Borrowed | 6 October 2024

These were the nice shoes.  I was not to get them dirty, I know, I know.  But she’d have to forgive me – I could not help myself.

BNR Response

I felt my heels sink into the sand as I shifted my weight.  I’d been drawn to the sea like a magnet, it had been pulling on me for years ever since I’d moved out of state, and now that I was in the West again it had me in its grasp.  “That’s it, I’m fucking going,” I thought to myself, and ran precariously down the steep dune.  Arms out to my sides, like a tightrope walker, I quickly scaled the face and was on the beach.  In the shadow of the sandstone, I realized for the first time in my forty plus years on this stretch of land how perfectly the cliff face mirrored the swells at Mavericks.

There was almost no one around this time of the morning, just a few folks cradling coffee mugs with both hands like a prayer to caffeine, dressed like Californiano Innuits in Uggs and Patagonia, watching the marine layer and their dogs play in equal measure.

Sand had gotten into her Converse – I wasn’t really sure why these were so sacred anyway, but then again, my AirBnB host was an unfamiliar character I would never venture to understand.  I took the sneakers off, carefully emptying them first, then standing on each one as I removed my socks.  I could already feel the cold grit beneath my toes.  I rolled up my sweats as I had done day in day out for years, whether preparing to explore tide pools or to dig for sand crabs or just to wander, as I would today.

I walked to where the ocean met the land and got a quick reminder of just how cold the Pacific is.  Hearing the sound of the ocean now was like going to the live concert of a band whose albums you’d listened to as recordings for too long.  My homecoming.

And then I saw him: shirtless and soaking, throwing a tennis ball for his retriever in the surf.  From afar, he looked like a sailor from days gone by, his rolled-up trousers appearing as seafaring breeches.  He was at one with the water like a merman.  Was this a fever dream brought on by homesickness and heartbreak?

I shook the urge to rub my eyes as I knew that doesn’t actually bring focus, and I took several steps closer (almost embarrassingly close) and plonked myself down in the sand a few yards away from him.

I remember not knowing what I wanted or what I was allowed to want, so I just watched him in a dance with his dog and the waves.  I watched as he ran, chasing the mutt with first a ball then a stick, tossing it into the current and laughing as his dog bounded fearlessly into the water in pursuit.  I watched him dive similarly into the shallow.  He ran and dove, tossed and received over and over – seemingly unbothered by the temperature.  It couldn’t have been more than 65 degrees, and the wind off the water had me tuck my fingers inside my sleeves and fold them over in my palms.  The cold still got in.

He smiled at me, saying something to which I replied with something else.  It was mid-morning on a weekday, where had he put his responsibilities?  I watched him, mesmerized, forgetting he could see me.  He was unbothered.  My mind tried to write his story, where he loaded his dog into the back of his Volvo station wagon, hosed him down on the gray redwood deck before toweling off and going inside where he would take a hot shower to shake the ocean chill that gets in your bones.  Who was in that home?  Were there kids?  Was there a partner?  What was work like?  Would he jump on a conference call after his shower, his colleagues unaware or unperturbed by his morning of beach play?  The more I tried to craft his reality the more the beauty of the moment died. 

I checked my phone, my flight was on time.  I dusted myself off and started to head in.  I put on the stranger’s shoes, borrowed just as I had borrowed someone else’s present tense that sad morning.  He waved from the shore and I waved back reflexively.  Hot tears streamed down my face.  I knew in the deepest part of my belly, as well as I know my own name, that, no matter how hard I might try, I couldn’t hold on to this moment.  Leaving him was like waving goodbye to a dream.  I left my whole heart on the beach that day.

Unlocked | 24 August 2024

“32 to the right…4 to the left…11 to the right…CLICK.”

BNR Response

“Bro, how did you even get this combination?” 

“Bro, I told you.  I found it when Bev asked me to get something out of her desk drawer.  It was just, like, written on a post-it in there.  Now let’s motor!”  Slater grabbed a stack of cash and the van keys and left the safe’s door ajar.

“Isn’t Bev gonna be pissed at you, bruh?”  Todd asked, closing the door to the office and squinting in an attempt to see in the dark.

“We’ll have the van back way before my shift, dude.  Bev prolly won’t even notice.”  Slater held the coffee shop door open for Todd before locking it and heading toward the van.

They slid open the door to the van, which Todd had parked his truck next to, and pushed aside carafes, sleeves of paper coffee cups, and the coffee cart he used when it was his shift at the office park in Ventura.  It was tight, but they were eventually able to transfer their surfboards from the Tacoma to The Habit’s van.

And then they were off.

It was hours even before the first staff members showed up at The Habit to prep for the day.

Slater and Todd headed up the coast at first with the windows up, heater on, headlights illuminating the PCH ahead of them.  They talked about waves they’d caught, speculated about who had scored with the hot girl at the café, and made plans for the rest of the Summer.  They stopped at San Onofre when they saw the swell, stayed for an hour until the sun was above the horizon, and then hopped back in the van, wetsuits at their waists.

They hit a McDonald’s drive through for breakfast in Oxnard, let the windows down, and turned up the volume when STP or the Chili Peppers came on the radio.  “California show your teeth!  Simultaneous release!  California rest in peace!  She’s my priestess, I’m her priest ye-yeah ye-yeah ye-yeah!” they belted along with Keidis, each thinking to themselves that he would actually really like hanging out with them if he ever met them, you know, off stage.

Their hair had dried, crispy with salt water, when they decided to skip Rincon and try Jalama.  Once they got there they hit a traffic jam at the beach gate, thanks to weekday campers trying to beat the rush for the holiday weekend, so they kept driving up the coast towards Pismo.

Four double doubles from In N Out later, they reveled in their luck that Bev hadn’t called yet.  Maybe they really would get away with it!  They did some bad math and figured they could hit Pismo for an hour and still make it back for Slater’s shift at 7PM and for Todd’s delivery job at the pizza parlor.

They got to Oso Flaco at the height of the afternoon, and Fridays at this break were busy.  They paddled out to join at least a dozen other surfers who were lined up waiting for their turn to attempt a wave, and enjoyed the mellow vibe as their boards rose and sank as the waves passed under them.  Word was that their had been dolphins, but Slater and Todd didn’t get to see any of them.  It was a half an hour before either of them got their chance at a wave, but they managed to catch a few good ones before the sun started sinking down and it dawned on them that they had no idea what time it was.  It was late.

They bombed back down the highway, didn’t even put towels under their butts or knock the sand off their feet and boards.  The van was a mess.  Slater missed his shift.  Todd got fired from Pizza Schmizza.  And yet, Bev still hadn’t called.  When Slater slunk into the café the next morning, put on his apron and quietly sidled up to the register.  Bev came in around 10, heading into the office first before coming behind the bar to chat with the team.

“You and Todd have fun yesterday, Slater?” she asked, writing the wrong name on someone’s cup and handing it to the barista.

“Ummmm…yeah?” Slater hesitated.

“I think you would have been golden if you hadn’t tried to hit Pismo,” a sideways grin crept across her face.

“Huh.”  Slater was so confused.

“But I appreciate you guys cleaning out the van before you returned it.”  She paused.  There was a customer trying to get Slater’s attention but he just stood blankly staring at the counter.

“Slater.  SLATER.  You think it’s just luck that with all the Gen Zs I have rotating through here that I’m able to keep my doors open?”

He was no less confused.

“I have this whole place surveilled.  Oh yeah!  Bugged, video, the whole deal.  I’ve had the van LoJacked for years but my best work was when I had the nanny cams installed last week.  Help Hank out now, will you?  Hank, the usual?”

The Mall | 30 April 2024

“The wall of aroma was rivaled only by sheer visual enticement.  Bubblegum pink.  Canary Yellow.  Lavender.  Mint Green Baby Blue.  Hot-rod Red.  Fuck-me Red.  No-tomorrow Red.”

BNR Response

Sheree wondered to herself why the nail varnish colors weren’t given names that actually described the colors, the way we all name them when we see their vibrant hues ourselves.  It’s as if the branding team behind Dior, Chanel, NARS, and the like suddenly become pearl-clutching prudes when it comes to naming the colors; eschewing the fact that their latest spreads in Vogue are just that – spreads.  Instead they were called oblique non-descriptive names like, “Hidden Oasis”, “Lunch Date”, and, “Sandpiper.”  All these names could just as easily be used for wallpaper samples from the 1980’s Laura Ashley collection.

Her eyes subtly scanned the department store as it was winding down from a busy Saturday: weary saleswomen and fragrance sprayers wiped down their display cases, put caps on samples; mothers walked weary toddlers out towards the waning daylight of the parking lot, drooping balloons tied to wrists; and teenagers gossiped over braces-laden teeth about a girl sadly trailing at the back of the pack.

This was her favorite time, when the store got quiet again and it was all restored back to its untouched glory.  Gone were the smudged fingerprints and blouses teetering on one end of the hanger.  The overwhelming affront of several perfumes being sprayed at once calmed to a subdued floral scent with an undertone of coffee from the beans interspersed on the countertops.  Every lipstick, eyeliner, mascara found its way back in its rightful place, and they lined up like soldiers dressed as escorts to a ball.

Sheree waited for the music to soften and stepped down from her vantage point, shaking off the stilettos of the week and rolling her head on her tight shoulders.  She placed her taupe handbag in a cosmetic consultation chair and felt her body relax as she strolled by the La Mer counter to see the latest face creams and tonics.  She glided through the nearby lingerie and swim sections, and her favorite song came on.  “Tougher than diamonds, rich like cream / Stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream / Make a bad one good, make a wrong one right / Power of love will keep you home at night…” She laughed, trying on sun hats and spinning herself up in scarves, playing dress-up while lip syncing to Huey Lewis. 

This is what it should be like every day, she thought.  She had a lot of private musings.  She was having a blast entertaining herself - peering over Jackie-O Gucci sunglasses at the costume tennis necklaces.  She made it to the handbags and was pivoting left to right in the full-length mirror, Versace on her left arm and Prada on her right.  Definitely Prada.  Sheree ducked behind a counter as she saw Joaquin, the floor manager, leaving his office in the back, his keys jangling as they met the change in his suit pocket.  Close call.

Her escapade continued through Tom Petty, Wilson Phillips, and Heart.  She wished they hadn’t put her in this double-breasted suit, they definitely weren’t back in style and were so retro compared to the new looks on the runway.  Sheree had successfully dodged the housekeeping team and security sweep, and now her night was winding down.  It wasn’t often she got the run of the place to herself, but it was always a treat.  She didn’t have gourmet meals or romantic dates to fill her time and imagination.  After all, mannequins have to take little pleasures where they can find them.

The Painting | 18 February 2024

As he pulled up to 62 Woodlands Park Road, he had a shivering sense of déjà vu.  He opened the back of the van to start organizing the drop cloths before he knocked on the door.  “You must be Dave?” said a voice from behind.

BNR Response

He turned to face a surprisingly unassuming yet creepy older man.  “No, sorry, Dave called out sick today so they sent me instead.”

“Ooooooh lovelyyyy,” the man purred, pushing the fingers on each hand together like a Bond villain.  The man cast his eyes down and onto the contractor’s coveralls, and he swatted his left breast reflexively, unsettled that the man would learn his name from his name badge.  It was too late.

“Larry!”  The elderly man clasped his hands together in front of his mouth with joy, “Oh!  I had a wuuuuuuuunderful old chum named Lawrence,” he said, now buttoning the last button on his puce cardigan, “Shame he’s no longer with us.”  He paused, eyes fixed and distant, head bowed as if in a sudden trance.  Larry noticed age spots on his shiny balding head.  The man sighed deeply and, after a beat, slowly walked his eyes up the broad façade of Larry’s body, finally meeting his face and manufacturing a grin.

