Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  “Oh that’s right,” I say and then thank him as I get in the passenger seat and he shuts the door after me, like the perfect gentleman he usually is with me.

  Laz is a pretty clean guy, but even so, I can tell he tidied up in his car. It smells like his spicy scent. I have to wonder if Laz has always smelled so good and this is the first time I’m really noticing it.

  “Nice car,” I comment. “I didn’t know you were a car guy.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about Carl McNaughty,” he says, starting the engine.

  “Are you Irish? McNaughty sounds Irish.”

  “Yeah, completely,” he says, faking an extremely believable Irish accent. “I come from a long line of McNaughtys just outside of Cork.”

  I lean my head back against the seat. “I’d love to go to Ireland one day,” I say dreamily.

  “Why don’t you?” he asks with such concern that I’m not sure if it’s Laz asking or Carl.

  I shrug. “I don’t have the money really. Or the time. Every extra buck I get I’m putting it into my business. I don’t take days off. And that’s okay, because I’m young, ish, and I know that this is the time I need to burn the midnight oil. This is the time to work my ass off, to try and establish myself. Work hard while I can because who knows what the future brings.”

  A beat passes in the air as we cruise down the street and turn onto Coldwater Canyon. “I feel the same way,” he says. “What’s worse is that no one takes what I do seriously, so when I’m working all the time, they just don’t see it as work.”

  “And you think people take me seriously when I tell them I’m a beekeeper? Especially a full-time one?”

  We’re both in the same boat when it comes to that one. The poet and the beekeeper.

  “Be honest, Marina, is this what you’d talk about on a first date?” he asks after a few beats, studying my face before turning his attention back to the road.

  I have to think on that. Though I don’t mention my job on my online profiles, it does come up during the first date. Naturally, I mean, “what do you do?” is a classic conversation starter. But I never go into the specifics of the job when it comes to anything remotely emotional or personal. I try and keep the conversation as shallow as possible, though I always try to educate them while I can. I like facts and will share them as often as I can. Who doesn’t like to learn?

  “Did you know,” I say, twisting in my seat to face Laz, “that every bee in the hive has its own role and that role is entirely dependent on the age of the bee?”

  “You’re starting to sound like Scooby.”

  “I don’t know who this Scooby is but for example, when they are first born, they clean and polish the cells, starting with their own cell they just crawled out of. A few weeks go by and they move on from cleaning duties to feeding the brood, caring for the queen. They remove debris, handle incoming nectar, build beeswax combs, guard the entrance, and air-condition and ventilate the hive.” I pause to check if he’s listening. He is. “They don’t leave the hive until their final phase of life. They only have a few weeks after that, either acting as guards or scouts or collecting nectar, before they die.”

  “So then the bees that you see flying around, pollinating flowers…”

  “They’ve earned it. They’ve worked their little bee bottoms off their whole lives to have that privilege of smelling the flowers.”

  He bursts out laughing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You are so fucking cute, you know that? Little bee bottoms? I swear to god, I don’t know what to do with you.”

  I’m beaming inside from that. “I guess it’s just a good metaphor. For life. You know, people see these bees flying around and assume that’s just what they do. People don’t realize all the jobs they’ve had, where they started from and the relentless work they’ve had to put in to get to that stage.”

  He nods, rubbing his lips together. “You’re right. I didn’t realize.”

  “No one does. They’re always so surprised when I tell them. But like I said, it applies to people too. Maybe people look at, say, you and assume that you’re just coasting along, they don’t know the struggle or what you’ve gone through in the past to get there. They look at this car and they don’t know it was a gift from Daryl.”

  “It was never a gift,” he says sharply. “It was a set car and he got it for me to win favors with my mother, to pretend he was a good guy. It didn’t work. That’s why I had to buy it from him. It ate at my soul to drive it around otherwise.”

  His jaw is tense. Whether the date is fake or not, this is the kind of topic we talk about when we’re drunk or tired at two a.m., not before a fun evening.

  I switch the subject. “Did you know that there’s a queen, the drones and the workers. The drones are the males, who make up a very small percentage of the hive and they have zero purpose except to mate with the queen. They do shit all and when they’re done, the workers, the females, will literally drag them out of the hive and kick them out if they don’t leave voluntarily. They kick them out to die.”

  “Is this a metaphor too?”

  “Sometimes…”

  “Is this what you’d actually talk about on a first date?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He raises his brows, gives his head a shake as he glances at me. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” I repeat, feeling defensive. “So? It’s interesting.”

  “It’s not romantic in the slightest.”

  “Romantic?”

  “Marina, we’re on a date. A date means you’re interested in someone romantically, hopefully sexually.”

  “I can’t talk about the bees? Just the birds and the bees?”

  “Cute. But I’m serious. This kind of stuff, as interesting as it is…I don’t know.”

  “Well what else am I going to talk about?”

  “If you don’t know, then this is your problem. Damn it, Marina, I think I’ve figured you out already and we’ve barely been on the date.”

