Orbit Beach

by Jane Etarie

  Anyways, I was almost out of coffee, and I wasn't going to drink straight whisky this early in the morning. I figured I'd better hit up the Starbucks. But I had enough for another cup and I was close to my car, so no big deal. The Escalade was parked right behind me, through the bushes. There must have been twenty little lots like this in the park, but as far as I could tell, this was the best one. I was the only one parked here today.

  The bench I sat on was at the tip of a V in the trail. If I looked at the beach I could see anybody coming either way. On average, someone, or like people, passed by me twelve times an hour. Like once every five minutes. The shortest time between people was over twenty seconds, the longest was twelve minutes. There were five dog walkers— three couples, and two with just their dogs. There were five joggers— two groups, and three single joggers. And there were two walkers. One of them was pregnant. Six, seven months, I guessed. We smiled at each other.

  I'd do this all week. Count the people. Find the best days. The best times. I poured myself the last of my coffee. I almost pulled the wrong bottle from my handbag, but then I found the whisky and gave myself a shot. I figured I'd wander around town. Maybe go shopping. Take a nap later. Whatever. I had the entire day ahead of me.

  Bamboo Ice

  Natasha St. Allegra.

  Agent, Vivendi Nova Realty

  I had no trouble finding her card this time. God, she was photogenic. She looked like a model, a high priced escort or some shit, not like a real estate agent. I called her. She actually recognized my voice, and I blushed and I couldn't stop smiling. So we talked for a bit and decided on lunch.

  We met at this place by the University, The Banyan Leaf. It's like a vegetarian restaurant, with all sorts of Buddhas and shit all over the place. There were like students and smart people, vegetarians and hippies hanging out there. Our waitress dropped off our menus. She had messy hair and dark rimmed glasses, and you could just tell she had a big bush.

  And I was looking at the menu and I really didn't know what to get. So I asked Natasha what was good. She loves it here, everything's good, she says. Was I hungry? Did I just want something with coffee or tea? Was I having any cravings?

  I was starving. But I was feeling totally fat and didn't want to look like a fucking pig in front of her. Like shove a foot long veggie burrito down my throat or some shit. So I asked her what she's going to have?

  She's not really hungry, she says, which sucked. She was just going to have coffee and cheesecake. She only drinks coffee every other day while she's pregnant, but the coffee and cheesecake here are probably the best in the city. Get the cheesecake, she says, any cheesecake— you'll love it, and the coffee's awesome.

  So the waitress came back and took our orders, and a few minutes later she brought us our food. Natasha was right. It was probably the best cheesecake I've ever eaten, and the coffee's right up there too. I bet I could eat an entire cake it's so fucking good. So I'm all like doing one of those stupid Food Network faces, like I'm having an orgasm from sticking this shit in my mouth, and I tell her, Oh my god... Natasha, you are so right... this is so fucking good.

  And then I tried to think of something to talk about. I really didn't want to start with the weather and shit because that's fucking lame and I wanted her to like me. So I tell her about my dream. I tell her about the one I had this morning. It was so weird, like the Pope became my surrogate mother, like the Vatican was changing some of its rules or shit to prove a point. It made no sense, even for a dream. And that was all I could remember about it. And I admit it— it's not a very good one. I tell her that I've got better ones.

  Then I shove the last of the cheesecake into my mouth and ask her if she's ever noticed that people always start describing their dreams by saying, I had the weirdest dream last night, or they'll say, My cat does the weirdest thing before they bore you with their shitty cat stories.

  And she looked like she was kind of thinking about it for a second, and then she's all like, Hmmm, the superlatively weird preface... And then she laughs and says that no, she hadn't really noticed it before. But now that I mentioned it, ya, it was true. It's almost like a universal law, she says. And I don't know what the hell she's talking about but I'm glad that she's agreeing with me.

  And then I tell her about more of my dreams— I've been having all sorts of pregnant dreams. I tell her about the one where my baby was a retard. How embarrassing it was, how horrible it was. How my baby tried to kill me and I had to drown it. What a nightmare.

  She says she doesn't remember her dreams so much, but maybe I'm just nervous. Maybe I'm just a little stressed out about having a baby. That I probably shouldn't worry about it. It's only natural to be a little anxious.