“Well, Lawrence, we’re actually going in through the front of the estate.  I’m afraid this is the service entrance, and the painting is harder to access from here.  Ah, shall we?” The older man gestured theatrically toward a pebble pathway outlining the stone estate, spaciously sandwiched by manicured hedgerows that brought the home’s every curve into relief.

“Yessir, if you like.”  Larry placed the stack of drop cloths on top of a dolly along with his other painting restoration supplies and followed that man he now presumed to be Baron Warren. 

The Baron walked slowly, his oxford brogues crunching deliberately into the gravel.  His back was hunched, his hands clasped behind his back.  He spoke with authority on the history of the estate, the family lineage, and the provenance of the painting Larry was supposed to inspect for conservation.  The Baron had an eerie presence, and as Larry followed him in and out of cool shadows cast by the estate’s curvature, he now understood how it must feel to follow one’s killer into the depths of a pathless wood.

After a five-minute walk and a struggle with Larry’s dolly in the pea gravel, they made it to a pair of very tall and wide front doors.  Presciently, the righthand door opened inward, a bowing valet on the other side.  As in so many a Hollywood film, the door snapped shut like a jewel box behind them the moment Larry got his dolly over the threshold.  He was instructed to leave it in the entryway, as they had, “a long journey” to get to the painting in question.

The whole place felt so oddly familiar, and reminded Larry of a recurring dream he had where he was wandering the halls of a large manor house, unable to find anything besides a unending sequence of hallways.

Larry followed the Baron down corridor after corridor, and his dream of an above-ground rabbit warren was starting to feel more like a premonition than a figment of his imagination.  At first the halls were bright, with columns of maize milky light streaming in from South-facing windows.  The sound of plates clinking as a table was either set or cleared and the hushed din of servant chatter was all around them.  This gave way to still, dust-filled, mink-colored air in central sitting rooms.  The windows were foggy, and the air grew colder as they moved away from lit fireplaces and into darker chambers with drapes over the furnishings.

“Nearly there!” the Baron said, his soliloquy about Parliament and taxes now shifting gears to discuss his hobbies, toward gesturing toward taxidermy and noting his collection of 14th century cultural artifacts.  They reached a corridor that was almost wholly shrouded in darkness, and suddenly Larry was sure he had been there before.  He recognized everything on display before him: massive portraits lined the wallpapered walls, each with a sconce overhead that cast a cone of light that ended so abruptly it was as if the umbra had been cut with a scissor at each frames’ edge; every ten feet or so the portraits were interrupted by a plinth with one of the Baron’s treasures atop it, growing in size and eccentricity as they progressed down the dark passageway.  An iron comb, then a Shrew’s Fiddle, then an Alfet. 

“Not all that much is understood about my ancestor, and the estate’s namesake, Baron Warren.  Some say he was a simple landowner; others say he was martyred, others speak slander.  After my father assumed responsibility for the house and grounds, many of these items were found in the personal chambers of Sir Warren.  My father then led an effort which uncovered a rich history of misogyny, whereby Baron Warren begot some 28 offspring from various household women, mistresses, and his various wives, and evidence of extensive on-premises torture was uncovered as well.”

The depictions in the artwork grew increasingly troublesome in kind, and the Baron grew silent and pulled out a pocket torch which he pointed at his toes to light his way on the reddish carpet.  In the silence, Larry noted in horror images he had studied in art school: The Martyrdom of St Apollonia, followed by The Judgement of Cambyses.  Larry stopped, mouth agog at the shocking depiction Apollo flaying of Marsyas, and the Baron beckoned him not to dally.  Larry had worked on this piece before, perhaps a dozen years earlier, though he hadn’t come to the estate to collect it.  He had become obsessed with the image at that time, thinking about it fixatedly for years afterwards: Marsyas’ mouth agape in agony, Apollo looking out at the spectator with a smirk on his face and he reached his hand inwardly to peel away the skin from the muscle on his victim’s arm.

Larry had several terrifying thoughts racing through his head: he was now deep into the estate with no way of finding his way back, he was frighteningly too familiar with this home and its contents, and he desperately wanted to leave.

“It’s just here, Lawrence.”  The Baron stopped, ten feet ahead of him, turning his flashlight to illuminate a piece without a working sconce.  “You’ll see it is in quite a bit of disrepair.  I know that the common practice is to remove these items and take them to a workshop for restoration, but I’m afraid I must insist that all work be performed on premises.”  Larry approached, his mind racing, watching himself from above as he neared the image.  “It’s a crude rendering, but rather important to the estate.  You see,” the Baron continued, as Larry’s eyes came into focus on the name at the bottom of the portrait, “this is the estate’s namesake, Sir Lawrence Warren, Baron of Stockport.”

Larry swallowed, confused and dizzy, and watched himself from above as he lifted his countenance to look upon the face in the painting.  What he saw confounded and delighted him at once.  He felt a rush of life force and a shiver of disdain at what he saw before him: it was a portrait of himself.

“Hey Bud, Let’s Party” | 6 February 2024

“Surfing is a way of life,” said a wide-eyed millennial from his perch at the bar, two stools away.

He’s too young to get my Jeff Spicoli reference so I decided to swallow it with my gin and tonic and volleyed deadpan, “Is that right?”

Is it fucking impossible for me to experience just one afternoon in my favorite ocean bar alone with just my crossword and gin without attracting the douche du jour and his equally fresh ink on both his calf and his divorce?

BNR Response

“Hey, can I get another one of these?” the surfing divorcé said, waving a half-empty pint glass near his chin before taking another swig.  “What ya drinkin’, brother?” he asked as he turned his gaze to me.  There wasn’t enough gin in the world to hide my disdain.

“Gin.”  I belched back.

“Ah, love the stuff!  Especially with cucumber.  Brian has a great one here, really sweet and botanical.”

“Brian?” I asked, immediately regretting engaging with this guy.

“Yeah, Brian, the owner.  He’s in Barbados right now or I’d text him and ask him to join us.  Solid guy.”

I nodded reflexively.  Then, having fulfilled my societal obligation of daily civility, I turned back to my crossword.  Hmmm, ‘An Opera singer might miss one?’…I hated the pun clues.

“Yeah, thank god for Brian.  I just moved out here and don’t really know anyone.  After I divorced the old ball and chain,” he exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, “I thought, ‘You know what you need, Wally?  You need to leave the concrete jungle and live on the beach, Amigo.’ And here I am.”  He took a swig of his fresh beer, his bracelets clinking against the glass.  “And I literally live ON THE BEACH, bro.  I’m right down there!” he pointed out the window somewhere…I didn’t look up to see where.  “The one with the yellow awning!”

“Sweet.”  I said, once again not looking up from my crossword.  I couldn’t shake the guy.  After a few more stoic attempts at, well, basically ignoring “Wally”, I started to just feel like an out-and-out dick.  So, I took a deep breath, ordered my third G&T, and leaned into the bromance.

Happy hour turned into appetizers, and Wally was generous.  The order shifted immediately to his tab, per his insistence.  I studied him further, peering at him over the rim of my glass, as he went on and on about the merits of Channel Islands surfboards versus Merrell.  As I forced myself to look past the bucket hat that all the Gen Z kids were wearing on Tik Tok or Flip Flop or whatever disappearing ink platform of the month, which was no small feat, I noticed that the irritating Hawaiian shirt was actually first-generation Tommy Bahama: the pared-back silk versions that gave more Sinatra bowling league than manufactured luau.  Dude was wearing slacks that I used to wear back in the day, back when I was trying to make partner and cared about impressing people; before I had kids in college, my own alimony payments to make, and younger women I was trying to court.  Every superficial item I interrogated belied my own vanity: it wasn’t about brand or cost, I had it wrong.  This guy had a cultivated style – apart from the occasional misstep – and it was genuine and organic.  I eased up on my negative inner monologue.  He ordered another round.

As apps turned into steak au poivre and red wine, I started to, dare I say, identify with Wally.  The name-dropping poseur behavior I had picked up on before was more likely the result of our age gap and my jealousy for the wealth I had forfeited years ago but which he still held fast.

We were an hour into conversations about our ex-wives when he started getting to the soft, underbelly, of his relationship.  While we clearly diverged in vocabulary and certain values, and I cringed at his casual intermittent use of Spanish, we had a lot in common; and I envied his vulnerability. After he finished sharing about the unraveling of his decade-long marriage and ultimate move out West from Connecticut, I chose to go against my nature and attempt to share in-kind.  

Over brandy, I felt it becoming easier and easier to open up to Wally.  Once I got started, it flowed through me: everything from my professional false starts and setbacks, training every new kid on the block only to have them assume a supervisory role above me sixth months later; my sexual insecurities since leaving Pamela, and my varying degrees of satisfaction with various ED medications; my growing sense of loneliness and isolation as my children moved on with their lives and I was struggling to find a partner.  Admittedly, I was in a slump.  It felt so good to just talk and purge without editing myself or worrying about how I would be perceived.  For the first time since my best friend Dave died five years ago, I felt really seen by someone.  I didn’t have to counter every feeling and thought with a positive foil to ensure I wasn’t a “downer”.  Wally saw me as a complex person simply navigating through midlife.  End of story.

The servers were putting chairs up on tables around us and we suddenly snapped out of our confessional bubble.  We each chuckled kind of awkwardly, half tipsy and realizing that we were both unaware of how much the people around us had taken in.  We made plans for drinks the following week, with the promise to make it at least a weekly occurrence.  I took a deep breath and folded my napkin, returning it to the bar in front of me.  My regular bartender gave me a sardonic gaze, one I imagine he gave to many regulars who demonstrated irregular behavior like getting drunk and going home with the Thursday afternoon tourist.  Even he couldn’t cut through this clarity and connectedness. 

Wally pushed back his seat, finished his anecdote with youthful flourish, and placed his credit card on the bill while excusing himself for the restroom.  I reached to my chairback to plunge my hands through my sweater arms, my head ducking toward the countertop, bringing my eye level with the counter.  There I saw both the shockingly high bar tab and news that rocked me to my core:  the credit card read Wallace Sampson.  WALLACE SAMPSON.  Fucking hell, that kid is my new boss.

The Raven | 9 June 2023

The raven just stood there anxiously looking deep into his eyes.  “What the fuck is it?” he said under his breath, as though the raven was an old friend trying to give him some awful news.  The weather was rapidly changing for the worse and he was starting to see the heavy raindrops landing on the asphalt.  “Well here goes nothing,“ he said, wincing as he stood up.

BNR Response

Ronnie rubbed his eyes and raised his head, squinting his eyelids shut once more in response to his aching head.  Rubbing his temples to eschew the throbbing, he lowered himself to a seated position and ducked back under the cover of his bivouac to survey the weather and estimate the time.  The other performers were starting to rustle around, heading back to their own tents and hammocks from the beds they’d slept in spontaneously, gathering their drums from the drum circle before the rain could soak the drumheads through.

Ronnie ran his palm over his balding head, wiped his finger under each eye to catch wandering eye liner, and peered over his shoulder to his cot on the ground.  The woman lying there had her chin in the air, mouth agape, and was still half clothed in her corset and elf ears from the festival the day before.  The raven cawed and paced the stage, urging Ronnie to get her out and get going.  In less than an hour’s time the place would be mobbed with visitors in their wannabe Renaissance gear, sitting down on the half-hewn logs used as benches, and crying for Paolo the Magnificent to begin his minstrel show.