  I cross my arms and huff, “Well gee, we might as well turn this car around and go home because you’ve just solved all my problems.”

  He sighs. “Come on.”

  “I’m just being myself.”

  “It’s a game. The dating world is a game. You can’t show all your cards on the first date.”

  “Guys should know who I am and what they’re getting into. If they can’t be supportive of my bees…”

  “You’re scaring a lot of them off, okay? I’m sorry that men can be easily scared like that but it’s a fact. We’re the lesser species. If you throw something quirky and scientific their way, that might make you seem like you’re a lot of work. And yes you should be yourself but on a first date, talk about other things.”

  “Shallow, boring things?”

  “You’re being so stubborn right now.”

  “And you think you’re some sort of expert on dating.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  I give him a steady look.

  “I’m not,” he repeats. “But I am a man and you agreed to hear me out. And yes, you’re definitely hot enough for guys to overlook your crazy bee thing and other quirks, but being hot only gets you so far and if the guy doesn’t think he has a chance in hell of getting laid, then he’s going to bail.”

  Everything he’s saying is absolutely infuriating, I’m practically grinding my teeth together, my fingers are digging into the seatbelt. “You’re a pig.”

  “You know that’s not bloody true,” he says, voice hard. “But I’m a man and I know how we all think.”

  “The second time we met, the first time that we really hung out, I told you about what I did and we talked about all sorts of weird and random stuff.”

  “I know we did. But I had a girlfriend at the time and it was obvious we were just going to be friends. With friends you can just say weird shit like that.”

  “Why can’t you in relationships?”

  “You can…” He
exhales loudly, his hands gripping the wheel. Seems like I’m infuriating him too. “Look, I get what I’m saying bothers you. I get it. It’s harsh but it’s the truth and you deserve to know the truth. No one said it would be easy or fun but we both decided to figure out what we were doing wrong with love and this is part of it. The finding of the faults, if you will.”

  “Oh I can’t wait to tear you a new one,” I say in a low voice. I’m practically simmering in my seat.

  “I’m sure I have lots to look forward to. I’m just doing you a favor. You want to know why guys bail, one of the reasons probably has to do with the fact that you come across as a bit of a…weirdo.”

  I’ve learned to try and not take weirdo as an insult. We both call each other weirdos all the time. “But how will I find my flower?” I ask quietly.

  “Find your what?” he asks. “Okay, now you’re purposely being weird aren’t you?”

  “Find my flower,” I say again, louder. “If I’m not myself, how will I find that person who gets me? How will I find the one I’m supposed to be with, or if you don’t believe in fate, how do I find the person who’s the right match? You put out what you want to receive. I want someone who won’t be blindsided when they get to know me…or my past.”

  He falls silent. We’re driving over the hill now, the lights of the city spreading as far as the eye can see as dusk approaches, turning the smog a purple grey.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “All I know is that maybe this is one reason why things don’t progress. Perhaps if you were sleeping with them…”

  “Oh and now it’s because I’m not putting out?”

  “If you hook a guy physically, he’ll be more willing to overlook some things, that’s all. If the sex is good, a guy will put up with almost anything.”

  I know he’s trying to help me but now it’s getting to the point where everything he’s saying stings.

  “Hey,” he says softly, reaching out and grabbing my hand, rubbing his thumb gently along the top. “All that I’m saying, it’s not coming from me. You know I think you’re perfect the way you are. I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

  I can’t even look at him right now. Not because I’m still mad, because I low-key am, but because the way his thumb is grazing my skin causes my body to erupt in goosebumps. The rich low tone of his voice, the sincerity of his sweet words, they’re making the hairs at the back of my neck stand up. It’s like my body is coming alive.

  Then why can’t I be with you?

  The thought startles me, shooting into my brain from out of nowhere.

  I sit up straighter, pulling my hand away, trying to shake the feeling out of me. I don’t want to think of Laz like that, I know it’s a dark and complicated road that there’s no going back from.

  “I’m sorry,” he says and for a moment I fear he means that he held my hand. “About what I said. I really am just trying to help. The truth is, you should be yourself because I think you have a point. About the flower thing. That’s a bee metaphor, right? Anyway. The only guys who bail on you are the ones not worth your time. Period.”

  “No, you have a point,” I begrudgingly admit. “People sometimes make snap judgements they don’t mean. Some people scare easy and it doesn’t mean they won’t come around later. I probably should stop with the bee talk or whatever else I say or do and just play the game and see where it all goes.”

  “You don’t have to play any game,” Laz says.

  I laugh dryly. “I do. That’s what we’re doing right now, isn’t it? Might as well follow through. And you gave me your opinion and advice and I think you’re totally right, whether I agree with it or not, whether I find it sad or not. I think you’ve already hit the nail on the head. But now that I’ve learned lesson number one, why don’t you go on with the rest of the lessons.”

  “This wasn’t supposed to be like a lesson, more like an…evaluation.”

