The sun had cooled, veiled by haze, so I decided to go to
the pool instead of the beach. Dave was
snoozing, his tan skin striking in contrast to the white sheets and
pillow. I scrawled a note on a paper
napkin, placed it on the floor, and anchored it with a round black bottle of
Captain Morgan’s Cannon Blast Rum. He
was sure to see it.
It was good to be on vacation.
I descended the echoing cinder block fire stairs of the Holiday Inn on Lido Key, and pushed open the heavy metal door. Vaguely improved by a few listless palms and
surrounded by cement knee walls that block the wind, the pool area is not our
first choice, but a possibility on chillier days.
Swathed in yellow towels, my fellow vacationers, slick with
sunscreen and squinting at phones, reclined on blue lounge chairs lined up
against the wall. A cluster of men in
Hawaiian shirts sat on stools at the bar.
A little girl, sun-toasted and grinning, flipped her long braid over one
shoulder and dove into the pool.
I glanced over the wall and across the boulevard to the
beach with its white sand, soft as flour.
A smattering of sea birds, white bellied and gray of wing, with funky
spiked crests and stoic expressions, faced into the wind and tried to ignore
the children who ran among them with shrieks and flailing arms. The green Gulf waters rolled and splashed
frothy milk along the shore.
Chilly or not, having considered my options, I opened the
gate, waited for a car to pass, and crossed the road.
Jim was stretched out on a lounger under a red umbrella by his rentals stand, peeling a banana.
“All right! Stocking
up on potassium, I see!” I said. This
was a topic of conversation continued from yesterday when Jim experienced a
sinking spell. He’d chugged one of his
power drinks and wound up feeling woozy; so woozy it had been hard to lug
umbrellas and loungers down the sand for those wishing to rent them. Dave had filled in for a time to allow Jim a
breather.
Jim is fifty-seven and his enthusiasm for the gym is
apparent in his ruddy-skinned, well-muscled body. He stands and walks as if lifting a barbell,
with a heavy gait, massive shoulders bowed forward, and his arms slightly
curved. He speaks with the twang of his home state of Alabama and his broad,
ready smile reveals prominent teeth.
“How’s your day been?”
I went on, referring more to his health than events.
He shook his head and took a bite of banana. Chewed.
Gazed out to sea a bit before turning to answer. “You just missed it. Almost got into a fight.”
What? This guy is friendly. He flirts, chatters
on, and delivers a stream of wise-ass, inappropriate jokes. A fight!
“No way! What happened?”
“Well, this couple came onto the beach and dumped their
stuff onto some empty chairs. When I
told ‘em they were welcome to ‘em, but they were rentals, ten dollars a chair, they
wouldn’t pay. Turned into this big
thing… with me insistin’ and them arguin', and the woman, she told me to shut up!”
“Whoa. What a
drag.”
He hung his head, shook it thoughtfully, and said, “It got
loud, I guess. Some of my other
customers told me they had my back if it got bad.” He put his hand to his chest, over his heart,
and continued, “Thing is, I’m going to hold onto this now. It’s gonna bother me. That couple’s gonna come back from their
beach walk and either say something nasty, or walk right by, ignorin’ me. But I’ve got to let it go. This other lady who saw it all told me, ‘you
don’t know what’s going on in their life, what happened earlier in their
day.’ Helps me some to think of that.” He jerked his head toward the shore. “You want that empty chair down the beach? It’s on me.”
“Thanks, but the towel’s fine. I’ll only be here for a little while. I’ll grab the chair and bring it in for you
though.”
“Nah. It’s my job.”
We walked toward the empty lounger together and he picked up
one end, preparing to drag it back to his stand. The haze had lifted and the sun shone,
delightful with late-afternoon warmth.
"There they are,” he whispered.
I turned to follow his gaze, but between the distance, my
near-sightedness, and the tint of my sunglasses, I couldn’t see the couple
well. They looked to be about forty,
moderate build, pale. First day of
vacation maybe. Hadn’t relaxed enough to
be polite. They gathered up their
yellow Holiday Inn towels and headed across the beach toward the hotel.
“I get it that people get frustrated. Hell. I get frustrated too.” He chattered on, digging way back for examples
at school, work, and with women, his gaze flickering periodically over my
shoulder.
He stole a look past me and exhaled in relief. “They’re
gone. I used you just now. You know that?”
Actually, I did.
“Yep. Kept you here,
jabberin’. Used you. Saved me havin’ to sit there while they
stalked on by, starin’ straight ahead, or worse.”
“And we’re having this nice chat while they’re stuck with
their poison,” I said.
“Thanks for stayin'.
Helped to talk this out… to get
it out.” He inhaled deeply through his
nose, blew a stream of air through loose lips, and leaned forward to drag the
chair across the sand, leaving two narrow tracks in his wake as he trudged away.
Who came up with that “Sticks and stones” ditty? Maybe some kid in a show of playground
bravado, but in life, it’s not true; words have power... for good or ill.
Jim’s a big guy. He’s been
around. But he was hurt by that exchange.
3 comments:
Such an important piece, Lea! Bones heal. Unkind words are a harder mend on the heart. Your work is so poignant. Reminds us of the fragility of humanity.
I know that feeling of wanting to avoid someone you had an argument with. Poor guy was going to have to face that each day that that couple were there. Hopefully, they went elsewhere on the beach.
I tried to leave a comment the other day, but the pixels just wouldn't cooperate. I LOVE your writing, Lea, your use of words is brilliant. I was also struck by all of the good folks in this little piece: Dave, Jim, and the "other lady" who was willing to imagine the hard day that the bruisers might have been having. And you, for helping to spread Love.
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