Beach Life Scoundrel

by Adnan W Sarwar

One Man Talks

  Burt sat in a deck chair twiddling his thumbs in front of me, with nothing but a toothy grin and crystal blue eyes that sparkled like blood diamonds cut from rock that children perish for. He was dressed in a black suit despite the searing heat. We were on a beach all alone with nobody else in sight and Burt had decided to crash my attempts at solitude in a black suit Was my longing for epiphany fitting for funeral attire? I wondered if he was comfortable, what with the sun blazing overhead. He produced a smoke from thin air, sucked on the cigarette and it lit up of its own accord. He blew the smoke into the hot sticky air as the waves behind him crashed gently against the shore, caressing the land softly like a gentle mother.

  I smiled at his vanity and lay back on the sand, letting the heat soothe my tired limbs and sing lullabies to a mind that never slept. Burt took his hand and brushed it through his long brown hair while puffing away unceremoniously. I was lost in a chain of thought. Back in the real world, everything had turned to dust in my hands in a gut busting few days that utterly ravaged me. I ran. I ran far away.

  “What am I doing here?” I sighed, talking more to myself than the wretch sat in front of me.

  “End game, Leonard. It is end game,” wheezed Burt in a gruff voice of charred lung, “But I have to admit…you have dreadful taste. This is a damn awful place for an exorcism. There is nobody to watch”.

  “That’s the point” I laughed.

  Burt did not appreciate laughter when it was aimed at him. He shuffled uncomfortably and instead focused his attention on the cigarette. But I knew he was desperate to retort for the sake of argument. Things like Burt did not enjoy giving the final word to anybody or anything. Not all that illuminates is light, and despite his foolish attempts to look suave in a suit on an isolated beach, the years were showing on his weary wizened face. The beach does nothing but expose. The sun uncovered each wrinkle on the old man’s face, each a valley of scarred memories that stuck to me like morbid warm sweat. I looked him straight in the eyes with pity. Burt was a ripe date from Arabia, ready to be consumed by the hungry mouth of a fasting man craving purification. His time was up.

  “Tell me Leonard,” began Burt delicately, “is it my fault you are here?”

  I drew a cigarette from the pack beside me on the sand and lit up. Cigarettes - such a beautiful inhalation of tranquillity. If I was being honest, the storms inside me had calmed since I decided to run away to sit on a deserted beach in silence in the middle of nowhere. I did not need nicotine for zen. But, what a marvel these cancer sticks are! The cigarette holds this superb power to just magnify solitude and bring it into the physical realm. You can touch and embrace the serendipity of silence while God’s creation hums to your mellow tune and everything is synchronised to the divine beat of your heart.

  “Your faults as my best friend are from my faults as a commander of this vessel given to me twenty eight years ago” I replied whimsically.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I don’t understand.” Burt whispered, his wrinkled face puzzled by my riddle.

  “I substituted the whip for acceptance and lost myself to the throws of dice, money and garbage thought. When it all exploded in front of me, and the winds of fate gave me a chance to salvage hope from the wreckage, I walked away with you telling me incessantly that there was no need. I am a man. I have won. Everything else can rot. I am too great a man to compromise anything of myself for that which I love from the heart and not from my loins! I am a King after all, am I not Burt? This is what you told me!” I roared amid the familiar friends of my childhood: simplicity, emotion and gut feeling. Memories of the past flared, as I sat down in front of a shell shocked Burt and recalled my defining moment with Eleanor.

 

 

  In Love with Myself

  Eleanor was stunning. To behold her in that white dress as her black hair danced with the hues of summer was agonising to a man of Leonard’s disposition. She charmed with every move of her hips as she came close to the man she loved, put her arms around his neck and smiled the way only a woman of magnificence can.

  “Why are you wearing that dress? You know it’s my weakness” mumbled Leonard.

  She laughed innocently and flushed crimson. Her shyness was well known but this did not stop her knowing how to calm the fiery temper of her fiancée.

  “Well, I know you’re on edge these days. I thought I would do something a little special to make you happy” she said coyly.

  Leonard brushed his hand through his brown hair and looked at her nervously. He twitched, shrugged his shoulder and lit up a cigarette. Eleanor was worried.

  “Are you okay, darling?” she enquired with her Bambi eyes wide, fearful of impending doom.

  Leonard smiled, took a drag and kissed her on the forehead.

  “How can I not be, my love? Now give me an hour and I’ll meet you at the party. I just need to shower and freshen up”

  “I thought we were going together? The Bannister’s will be awfully upset if you’re not there with me” she pleaded, her face wan with sadness.