  And then she kind of changes the topic— asks if I'm doing ok with all the preparation and shit? Do I need anything? And I'm all like, Oh, ya ya, everythings good. And she says that if I do need anything, she knows a couple people through work. They just had kids a couple of years ago and offered her some things they didn't need anymore.

  And I'm all like, Oh, I think I'm ok... About the only thing I need is a stroller.

  And then I take a sip from my empty coffee cup, and tell her, like all casual— I'm thinking about a Prana maybe... the Prana Red Tara Che Revolution SR... I've uh... I've heard it's pretty good.

  And she's all like, Oh my god— that's what I wanted to get... Those are really the best for jogging. They have the lowest weight to size ratio on the market. I love them. And she goes on about the Prana Red Tara Che Revolution SR for a few minutes. She knows more about them than I do. And then she says that she can get me one. She can get me one for free. It's used— if I don't mind used— but her friend at work was going to give it to her. Her friend absolutely loved that buggy, she says. Took real good care of it. It's like new.

  And I mean, I know I just met her and she's like being an awesome friend and only trying to help— but there's no way that I want a fucking used stroller. Something that's been shit in. Pissed in. Sweat on. Just so gross. But then I go to her, Like for real? Holy shit, wow... that is so awesome... Thank you! That is so awesome of you! But I mean, don't you want it? Like... for yourself?

  And she's all like, Oh I would— absolutely. It's in perfect condition— I've seen it. But I don't need it. A former client got me the Prana Bamboo Ice for Christmas...

  The Prana Bamboo Ice. Mother Bear. Ferocity in love. It's the stroller celebrities use. Limited edition. Fully loaded. Expensive. All profits go to buy parcels of land in the Chinese rainforests, and icebergs or some shit in the Arctic. Like to set up sanctuaries or protected areas for the endangered Red Panda and the Polar Bear. And the actual buggy is completely carbon neutral, vegan, and is officially Good Karma Certified by Tibetan monks. The frame is made from bamboo, recycled materials, and fair trade metals from artisanal mines in Mexico. The plastic is all recovered from cleanups along polluted beaches and whatever can be taken from the Great Plastic Island in the Pacific.

  And I can't believe that she just dropped that she's got a Bamboo Ice and isn't even bragging about it. She changes the subject even.

  We ordered more cheesecake and coffee and talked for like another half hour. We talked about all sorts of shit. I told her how I didn't like it when singers laughed in songs, how it sounded fake and ugly. How I hated most drivers and have accidentally run a couple off the road. I told her all sorts of shit I didn't like. But mostly I learned a lot about her. Like I mean, I was getting to know her.

  And then she had to go, get back to work. Where's the time gone?, she says. I offer to pay the bill, but she insists she's got it. Which was fine by me because I didn't want to pay that bad.

  And before she leaves, I ask her, Natasha... do you have any other pregnant friends? Like, do you know other pregnant people? And she kind of looks at me like she doesn't really understand the question, and she's all like, No, not really. She says that she's not in any pregnancy groups or programs or any shit like that, if that's what I mean. Wh
y?

  And I'm all like, Oh, no reason, you've just been so helpful— it's been really nice having someone to talk to. I've just really liked hanging out with you. I don't have a lot of girlfriends anymore.

  And then she's all like, No worries, it's no trouble. And she's smiling, and I think that she's had a good time, like for real. At least I hope she has. Then she says to call her again. Any time is good, but Tuesday or Wednesday would be best. She's busy with work for the next week or two, getting everything tied up and finished. And then she's going to be busy with the baby.

  So then we left. She got into her VW and smiled her model smile and waved goodbye. And I wished that I'd met her sooner, that we were like old friends. That things could be different.

  But whatever, I was just dying for a smoke. I didn't have one all day because I didn't want to smell like cigarettes around her. So I lit one and walked around the block. It was a beautiful day out. The sky was like silver. And I was walking and smoking and this couple passed by me. They looked ugly, sketchy. Like junkies. Fucking crackheads or some shit. And they were like holding hands. And at first, I was thinking— why even bother?

