her killer body.

  As I watch her, fascinated by her beautiful, expressive face, I thank God for making some men gay—a strange reaction for me. My Ranger unit was tight-knit. I lost it when ET and Gomer got killed. Shit, I cried fucking tears. But, as close as I was to the guys in my unit, I never wanted to do any of ‘em. I’m completely on board with don’t ask, don’t tell. The fact that I want to shake Allen’s hand and buy him and Carl a round? It’s a first.

  Damn docs didn’t tell me how much PCS affects moods—played hell with mine. And my sex drive. My dick has been DOA for the better part of two years. Physically, everything works. Morning wood and the odd wet dream still plague my life, but every other aspect is AWOL. Mentally, nothing works. Sex-perts tell you fucking is ninety-percent mental. I believe them—now. Damn, impotency sucks. No wonder no one talks about it. I sure as hell don’t want to.

  I'm…was a fucking Army Ranger. I might as well have “hard-ass” tattooed across my forehead. I've done three fucking tours in that sand box we called “Asscrapistan”. When my unit rolled, fire-fights were guaranteed. I’d honed my self-control and decision-making skills to a razor sharp point, precise and deadly. I controlled my emotions. They didn’t control me.

  Now? Not so much. It is a source of immense frustration to have my control taken away by a concussive brain injury, but I’m learning to live with the new me. He’s not so bad. A little more “touchy-feely” than I used to be…but I guess that’s not the end of the world. Sometimes I wonder if this is what chicks deal with all the time. If they can have normal lives with a cluster-fuck of emotions, then so can I.

  The Palm Beach sun and sand promised isolation and a chance to heal. I hope time will do what the best therapists couldn’t. Between mowing the grass, weeding flowerbeds and cleaning the pool, I have plenty of time to work out and try not to think about what life had been like before. Sometimes when I remember that guy, the arrogant asshole I was “before,” I wince. Fuck. I took so much for granted.

  I never leave the property. God love Amazon. It delivers everything. With a limp dick, I’ve given up women. Social stress blitzes my speech, makes sure I can’t explain much—not even to arm-candy. So, I avoid women. I don’t even fantasize about them anymore . . . until Holiday. My seizures are just more shit piled on top of shit.

  She sits next to me in her ragged cut offs and faded, pink, bikini top, smelling of Ivory soap. Tendrils of her hair wave in the breeze all wild-ass and free, exuding a strawberry scent…and I’m so hard it’s painful. Halle-fucking-luiah.

  “You hungry?” I ask. It’s been a while since breakfast and I have a feeling that Holiday might consider food a luxury if she’s scraping pennies.

  “I brought some crackers and fruit and a couple of bottles of water. The bottles say Evian, but the water is out of the tap. I’ll be happy to share.”

  She smiles at me. It’s infectious. I have to smile back. This sprite of a woman…shit. She’s the real deal. My emotions run riot. Why do you make an instant connection with some people and others not? What decides that? I believe in a higher power. I think she was sent to me—put in this place, at this time for me. I will my hard-on away so I don’t scare her when I turn over.

  “Let me feed you.” I stand and hold my hand out. “Come on.”

  She takes my hand and hops to her feet, putting no drag on me at all. I whistle for Snafu and the three of us make our way to the cabana. My leg decides to cooperate for once. I’m not limping too badly, so I don’t let go of her hand.

  ***

  My hand rests in Max’s gentle clasp. He never lets go. I feel like I’m plugged into low voltage. A tingle of 100% sexual attraction runs between the two of us. We are both aware of it. I want him to act on it but I don’t want to seem forward. I’ll wait. I promised myself after Carl, who had to be coaxed into anything physical—and now I know why—I would hold out for a man who pursued me.

  He seems to be walking better today. He doesn’t place his feet as carefully as he did last night. I can’t comment because then he’d know I’d turned around and watched him and I don’t want to make him feel weird—like I’m stalking him or something. Hand-in-hand, comfortable with the silence, we saunter past the pool to the “cabana/guest house,” where he’s living. We laugh at the silly antics of Snafu as he bounces around us, brandishing the Frisbee in his mouth, trying to entice me into throwing it for him. The Lab seems tireless.

  Opening the louver door,
Max ushers me inside the cool interior. Some designer has been at work because the place looks like one of those full-color spreads in The Palm Beacher—the kind entitled, “Make Your Guesthouse into a Tropical Paradise.” Blond marble floors and turquoise and cream upholstered furniture with pastel yellow accent pillows dominate the decor. Snafu trots in behind us and immediately hops up on the sofa still holding the Frisbee. Max doesn’t say a word. Wow. Gotta love a man with his priorities in order.

  “Sweet. Your employer houses his employees well.” I laugh. “Can I get a job here?”

  Max flashes a grin at me. “I’ll call the owner.”

  My eyes widen. “Oh, no. I was kidding. Don’t do that.”

  I follow Max into a galley kitchen equipped with all the latest appliances…and a La Marzocco Mistral Espresso Maker that costs a mere $24,000. Up until Mom’s chemo forced her to quit working, I helped her with her housekeeping job. I’m well aware of what high-end appliances cost. We got the “that’s expensive” lecture often enough. I was never sure if the property manager was cautioning us or bragging.

  “Oh…” I run my fingers over the gleaming stainless machine. “Do you use this?”

  “Yes. All the time.”

  “Gosh. I’d be afraid I’d break it. Do you know what this costs?”

  He shook his head. “No clue.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna tell ya. You’d freak. Just be really, really careful with it, okay? It could put me through junior college.”

  Max chuckles. “Okay.”

  I’m scraping by to raise $75 to repair The Wombat and these people put a $24,000 espresso maker in their pool cabana. It’s hard not to be a little envious. But I can hear Patty’s voice ringing in my ear, Sweetie, money alone won’t make you happy. Many of the most miserable people in the world are fabulously wealthy. A slew of them live right here in Palm Beach. Yes, Mom.

  Max sticks his head in the Marvel stainless fridge—a mere $15,000—and pulls out an array of lunch meats and a package of croissants, some kiwi fruit, strawberries, mangoes, honey dew melon and Kerrygold—I kid you not, imported from Ireland—butter.