  “I know. And I flunked. But now that I know what I shouldn’t do, I’m at a loss for what I should do. So tonight, when we get to the comedy club, I want you to teach me.”

  He stares at me blankly then turns his attention back to the road. “Teach you?”

  “Yeah. The art of seduction.”

  Laz

  “Behind the Wheel”

  * * *

  Did Marina just ask me to teach her the art of seduction?

  Because that’s exactly what it sounded like.

  “Of course,” I tell her, hoping I sound casual, like this is something she asks me to do every day.

  But it’s not. And considering what I know about Marina now, that she’s a virgin, this brings our relationship – our friendship – to a whole new playing field. I did mention the other day that being physical was completely on the table. That is until it came off the table and entirely into her court.

  Now she wants me to teach her how to seduce men and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  “When you say art of seduction,” I tell her as we pull onto the traffic of Sunset Blvd., “what do you mean exactly?”

  She shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, her eyes focused on the passing lights outside. I feel like when we left her house, went over the hill, and came down here to the city, she’s gone through a gamut of emotions, from vulnerable to defensive to pissed off and now…I don’t know what she is.

  But I don’t want to take advantage of her right now when she’s like this. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize certain mental states of hers and sometimes they require extra consideration.

  “I want to find the right guy, Laz. I want to stop screwing up. I know now what to stop talking about. What I don’t know is what to do instead.” She glances at me with big, heartbreaking eyes. “I want the guys to like me. To want me. I need help.”

  Fuck me. I feel absolutely rotten now. She doesn’t have to change a thing. She shouldn’t have to. And yet that’s exactly what I’ve told her to do.

  “I’m almost thirty,” she goes on. “I’m a virgin. I don’t want to be one anymore. I want to find a guy. I want to fall in love. I want a future with someone, maybe marriage and babies, maybe right now all I need is to have someone’s arms around me as I fall asleep. I want love. I feel it’s absence in my life, every day.”

  You’re breaking my heart, sweet girl.

  Her words are gutting me right now. Here in my car, Marina is opening up her soul to me in ways she hasn’t before and I’m…floored by it.

  I want her to have all that. I want her to know that…fuck. I love her. I care for her. As a friend, though, and I know that’s not what she’s talking about.

  I clear my throat. “Darling, you deserve all of that and more. And you will have that. I promise you, you will find love. You will find that man who will wrap his arms around you as you drift off to sleep. You will find everything you need.” I pause. “You’ll find your flower.”

  She lets out a soft laugh, though sadness still lingers in her eyes. “God, it does sound stupid when you say it out loud.”

  “I’ll try and think of something more poetic,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t be much of a poet if I couldn’t.”

  “How has that been coming along?” she asks and I can tell she wants to change the subject. “I mean, I know better by now than to ask you how the writing is going but…”

  I give her a wry smile. “Damn right you know better.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I exhale through my nose, my grip on the wheel tightening slightly. “A writer’s block like nothing else. I’m just not inspired. I have zero urge to write. I’ve got nothing.”

  “Well you can’t rush a thing like that. Nor can you force it. Especially poetry. If you’re not feeling it…how can it work?”

  “It doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can just give up. Some days you just have to go out there and hunt down your muse. If she doesn’t show up, then you have to make her. It’s as simple as that.”

  “So have you been hunting her down? I thought b
reaking up with Simone would have been great fodder for that.”

  “Again,” I say pointedly, giving her a steady look, “I didn’t break up with Simone in order to get material out of it. You can stop with your Taylor Swift comparisons.”

  “Yeah I know, you broke up with her because you weren’t in love with her. Same old song and dance. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Wait a minute, aren’t we supposed to be on a date here? Our first date?”

  She makes a grumbling noise before blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “The date has been modified.”

  “To the art of seduction, right?” She doesn’t say anything. “Well then before I start giving you lessons on how to seduce a man, which, by the way, I don’t think are needed, I think discussions about exes are off the table. Nothing kills a date more than someone talking about their ex.”

  “Lucky for you, I don’t have an ex.”

  “That’s not true. You said there was that Cody guy in college.”

  “You remember?” She looks surprised.

  I laugh. “Yeah I remember. Cody is the guy you tried to have sex with and kind of did but it hurt too much so you didn’t. You don’t forget a thing like that.”

  She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. She looks like a Californian version of Cousin It. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

  “Friends tell each other things,” I say, wishing she wasn’t covering up her face so I could see her reaction. “Don’t they?”

  She just grumbles again.

  The Comedy Store is a legendary place in Hollywood where you can find a famous or at least completely legit performer every single night. Last night Dave Chapelle was playing, tonight we’ve got tickets to see Norm McDonald. Both of us are fans of his dry and odd humor, especially the movie Dirty Work and basically any time he shows up in an Adam Sandler movie.

  “I haven’t been here in years,” she says as we make our way to our table in the main room, the place already busy, excited murmurs filling the air.

  “When did you come before? It wasn’t with me.” I have to admit, it bothers me that she’s actually been here before and with someone else. I wanted her first time to be with me.