The transformation from Ronnie to Paolo was simple enough, the more time-consuming task was always getting last night’s maiden up and in a cab so he could get on with his prep and have his coffee.  He stared, irritated, at the dozing woman and struggled to remember her name.  Ronnie nudged her shoulder, gently at first, then with more aggression as she failed to respond.  Sheila!  Thank fuck he remembered. 

“Uh, Sheila, Sheila honey, time to wake up!  Paolo the Magnifico has a show in an hour and he’s got to prepare ye olde swords and axes for his act.” 

Sheila moaned in a rather unbecoming manner before pulling the covers over her face dismissively.  After a few more attempts at softly rousing her, Paolo abruptly pulled the blanket off of her half-naked body altogether, revealing poorly drawn tattoos of hobbits and fairies and all manner of mixed symbology on her thighs right up to her massive bush.  Seemingly unperturbed, Sheila scratched her nose with a dirty finger and sat up, legs akimbo.

 “What time is it?” she asked, reaching for her crown made of fading fake flowers. 

“Uh, it’s time-to-depart o’clock, m’lady, can I hail thee a Lyft?”  Ronnie was struggling to feign emotion. 

The rain started coming down with force in that moment, transforming the paved asphalt paths to a black stream between vendor tents and fields, and rendering his stage slick.  This wouldn’t stop the park opening, nor the show, but the rain would make it harder for his jester-cum-Ali-Baba shoes to grip the wood as he prepared to jump on the giant ball to juggle knives in his final act.  The raven chided Ronnie with direct eye contact and stage-pacing. 

“Oh, I can’t go out there in this!”  Sheila said, pulling her bare legs together to sit cross-legged. 

Ronnie turned to catch her, beaver out in the fresh air, and reached for her skirt.  “Sorry, doll, you’re going to have to figure something out.”  He caught sight of Luigi the Giant walking down stage and yelled to get his attention.  “Hey, Lu!  Can you show Sheila to the exit where she can get cell service so she can call a cab?”  Luigi nodded knowingly and began walking towards Ronnie’s tent.

“What the actual fuck?“ Sheila exclaimed, as Ronnie piled her belongings into her arms and handed her off to the chuckling strong man.  She stumbled over her feet, pulling on her skirt and yelling expletives on her way down the path with Lu.

“Last night was fun!  Who knew you’d be able to do that with a juggling pin, eh?”  Ronnie patted the irate Sheila on the head, quickly shuffling past her and Luigi to the shower trailer where he gave himself an airplane bath and reapplied his kohl eyeliner and rouge.  He dismantled his lean-to and dressed in his stage costume, a cheap velveteen, puffy-sleeved thing with tights to the knee and an ill-shapen cod piece.  He swigged some coffee and soon began greeting the arriving visitors: a motley group of people dressed as knights and fairies, maidens and trolls.

His benches started filling as he warmed up his arms and cleaned the rainwater off his dull throwing knives and the raven took position in the tree above the stage.  He chortled whilst recalling the events of the previous night: the chicken feather, the raccoon tail, the guest appearance from the contortionist, and Sheila’s eagerness to incorporate the ephemera from his act.  As he prepared to kick-off his show, he clipped on and tested his microphone, scanning the crowd for his next conquest.  The pickings were slim until he spotted a thin waif, dressed in yellow Crocs, a Hunter S. Thompson-esque visor, and what looked like the adult Cinderella drugstore Halloween costume with an under-bust corset on top.  Ronnie, in a final flourish of transformation into Paolo winked at the girl, looked up at the raven, and thought to himself, “That’ll do, pig, that’ll do.”

The Duchess’ Lice | 19 February 2023

The Duchess slumped back into her chair in exasperation as she watched her maid’s dog dash through the door and bound across the lawn towards the rose garden with her merkin in its mouth.  “What a disastrous way to start the day,” she muttered to herself.

BNR Response

Winifred, the maid, entered the room with her breakfast tray and placed it on the table at the Duchess’ side, then brushed her arms in response to a breeze blowing through the open French Doors.  “Would you like me to close the doors, Your Grace?”  Winifred inquired.

“Not until you bring that infernal creature back inside,” the Duchess spoke through the hand over her face.

“Crea- creature?”  Winifred worriedly scuttled to the doorway and gazed into the vast garden, her eyes searching for the animal or being her mistress was referring to.

“D- do you mean Master Hart, Your Grace?”  Winifred asked, referring to the Duchess’ son whose heirs in 100 years would later carry the title of Marquess of Winchester.  “He’s playing amongst the topiaries?”

“No, Winifred.”  The Duchess did not clarify her demand.

“Uh…erm…”  Winifred’s eyes further surveyed the ground of her mistress’ country estate.  “Oh…uh, did you mean Sir Neville, Your Grace?”  Winifred bowed her head, quietly referring to the Earl of Warwick.  She wasn’t sure whether it was safe to betray that she was intimately aware of her mistress’ extra-marital intimacies.

Without batting an eye, the Duchess flatly replied, “I didn’t, although I certainly have a bone to pick with him as well.”  The Duchess conspicuously scratched her crotch.

Suddenly spotting her dog, Henry, seemingly at odds with some kind of fowl or feral animal, thrashing it violently to and fro next to the wishing fountain, Winifred gasped and darted out to the lawn to retrieve him.  Having scooped the pooch up into her apron, she briefly tried to wrest his obsession away from his jaws before capitulating and simply bringing him indoors.

Philippa, the Duchess, had since roused herself and was now seated in her dressing room, door ajar, where she was dabbing talc under her arms and on her vulva before reaching for her eau de parfum.  Tobias, her husband, had remained behind in the city to attend to business affairs, allowing her to spend the summer unfettered in their country home.

Only after Winifred had fully wrestled her mistress’ merkin from her dog’s mouth when she realized it wasn’t a rodent.  In shock, she immediately ushered the canine outside and shut the French Doors so she could tend to the hair piece without interruption.  She couldn’t believe she had been summoned form the city out to the country house for such matters.  Why couldn’t one of the countless other ladies’ maids or one of the valets have helped Her Grace and deal with these indiscretions?

Through the partially closed door leading to Her Grace’s dressing salon, Winifred could hear fevered conversation.  By the sounds of it, Sir Neville had indeed found his way inside her mistress’ bed chamber. 

“You must tell me at once, Richard!  What is your explanation for this?!”  The Duchess gesticulated wildly toward her groin.  “Have you been visiting the brothels again?”

In response, Winifred could only hear the hushed tones of apology from the side of the accused.

The Duchess was growing increasingly desperate.  “You swore to me those days were over once we fell in love.  And I know these little buggers didn’t arrive because of my husband,” she said, picking a louse from her Venus Mound, “as I haven’t lain with him in months!”

Just then, the Duchess spotted Winifred and her now-clean merkin through the crack in the door and motioned for her to join her by her vanity to restore it.  Winifred quietly entered the salon, noting that the Earl’s back was turned, his hung head facing the mantle.  The Duchess, unmoved, believing the help to be of no higher stature in a household than a mutt, silently waved for Winifred to restore the merkin to its intended position.  She parted her legs even as tears streamed her powdered cheeks.

“You know I wouldn’t be able to survive if I knew you’d been with anyone else,” Philippa continued, her voice thin.  “I can’t think of what I might do,” she picked up a rat tail comb from her dressing table, clutching it in her hand as one does a knife.  “Perhaps I’d do a desperate outrage to myself…” she raised the point of the comb and further erupted into tears, “or to you!”

Richard brought his hands up to his face in a violent gesture, still unable to turn to face Philippa nor level his eyes at her.

“There may have been one distraction,” he began.

“Who?!  Lady Anne?”

(beat)

“Lady Bess.”

(beat)

“Lord Spencer?”

“It’s no use, Philippa, I’ll never tell,” Richard said, slowly lowering his hands to his sides.

“WINIFRED!”  The Duchess howled at a pin prick leveled by her maid’s poor merkin adhesion.

Richard swiveled, at once raising his gaze to meet his mistress’ while exposing the truth with one word: “Winifred?!”

The Paper Trail | 2 December 2022

As Calum opened the box he had pulled from his recently deceased father’s office safe, his heart sank.  This revelation was interrupted by laughter from one of the offices down the corridor.  He thought, “How, of all the days, could someone be laughing here?”  As he got up from the scattering papers strewn across the floor to see who was exhibiting such behavior, the elevator doors opened and his mother and sister exited, talking as they proceeded towards his father’s office.  He turned in a panic, closing the door behind him, and fell to the floor, frantically gathering papers.

BNR Response

He could hear the voices of Tom and Harold emanating from the hallway.  They stumbled out of Tom’s office, floating on a sea of champagne, and happened upon Alice and Bernadette, all converging abruptly in front of the office of the President.  Calum had summoned them with the portent of bad news, and he reckoned all of them sounded rather merry given the circumstances.  Calum had managed to close the safe from his position on all fours, using a swift but awkward backward kick of his heel.  The giddy lot entered the office, and he hoped they hadn’t seen him in this unfortunate posture under his father’s desk, still frenetically shuffling papers together in a stack.  Alice, otherwise known as “Bunny” to disguise her motherhood, glided into the office, swinging her arm to casually lob her Birkin on one of the Eames lounge chairs and sidling up to the ample bar cart.  She sighed easily as she poured herself three fingers of rye, “The view never gets old.”  Tom and Harold followed suit and bellied up to the bar cart like calves at the teat, all familiarity and greed.  Bernadette perched herself on the arm of the midcentury sofa, about to ask Harry to make her a dirty martini when she thought she spied movement under Paw-Paw’s desk.  Without saying a word, she deftly lowered her head to knee height and locked eyes with a cowering Calum. 

“Oh, there you are, you cheeky rascal.  Bunny!  I’ve found Calum.  Get out of there, you little devil child.”  Bernadette scolded him as if he were perpetually six, a habit she’d had since childhood, even though she was only a year his senior.

“Brilliant.” Bunny crowed dryly, “Now he can explain why it was so important that we leave the dogs to rush over here to the firm.”  Bunny didn’t turn to face the room at this natural inflection point.  Rather, she stared blankly at the mixture of smokestacks and chimney spouts that stretched out at varying heights below her.  Her glassy gray eyes were intensified by the mirror effect of the floor-to-ceiling pane glass that stretched the 50-foot length of Earl’s office.  She gripped the edge of the peacock maple bar cart in what appeared to be an effort to steel herself for the conversation ahead – when in reality she was steadying herself after necking her fourth drink of the afternoon.  Calum took a deep breath and, clutching the top edge of his father’s desk, used the weight of the heavy piece as a fulcrum to hoist himself upright and off the floor.  “Hello, Mommy,” he murmured, looking at his shoes.

“Bun-NY.”  Alice/Bunny corrected with hostility.

“W-w-well” Calum began by nervously clearing his throat.

“YES?!”  Bunny interrupted impatiently, unblinking.

“P-perhaps we’d better adjourn to the residential quarters downstairs where we can discuss this in private.  As a family.”  Calum proposed.

“Poppycock!”  Alice/Bunny retorted.  “Tom and Har-Har needn’t isolate themselves up here in the C-Suite graveyard any longer.  Let them join us.  Plus, they’re dining with Bernie and I for dinner in 15 minutes and it’s more efficient.  I will be livid if we miss the second half of the race given that the first half was interrupted.”

