by Ryan Schow
The day is bright, however, and the air smells salty and wet, like the sea. The people I see are varied—some beautiful, some artful, some ugly and some too blasé for words—yet every single one of them is friendly. At Bolsa, Chica State Beach, a Hispanic man with a very clean looking taco truck and a loud speaker playing Latin music is serving the best smelling street tacos ever. I eat four. And OMG, yummy!
I sit on the beach for awhile, letting my stomach digest my meal, letting the waves break on the shoreline. A man and his dog walk by. The dog is a Frenchie. He’s barrel chested, slobbery and proud. The dog, that is. The man is barrel bellied and bald, with a small butt and too much hair on his back to go shirtless, but whatever. He’s probably happy. His dog looks happy. Watching him talking with his proud little pooch, gazing out to sea, his face not hammered by a lifetime of failure and disappointment, I think I would give just about anything to be normal. To not know this life I’ve lived. To not be…this person, this thing, I’ve become.
Ugh, it’s too lonely here. So…back on the bike.
On the ride heading home, I spot a particularly nice stretch of beach that looks crowded enough for me to blend in and not feel alone, so I break out the towel and trudge through the sand down by the water where I lay out for nearly an hour. Perspiring, craving a swim, I head into the water, which is as brisk as it is invigorating.
On more than one occasion, I see boys who look like Sebastian. None prove to be him, but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of him. I am. This little slutty monster slept with a stranger. A delicious one at that. God he was good! He was, however, a boy I failed to evaluate before giving myself to him. Closing my eyes, sinking up to my neck into the cool, salty sea, I think, I would do it all over again.
So I will. I mean, I must.
My invisible tentacles spread wide and extend their reach out into the world, searching for him, then finding him. I crawl his brain and learn so many things about him, but there are two very important things I learn that sway my decision in his favor. One: Corrine cheated on him with a hot colleague, and two: she’s currently out of town on a work conference and won’t be back for three days.
I want those days. I want Sebastian again.
8
Sebastian is totally surprised to see me. He doesn’t know how the hell I’d found him. He’s outside at a table alongside the beach eating lunch with friends—no, co-workers—when I stroll up. His peers are all eyes on me, undressing me, aching for me, struggling to understand why I’m staring at Sebastian rather than any of them. Gradually, they all turn and look at him. Anyone with three functioning brain cells in their head knows Sebastian’s crushing on me. Nervousness is smeared all over his face. We’re talking dilated pupils, flushed face, an inability to swallow his food right. He was going all ham and cheese on his food when he saw me and now all that power-eating has him gulping hard and reaching for his soda for help.
“Raven,” he exclaims, barely clearing his throat.
Batting my eyelashes at his co-workers (who are now just realizing he knows me), I say, “Don’t be rude, Sebastian. Introduce me to your friends.”
He does, but I can tell all of them know about Corrine, and none of them know about me or the illegal, sinful things we’ve done. My, my, my—this boy can keep a secret. Which makes me wonder what I should say next. Stupid me, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.
“That surfboard you were telling me about, I think it will be just perfect for my boyfriend.”
Okay, just so you know, I’ll never be an actress because I suck that bad. The little pack of hard-on’s, his friends and co-workers, they bought it because all of them looked at Sebastian, as if his answer would somehow put all their pounding hearts at ease.
The guys he’s with, they all work together at a surf shop up the street. I know this because I crawled their brains a moment ago, the same way digital data mining spiders crawl the web looking for relevant information on websites for SEO ranking. When I wiggled around in their brains, however, I wasn’t searching for anything more than a surface understanding of who they were.
So Sebastian’s now ogling me, trying to stuff down his disbelief because he knows he didn’t tell me he works at a surf shop. He’s also not trying to give too much away, especially the fact that we have been together. He can’t stand the idea of his personal business being made public.
Good boy.
