Southbound

Car doors slam and two sets of Prada Oxfords and four paws walk by. Both voices are male and both voices are variants of B-52s frontman Fred Schneider. They set up camp at a table that is situated between me and a girl with wiry, unwashed hair that is tied with a strip of fabric. The girl with the wiry and unwashed hair is wearing sandals and her toenails are not painted and she is squinting at the screen of a MacBook. One of the men whose voice is painfully Fred Schneider is dispatched inside by the other man whose voice is also a cringing reminder of Fred Schneider, who intones his intention to stay with the dog. Queer. The sun is at a low angle and there is a tainted breeze and sanitized Starbuckian jazz is leaking from hidden speakers.

Another car pulls up. Two twentysomething guys in jeans and in t-shirts, followed by a long pair of perfect legs. She is wearing micro-denim shorts and a thin, simple black tank covers modest and splendid breasts. She makes an exaggerated gesture of tying her shoe as the t-shirt guys head inside. She props one perfect leg up on the car's hood and while she is fixing the laces she looks around to see if anyone is looking back. She does not have the attention of the remaining Fred Schneider, nor the attention of his dog, nor the attention of the girl with wiry, unwashed hair and unpainted toenails. She ties her shoe and she walks slowly and her narrow hips sway and she sits at the table to my right.

Whatever.

There’s a text. She tells me to meet her at Monastery in an hour.

My eyes ebb from the mobile and withdraw to the Kindle in my hand; on its screen, Charlie Williams' "Graven Image" is waiting patiently. In minutes I will be sandwiched between two very loud and two very uninteresting conversations. I will learn that the dog belonging to the Fred Schneiders is named Maui and I will come to understand that earlier, back in Monterey, a gull pooped on Maui's back. The girl with the long legs and with the petite and therefore marvelous tits will perform a tedious, puerile monologue for the t-shirt guys that will include an account of the previous night's shot consumption and about how she pulled one over on the bartender and a story about the cum stain on a pair of leather pants she evidently owns but will no longer wear.

And so on.

When I pull over to the side of the One later, the sky is burning orange and it deepens to plum. The beach is a gentle incline that juts sharply downward and into the crescent bay. I find an isolated spot and I spread a blanket and I sit and watch the ruthless horizon bleed. Almost no one else is out. To the north, a shapeless figure walking alone and away from me. To the south, a random guy in khakis, cuffs rolled up. An indecisive posture. The temperature drops and the tide yawns.

I drain a quarter of a bottle of Stoli in a few swigs. The silhouette to the north merges with the shadows. A bell from the monastery across the highway peals and I start to think she’ll never come. I met her online. I don’t know what she looks like. I don’t know her real name. I pick at the blanket and I hope she isn’t fat.

Gritty sand and kelp and the charcoal carcass of a cormorant. And vodka smearing time.

Khakis Guy is closer, now, and he’s waving. I can’t see who he’s waving to. His legs are tanned and he’s fit. Blond. Close to my age. His voice floats across the sand, the wind carrying words I can’t comprehend. I smell cologne. He sits and I offer him the bottle. He says things I can’t hear and I nod anyway. We watch the waves and we drink. The sky is tar. His hand moves to my back and I think I might be passing out. A joint is placed between my lips. I draw on it.

I taste skin and I taste salt.