Calum’s admonitions were feckless.  “Mom-Bunny,” Calum corrected himself, “I’m not sure if-“

“Nonsense, Calum.  My mind is made up!”  Bunny smacked the bar top authoritatively with the flat palm of her hand, causing Calum to jump at her proclamation.  He scrambled to get to the door ahead of the pack, but Bunny was quick to snatch her bag off the lounge and lead the others with surprising speed and unison into the awaiting elevator.

Tom and Harry were whispering conspiratorially over their tortoise shell glasses and below arched eyebrows, respectively, speculating at the latest family intrigue.

“Mo-BUNNY!  Bernie!  Please!  You must listen to me!  It’s about Paw-Paw!”  Harold reached a limp hand out in a half-hearted attempt to hold the elevator door, while Bunny proceeded to push the “24” button inside.

In a panic, Calum blurted, “He DIED an hour ago.”

<Beat>

“Oh is that all?”  Bunny yawned, all eyes on her.  Bernadette took her mother’s lead, changing her reaction from one of surprise to one of boredom.

“Let go of the door, Har-Har.”  Bunny instructed, “Let’s go see the body.”

“WE AREN’T IN THE WILL, MOMMY.”  Calum shrieked in desperation, tears in his eyes.  That got everyone’s attention.

“Harold Humphries, stop the door this instant.”  Bunny barked, the elevator doors coming together.  Harold once again advanced a tentative hand, which was swiftly eclipsed by Bernadette’s Kelly bag which effectively prompted the doors to reopen fully.

Everyone then fell robotically in line, each following Bunny’s step-by-step instruction.  First, Calum succinctly recounted having found Paw-Paw lifeless in his converted hospital bed in the residential suite, his live-in nurse remarkably absent.  He concealed that he had felt at once hopeful and terrified to have been the one to make this grim discovery: hopeful at what he might find in the old man’s safe, and, ultimately, his will and terrified at the thought of shouldering the responsibility for telling Bunny et al.  The fact that he was merely the messenger meant nothing.  Bunny shot messengers for sport.  The looks on everyone’s faces represented their curiosity: this represented the culmination of a decades’ long drama – would Bunny hang on to see it through to the bitter end of this May-December romance?  Would the old stiff leave her the inheritance?  The yachts, the homes on the Amalfi Coast, in Split, and in Saigon?  The ownership of the firm?  And who would be named as heir(s) apparent to the leadership of the empire?  Lord knows that Tom and Harold had been made it their lives’ work to lube up the old geezer in hopes of landing twin desks in the President’s office.

Still under Bunny’s instruction, they were now in the tony halls of the 24th floor, marching every closer the bed chamber where Earl was lying in state.

“There must be an explanation!”  Bunny screeched, as she flung open the door to Earl’s inner sanctum.  The group paused when greeted with the quiet.

“Wait, Mommy!  Bernie!  It was quite a gruesome sight.  I don’t think you’ll…” Calum whispered his last attempts to intervene, to delay, to caution.

“To what do I owe this rare pleasure?” a craggy, broken voiced croaked from the shrouded darkness of the four-poster bed.

All held their breath, and the two interlopers stayed behind while the three family members, led by Bunny, stepped gingerly into the bedroom.  Their footfall was silenced as the parquet floors transitioned to plush dusty rose carpeting.

“Paw-Paw?!  You’re alive?!”

Trick or Treat | 15 November 2022

“How come these little idiots don’t understand if the porch light is off, don’t ring the doorbell?!”  Molly was tired from a long day in meetings and handing out Halloween candy was by no means how she planned on spending this evening.  But what she encountered at the door was not your typical ‘Trick or Treat’ inquiry but something way more intriguing.

BNR Response

Molly extended her left arm, remote in-hand, to mute her movie and shuffled to the front room, back hunched with fatigue.  She pulled her crisscross sweater around her scrubs as she opened the front door.  There stood a cloaked figure, replete with Italian plague mask and gloves.  Patrick.  “Wow, was your party a bust?” Molly reflexively unlocked and opened the storm door, placing her hand in the flat spot between Patrick’s shoulder blades as he brought the cold in with him like a veil.  “I’m in the den tonight, trying to keep the house dark so I can hide from the critters.”  Molly lead the way past him into the darkened room.  The lights from the TV reflected off the large de Goya painting over the couch, creating an appropriately eerie glow.

“I’m sorry your night fell flat, but I’m not really in the mood for talking,” Molly squinted as she brought an extra wine goblet in from the kitchen, filling it with Petite Syrah from the bottle on the coffee table.  She kept her film on mute, betraying her own request for quiet, and began to talk at length about her week.  As she vented about trouble at the hospital with all the bureaucracy, her unrelenting inability to sleep after the “incident”, and her loathsome journey back into online dating, Patrick sat stone-like and upright next to her on the overstuffed sofa.  He nodded, managed to drink his wine through the breathing hole in the mask, and inched a bit closer, creating a sense of increased intimacy between them.

Molly sighed, leaning into Patrick’s right shoulder.  She was glad he was here.  Lately she didn’t feel safe in the company of any cis males, and she was pleasantly surprised to see her bestie when she had planned for him to be dancing the night away at Bimbo’s.  Patrick got up and went down to the basement to retrieve a second bottle from the abundant wine rack.  The balmy, orange afternoon had faded into a foggy, brisk evening.  Molly had left the windows open, and the wind was now traveling the length of the house bringing the sounds of the street with it.  The shrieks of hobgoblins and superheroes echoed and bounced in her empty house, tethered to the increasing gale, and created an unsettling tableau.  Turning the volume up once again on The Fog, she rose and walked into the pitch living room, leaning the whole of her slight body into the old sash window to bring it as close to shut as possible.  The windows in her 1930’s home never formed a tight seal, and she was constantly battling whining drafts and condensation.  Satisfied with its closure, Molly turned to shut the window in her bedroom before returning to the den.  She heard Patrick first closing the heavy storm door in the basement, then the backdoor to the porch.  That would help with the breeze coming up from the yard.  That reminded her, she couldn’t put off calling the locksmith another day.  Having secured the window and pulled the blinds in her bedroom, she turned to find Patrick lurking blankly in the doorway.  She jumped, not having heard him come up the noisy cellar stairway.  “Patrick!  You scared the piss out of me!  What are you trying to do?” 

Silent, Molly socked him in the arm and he snickered as they returned to the den and sunk back into the couch.  Patrick opened the second bottle of wine and poured them both generous refills.  A loud bang started Molly again as the den sash window dropped, unassisted, violently shut, rattled loose by the incoming storm.  She clutched her breast as if trying to anchor her breath deeper in her chest, down towards her diaphragm. 

They sat and gazed, glazed over at the TV set as the fog crept up Antonio Bay and terrorized the locals.  The film’s soundtrack had a chilling effect, rendering Molly jumpy and ill at ease.  “You know, I don’t think I had better watch this after all,” said Molly, “I’m having enough trouble sleeping as it is.” 

“What’s keeping you up these days?” Patrick murmured from behind his mask.

“What?  You know, it was tolerable at first but now the whole mask bit just isn’t cute anymore.  And will you take your cloak off?  You’re making me antsy.”  She drank deeply, nose buried in her glass.

The cloak was removed to reveal a black blazer and black turtleneck over black tuxedo pants.  The mask remained.

“Patrick, you know, maybe you had better leave, I’m really not in the mood for games,” Molly hissed, hurt by his insensitivity to her requests, especially in light of all she had recently been through.  Outside the streets had grown still and silent in the advanced evening.

Without warning, Patrick moved quickly beside Molly, leaving no room between them on the couch.  “Patrick!  Wha—,“ Molly stammered, noting the smell of damp and grass and the unfamiliar color of his stubble.  “I’m not kidding, Patrick, I want you out—,“ Molly raised herself with a grunt and was swiftly pulled down by calloused, unforgiving hands.  She lurched towards him in an attempt to free herself, at once confused and terrified by this strange behavior.  They struggled against each other and Molly clawed at the air in desperation.  She swiped her hand across his face, grabbing and finally removing the persistent mask.  Bare face revealed, Molly was horrified.  Her face dropped as she acknowledged that she had done it.  She had let the wrong one in again.  “You’re not Patrick.”

The Basement | 2 August 2022

“That is exactly why we don’t go into the basement,” he said while slamming the door behind them.

BNR Response

Prior to that early August evening, Lucas had had fond memories of the basement: playing Jax with Logan and his little friends, his first make-out session with Suzanne Kennedy, and working out with Boo with the set of free weights his Dad had had since college.  He hadn’t suspected that any of that would change when Leto had started talking about the basement during dinner.

Leto was the kind of older brother that made it easy for Lucas to be the middle: he was honest, kind, and always passing on his hard-earned knowledge.  Lucas loved summers and the sense of change they brought with them.  This year, Leto was home from UC Santa Cruz working a part-time job at the surf shop, Lucas was preparing to start his first year at Cal Poly, and Logan was readying for Freshman year at Redwood High.

This year was even more a time of transition than normal.  Sure, each boy continued their inevitable march toward manhood, but Dad had also just quit his job of 20 years at the Firm to pursue something “that more closely resembled [his] passions”, and Mom was having hot flashes.  Their parents had been making all kinds of updates to the house: taking over Leto’s childhood room for an extra sitting room replete with wet bar, adding an outdoor lounge area with an exposed shower and seating for almost 15 guests, and getting ready to turn Lucas’ room into a guest room with beds enough to sleep four. 

That night, Leto and Logan found themselves in a rare occasion: home alone in the big house, Lucas at a sleepover and Mom and Dad next door at Cheryl and Dick’s house for dinner and game night.  They were talking and finishing the bologna sandwiches Leto had made them when his big brother suddenly changed the subject from college talk to domestic life.

“Hey, dude, you been down to the basement a lot this summer?  I mean, you been down there lately much?” Leto winced, wiping crumbs from his mouth and taking a swig of milk from the carton.

“I mean, I did my laundry yesterday, so yeah…” Lucas responded, suspicious of the rapid topic change, “Why?”

“Yeah, bro, we can’t go down there anymore.  And you definitely can’t let Log hang out there – especially not alone.  Or with his friends.  Or alone.”  Leto’s seriousness was at once terrifying and laughable.  He had always been a prolific prankster, and this had all the trappings of one of his lures.

Lucas agreed to follow Leto down the old wooden stairs they’d grown up playing on – passing first the threshold where Mom had marked each of their heights every birthday since they moved here when he was five, then walking underneath the Boy Scouts flag Dad had hung from the rafters leading down the steps, and finally reaching out for the string attached to the exposed lightbulb at the foot of the stairs.  Lucas was ready for it – for someone to jump out, for loud music to blast when the light went on (one of Leto’s classics), or for some new torture.

Instead, Leto breezed past him and began to pursue a different scare tactic: a tour of the “refurbishments” Mom and Dad had started in anticipation of another son leaving the nest.  Nothing jumped to the eye, but Leto began pointing out all kinds of modifications that were right below the surface.

He started off small.   Behind the family collection of DVDs was now a second layer of content: old VHS tapes with thinly veiled creepy titles like, “Shannon Rides Shotgun” and “In the Tanner Sisters’ Shady Thicket”, and a new VHS player accompanied them.  Lucas shuddered at the thought that Mom and Dad might have dug up some old porno stash from the 90s, but he realized it could’ve been worse.  And it was worse.

Leto continued the tour through the House of Sexual Horrors, increasing in speed and revealing greater density of subject matter as he went.  The game closet now had a drawer devoted to all manner of sexual accessories, ranging from the relatively innocuous (when not parent-adjacent!) lube and nipple clamps to higher-ick-factor items like sex toys of alien shapes and anal beads.

