Rowing the Beach to Shore
Basil Rosa
About a mile from home, Dani starts talking money. I ask her in my best diplomatic tone to change the subject. She switches to her dad, who may be a goner before summer’s end. I’m fond of the old buck, and I’ll miss him the way I miss my own late father, but I don’t want to talk about him, either.
Then out with it, says Dani. Before you have a coronary.
There’s this guy at work. He’s just a kid. I asked him to do something, you know, just to help me out with some orders, and know what he said?
What?
He said he wasn’t my bitch.
Dani’s been listening while trying to wipe suntan oil down her calves, but there’s not enough room.
So?
So I’m the assistant manager. His supervisor.
Then fire him.
I can’t.
Then talk to Warren. He still in charge?
He is and I did.
And?
And what? For some reason, he likes this kid. I spelled the whole thing out for him and he said it was okay.
Dani studies me as I drive. I get the feeling she feels sorry for me, but I don’t know why. I never know. The smell of lotion blooms, Dani’s oily fingerprints covering the dash.
Everything is, she says.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Dani shakes her head no.
But you told me to get it out.
So it’s out. Let it go.
I’m sick of myself.
You like ranting, too, don’t tell me you don’t.
But he’s gonna feel it one day.
Who? Warren?
No. That kid. Same emptiness I feel. He’s gonna wonder why nobody prepared him for it.
You didn’t listen, either.
But that attitude. I just don’t get it.
He’s not stupid.
Neither am I.
C’mon. He knows he’s being lied to. Just like we do.
Right. Okay. It’s all lies.
Maybe it is.
So I’ll forget about it. I’ll decompress.
Maybe you should.
Don’t want to blow a valve.
Maybe you don’t.
We’re at a red light. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, thinking there’s too much tension, let it out, stop dragging Dani into a misery she doesn’t deserve. She’s the one with thick skin who understands this is how days and marriages go – with their checks and balances. I ask myself why I’ve been so touchy of late. Every little wrinkle drives a bug up my ass.
The light green, I drive not really seeing the road, letting it pull me along. When younger, dumb enough not to fear cops, I’d light up a joint during such jaunts to the beach. I long for those carefree days, but scowl at myself knowing I’m old by my drug-days standards and have no clue as to where I’d find weed. Nowadays, nothing may shock, but there’s a camera at each intersection, and at least one joker on a cellphone at every public urinal. Few know how to relax. Myself included.
My 12-year-old Honda runs 20 miles faster than the limit and it’s still unable to keep pace with traffic. A wasteland of sickly trees lines the road on both sides. A smokestack, black at its tip, stands like a burnt wooden matchstick. All so ugly. Better to shut down, see nothing, hear nothing. Take me under, drown me, should have used myself up when I was too young to know any better.
At the beach parking lot, I groan out of the car cranky and stiff, a more common physical state than I care to admit. I bend at the knees, pushing out my arms, stretching my legs.
Up, down. Up, down.
Will you stop!
Embarrassing you?
Dani shoves her canvas bag into my arms.
You embarrass yourself.
Right. I want to gripe about why she’s packed so much stuff. I don’t. I’ve griped enough. Her workday was as trying, if not worse, than my own. This is our chance to salvage calm, to renew ourselves. Tomorrow’s another slog at the pump. She’ll scrape plaque, and I’ll fill delivery orders. Somebody will yell at us over a protocol indiscretion.
We gotta live for the moment.
Whatever.
I hike her canvas bag over my shoulder, ask her what’s in here, anyway?
She’s in sandals and remains a consoling presence at my side, her long legs pale and fine. She runs a hand over my hip and tugs on the rear pocket of my shorts.
Essentials.
I shrug, falling into a slackened beach mode. Insistent and hazy, late sunshine brings a welcomed sweat. I start feeling balmy as I imagine the ocean against my skin.
You know something. If I get frustrated on the job, it’s because I care. Not because I’m impatient. But I gotta tell you I’m not paid enough to care.
No, neither am I.
I look at her. She’s aged during our ten years of marriage, but she’s still comely. I feel the percolations of a carnal urge to ferry her off to the dunes. It gives me no pleasure to think that there was a time when such spontaneous eruptions were never out of the question.
Give me a minute, she says.
Whatever you need.
I smile at her as she wipes lotion down her legs. I want to kiss her knees, to nibble on them. I want blissful release.
But stop staring at me like I’m fresh meat. You’re making me uncomfortable.
Since when?
There are other people around.
There are?
Don’t you care what they think?