Still lingering on the surface of the minds of his friends, each of them is dying to know who I am and how I know Sebastian. One of the guys, a scruffy kid named Clay, who’s not terrible looking, just under groomed, he’s in love with Corrine. He’s secretly hoping she will dump Sebastian, so right now he’s anxious for things to say to Corrine, like how her guy and this super hot chick with Goth undertones were flirting in front of everyone. Which we aren’t.
Still…we give nothing away. I won’t. Sebastian won’t.
“Why don’t you come over to the shop and I’ll show you the designs I was talking about,” he says, more convincing than me, “but after I’m eating. I only get one break today and this is it, so maybe I could get back to it, if you don’t mind.” He says it like I’m a child in love with a man.
Ha! As if…
“Okay,” I say, swallowing my embarrassment with a smile, like I could care less him giving me the cold shoulder like that. I tell myself it’s because of Corrine, nothing else. “Just call me when you’re done and I’ll head over.”
To the guys, I smile generously, push my chest out just the littlest bit, then say, “Well it was nice to meet all of you, I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“You wanna crash our squad?” one of them asks. Clay. The slippery asshole just dying to tear off Corrine’s panties. God, I hate guys like this.
“That’s kind of you,” I say, “but I’m meeting a friend for lunch. I’m heading there to meet him now.” When I walk off, the guys zero in on Sebastian. They’re full of questions and comments about my ass and tits, about how hot I am. But I slip inside his brain and realize he won’t tell them anything, and that makes me like him so much more. Some boys brag. Others never f*ck and tell. Sebastian is the perfect gentleman, unless you take into account the girlfriend, but whatever. You get my point.
When my cellphone rings half an hour later, Sebastian says, “How did you find me?”
“Easy,” I say.
“More of your…special nature?” he says, sarcastic, but not mean. Almost like I intruded upon him. Um, hello, did anyone tell him his social proof just went through the roof knowing me?
“I’m not a stalker, if that’s what you mean.”
“No,” he says in a deeply caustic tone, “you’re psychic or something. Is that what you’re going to tell me?”
Actually it was. This, of course, has me thinking I should never even drop hints to others about my abilities. Some people, when they see the tiniest thread, they pull. They can’t help it. It’s curiosity, human nature. So now Sebastian’s picking at the thread, but not yet pulling it.
“I’m not really a full-fledged psychic, but I do have…specific instincts, a heightened intuition.” God that sounds so ridiculous coming out of my mouth. “Not that it matters.”
“That’s just weird,” he says, calming down significantly. It sounds like he’s calling me from outside, somewhere near a main road. The sound of cars in the background is a bit distracting.
“I’m here for three more days,” I say, because that’s how much time I have left at beach house I rented. “I don’t really want to spend the rest of the time…alone.”
“I thought you were having lunch with a friend?”
“Nope.”
“So you came to see me?”
“I did.”
“How did you know I’d be there?” he asks, less jovially than before. “More of your psychic powers mumbo-jumbo?”
“Come over tonight,” I say, ignoring the jab.
“No.”
“Please,” I say, still giving of
f that airy-fun vibe, even though I’m starting to panic because he really is sticking to his guns.
“We had our fun, Raven,” he says. He tells me this the way you tell a person you’re breaking up with that you just need a little time. It’s not you, it’s me.
Laughing lightheartedly, brushing it off, I say, “As your own private psychic, I can tell you for absolute certainty the plans you’ll be breaking tonight aren’t a big deal.” He’s going to a beach party with a few friends who drink to get drunk, even though he isn’t a drinker himself. “What you’re really doing,” I continue, “is biding time until Corrine gets back, I know that. Her and I, though, we’re on the same schedule. As in, she’ll be home in three days, which is right about the time I’ll be leaving. There won’t be two vaginas occupying the same space at the same time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
At the mention of Corrine’s schedule, he says, “I knew you two were in on this!”
Wait, what?
“I promise you I’m not,” I say, scrambling to regain control.