“Just ripping off the Band-Aid, buddy,” Leto said, a pained expression on his face as he circled the room, exposing video equipment and strobe light in one corner, then a clothes closet full of pony play and Brony costumes, finally to reveal how the boys’ squat rack had been modified to accompany sex restraints and new tests of physical endurance.

Five minutes felt like an hour, and Lucas had seen enough.  He bolted up the stairs, swiftly followed by Leto who forcefully shut the door behind them, as if locking a monster down in the dank and restoring safe to their sanctuary upstairs.

Lucas had been apprehensive about all the change and heading off to SLO that Fall to study towards his Bachelors in marine biology.  He had contemplated taking a gap year, staying near home or at home, doing an unpaid internship at UC Davis maybe, and helping Logan make the transition to high school.

Little did they know it, but Mom and Dad had helped their middle baby grow up just a little more that day – and he was finally really ready to start college.

Poor Zach | 30 June 2022

“Don’t Stand So Close to Me” was echoing out of the dusty jukebox in Chuck’s Tavern as Tonya stumbled out with the best-looking tourist at the bar, poor Zach.

BNR Response

Tonya reached to grab Zach’s left tricep so she could lift first one foot, then the other, to remove the cork wedges she’d been wearing since early that morning.  Having spent all day pouring wine at the Meyer Lemon Festival, and drinking her fair share as well, she squinted up at the pink in the sky with surprise and gratitude that the hours were so plentiful on this wonderful day.

“Follow me,” Tonya beckoned spontaneously, the thought just occurring to her, “Let’s head down here to the beach to watch the sunset.”  Zac followed eagerly, but without solid footfall.  He had stopped in Santa Barbara during a weeks-long bike tour originating in Tahoe and settling in Ojai.  He was spending most of his time in the Central Valley admiring the bounty the area had produced: favoring their beautiful women and the art of grape fermentation.

Zach followed Tonya down a narrow breezeway between two homes, each with their own high wooden perimeter fencing, abalone shells dangling like jewelry and lightly clinking in the wind.  Suddenly they emerged onto a stretch of fine white sand and unobstructed views of the coastline from West Mesa, past Hope Ranch, and on up to Goleta.

Despite her wearing a scant sundress, Tonya plonked herself down in the sand without reservation and rifled through her straw tote, eventually presenting a pair of worn, maize-colored low-top Converse.  This chick was full of surprises.

They’d met earlier that day at the wine booth, though neither of them had expectation nor motive for the way the rest of their encounter would unfold.  Despite their obvious age differences, they hit it off chatting about the good swell expected at high tide and commenting on the live music emanating from the bandstand down the way.  When the festival wrapped up, he helped her undo her apron and return the remaining souvenir wine glasses to their cardboard honeycomb.  They’d walked down Meigs Road through the Mesa with a bunch of other festival volunteers, all locals, until the street dead-ended at Chuck’s.  They raised pony neck beers, celebrating the end of the drought and their good fortune for living in paradise.  Lifelong friends and new acquaintances alike shared a few carefree spins around the dancefloor, a familiar rotation of 80s songs calling everyone to sing along and laugh with abandon at each other and themselves.  Zach was the subject of a fair amount of ribbing, as he was on true local turf and with a very local crowd.  It didn’t help that he was in his early 30’s and had attached himself to Tonya, an elusive 40’s something stunner who rarely tolerated the company of anyone even remotely carrying the whiff of a suitor.  Poor Zach.

So here they sat, the warmth of the sand quickly fading as the sun dipped down underwater, chatting away.  “It feels so weird to be out at night!”  Tonya sighed, looking around the darkening sky with wonder, then quickly noticing a look of confusion and surprise on Zach’s unwrinkled face. “Oh!”  Tonya closed her eyes shut as she explained, “I have a kid, he’s eight, so I don’t get out much…yeah.”  She started to laugh as she listened to herself, how odd this must sound to a guy who was still such a kid himself.  She was proud of where she was, who she was, all she had accomplished, so she was surprised at the embarrassment creeping in here…she eschewed it and rose up, dusting herself off and pulling her tote up on her shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s take a walk.”

They meandered back up towards civilization, to where the festival had been a bustling mile-long block party just hours before.  The smells in the night air were intoxicating.  Sawdust and a warm rotary blade as they passed a bungalow whose front gate was being repaired.  Manufactured lilac and steamy cotton at the laundromat.  Spilled wine, charcoal, and wet asphalt as they hosed down around the food tents.  Then, chlorine and night-blooming jasmine as they passed the neighborhood’s old 1950’s motor lodge motel.  Peering over the fence at eye-level, Tonya continued listening to Zach’s story of his bike adventures, only interrupting to ask him to hold her bag.  “What was your favorite part of SLO?”  She asked, hiking her skirt up and positioning a foot at the backer rail before straddling the fence and reaching an arm down to an unsuspecting Zach.  “Um, haha, what are you doing?” he stage-whispered.  “Let’s go swimming!” Tonya said, like a college kid sneaking into the country club after curfew.  Without waiting, she disappeared as she dropped to the other side.  He scoffed and looked from side to side, searching for witnesses who could help him determine what to do next.  Finding no one, he stared down at her tote for an answer and suddenly heard a splash.   He felt he had no choice but to follow her, so he put her bag in his backpack and hopped the fence. 

The pool deck was surprisingly sleek: little did Zach know that mid-century spots like this were seeing a resurgence.  The influx of cash helped Jose, who was Tonya’s age and the newer generation motel owner, refurbish the place to its previous splendor.  The lagoon-shaped pool was clean and well-stocked.  Yellow striped pool loungers were intermingled with tiffany-blue canvas umbrellas.  Towels and beach balls were stacked neatly at the pool attendant stand next to an original tallboy Coleman cooler.  Jose hollered, “Now wait a minute,” as he stalked out onto the concrete, knowing the only way to the water was to pass him on the interior.  “Tonya!  How you doin’, girlie?” He chuckled heartily, “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.  I had a whole pack of Bobcats in here last week, damn high schoolers, got all my towels wet.  Had me doing laundry all night.” He paused, looking beyond Tonya, “You two need anything? Alooooone time?”  He raised his eyebrows in a teasing way as he watched Zach, who had removed his shirt and shoes but was now working on shedding his pants.  Poor Zach.  Tonya threw a smirk in Jose’s direction, and he ducked back inside.

The water was surprisingly warm, but still had a cooling effect after such a balmy day.  Day drinking in hot weather has a special way of wearing you out, and they soaked up the relief provided by this water, this night, this company.  Their conversation continued, ranging from more talk of surf and music to travel and their plans for the future.  At one point, not long into their swimming adventure, Tonya hopped out of the pool and strode confidently over to the tallboy cooler.  Zach was struck by her confidence: mismatched underwear and bra clinging to her body like paint, hair in a half-wet scraggly ponytail, Tonya looked more comfortable in her skin than anyone he’d ever seen.  She reached into the Coleman, and, turning with a wink and a click of the tongue, presented two popsicles and two beers as the fruits of her pursuit.  “Think fast!” she said and tossed one of each to Zach, who caught one but not the other.  Tonya grabbed the floating beer as she waded slowly back into the water, steam rising off of her limbs and the motion sensor lights creating a backlit silhouette around her frame.  They drank the beers and sunk down to their chins, talking and giggling like kids up past bedtime.  Who was this woman, and how the hell could he keep up with her?  Poor Zach.

After they finished their treats, they got dressed once again and exited through the motel back out onto the small neighborhood streets leading to Santa Barbara proper.  It was dark now and the temperature was dropping.  They walked and talked for what felt like hours and arrived at a small house with a picket fence and terra cotta walls and Spanish shingle roof.  Tonya unlatched the gate and started down a side walkway that led to the back of the cottage.  Zach tried to piece the next part of their adventure together…was she going to sneak into a friend’s home?  She was just wild enough to do it and he had no doubt she could pull it off.  She motioned with a wag of her finger for him to follow, and when they arrived at the glass door at the back, he was surprised to see her produce a key from her bag.  “Oh!” he whispered, “This must be goodnight, then!”

“What in the world could have ever made you so cautious and so untrusting of yourself at such a young age?” Tonya teased, unlocking the door.  “Come in!” she matched his whisper with one of her own.

“But…your son?”

“At a sleepover.” Tonya said, raising her eyebrows and stepping inside alluringly, “C’mon, handsome, I’m not even nearly done with you yet.”

Poor Zach.

What a Trip | 16 June 2022

I spent days packing and fretting.  Would the trip turn out as I had hoped or was I living a pipe dream?  Six months texting and now meeting in-person for the first time, in Australia.  Is this real?

BNR Response

It had been a long time since I felt excitement about the potential of a relationship.  Years since I’d felt any kind of hope.  One day my girlfriend told me that, upon returning home to Oz, she’d become reacquainted with an old friend she believed to be the man of my dreams.  When she put us in touch, I was so tired of the online dating game that I approached the introduction with fatigue and carelessness.

We started texting, in earnest, at the tail end of the North American winter.  Sam.  Samson.  His candor and accessibility were disarming.  We had things in common: divorce, love loss, ambition, a love of the ocean, children.  He was kind, and he thought I was funny.

As the weather warmed in Southern California, so too did my feelings for him.  His low, raspy voice exciting me during our first phone call, but it was interrupted and ultimately cut short by a teenager/golden retriever emergency, so we reverted to text.  The texts grew longer and, when one of us knew the other was asleep or unavailable, we’d send each other emails.  The dialogue was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before: even in the earliest of days, no topic was taboo and no confession was too vulnerable.  I’d simply never had feelings like this before, even with the man I’d married and had my son with, and he claimed the same.  I started imagining myself the lead character in a film - the middle-aged woman giddy with schoolgirl excitement that had long been abandoned.  I danced in my bedroom to “Blister in the Sun”, something I hadn’t done since college.  I started wearing lip gloss again.

After only a month, Sam and I decided that we should meet in-person to see if this virtual relationship was as life-changing in “real life” as it was in our dreamy distance.  It only took a few weeks for both of us to move schedules and teenager time, and to squirrel away enough money for the tickets and planned escapades.  I was going to stay with him, my Sam, which made me eager and nervous.  I wasn’t used to relying on someone else: to not having a back-up plan.  The days passed swiftly as I anticipated our long-awaited rendezvous, and before I knew it I was planning which jewelry would match with my outfits.

Pressing linen paper bag waist pants and baseball caps into my bag, and I felt myself disassociate from the present.  Despite all my previous hurt, heartbreak, jadedness, and scars, my mind couldn’t help but race through fantasies for the future.  Could Sam really be my person?  I’d never believed in soul mates, in the lightning bolt, until now.  Was remarriage in the cards for me?  Shockingly, I could already see myself accepting his proposal if he were to get down on one knee.  I counted on my fingers, we’d only been in each other’s lives for 7 weeks.  My mind pivoted quickly to the shadows: was I being catfished?  Or fooled?  Was this some sort of elaborate love bombing exercise meant to humiliate or manipulate me?  It felt too good to be true.  In all my 46 years of living, I didn’t have any evidence that happiness could come so easy.  All these thoughts raced through my head as I chose sundresses and tee shirts to pack for the trip.

