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May 26, 2006 For Garcia Lorca and Annette Martinez The third floor was the floor. Even at the fourth floor, which he rarely had cause to go to, things felt too high, too uneven. The fifth, forget about it, because he began to feel vertigo. On the second, it was strange, like a little joke of some sort, a half way remark, so short. There was a pool, and a hut, with a bar, and a small putting green, and the beach was right there. When he walked out onto the other person there on the balcony, his aunt, she sat with a pensive look. He sat and looked out at the ocean, a morning, as most all mornings there, made for kings, made for gods in fact, with the sublime climate. It was only sub-tropical, but it felt like they had arrived, at the end of the world, or had somehow ended up adjacent to the world. Here there was no real problem. The aunt put her hand half cupped, over her eyebrows, to block some sun. ‘ Those men, on that balcony up there,’ she started, motioning to the building across the way ‘ are there at all hours, taking turns staring out to the ocean, with binoculars.’ Then she paused, as if waiting for the rest of her thoughts to arrive momentarily, and started again. ‘ I’ve always seen them there, and always wondered about them. I always thought they were waiting for drugs. They watch, and wait, and watch, and wait. I always had the impression they were waiting for a certain boat, that was going to drop off some floating parcel, or something like that, and that when they saw what they were looking for, they’d know, and go to retrieve it.’ And having said her peace, she opened the book she had been reading, and continued to read it. A thick book, called The Thornbirds. He had spent his summers there, among the idyllic settings of the pier to the south, and moreso the pier to the north. Old and young fished at both, and some people walked, always. Sometimes he sat and watched the parasailing, and sometimes he talked to a local. Sometimes he was approached by another soul or souls. Like the Pentecostals, in dress pants and shirts, who looked out of place among the sun worshippers. There was the vagrant on a bike, with a dog that road on the back carriage, with one eye. There was the old lady who yelled, waving her arms, deriding him for smoking, exclaiming, ‘ It’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing…’ There was a popular seafood restaurant, which backed right onto the beach, that he sat behind, and watched the sun go down, before returning home. There was the used bookstore, where tourists bought paperback books to read on their beach chairs and towels. There were certain hotspots, like the local Holiday Inn, where always there were girls sunbathing. But mostly he stayed to himself, and wandered sometimes on the roads and sometimes on the sands, with his own thoughts, untouched by the world, save for light salty kisses from the ocean breeze. This night, he left shortly before midnight, and closed the door softly, like a cat burglar. He took the elevator to the first floor, walked out to the main street, and began to follow it. Some people say you don’t know what you have until its gone, but somehow, in his depths, he knew that he might never know such a freedom as this again. He walked and walked while the cars passing coupled with the ocean over to the left, made music, a rhythmic sort of chant in the sub-tropical night. He passed the Catholic Church, and the local Publix with the water fountain outside, that he had rested at the odd time in the days. The senior citizens helped with the bags, and when a patron would try and tip them, they would say,’ Thanks, but we are not allowed to take tips.’ He walked onto another street, a little more along, and made his way to the motel. It was called The Mana Loa. The neon sign flashed, but not because it was supposed to. It was a bit defunct, and stayed alive, but had a panicky existence. He lightly knocked on a door, and a girl came out. They talked for a bit. She was from England, and liked the boy, but he liked her friend, the Mexican American girl. The tall English girl knocked on another door, there was a brief conversation with someone inside, and then she appeared. She was grooming her hair while she talked, the way some girls at that age do, being preoccupied with their looks. They all sat out and stared at the night, while speaking softly. They made it over to the close pier, and with another friend, decided to go swimming. Some people had said that sharks fed at night, and that it was not wise to go swimming. He knew that people sometimes saw a shark off the pier, but that is all he knew for sure. After they finished swimming, they all walked along the beach, back in the direction that he had come along the road. The four of them were barely visible to each other in that dark, but were lit up a bit from the moon. The days and nights went like that, and they all went like that, those four, in step with the days and nights. Sometimes there would be a day of rain, which would be spent at a mall, or driving to somewhere. But eventually the rain would subside, and there would be the sky again. Those were the days of strawberry whiles in and about divine air. He always thought of what it would be like if a relative purchased a small motel, and ran it. He always thought of what it would be like if he had to live there, forced into paradise, for the rest of his days. But such a thing was not to be. Each time he had to leave. Each time he left the sand and the sky, and the Mexican girl and the parasail boats behind. It had been a waking a dream. It had been an accidental nirvana. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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