“This is just like her,” he spits, disgusted. “Trying to catch me cheating. This is exactly the kind of shit she’d pull. You tell Corrine I said she cheated first so she can go fuck herself!”
And then he hangs up on me. I send him a text telling him it isn’t her, that it’s me, that I’m an unexplainable wonder who has three days left here if he changes his mind.
He doesn’t change his mind, and he doesn’t call; my heart…it breaks just a smidge. Not because I fell in love with him a little bit or anything, but because I wanted those three days with him. I wanted to get a few more non-Astor Academy memories. A reminder of him to take home with me. Now all I have is the memory of a hot beach boy who thinks I set him up on behalf of his cheating girlfriend. The saddest part about watching this tryst of ours circle the drain is thinking I didn’t want more than what he had to offer. He was perfect the way he was.
9
When my time at the beach house is up, I leave Huntington Beach feeling crappy and weak. How did this happen? I gave myself to a stranger. Who had a girlfriend. As if that wasn’t enough, I was okay with it.
Maybe I’m not okay with it.
Not that it matters anymore, me being a skank and all. Then again, with no one to judge me but myself, is this really a bad thing? From a moral standpoint, yes. From a psychological standpoint, not so much. Should I really be wrecked about this? About my choices?
No.
I saw what I wanted and took it.
Sebastian saw what he wanted in me and he took it, too. The romance was consensual. The sex was otherworldly. Corrine cheated on him; he cheated on her. Yet we both had a great night as a result. No harm, no foul, as Brayden likes to say. But that’s not true.
My whole life is one foul after another. Is this my mid-youth crisis? I don’t know. I can’t quite be sure, but it feels like it.
This questionable life I’m living, is my conscience really that wounded? The truth is: not really. So I was a humiliated fat girl who endured a lot of pain to become beautiful. So what? I can’t think of a single person who wouldn’t murder for my stellar looks. And kill I did. What are people anyway but animals with opposable thumbs, a Visa card and an opinion? I know, thou shalt not kill, and all that, but if Holland can create and manipulate life, if he can be old AF and harness immortality, if there are things like the doctor from Dulce who can turn shot-to-death girls into hybrids capable of…whatever, then do I really need to keep God in the equation anymore? Does He even have relevance?
I can make a compelling case that He doesn’t. I don’t want to…but I can. And if He does exist, then it’s going to be a long f*cking time before we meet.
This makes me sound both blasphemous and ungrateful, I get it. But if there were no such idea as being good or being bad, and everything in life was just life itself unfolding without judgement, then would we really lament all the stupid shit we concern ourselves with on a daily basis?
Probably not.
So screw it. I’m not going to feel bad about what I become because I don’t have to become the future me laid out on Holland’s gurney. I can be different. I’m going to be different! I’m not going to feel bad about who I was because I’m not that portly, pathetic little bridge troll anymore. And if anyone says anything to the contrary, they can go suck a fat girl’s dick for all I care.
Holland—that f*cking retard—he might be right. This sure as hell could be my Eat, Pray, Love moment unfolding. This is where I finally liberate myself from my past, from the past versions of me, and from future me. And it’s working. Something inside me feels lighter, more exuberant, free. I let some girl’s boyfriend stuff me full and I’m not fretting it. I have no home, no commitments, no one to answer to, and I don’t care.
So yes, this is my Eat, Pray, Love moment!
Roaring up Highway 1, the sea to my far left, the hills to my right, I turn on the radio, find the hard rock station and crank it. It’s playing “Narcissistic Cannibal” by Korn and the words are totally fitting.
How is it total strangers can write something that makes me feel known? No longer alone? It’s crazy. Using my mind, I pump up the volume; using my foot, I stomp the pedal and the big V8 growls, the tires digging into the pavement. The hills rush by in a soft green blur, yet the sea appears perfectly still as it stretches into a blue eternity. Overhead the sky is bright, cloudless. A push of the button opens the sunroof and the crisp, clean air funnels in, making me smile.