The flight wasn’t bad from California.  The film in my imagination continued to flourish – the lovestruck divorcee making the grand pilgrimage West for true love and possibly a new life.  A fresh start.  A blank slate just when I thought maybe my chances had all been spent.  The soundtrack was as vivid as my imagination.  “Iko Iko” on the runway, the pitch of my voiceover matching the excited tenor of the music, butterflies emerging from their 11-year hibernation.  “Downeaster Alexa” flying over the vast Pacific.  Being thrust back into my chair as the 747 came to a forceful and unnatural stop, wheels down, was met with the eager and youthful voice of Paul McCartney singing, “'I’ve just seen a face, I can't forget the time or place, where we just met, she's just the girl for me, and I want all the world to see, we've met, mm-mm-mm-mm-mm…”

I disembarked from the plane, my two weekenders full of everything I needed for a fortnight.  Pushing through the Sydney airport, my heels had wings as I grew more and more impatient to meet my Samson in the flesh.

Exiting customs to that bittersweet area where people are either gathered to greet you with hugs and tears or they aren’t – I had a knot in my belly.  Would we recognize each other?  Would he be the guy to embarrass me with a goofy chauffeur sign, as he would if Hollywood were producing the movie in my mind?  I realized I didn’t know how he moved, how he talked to strangers, how he reacted to other people’s dogs or small children.  And as these thoughts were flooding my mind, pulling vellum across my eyes, until there was Sam – right in front of me and cutting right through my self-manufactured haze.  He was tall and broad shouldered, with large soft hands and a mild manner.  I immediately felt like I was in the presence of the Redwoods I grew up amongst: grounded, calm, humbled, aware of my size. 

The weeks passed like a blur and yet as if as a slow-motion all at once.  I once heard a TED talk about the different kinds of time: Chronos being the passing of time in sequence, and Kairos being a period of indeterminate time in which something of significance happens.  Our liminal time was all Kairos, with every day and every conversation revealing another moment of reckoning, the fulfillment of a longing I didn’t know I had, a healing of unidentified pain.  We rollicked on the beach, walked for hours, stayed up all hours talking over bottles of Syrah, woke early to trek to see the sunrise from the summit, and cooked dinner together.  It was all so effortless. 

Then Chronos caught up with me and I was confronted with a reality I had been avoiding since taxiing in on the tarmac: my time in Oz was up.  Our last day together had a dark cloud hanging over it, with neither of us able to really enjoy the time for the countdown until my lift-off.  Sam felt far away, somewhere else.  I realized that, for all he meant to me, I didn’t know him hardly at all.  I didn’t know how to interpret his quiet, his brooding, his distraction.  My insecurities got the best of me: was it me?  Had I overstayed my welcome?  Was I too much?  Was it all too much?  Then I forcefully quieted those destructive thoughts and reminded myself to trust in Samson, in what he had told me, in what I knew of his character and his word.

The goodbye was quick and awful.  I cried for the first half of the flight back, full of loneliness and doubt, and then chose to escape by focusing on the future and making plans.  When I got home, I was surprised by how glad I was to be there.  I missed the smell of half burnt cedar-scented candles, my front porch, my cats, my trees.  My soft sheets welcomed me that night while the cold half of the bed haunted me.

I didn’t worry the first day back when I didn’t hear from Sam.  Between the time difference and the headiness of it all I figured that it would take us both a few days to settle back into our divided everydays.  After two days, I tried but was unable to get ahold of him.  I sent love and took deep breaths.  After a week, I received a cryptic email that was too short to explain much of anything.  It hinted at needing room to reconcile such a shift in his reality, something going on with his kid, stuff on his mind.  When I reached out, he failed to engage.  I meditated and turned tarot cards.

My movie was taking a predictable turn, one I had hoped I had finally evaded: the woman who walked herself down the primrose path, overeager and misreading the signs; the man who was overwhelmed, misunderstood, and emotionally distant.  I played Billie Holiday on a loop, her aching voice ringing in my head as much as my ears, “Don’t know why, there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather, since my man and I ain’t together, keeps raining all the time.”  After a few weeks, I stopped calling and counted the days between texts.  After two months, I wrote a letter.  I didn’t hold my breath, but I was ready for the day when my phone would ring once again.

The Athlete | 4 June 2022

Being an athlete, I was no stranger to trials of physical and mental endurance.  This was just so much harder than I expected.

BNR Response

The drop had only occurred 46 hours ago, leaving me alone in the relatively forgiving wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.  When I’d signed up to participate in the B-list celebrity adventure series, I’d pictured more of a metropolitan scavenger hunt type competition rather than outright drink-your-own-pee-to-stay-hydrated kind of survival exercise.  It made me wish I’d paid more attention when my boyfriend was watching those “survive for money” shows on Netflix.

I cruised through the first day, still full from my sushi dinner the night before and buoyed by adrenaline.  My sleep, under the canopy of an ancient Redwood, had been interrupted many times throughout the night as the local wildlife emerged in the safety of darkness to investigate their newest neighbor.  The second day greeted me with sensations my privilege had protected me from my whole 31 years: real hunger, real thirst, fear, desperation, and panic.

I’d objected to killing animals for food but had finally resigned myself to sustaining on fish.  Not two full days into the excursion, my empty belly began reminding me at increasingly close intervals of my inability to catch anything.

Fresh water was only slightly less elusive, but I had found a rapidly flowing creek that provided me with immediate relief and allowed me to fill my vessels.  I forgot how sweet water tasted, full of minerals and the ride it had taken to get to me.

Days three and four came and went without much of note – some fungi and berries for my tummy and all the water drunk.

All the while I kept trekking onward, the ultimate goal being to complete 30 days and 60 miles’ journey to an abandoned cabin to be reunited with the show’s producers.  I was obligated to capture most of my misadventures via my GoPro, and for the life of me I couldn’t imagine how even the best editor in Hollywood would be able to piece together five minutes of watchable footage from my four days out.

The isolation and hunger afforded my mind space to play tricks on me.  I remembered long-forgotten tales of others’ outdoor escapades: the fictional story of a man who slowly succumbed to hypothermia after crashing his car in a snowbank less than one mile from the dinner party he was headed to.  The seafaring couple who, after traveling asea together for 28 years, capsized their boat and drowned when  an unexpected thunderstorm off of Puget Sound ruined their afternoon sail.  The mountaineers who had the poor luck of having a large tree fall on them one day into their hike, all but killing one of them instantaneously, the other two nearly dying during a week-long rescue effort.  And now, here I was, a young Olympic swimmer with a decent Instagram presence and no more outdoor survival instinct or knowledge than Yogi Berra.  I thought hourly about initiating my geo-locating SOS device to initiate my helicopter extraction.

And then suddenly, in the twilight of day six, as if a miracle or a mirage, a cabin arose in the mist at the foot of the behemoth Redwoods that had kept me company during this harrowing and humbling week in the wild.  Could I possibly have traversed the whole 60 miles in six days?  Under my normal, Under Armour-clad, Camelbak-wearing circumstances that would have been a breeze.  Damn, had I underestimated myself? 

Almost immediately my body began performing an inventory, registering that I had gone nearly two days without water and nearly four without anything more than hedgehog mushrooms to eat, and it started breaking down.  It was a phenomenon I was familiar with: once I made it through the Olympic trials, my body would exhale its own sigh of relief and get sick.  My body instinctively knew then, as it knew now, that it was safe to release and recover.

My knees buckled beneath me and I had to army crawl along the forest floor, finally clawing my way int the dilapidated lean-to.  Tunnel vision set in and things grew blurry.  Hmmm.  No one was here.  I reached for my SOS device and couldn’t get it to turn on.  I tried once.  It was growing more difficult to exert any effort.  I tried again.  Nothing.  Well, damn.

Hide Me Away | 2 June 2022

Frantically, I searched for the quick hiding spot.  Eyeing the closet, I chastised myself for the cliché.  Oh well.

BNR Response

I ducked my head so I could get underneath the cluttered and voluminous clothes, which appeared to be costumes of some kind based on all the fringe and leather, and shut the door inwards towards myself.  Dropping swiftly to my knees had really disoriented me – I had a momentary case of the spins.  I knew better than to do shots at my age, why had I succumbed to the peer pressure of taking those three Red Headed Sluts in rapid succession during Truth or Dare?  Jäger didn’t agree with me, and I had nothing to prove.  Damnit if I had a chip on my shoulder to demonstrate that I’m one of those women who’s always “game”.  I was thinking about maybe needing to rapidly find a toilet to sink my woozy head into when I heard footsteps enter the spare room that my closet inhabited.

I didn’t really have a great feeling about this party.  Aside from Randi, who knew a friend-of-a-friend of the host, and that rando creepy guy who mopped the Y, I knew no one here.  I’m all for “parlor games” and the like, but this group was taking it to the extreme.  I had only dodged throwing my keys into the fishbowl because my keys were in Randi’s glove compartment.  And I still couldn’t tell if playing up the whole “key party” angle was just a gag or if these weirdos were actually planning to swing.  The ax throwing at apples aloft people’s heads was dodgy at best, and ideally would have taken place before the open bar went into full swing a few hours prior.  Then there was the naked game of chicken in the pool, played with the interesting twist of all parties being fully blindfolded and with each “chicken” wielding a Cat o’ Nine Tails.  I got a distinctly seedy vibe from this whole crew.

My musings were interrupted once again by the sounds of people trying to find where I was hiding.  It was really pretty obvious, and it weirded me out that they were engaging in such Kabuki around the act of locating me.  It really gave me the icks that they were so into these games.  Honestly, between all the innuendo, the costumes and accoutrements, and the alcohol I had consumed, it was hard to tell real from make-believe.  I hiccuped, involuntarily as one does, and hear an immediate direction change of the seekers in the room.  There was no mistaking they knew where I was now, so why not just come and get me so we can get on with it?  They approached the door of the closet, and the doorknob turned a half a revolution then stopped.  

Boy, they were really doubling down on the whole drama factor.  Through the boozed-induced haze, I waffled between drunken irreverence and disoriented panic.  You ever get to a point when you’re dealing with an idiot where you say, “Fuck this noise, enough is enough!”  I was there.  The door suddenly opened, and I was confronted by not one, not two, but no less than seven masked and cloaked characters that rivaled those perverted goons from Eyes Wide Shut.  Two arms reached out for me and coaxed me from my position on the floor and out of the closet.  The room remained darkened, I could only make anything out because my eyes had fully adjusted to the pitch of the wardrobe.  Light reflected off the pool and the glow created an eerie moving mural on the walls and ceiling.

“Come with us, we’re all assembled in the sunken living room.”  I was told by one of the masked creeps, unable to tell who the owner of the instructions was.  Not letting go of my two hands, I was led as a prisoner in leg irons to the 60’s style shag-carpeted room.  More cloaked creeps were already seated in a circle, a empty wine bottle in the center.  I was led to sit in beside the bottle, and told we were going to play a less juvenile version of “Spin the Bottle” where I spun the vessel every turn.  I tried to casually get out of this enhanced exposure and attention, stating that I had work the next day and needed to find Randi.  My pleas were ignored, and the instructions were given again, this time in a yet more unyielding tone.  I was terrified at this point, unsure of what would happen if I tried to physically defy an entire gang and aware that their ability to overpower me might be worse than just playing this stupid kissing game.  I signed and picked up the bottle, spinning and landing on a person with a Venetian plague doctor’s bird-like mask.  I got up on all fours and approached the curved beak, leaning in for a kiss, humiliated by the pantomime.  Two hands clapped singularly and thunderously together and were followed by bellows of maniacal laughter.  “No, no, no, my dear girl,” the same echoing instructor laughed, “I’m afraid this next bit involves the bottle.”

Hot Locket | 17 May 2022

I suddenly became aware of a focused heat on my sternum.  Reflexively I reached for it and found a patch of sweat forming right where the pendant hung under my shirt.

