The Beach, revisited

I can still feel him, smell him. The sea air, the sand, the moon and stars. The cigarettes on his breath, a deep smell, powerful and oddly erotic. The combination is heady, and doubtlessly addictive. It’s the reason why I go out of my way to pass his jacket, hanging on a hook by the door and bearing the purple and gold lettering of his school, a “brotherhood”, as he called it. Catching the scent, which clings to it in the way that the smoke clung to us that night, I get lightheaded and my heart starts racing.



“Let’s go to the beach.” Sure. The L train takes us there and the moon greets us brightly when we get off. We cross the Great Highway at a run, deserted at this time of night, and sprint lightly across the sand, stopping just short of the crashing waves. We watch the tide come in, backing away slowly, and then turn and clamber up a nearby dune, my purse swinging stupidly from my wrist, to find a comfortable spot near the top. The moon is bright, and nearly full, and the seascape looks ethereal, lit up by a silvery glow. The raw power of the ocean beckons to me, and I consider the view critically, with a photographer’s eye, moving the moon to different spots with my mind for the ultimate shot. For some reason, I think of death. But I’m too scared to mention my morbid fantasies, fearing he’s think me strange. I hide away my thoughts.

We sit next to each other, as close as possible without our bodies actually overlapping or merging together like two pieces of softened clay. There is an intimacy to the moment that needs no touch, no words. He puts his arm around me and I sigh, thinking about the perfection of this moment and how minute our lives are compared to the ocean.

The picture shatters as I hear voices. Damn. Turning quickly, I spy a quarter of dozen people climbing our dune on their way to somewhere else. Oh great, now we’re about to become a spectacle. The leader, sporting dreads and a beanie, leers at us. “Having a good time?” he grins knowingly, as if our – or at least my – discomfort is not obvious enough. Something unpleasant stirs in my mind and I turn away, instead fixating on the sea, which I had previously found so calming. I stare hard, ignoring the searing of humiliation on my skin, feeling uncomfortably exposed in my moment of vulnerability, as if I had been caught with my pants down and had frozen in an attempt to become invisible, and ignore the people laughing and pointing at me. Eventually the trio dissolves into the distance, but the stale feeling of awkwardness that they brought with them lingers. I’m gazing unseeingly at the sky when I see it: a star, it’s light, bright and crisp like that of a diamond chip, is sparkling, winking at me. A comforting thought and I no longer feel alone in my shame. Look, I say, there, look at that star. He leans in close, presumably to see what I am pointing at better. His gaze follows my finger and I catch a whiff of the cigarette he smoked some time ago. “Wow, you’re right.” Then he points at the moon, his arm back around my waist as if our pleasant silence had not been interrupted. “Look, do you see that? The man? The man on the moon?” I look closely, squinting against the intensity of the light and I do, I do see the man on the moon. But the face looks worn and tired, not like the cheerful countenance I remember from my youth. He has aged, the man on the moon, creases and wrinkles have replaced the craters, and he looks tired, like a man nearing the end of his weary life, pock-marked and scarred. I feel disquiet, and a kind of kinship to him. Searching within me, I try to come up with a way to state my feelings, but cannot, and they go unsaid, evaporating into the warm midnight air like cigarette smoke. I go back to hiding my thoughts.

First date, revisited.

He picks me up, all smiles and courteous, a nice American boy, flannel and sweet. We each have our type, the ones we go for. He fulfills my expectations to the T. But then again, I knew who he was before I agreed to "hang out to catch up and stuff". A hastily typed message sent over Facebook, full of emoticons, acronyms, and teen-boy phrases. An old friend, from way back in middle school. A little boy then, but not anymore. And a redhead, as anyone who knows me has come to expect. Sure, I type back, but next week, this week I'm busy with school. Within an hour, a date is set and most of the details solidified. I'm excited. "I'm going out Friday, Ma. I won't be in till late." We're going to a dance concert, a fantastic end-of-the year event and excitement is high. Dance concerts are terrific ice breakers, I've come to realize. Unlike a movie, where there is privacy and the unexpected can happen, a dance concert is a room packed with students, parents, and teachers, with not a stitch of "private time" available. Perfect.

The phone rings, a short burst of sound, loud and insistent. "I'm outside" he says, a soft deep voice. "You coming?" Sure, I answer, gimme a sec and I'll be out. Shoes, purse, $50 in my wallet, sunglasses, I'm ready. One last look in the mirror and I'm gone, heading for the door and the boy I hadn't seen in several years. "I got a haircut", he'd told me the day before. How short? "You'll see", a smug reply. Buzz cut? Oh say it ain't so. "Just wait."

He waits patiently at the door, his back to me and gazing at the slowly-darkening sky. "Hey, how are you?" Great, I think, now that you're here. I'm thinking mushy, teenage-girl thoughts. We exchange a semi-awkward hug and I reach out to feel his hair, shorter than the last time I saw him, back at our eighth grade graduation, but nonetheless thick and luxurious. I can imagine my fingers tangled up in his hair, gripping tightly, and the thought catches me unawares. "Let's go" jars me out of my thoughts and I follow him down the street.

An hour and one salad each later, we're in his father's car, heading for Fort Mason and the dance concert when his phone rings. A murmured conversation and half a dozen "yeah dude"s later, he announces that the concert is sold out. Time for a new plan. Eek. What to do, what to do? A seventeen-year-old only had so many options in the city. Bowling? Too fourteenth birthday party. Ice-skating? Too fairy-tale princess wannabe.

"Wanna go to the movies?" Sure. We head to his house, presumably to check out the time and movie options. His parents are amazing, the kind of parents any kid would want, lax in discipline but caring, and always there to support you. I liked them instantly. We bond, talking about films and books as he peruses the newspaper for movies times. We settle on a just-out comedy, a crowd-pleaser with just the right amount of celebrities and clichés, which should be fun for both of us. The main problem solved, we head downstairs to the rec room to talk. I notice the boxes of cigarettes instantly, but wait for him to say something first. He notices my furtive glance. "You know I smoke, right?" Sure, no, go ahead, doesn't bother me. "Cool". He lights up. We stand in the doorway to the backyard, side by side, watching his dog frolic in the early evening sunlight. It's hot outside and the wind diffuses the smoke coming out of his mouth in a matter of seconds. I wonder what smoking is like and why people do it. The vulnerability of being dependent on a drug is beyond me, the girl who values total self-control above all else. We talk and laugh, and the whole time the smoke curls around us and dissolves, slowly permeating my clothes and hair. He is snaking his way into the safe little cocoon I built around myself for protection against bad boys who smoke cigarettes like men do.

I'm starting to not hate the smell so much....



He goes through cigarettes pretty quickly. That's not to say that he's puffing on them nonstop, but in the half an hour that we spent downstairs, he went out two or three times. Each time, I stood in the doorway, watching his face get illuminated with every inhalation. He looked sinister and sexy and not at all seventeen, the orange tip of his cigarette highlighting the copper undertones of his hair.