  But then I kind of thought it was cute. It's like they were saying, I like you... I enjoy smoking crack with you.

  Peanut butter cups

  He was all sweaty and wild eyed. Like in a panic. It was about nine in the morning— Robert just got home, and I just got up. I hadn't even grabbed a coffee yet.

  He was a mess. Seriously. Like he just crawled out of the ashtray. He looked all crazy and confused and smelled like the campfire. So I was all like, Holy shit, Boo, what the hell happened? He ran his hand through his dirty hair and suddenly he looked like Buckwheat. He was out of breath, and was all like twitchy and gross, and just he kept going, I was here all night... I was here all night... If anybody asks, I was here all night...

  And then he went straight to the fridge and grabbed a couple beer and took them to the shower. When he got out a few minutes later, he cracked another beer and apologized— says he ran all the way home. There was a fire, he says. A fire at the loft.

  And I was all like, What!? Holy shit! Oh my god, what happened... what the hell happened? Are you ok? Is everyone ok? Tell me what happened... So he tells me the story, and I can't fucking believe it. It's just too stupid. I tell him I can't believe Dean wasn't there.

  And then he looks at the ground, like embarrassed, like he's just been busted. Like the retard who just shit his pants and knows he's got to be changed. He tells me that Dean was there. It was Dean's idea, he says. He's been out of the hospital for about a month now and was staying at Tyler's the last couple of weeks. He didn't want to tell me— said he knew that I'd get mad. He was right.

  I hadn't seen Dean for weeks. I really didn't want to be anywhere near that idiot during the holidays. It was awesome. But I guess the dream was over. It was like I was the moron who gets cancer all over again. And I mean, I guess deep down I always knew it. I knew that he'd be back. It was all too good to be true.

  Robert says that Dean's lawyer settled the case with the apartment owners. He got five thousand dollars— down from the two hundred thousand his ambulance chaser was after. Dean blew it all in a couple of days. Debts, weed, gold grillz, braids and extensions, and a used red scooter. And then he borrowed another few hundred bucks to pimp the scooter. Boo says Dean doesn't need it— that he can walk ok. He says he waddles like there's a motion sensitive bomb up his ass, but he can walk ok. The scooter's just so he can collect disability.

  And Robert's telling me this, and I'm just thinking about and feeling sorry for the poor bastard who had to fit those grillz over his busted snaggleteeth.

  So Robert, Dean, Tyler, Josh, and a couple other guys I don't know, are hanging out at the loft last night. And around five a.m., Josh gets up and gives his friends a lift home and goes to work. So now Robert, Dean and Tyler are playing video games and smoking and drinking. Dean gets this idea into his ugly head that they should make peanut butter cups. There's a 7-11 a block away. And instead of buying themselves some fucking peanut butter cups, they buy some overpriced chocolate and overpriced peanut butter. It'll be fun, Dean says.

  He's done this before. It's good, it's going to be so good. You just melt the chocolate in a metal bowl. You put the bowl in a pot of boiling water, and that way you can't burn it like you can in the microwave. When the chocolate's melted, you divide it into two portions, making sure they both stay warm. Then you get a muffin tin and paper muffin cups and pour half the chocolate in it. When the bottoms and sides are covered, you spoon in the peanut butter, and then pour the remaining chocolate on top. Refrigerate. Once cooled, you bang the muffin tin upside down onto a cookie sheet, and enjoy. Only they couldn't find a muffin tin, so they were going to use ice cube trays.

  And I'm stunned. I don't think he even knows how to boil water. The retard can barely use a microwave. Like for real— I actually showed him how to set it once. But suddenly it's like Dean was fucking Betty Crocker. The Kitchen Fabio. The Rachel Ray of 7-11. Like he took the master chef coarse in his spare time at the hospital. What a bunch of shitheads. They couldn't just buy peanut butter cups like a million other stoners. And I just shake my head, like I'm amazed, like I'm disgusted. Amazed and disgusted that anyone could be so stupid.

  Don't worry, Dean says, I'll make them... they're gonna be so good... Reese's will taste like dogshit after you try the Weedman's...