BNR Response

I lifted my shoulders off of the back of the pool chaise and crisscrossed my arms in front of my chest to remove my tee.  I knew it was probably better to remove the golden locket while sunbathing, but I never wanted it far from my heart.  A wave of chlorinated water lightly sprayed me as a ten-year-old did a cannon ball, and I was happy to be cooled by it.  It must have been 85 or 90 degrees, and, while I was partially shaded, it was steamy.  I tilted my wide straw lifeguard hat backwards from its low perch on my brow and surveyed the scene: club house to the left, large as an auditorium with the look of an expansive, rustic cabin.  Every lounge chair was occupied, tweens lined the fence on the opposite side of the pool with their towels right on the concrete.  Tall conifers lined the edge of the pool to my right, candy-caning around and adorning me with their shadows and fragrance. 

Motown played in the distance and lilts of laughter carried on the breeze mixed with the squeals of children in the water.  The sounds of summer.  Someone was barbecuing in the distance and the scent of charcoal and sunscreen surrounded the pool deck.  I felt so embraced and fulfilled and so lonely all at once, surrounded by the families participating in quintessential summer rituals: chasing kids around the pool, reapplying floaties and sun cream, the subtle elastic snap while readjusting a swimsuit bottom, stealing kisses under baseball caps, the sweet fatigue of a day in the sun.  The tender dissonance between missing my own membership in a trio and the recent loss of hope for belonging with my newest love was overwhelming.  I gulped down a lungful of humid air, the first of several deep breaths.  I put one hand on the amulet at my breast and the other hand on my belly, focusing on the rising crests of each inhalation and exhalation.  “I am here, I want for nothing, I have my boy,” I recited in my head, at which point the wind caught in my throat and I sputtered as my heart skipped and hurried.  I lowered my hat to cover my weeping eyes and swung my legs over the edge of the chaise to bring me to an upright position.  I clenched both hands on the hard plastic loops that lined the rim of the chair.  I watched my knuckles turned white and felt relief in the physical discomfort.  I squeezed tighter until the plastic dug into the soft underside of my hands, this was easier to feel than my heartsickness.

The montage of carefree, unexpectedly warm memories mixed with all of our plans for the future, all of the promises, and all of the words exchanged, and kept running like a reel on repeat behind my eyes.  Everything beckoned nostalgia, things we’d shared and things we’d only daydreamed about in abstract hues.  The heartbreak upon heartbreak in such close succession was unbearable, the tightness it brought in my chest felt was like a rubber band around my heart muscle. 

I brought the back of the chaise up to a medium incline and forced my back down onto my towel-lined chair once again, practicing relaxing myself from head to toe as they coached us to do in our yoga classes all those years ago.  I was once again able to hear the music.  The sweet July smells were once again filling my nostrils.  I reopened my eyes and took in my surroundings once again, searching for new feelings to feel.  I felt simultaneously superior to and beneath the couples milling around me: the dad bodies clad in tiny turtle-embroidered shorts and quilted belts, and Sperry top siders without socks seemed provincial to me.  The gossip of the Swan Ball and the new private school headmaster scandal, diamonds dripping off of their fingers and bending their earlobes under pristine Panama hats were pretentious and petty.  I chose to dive deeper into the feelings of contempt blended with jealousy, betraying the true north of my sense of profound rejection and despair.  I found that locket at my breastbone once again and clutched it, trying not to remind myself that I had been lucky to have been truly happy once.

The Knock | 16 May 2022

I was jolted out of my sleep by loud banging at my front door. I glanced at the clock. 3:30am.  Jesus, is he back again?

HCH Response

“Just ignore it,” my roommate groaned from the bathroom. “Party’s over.”

Real talk. The party had been over for two hours, but we had a floater that kept resurfacing. Fucking Keith.

He’d been the last to leave, and definitely the drunkest. Twice I had closed the door behind him, started clearing some mess, and then heard a sloppy knock. I answered with an armful of empties to find him hanging on the door frame: “Ssssorry hey. Hey. Is my jacket in there?” After some furniture shoving we found it rumpled behind the couch. ‘K bye. Click. Off went the kitchen light. Five minutes later: “Ssssuper sorry. Can’t find my phone.” I dialed and woke it from slumber in the neglected planter in the corner of the apartment. He found this hilarious — I was less amused. “Aright man. You all good? Yeah? Wanna do a patdown? Keys, wallet, lighter? Ok. Night.” Click. Off went my pants on the floor of my room. I was starfished out on my bed when I heard the door again.

“Don’t do it,” my roommate warned as I stomped down the hall. “Whatever. It’s on you. But the bathroom is occupied.”

I threw the deadbolt and jerked the door open to find him standing hunched over something wrapped in his jacket, cradled in his arms. His frame had gone concave, two bony shoulders arched inward like wings of a gargoyle perched on a pillar. “I found… this cat. It’s… not great. Can I come in?”

Cradled arms cast and break spells. It doesn’t matter if you’re carrying a baby or a five gallon tub of cheez balls. Primates know: what lies therein is precious, just by virtue of being held protected. As he slipped past me into the apartment, I glimpsed a blood-crusted ear and the sliver of an amber eye nestled in the jacket’s lining.

He lay the bundle on the carpet and the patient was revealed. The cat made a feeble motion to bolt, but gave up in pain. Its breathing was shallow, its fur matted in blood. There were punctures and scrapes on its neck and back, angrily struggling to clot.

Keith had been approaching the overpass that was halfway between our apartments when he saw it. “I thought… I dunno. I just thought you might know what to do? So I came back.”

“Me? Shit… I’m no vet.” I looked down at the pilled inside of Keith’s jacket and thought how lucky the cat was that he hadn’t just gone home without it. With some shame, I suddenly felt softened by that intersection of luck, timing, and circumstance that always seems to follow the soft-hearted. The fools, some might say. Read the room. Go home at a reasonable hour. Check your damn pockets. Don’t impose. Don’t be embarrassing. Why are you stopping? What are you going to do, it’s a street cat. It’ll probably scratch you, and God knows you don’t want that infection. Dude, it’s so late… and so on. But here we were. In the disorder of the living room, I saw Keith in a new light.

His eyes were fixed on the cat. He slowly extended the back of one finger and stroked its leg, so lightly the contact was barely visible. Half an hour ago, he’d been swaying in his sneakers. Now it seemed like he could balance a tray of teacups if it only meant the cat would be okay.

“But I’m glad you did... I get it. It’s good to have help.” I reached over and touched his knee. “I’ll get us some water.”

The Drive | 12 May 2022

“You are sadly mistaken if you think I’m getting into that car with you!”  said Melinda with as much confidence as she could muster.

BNR Response

Mario rolled down the driver’s window and smiled through a pretend pout, “Awww c’mon baby, you know I didn’t mean it.”

“If you didn’t mean it then why did you say it?”  Melinda said, wiping away tears.

“I was just kidding!”  Mario laughed, uncomfortable with this vulnerability, “Oh, c’mon, are you crying?”  His shoulders slumped and he shook his head, looking away from her and turning to face the point break. 

The tears came steadily now, a buildup of years of this toxic dynamic.  She couldn’t catch her breath.  The saline in the tightness of her throat tasted like chlorine.  The thing is, she had nowhere else to go.  Physically, she had a place to go, maybe: she could throw the keys at him, grab her bag, walk back up the PCH a few miles, and use her credit card to charge a room.  But emotionally, spiritually, vibrationally: anywhere she would go would be haunted by Mario.  She loved him, the fucker.  Goddamn it. 

“I know you think crying is blackmail, but could you at least,” she choked on her tears, a bubble forming in her neck making it hard to breathe and speak, “could you at least not get angry when I get sad?”

Mario refused to look at her, so she approached the sedan and opened the door.  She stood there for a minute, twisting between having her hands on the hot roof of the Honda and turning back around to gaze out at Kings Mountain.  She scoured that hillside looking everywhere for the answer.  Finally, after what felt like forever, she tucked her head down to see if he had turned towards her, what his face was doing.  He was on his phone.  Her chest seized inside her as if warning her the consequences of this choice.  It felt like a breaking point.  And so, she turned to face the road, bent her neck and slunk back into the sun-warmed leather seat.  Without a word, she turned the engine over, put the car in gear, and they continued their drive southward.

After some time, Melinda remembered her excitement for their trip.  She had planned this journey home for months: the beaches, the burritos, the Redwoods.  She flipped the radio on and sang along with abandon to the alternative hits she remembered from the 90s.  She prattled on happily, the nostalgia of the music and her hometown coursing through her, bringing her life.  Cautious driver that she was, she rarely diverted her eyes from the road, but Mario gave her enough active listening queues that she was undeterred.  Eddie Vedder had narrated her adolescence and, once again, his poetry filled her with belonging and loneliness all at once, “Can you see them?  Oh, on the porch, yeah but they don’t wave…” She sang along, almost brought to tears again at the headiness of it all.  She had been fighting to get things right for so many years.  She hated how he treated her and yet couldn’t find the break.  She couldn’t see a path forward.  She felt trapped.  It would be devastating to leave and yet she was a tortured woman.  “I said, I don’t know whether I’m the boxer or the bag, oh yeah…”

In a moment of clarity and a desire for intimacy, Melinda inhaled sharply and spoke to Mario via the steering wheel.  It was easier to say hard things when she wasn’t looking at him, “You know?  I’m so happy we’re here.  I’ve wanted this for so, so long.  I’ve been longing to show you this little restaurant down here where we used to stop on family trips on the way to Monterey.  It’s called Davenport…?”  In a flash, she could feel all her needs: for him to look over at her, nod, acknowledge her, see her.  She broke her eyes from the road and looked over at Mario.  He was dazed, somewhere else.  “Mario!?” she said loudly, and he jerked alert, turning to look at her, his face questioning and irritated.  An earbud tumbled from his right ear and his thumb was quick to pause his phone.  He had been listening to a podcast the whole ride.

Out Too Far | 26 April 2022

I rose to the surface and finally got my head above water. What a wave! Sucking in precious air, I realized that a rip tide had taken me several hundred yards out from the swell I had started on. I motioned frantically to the beach, but didn’t capture anyone’s attention. I was struggling to understand how not to panic when I got that old familiar feeling that I had company.

HCH Response

“Typical,” I huffed to myself. You drive an hour to the most remote surf spot you can justify on a cold Wednesday afternoon, only to be reminded that it’s everyone else’s best-kept secret too. Yeah, I know. Surfers have a low threshold for what we consider crowded. Personally? Three slick heads bobbing in the water were enough to activate my territorial side.

I zipped up and ran into the churning gray without acknowledging the other bodies. Here comes the size-up from the jury. They’re always looking at your board, watching you watch the swell, waiting for you to defer or pursue, waiting for you to stand up — and of course waiting for you to fall down.

As luck would have it, the oncoming wave looked pretty good. Better yet, nobody else seemed to be in a position to compete for it. I attacked with fresh first-wave energy to meet it sidelong, tucked my feet under me and stood up like I was on dry land. BAM. That’s how you make an entrance. It didn’t carry as far as I anticipated, but no harm. I paddled a little down the beach to give myself some more distance from the crowd. Eyes on the horizon, the next one looked VERY promising. Had my name all over it. The warm cushion of water between my skin and the wetsuit pulsed like an extension of my blood flow. It is ON.

But the arousal was confused with another sensation. A tugging. If I’d been in a house, it would have been a draft powerful enough to slam a door. Within seconds, I was pulled sideways and under. My board dragged behind me reluctantly, fighting the current and making it harder for me to alter my direction. Desperate not to get sucked out even further, I bucked as hard as I could and felt myself get free…suspiciously free. I reached down to feel my ankle and confirm what my eyes wouldn’t believe. My board was long gone.