  Leonard continued his love affair with the cigarette. He wanted to hold her so badly and fulfil the longing in his heart. But his brain was poisoned and foggy with absurd thoughts of loyalty tarnished.

  “I’ll miss you” she added with a clear desperation in her voice.

  “I’m sure you will. But it’s only an hour”, he agreed, throwing the car keys on the floor, “Now just go. I’ll see you there. Go.”

  She knelt down and picked up the keys. Her pride had been wounded but she said nothing at his shocking gesture. It was not in her nature to argue and she locked the anger away. Her gut told her Leonard was looking for a reaction, so he could sulk his way back to that odd comfort zone of angry outbursts to make himself feel superior. Eleanor gave him one final look and slammed the door as she left for the Bannisters’.

  Leonard sat down, a satisfied smile etched on his face. He rubbed his stubble with a coarse hand, wiping the sweat beads forming all over his face. He had resolved that morning to kill Eleanor’s free spirit. It was tiring being with a beautiful woman admired by other men and he could not bring himself to trust her. This paranoia had festered long in his heart, and ultimately resulted in Leonard deciding to leave Eleanor at the party and not turn up.

  “That will teach her who is the boss and who she should care about. Treat them mean, keep them keen” he spat, as he butted the cigarette on the coffee table.

  He smirked at the scorch mark.

  “That’s definitely going to make her happy. Women…damn fools” he whispered as the television kept him company through the night.

 

 

  Poetry on the Beach

  The sun was unbearable, as it beat down on both me and Burt. Student and Master, reflecting on a life poorly lived. It was a beautifully pathetic sight.

  “She came back, packed her bags and left” groaned Leonard ruefully.

  “I remember that” laughed Burt.

  It was painful recalling that memory. It stands so vividly in the mausoleum of my many great regrets. I guess my insecurities got the better of me and I pushed her to the brink. It is only in hindsight a man sees with utmost clarity how a scenario should play, but the base devils we are born with ensure the moments that define us are dark, muddled and immature.

  “You cannot blame me for that. You were never going to keep her happy. Anyway, why have one woman when you can have several? A man’s eyes are always alert for the next project, they should never look down” declared Burt with regal pomp. He stood up, took a bow and retreated towards the waves. Personal space on a solitary beach is a prerequisite for maturity given by providence to find a home in one’s soul
. I was glad he had finally decided to get out of my face.

  He was starting to annoy me. I came to this beach to kill him and had resolved on the plane here to not allow his sickly words of flu crawl under my skin. But they had. It had taken me a long time to realise that a man should keep his eyes firmly below. Awareness of Hell creates modesty and desirable is the man who reserves his gaze for the soil on which his forehead touches in life through prayer and makes his home when he is dead.

  Now that I was finally alone as Burt lingered on the shore staring out at the ocean, I began to miss my Eleanor terribly. She was a source of support when I found it lacking and her perseverance was astonishing. I loved her and still do, but the crazy devils in me built walls for her to climb over and ultimately she fell. Like Genghis Khan, she came to the conclusion that there is little point in fighting a battle you cannot win. I cannot fault her logic, as much as it pains me to admit it.

  I remember a particular moment quite poignantly. I came back from the office one evening utterly exhausted. It’s not easy doing what I do. Taking some large crumbs off the big table and splashing my hard earned cash on earning more because it is the only thing a 21st century man knows. Spiritual suicide. The dreams of the soul die while you beat on with the tide, embracing the rat race and countless hours on the underground as the sole mark of a champion. It’s not. I have always known that, and that night when I returned from my pitiful existence, she lay on the sofa with her head buried in a cushion.

  She was in tears because her mother was in hospital and work was not allowing her the necessary time off to go visit her. Eleanor was not a brutal cold hearted woman. She was a slave to her emotions, and that’s why I loved her because I had locked up those beautiful human fancies away in a cage years ago. My father beat it out of me, God bless his soul.

  I sat beside her and held a woman like I had never held a woman before. I had no self interest but only love and concern she be safe. I hate tears. Watching this lovely flower weeping engulfed me with a mellow sadness which I despised. So I grabbed my car keys, convinced her of the importance of family over work and drove her all the way to her mother’s place. I hated her mother, but I was selfless. Once upon a time, I was selfless.

  A beautiful breeze was whistling on the beach and stroking my face, soothing the temperaments and emotions of recalling when I was a real man for the only woman I loved.