I look around. There’s no one in sight. I grin back, getting her sarcasm. A breeze kicks up, one of those benign seaside bursts. A soothing hand for both of us that takes us in and lets us disappear.
Then out with it, says Dani. Before you have a coronary.
There’s this guy at work. He’s just a kid. I asked him to do something, you know, just to help me out with some orders, and know what he said?
What?
He said he wasn’t my bitch.
Dani’s been listening while trying to wipe suntan oil down her calves, but there’s not enough room.
So?
So I’m the assistant manager. His supervisor.
Then fire him.
I can’t.
Then talk to Warren. He still in charge?
He is and I did.
And?
And what? For some reason, he likes this kid. I spelled the whole thing out for him and he said it was okay.
Dani studies me as I drive. I get the feeling she feels sorry for me, but I don’t know why. I never know. The smell of lotion blooms, Dani’s oily fingerprints covering the dash.
Everything is, she says.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Dani shakes her head no.
But you told me to get it out.
So it’s out. Let it go.
I’m sick of myself.
You like ranting, too, don’t tell me you don’t.
But he’s gonna feel it one day.
Who? Warren?
No. That kid. Same emptiness I feel. He’s gonna wonder why nobody prepared him for it.
You didn’t listen, either.
But that attitude. I just don’t get it.
He’s not stupid.
Neither am I.
C’mon. He knows he’s being lied to. Just like we do.
Right. Okay. It’s all lies.
Maybe it is.
So I’ll forget about it. I’ll decompress.
Maybe you should.
Don’t want to blow a valve.
Maybe you don’t.
We’re at a red light. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, thinking there’s too much tension, let it out, stop dragging Dani into a misery she doesn’t deserve. She’s the one with thick skin who understands this is how days and marriages go – with their checks and balances. I ask myself why I’ve been so touchy of late. Every little wrinkle drives a bug up my ass.
The light green, I drive not really seeing the road, letting it pull me along. When younger, dumb enough not to fear cops, I’d light up a joint during such jaunts to the beach. I long for those carefree days, but scowl at myself knowing I’m old by my drug-days standards and have no clue as to where I’d find weed. Nowadays, nothing may shock, but there’s a camera at each intersection, and at least one joker on a cellphone at every public urinal. Few know how to relax. Myself included.
My 12-year-old Honda runs 20 miles faster than the limit and it’s still unable to keep pace with traffic. A wasteland of sickly trees lines the road on both sides. A smokestack, black at its tip, stands like a burnt wooden matchstick. All so ugly. Better to shut down, see nothing, hear nothing. Take me under, drown me, should have used myself up when I was too young to know any better.
At the beach parking lot, I groan out of the car cranky and stiff, a more common physical state than I care to admit. I bend at the knees, pushing out my arms, stretching my legs.
Up, down. Up, down.
Will you stop!
Embarrassing you?
Dani shoves her canvas bag into my arms.
You embarrass yourself.
Right. I want to gripe about why she’s packed so much stuff. I don’t. I’ve griped enough. Her workday was as trying, if not worse, than my own. This is our chance to salvage calm, to renew ourselves. Tomorrow’s another slog at the pump. She’ll scrape plaque, and I’ll fill delivery orders. Somebody will yell at us over a protocol indiscretion.
We gotta live for the moment.
Whatever.
I hike her canvas bag over my shoulder, ask her what’s in here, anyway?
She’s in sandals and remains a consoling presence at my side, her long legs pale and fine. She runs a hand over my hip and tugs on the rear pocket of my shorts.
Essentials.
I shrug, falling into a slackened beach mode. Insistent and hazy, late sunshine brings a welcomed sweat. I start feeling balmy as I imagine the ocean against my skin.
You know something. If I get frustrated on the job, it’s because I care. Not because I’m impatient. But I gotta tell you I’m not paid enough to care.
No, neither am I.
I look at her. She’s aged during our ten years of marriage, but she’s still comely. I feel the percolations of a carnal urge to ferry her off to the dunes. It gives me no pleasure to think that there was a time when such spontaneous eruptions were never out of the question.
Give me a minute, she says.
Whatever you need.
I smile at her as she wipes lotion down her legs. I want to kiss her knees, to nibble on them. I want blissful release.
But stop staring at me like I’m fresh meat. You’re making me uncomfortable.
Since when?
There are other people around.
There are?
Don’t you care what they think?
I look around. There’s no one in sight. I grin back, getting her sarcasm. A breeze kicks up, one of those benign seaside bursts. A soothing hand for both of us that takes us in and lets us disappear.