I lay floating on my back to regain my breath, then tread upright to get my bearings. Fuck. This was going to be a swim. A dark ripple undulated in my peripheral vision a few feet away. The cloudy sky had no shadows to cast, no glints of light to offer. Kelp? The long braids can suck a lot of light you didn’t even know was there. In the calm, I heard a familiar disruption behind me. Someone’s head and body popping out for a quick crest, and the slap of fins and belly on reentry. Ah, a seal. I’d spotted tons of them out here. The feast of Drake’s Bay and the connecting Estero is perfect for them — and for rip rides, idiot, I remembered a little too late.
I waited, hoping for a close look at the slippery creature. No luck. But…the water had changed. The visible color between the surface and my submerged hands had muted to a brown. Fifteen feet beyond, where I probably heard the splash, it was richer. Not sand gold or kelp green or even whitewater gray, but oxygen-rich red.

In the tunnels of my ears, I heard a wraith impersonating my voice cry with horror, no language to be had. My mammalian body wouldn’t submerge its head to swim, but instead squirmed in slow motion, like running in a dream. The sky dimmed. My ears rang. I panted, watching the dry brush and clay cliff sides of the beach stamp overlapping impressions like a magic eye painting a million miles away.

Voices shouted under the ringing, getting louder. Wet, dark figures splashed, getting closer. Four arms pounded the the water, propelling toward me. Two more were close by, with a stack of fiberglass in tow. Neon lettering. Faded stickers. Neoprene. Stubble. Dripping eyebrows. Craggy foreheads and ruddy cheeks. Four hands wrapped around my biceps. “We got you. We got you. We got you.”

Asea | 6 April 2022

I have always loved the sea, but this fucking boat is bad.

BNR Response

I agreed to take this trip because I thought it was just what I needed: an escape from work that was no longer fulfilling, a chance to brown my belly and breasts in the sun, and perhaps a week-long guilt-free sex romp with the ex I was finally over.  It only took six hours for me to realize my miscalculations and begin to panic about how I was going to make it through another seven days stuck on this dive boat with this insufferable asshole.

His real name was Rod, the ex, that is.  When I met him those five years ago, he was the breath of fresh air my love life needed.  He was tall, tan, and lean, with a whip smart wit and a quick smile.  We’d bonded over a light-hearted approach to romance, at first: partner workouts at East Beach, walking our dogs at Hendrys, eating fish tacos on sarapes, and making out at Leadbetter.  In those days, I called him Hot Rod.  After a few months, things got more intense.  His mom got sick, and he leaned on me to help him get through it.  As his mom’s health improved and the seasons changed, what started as, “something for now, for fun” slowly became something we talked about in future tense: “when we do this…”, “when such-and-such happens next year, we’ll…”, and sharing knowing eye contact at fellow couples’ milestones. 

It was three years in when things started to unravel.  When the relationship started going south, it didn’t sour gracefully like grapes on a vine, it tanked like a ship determined to go down in record time.  I was, surprisingly to me, thankful that we had never moved in together, as untangling the rest of our intertwined lives was proving harrowing enough.  My emotional work was in realizing that I would likely never know just what went wrong and coming to terms with the lack of closure.  And for the life of me, I believe that only God knows what possessed Rod.  He became hateful and bitter.  I started referring to him as A-Rod, a nod to the baseball player whose ego disgusted me.  I had been surprised at just how hard it was for me to fully detach myself from our bond, from the hopes I had for our future, for all that I had planned and daydreamed about for years. 

So, when two years had passed and he reached out for coffee, I was both reticent and curious.  I had recently come out the other side of my post-break-up grief and felt strong enough to meet with him. My curiosity piqued, when we met, I discovered what seemed like a refreshed, therapized version of the Rod I had been smitten with in those early days.  Cool Rod.  My growing impatience with work at my landscape architecture firm, combined with an increasing wanderlust and an unexpected physical yearning rising inside me led me to accept his offer for an all-expenses paid eight-day jaunt on a dive boat.

We set sail on a glorious SoCal day, the sun settling around the Channel Islands as our 80-foot boat glided by.  There we several couples, four dogs, and five crew on the boat with us, and I was excited about a no-strings-attached week away from my troubles. 

Things took a turn after Rod’s third welcome cocktail started kicking in.  I had only seen drunky Rod a few times in our years together, and it wasn’t a good scene when he came out to play.  Shoddy Roddy would reel from lugubrious to lecherous, from brassy to braggadocious in the space of half a Pacifico beer.  It was like riding an emotional tilt-a-whirl and I wanted to get off.  He became handsy with me, with the stewardess, with the dive coach, and a few of the wives.  He became bratty when rebuffed and started speaking in baby talk when asking for another drink.  As he pretended to suckle on his pony neck as if it were a baby bottle, I deliberated on my duty here.  I started to resent the boat, the trip, my rotten fortune.  Luckily, a Samson-like deck hand convinced him to go below deck and put him in a cot.  Before we knew it, he was out like a light.  Said deck hand, Joey, and I celebrated by pointing out constellations to each other and falling asleep together on the forward deck.

On day two we were briefly graced with the presence of Rod the Sun God, who showcased his impressive athleticism and undeniable charm.  After dark, Shoddy Roddy decided on an unsanctioned drunken night dive which sent the entire crew into a tailspin.  Once he had been tucked into his hammock, Joey, who I learned was the bosun and not a deck hand, and I hung our legs over the edge of the craft and shared stories from the day and days long past.

Days three through seven were like rinse and repeat: Rod would start the day fresh and bright, and, as the sun sank down, he would devolve into a lesser version of himself.  His antics were starting to take a toll on the crew as well as the other guests.  I felt asea in the other sense of the word, in that some of the guests clearly felt I bore responsibility for corralling him while others recognized our very loose affiliation.  Despite the murkiness of the situation, I was able to create both credibility and friendships with everyone else on the vessel.  I was an accomplished diver, able to help less experienced passengers, and I garnered praise from the crew.

On our last night, over a casual dinner of tofu burgers and tossed salad, we all gathered on the deck to marvel at the past several days of discovery, an existence free of social media, and the wonders of the Pacific.  We swapped stories about our moments of awe from the trip, went through several bottles of Syrah, and snuggled with each other and with our dogs.

Joey and I had gotten cozy over the week, and I was enjoying getting back to myself and back to nature – a stark contrast from my cubicle lens of curating precision gardens for wealthy clients.  Perhaps sensing this shift, Shoddy Roddy would not be outdone and chose to proclaim to the group that I was the only woman he had ever loved and the only woman who had broken his heart.  He trotted out old, tatty stories about our dissolution that painted me in a one-sidedly hideous light.  While I was dismayed when he passed out on the deck rather than in his bunk below, I was glad his harangue was over and thankful that he was so far gone that he wouldn’t be any more bother.

Joey and I huddled under a blanket and fell asleep under the stars, the shadow of Anacapa Island cooling our skin, which remained warm from retaining the day’s sun. 

As we docked at the harbor the next morning and prepared to go ashore, Rod proclaimed the trip a success and offered each individual his estimations of their talents and their diving skill level.  It was cringey. 

Later that week, I made a proclamation of my own: I quit my job and announced I’d be taking on a seasonal role as the cook on the dive boat, Beshert.  When I embarked on the trip, I had been taken by the name of our vessel, as it loosely translates to, “fate” or, “destiny” in Hebrew.  I never saw Rod after we parted ways at the end of the dock, but I’m thankful his trainwreck led me to the ocean again.  And, while I didn’t know it at the time, my career change was not the only thing that had been divinely conceived during that seven-day dive in the deep.

Chips | 5 April 2022

“Could you possibly eat any louder?”

At the age of six, Doug Clemmons and his cousin, Ray, had sat in a shaded swing in the hot Alabama summer and consumed an entire jumbo bag of Doritos.  But, sitting in the waiting room for the esteemed (and late) Dr. Hatcher, Annie did not share the love for corn chips and fake orange cheese and had a bigger aversion to the zealous crunch her husband made without any regard for those around him.

“God dammit, Babe, you have orange all over your shirt.”

“Anne Clemmons?”

“Right here.”

“Dr. Hatcher will see you now."

BNR Response

Doug once again wiped his Dorito-laden fingers thoughtlessly on the chest of his untucked button down and gave Anne a greasy kiss on the cheek.  “Don’t worry, babe, I’m sure she’ll have all the answers.”

Anne wiped the neon cheese residue off her cheek, slumped under the weight of the purse on her shoulder, and made her way into Dr. Hatcher’s office.  It was sleek and minimal, with new mid-century modern furnishings and a fresh box of tissues next to the couch.  Dr. Hatcher matched her surroundings: hair in a golden blonde French twist, her classic boatneck top seamlessly tucked into a knee-length pencil skirt which modestly showcased her flat belly and enviably pert bottom.  “No wonder these sessions cost $225 an hour!,” Anne ruminated silently, “I’m paying for her interior designer, stylist, and personal coach by the looks of it!”

Dr. Hatcher put her glasses on as she slid easily into her Eames chair, crossing her legs without so much of a hint of the difficulty Anne had in doing so these days.   “Please, sit wherever you like, Anne.  I’m Dr. Hatcher, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  Maybe you can tell me a little more about what brings you to see me today?”

Anne crumpled onto the couch, feeling out of place in such chic surroundings.  She pulled her fleece vest together as best she could, regretting her outfit choice as she looked down at her sweatpants.  She didn’t know where to start.  She’d never been in any kind of therapeutic setting before and didn’t know the protocol.  “Do I just jump in and tell her how rage-filled I am that my husband still has the body of a 20-year-old lacrosse player no matter what he eats?  About his incessant flirting with his fetus of a personal assistant?  How he takes his shirt off in the foyer of the salon he goes to, strutting past all the rows of female-filled chairs to get to the back where Marco trims up his neck?  And how the fuck is it that women still fall all over themselves for him?  Do I mention how he stopped giving any effort with sex with me since he apparently thinks he can still coast on his good looks from when I married him 25 years ago?  He’s lost his youthful appearance, and, while still slim, he isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he-“

“Anne?  Anne, you seem to have disassociated there for a moment.” Dr. Hatcher interrupted Anne’s internal self-exploration, prompting her to realize for the first time that she was crying.

“I don’t know where to start.  I’ve never done this before.”  Anne began, her voice thin.

“Well, you can start by telling me why your-“

“I can’t stand him.  It.  Him.  I can stand being married to that man anymore.”  In an instant, an emotional dam had given way, and it was suddenly pouring out of Anne like free-association writing only out loud.  She talked about her misogynistic husband, about his dalliances and his paramours, about his lackluster love making, his poor hygiene habits, his avoidant style of parenting, and his ego.  It took more than ten months for Anne to get to a place where her confidence was coming back, she was starting to return to herself – a self that she recognized – and she was able to face what she wanted to do about her relationship with Doug.

In their last session together, Anne thanked Dr. Hatcher for all of her help, “I just don’t know what I would have done without your strong and caring support and guidance during this last year or so,” she said, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was giving a sort of commencement address at her therapy graduation.

“Anne, it has been my sincere honor to work with you.”  Dr. Hatcher rose to walk Anne to the door.  “And, now that our professional relationship is over, I have something to ask you.”

“What’s that?”  Anne turned, her glossy amber hair sliding off of her shoulder.

“Doug and I have had coffee a few times, and last week he asked me on a romantic weekend getaway.  You don’t mind if I go, do you?”