Then the phone rings, putting my joy on pause.
One hundred miles per hour becomes sixty, and the volume gets cranked way down because the ringing through the Bang & Olufsen sound system isn’t quiet. I answer the phone, nearly missing the Sycamore Canyon Road exit.
It’s Holland.
“You need to come home,” he says. I’m almost too busy following the signs to Pfeiffer State Beach to give his comment consideration.
“I’m heading that way,” I mumble.
The way the one lane road cuts down into the trees, it’s like slipping through a canopy of foliage too majestic for words. I’m staring in awe, my foot barely on the gas, my head not into the conversation I’m not having with a man too despicable to define.
“Where are you?” he asks, a touch impatient.
“Big Sur,” I say, rolling down the windows so I can smell the dense woods and the damp, earthy smell of the trees and brush. “I’ll probably only stay a day or two, then I’ll be heading back to Astor.”
“You should come now,” he says, his tone even, completely devoid of warmth.
“Why? What’s happened?”
“It doesn’t matter, just come home.”
I stick my arm out the window, fan the cool air into my face, then say, “If it doesn’t matter, then I’ll be home in a few days.” I press the END button. So it’s rude, hanging up the way I did, but whatever. I’m in the middle of finding myself and he’s a freaking monster from my past I can’t seem to forget fast enough. Besides, it’s not like I’m snubbing the Pope.
My God, this road!—this scenery!
How can I be expected to allow the ugliness of that demandy butthole into a world as inspiring as this?! I can’t. I won’t.
At the ranger’s station, I pay to get into the state beach, then drive down to the parking area and kill the engine. I get out of the car, pull off my shoes and socks and slide into a pair of flip flops. My feet are somewhat sweaty, and it isn’t the best idea ever mixing them with sand, but whatevs, this girl’s on a spiritual journey to find my more enlightened self.
So who gives a crap about dirty feet?
After a short walk to the beach, I trek out into the sand, a light ocean breeze washing over my feet, up my bare legs. The air smells clean. Seagulls squawk overhead, five or six of them that aren’t concerned with their haphazard flight patterns or their inability to make friends.
For the next half hour, I sit in the sand and stare out into the busy sea, losing
myself completely. Waves surge into the sandy cove and are sucked out. In the center of the cove, these same waves break against a gigantic rock so huge and grandiose it has a big square doorway that looks more like a hallway cutting through the water-level middle of it. This window of a rock is what makes this beach so stately, and such a popular tourist attraction. It’s awe-inspiring sitting here, in fact, I almost want to waltz into the water and drown, make this serene moment my last. But I can’t. So I simply absorb Mother Nature in her most perfect form.
Suddenly I realize the emotional weight I’ve been lugging around. It’s like that familiar burden you never expect to part with, but now it’s draining away and you feel free of its every encumbrance. A smile finds my face, and my eyes form upside-down crescent moons, that’s how at peace I am. Then, a few feet away, a woman trekking through the sand sets up a beach chair. The low-slung chair’s seat sits so close to the sandy beach floor, it almost bottoms out when the woman drops into it. She glances over and politely says hello.
“Hi,” I say.
In places like this, there’s no such thing as stranger-danger.
The woman is pretty for her age. Her figure is thin, not skinny—more like the yoga body you get when you’re too old to do weights and CrossFit, but not so old you can’t sweat and stretch in high heat with others. I wonder how old she is. Fifty? Sixty? I’m sure I could crawl her mind and answer all my unasked questions, but I don’t. I won’t.
Looking over at me with crystal eyes that look both alert and alive, she says, “There’s something about having the canyon to your back and the ocean spread out before you in its endless, blue splendor. Just look at it out there. It’s the entire horizon and it’s unmolested by the miseries and miscarriages of life. Isn’t it gorgeous? I mean, seriously, we’re at the end of the continent and it feels like paradise.”
