ZUMA
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The stop at Malibu had stiffened my back and now it was aching so I pulled the car off the road when I came to Trancas market on the north end of the white sands of Zuma Beach. What a cruel joke age is. Thirty years ago I'd never have to stretch. Our bodies are like old cars incrementally decaying. The suspension wobbles, we drive slower; the engine smokes, we pretend not to notice; we don't get the mileage that we use to, we grin and bear it; the upholstery cracks, the paint begins to peel, we tell ourselves, fine, I don't have to worry about someone bumping my car in the parking lot. If the transmission would seize all at once, we'd get rid of the damn thing. But as the parts fall away we measure what remains trying to milk every last drop out of a losing proposition.
I could drive all day in the old days. When we were first married, my wife and I would take long Sunday drives up the coast and back. Then we stopped going out on Sundays, then on any other day of the week, I don't remember why. Our relationship did not just take a flying leap off a precipice. It slipped by degrees. At some point I let go of her hand and she dropped it at her side. She folded her arms and her steps in the same general direction as mine, nevertheless, moved her away. Then she was out of reach.
Maybe she lost her desire for me. I know she didn't quite look at me with the same eyes as she once had. Maybe she had moved closer to the person I was and she no longer chose to love that person. Maybe I didn't want her to love that person so as she moved close I moved away. It was my retreat from the great disappointment of nakedness when I discovered that the layers were not infinite.
It wasn't her. It just was. Ever notice movie stars? Here are the most beautiful people in the world, yet, they lose interest in each other. An enduring relationship in Hollywood is news. So what chance does a plain looking fellow like me have?
I saw longboards and shortboards strapped to the same car whiz down the highway. There was a time when they weren't compatible. Shortboards came into vogue and longboarders were in more than just disdain, they were in physical danger. See the problem is that a longboarder can sit further out because of the way the board can move across the water. It displaces water over a larger area which allows it to skim higher and can therefore be paddled easier and faster allowing the longboard to catch the wave before the swell has centralized its energy, before the swell has become a breaking wave. A shortboarder catches the wave closer to the break, sometimes right in the pocket, a couple of quick paddles and up he goes. These were different skills and many of the guys didn't make the transition, they just stuck their big 'ole board up in the garage rafters. Those who wanted to continue on their longboard faced those sitting inside who were not appreciative of the longboarder's grace when it was costing them waves. You rode a shortboard or you weren't considered a true surfer. Things have gone and come back. Now, there's more boards over nine feet than under seven. Same waves. It's hard not to wonder how much of what we do is geared towards fads and fleeting styles.
I walked across PCH to take a look at the sand and surf. Not far from the wall that runs the length of Zuma was a girl sunning herself. She was California gold. The 49'ers came to dig the dirt and now she is what remains more sparkling than any vein of ore. We use to call them surfer girls and the look's still the same. The crown of blonde hair glowing over the bronze skin, the perpetual smile, the cute little rear, the breasts not huge but smartly protruding, the stomach that made you want, want to nibble not penetrate. Well, at least nibble on her first. And possess. Possess her forever. Possess her to keep her at that marvelous age. She must have been anywhere from 17 to 23. If I was a painter, that would be the age I'd try to capture. Not just her, but all of the kids that age. Their beautiful. Maybe that's why the old men send them off to war. Their jealous. Jealous of their cocky goofiness, their lithe bodies not yet fully broken in. Girls like her don't age very well. I became aware of my fingers tapping on my Buddha belly. Who does?
"Hey buddy, what's going on?" I like talking to dogs because they never talk back they just look at you like they know what you're talking about and whatever you say are words from the wise. It was a handsome white dog about the size of a lab. Too well-fed not to belong to someone.
"You thirsty?" I held the water faucet on and he lapped it up. "You're not lost are you?"
He wasn't lost, at least not the way you sometimes see frantic little suburban pooches dashing one way down a street and then turning and dashing back up the same street. He didn't even look bewildered.
"Well, you want to sit and rest for a while." I slumped against the wall and rested on the concrete.
He regarded me for a moment, gave me a sniff or two and then sauntered away. "Bye buddy." Evidently, I wasn't that interesting to him.
I headed back across PCH to my car. Two kids sat on the side of the road out of harm's way but close enough for concern. She was a girl of about eight and he must have been about five. She was old enough to be frightened by my presence and I didn't blame her. I am a pretty creepy stranger at that.
"I'll just sit here and we'll wait for your mom. I bet she's around somewhere." I stayed a safe distance away from them.
"You know my mom?" the little boy wanted to know. The girl didn't like him talking to me but she didn't have that much hold on him.
I looked at the girl when she didn't have her eyes on me. I didn't want her to think I was any creepier than I was. She was beautiful. Kids are amazingly cute. If they weren't, who'd put up with them?
"No, I don't think I know your mother?" I smiled at the boy. "What's she like?" That was a stupid question, I could tell by his fidget. She's his mother, it's like asking what air is like, it's like air you silly goose. "I mean what does she look like? Let me guess. She has yellow hair."
"No!" He let me know I was way off the mark.
"I know she doesn't have green hair because I don't know any moms with green hair but she might have blue hair."
"No!" He really let me have it.
The girl was beginning to lose her apprehension. I wanted to sweep both of them up into my arms and smother them with a hug. I leaned back to make sure my body was even less threatening. The boy was up and moving around me.
"Well, I've seen grandmothers with almost blue hair."
Kids love guessing games.
I wager their mother is a doll. "Brown hair, then. And I bet it's all wavy and piled up real high like this," and I circled my hand above my head.
They spied a woman about fifty yards off. They ran to their mom. She bore no resemblance to her little daughter. How does something start out so petite and then puff up to such proportions? She looked at me once. I hoped she didn't report me as a pervert. No, she never cast her eyes towards me again. Neither did her kids.
I would have preferred that their mother never showed up and they would have had to go with me. They would be fun traveling companions. Yeh, right. Am I out of my mind? "I'm hungry. When do we eat? I have to go to the bathroom. You're on my side of the car. Don't hit me or I'll pinch you. Stop it! Both of you." What a nightmare. I shuddered.
I missed too much of my son's younger years. After we split up, he didn't look at me. He always seemed to have something in his hand that focused his play like a coloring book or a game or a toy figure. He seldom would raise his head. I couldn't figure out what he wanted and it got worse the more I saw him. Then one time I came and knocked on their door and I could hear him say that he didn't want to go with me. His mom tried to force him and bribe him and he finally came out but I'd had enough and when I quit showing up at the door no one seemed to mind.
I can leave the world with only a minor suck down the drain. It is a monstrous realization at this stage in life.