  So Dean goes to the kitchen, Tyler's crashed out in his room, and Robert's playing a racing game.

  About a couple beer later, Robert smells smoke. He calls Dean, but Dean's not answering. So Robert gets up and sees Dean on the couch. His eyes and mouth are open and he's snoring. Robert can see his new grillz. Then he sees the smoke and runs to the kitchen.

  I guess the Iron Chef let the pot boil dry, so the chocolate caught fire. Robert throws a beer on it, and the fire splashes all over the cupboards and spreads. And then he's all like holy shit, and runs to wake up Dean. He smacks him and shakes him and tells him there's a fire. He runs into Tyler's room and yells for Tyler to wake up. Tyler rolls over and tells him to fuck off. So Robert's all like, There's a fire! There's a fucking fire! Wake up! So Tyler gets up all in a tired panic and is like, Fuck... fuck... Josh is gonna kill us... Josh is gonna kill us... and he starts looking around for a fire extinguisher. The place is filling up with smoke real quick.

  Robert and Tyler are in the kitchen trying to put the fire out, and then Dean runs right by them. Doesn't say a word. He just runs right past the kitchen, throws open the door, and disappears. And Robert says that as soon as the door opened, the place became a fireball. There was like an instant wall of flames, and Robert and Tyler had to run through it to get out. Robert throws the fire alarm and they run down the stairs.

  Dean and his scooter are gone. Tyler throws his shirt off and rolls around on the ground, and Robert's whacking him with his jacket. He's not sure how bad Tyler's burns are, but it's cold out so he tells him to keep the jacket and says that he's got to go. He's sorry and apologizes— but he's got to get the hell out of there before the cops show up.

  Tyler says not to worry. Tells him to hurry, to get out of there. He's like coughing and shaking, sitting on the curb. And then Robert hears the sirens coming, and he runs. He says that he ran for like an hour, didn't stop once, until he finally got home.

  Robert's exhausted. Overtired. Paranoid. He's sure it's the end of the world. He's violated the terms of his probation. The cops are going to knock on the door any minute. He's going to get dragged out and thrown in jail for sure. And he keeps whining, mumbling, going on and on, and I finally notice that his eyebrows have been burned off and he looks like he's gotten way too much sun.

  I'm getting bored listening to his shit, so I cut him off— I tell him not to worry about it. He didn't light the damn fire. If anyone was going to catch shit, it was going to be Dean. And I tell him that he's a hero. He pulled the fire alarm. He saved Tyler. He should be proud
of himself. The cops will look shitty arresting a hero. And I tell him not to worry— they'll probably never even know he was there.

  Only he doesn't hear any of it. He's already crashed out on the couch with his open beer.

  Mitchell Island

  I was sitting on the park bench, staring at them like a retard for I don't know how long. Like they were a herd of unicorns or some shit. Like I was a lost unicorn and would be reunited with them soon. They were exercising with their babies. Most of them were in really good shape. I was going to have to lose a lot of weight before I started any sessions with them. Whatever, I had plenty of time to stop eating.

  Boo fucked off to Mitchell Island. It was for the best, really. The guy's been a complete mess the last few days. A total disaster. Drinking all the time, paranoid about the cops, peeking out the windows, jumping and hiding around corners whenever the phone rang. Like John Walsh or To Catch a Dirty Pedophile Chris Hansen were out to get him.

  He joked with me before he left, said to wait to have the baby until he got back. Stick a cork in it. He hated to be away when the baby was born, but he said he'd rather lay low at his family's place than wreck his asshole in prison. He gave me his new number— he lost his old phone in the fire. I tried it, but the voice mail wasn't set up yet.

  I drank the last of the hot buttered rum from my thermos. And then I got like this deja vu or some shit of being lost and drinking Patron in Vegas. I wasn't sure why, but whatever. The mothers were all leaving. They were all smiling, laughing, saying bye to each other. It was beautiful out, but cold. I figured I might go watch Breaking Dawn again this afternoon. Catch a matinee. I don't know why those guys fuss over that little bitch.

  I walked to the public shitters and found a payphone that worked. Natasha sounded like she was happy to hear from me. Like for real happy, like she wasn't even faking it.