  I reached inside the pocket of my swimming shorts and found what I was looking for. It was the letter I had written to her all those years ago to win her heart. I was quite shy those days. The hotshot city boy years came later when my wallet began to bulge and Burt became too big for me to handle. I had seen her in the coffee shop where I used to get my vanilla latte extra hot every morning. After two weeks, I decided to write a letter and give it to her. I imagined a beautiful romantic gesture. The reality did not have the grandeur I initially envisaged. I stumbled over to her as she was reading Don Quixote by Cervantes and said I had something for her. She gave me a look of utter bewilderment. I was twenty five years old and a man who had never been struck by the beauty of a real woman. I gave her the letter, let out a pathetic little laugh, and ran away. Damn, what a loser I was. Months later she told me it was sweet and daring. Women are highly confusing.

  To the Girl who Sips Hot Chocolate and Reads Books I’ve Never Heard Of,

  I am lost for words. I work as a junior at the firm across the road yet the only thing that makes me smile is when I can see you pondering over a word, enjoying your hot chocolate and being completely lost in your own world. I find it astonishing. I wish I could lose myself in another world from time to time, but being a man constantly on point for my job, I find little time for those sweet moments. I had forgotten what they tasted like until I saw you and that innocence I lost a while ago has returned.

  Please let me repay the favour by taking you out for dinner. I know this is an odd request. You have no idea who I am, and it is strange for a man to say these things through letter rather than face to face. But I am a coward bewitched by somebody so dazzling, it blinds me into becoming a fool. So, give this fool a chance. Let me know tomorrow when I drop in for my usual coffee fix.

  Kindest Regards, Leo

  “Damn, you were one hell of a poet once!” sneered Burt. He was back. “That stuff is for pussies though. Poets are not men of action. You take what you want because you’re worth it”

  “What is your problem, Burt?” I protested with an irritated glare, ”Poetry is a craft. It’s a skill. Words are beautiful. Beauty is not always in the outcome or the fulfilment of base desires. It is in the struggle. The Poet is always in a state of suffering. He cares little for a conclusion of ease. Pain is clean. It’s beautiful. It touches things deep down in the dark caverns of your soul and lights it up, guiding you to a Higher purpose”

  “Calm down my boy! Shakespeare is all well and good but do not deny who you are! A well oiled money making machine! It what you were made to do, born to do…it’s all you know, and it’s magnificent. You are your own destiny” cackled Burt, sitting back on the deck chair and sipping some mango juice. I have no idea where he got that juice from. I wanted some. It’s quite hot on secluded beaches.

  “Whatever” I shrugged, waving him away. He did not move. He had the emotional make up of a junk yard dog and would be stubborn until the revolver ripped through his skull.

  “Seeing as you don’t have the balls to kill me, tell me one thing. Why did you run away from everything we built together to sit here on a beach like some self righteous pilgrim?” enquired Burt, raising his eye brow. This wrinkled old prune was asking some pertinent questions, like a seasoned prosecutor smelling an evidential contradiction. Burt was sharp. After all, primitive desires unchecked are the parents of Satan.

  “That’s always been your problem” I spoke, as I got up to look out at the sea, “You failed to understand that the soul is light and always finds it way out of the jungle”

  Burt dropped his juice and began to cough violently. The years of abuse were catching up, as he vomited dark muddy blood on the white sands. He was now on his knees, wheezing and weakening. The wind began to howl ferociously, making his suit jacket fly as he began to swindle.

  “Good. Now we are making progress, old man,” I smiled peacefully, as if God was with me at that moment more so than at any other moment in my life, “Buckle yourself in my child. I’m going to tell you exactly why I am here”

 

 

  Cracking Up

  As I stood there like a decisive Achilles, Burt lay on the sand wiping his mouth. A few more blows and he would be no more. He had a wry smirk on his face, tinged with a fear of what was to come. I was about to confront him. I was going to tell him what he already knew but was blind to.

  It was a quite a magnificent moment in hindsight. Reflection on past sorrows perfects them into something beautiful. It’s just a shame that beauty only arises through battles, which leave a man on his knees cursing at the skies in a poisonous slow gut wrenching panic that is ripping him apart at a horrific pace. Everything nasty withers away. The residue drifts into the skies and is wiped away at the flick of a divine wrist. It leaves you bare, stripped and vulnerable. Sure, it hurts at that moment because you are open to the demonic. But, as fate often works, the cooling winds of perspective soothe the sweatiness of your forehead and the heart’s compass recalibrates. Some people wait years for that wind, never knowing when it will come. I had to runaway from everything to find it on an unknown beach in the middle of nowhere.

  So, what is this grand tragedy I speak of? It all started with a morning coffee on my way to work weeks after Eleanor left me. I made my way into the office and sat down to check my emails. It was not a grand office. Just a small box room in the corner of a large floor of box ticking hacks in love with the bureaucracy of it all. A small swivel chair, a tin holding my pens and a book titled ‘Insolvency: The Technicalities’ gathering dust on my desk.

 
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