Imagine this: a trip down a winding road into Topanga canyon. I am listing right, then left as the road turns. A touch of vertigo as the ground falls away from the road. The bottom of the gully looks far away. I smell wood smoke. I see ramshackle structures here and there, a quaint fish market, a little restaurant. Campers parked everywhere. Signs for firewood. A minimalist bridge, a large, simple arc spans a dead stream. Another market, little signs affixed to the facade. I look up into the hillside and see a white house. It looks like a modern castle.
“That was a beautiful house. I would live there.”
“If I won the lottery, I would buy it,” he said.
“What if it’s not for sale? What if has sentimental value?”
“Everyone has a price. If it was worth 1.2 million, you think they wouldn’t leave for 8?
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Of course they would. You can buy and sell people if you have enough money.”
I drift off again. We pass a cluster of shops with names like OM and Hippy Dippy Market.
“I love this place,” I say. “This is where all the artists are.”
We’ve already passed two large, wooden signs for singing lessons.
“What the fuck,” he says, “Is this where singers retire?”
I’m getting hungry. We finally arrive at our destination, the Paradise Cove Cafe. We already know what we’re getting; clam chowder, cole slaw. I’ve had it before, I know it’s good.
“Inside or outside?” he asks.
“Outside.”
We get a prime spot facing the ocean. The tables are in sand. Strips of cloth are suspended above, flapping gently in the breeze. We walk, swiveling our feet to gain traction. We order the chilled seafood platter for two. It’s only $26.95 and HUGE, as advertised in bold caps. When it comes, the food looks naked and I regret not getting the fried and battered version. The chill, white color of the scallop ceviche and the flat loops of calamari with their rubbery texture suddenly grosses me out. What look like tiny octopuses lie splayed out on the ice, their legs limp and curled with a purplish tint. Tuna tartare and the tail of a lobster are two things I don’t touch. I am reserved and quiet, pensive and withdrawn. I am reeling from three lines of coke and good, cold vodka from the day before. The bottle came with a little hammer and brush to break the seal and sweep it up. My organs feel swollen. I snorted myself into some kind of quiet oblivion.
When we are finished with our meal, we walk towards the beach.
“Look,” he says, “It’s your favorite bird, the one that runs!”
I spot it. I think it’s called a sandpiper. At least in the east it is. This is the west, so I’m not sure. I chase it so I can watch it’s legs become a blur. I take a video and follow it as it runs along the moving edge of the water. A fat seagull enters the frame and I follow it too. I want to lie down and bask in the sun.
“How about there?”
“Beware of falling rocks. Stay away,” he says, reading a sign.
“It looks safe enough.”
“You don’t want to get hit on the head.”
“There.” I point to a patch of sand and plop down. I close my eyes. He sits. He stands up. He sits again.
“Can’t you relax?”
“No. It’s uncomfortable.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You don’t look comfortable.” Admittedly, I don’t.
“How long do you think you could lay here?”
“I don’t know...twenty minutes maybe.”
“I could lay here for hours.”
“I know.”
He stands up and looks out across the sea.
“That’s Catalina island,” he points. “I went there for a school trip once.”
“Do people live out there? Is it like Nantucket?”
“Good question. Not sure.”
I don’t care if people live out there. I want him to be quiet. The island is just a gray blur in the distance. I learn that it’s a two hour ferry ride.
“Alright. Time to go,” he says.
“Back to Glendale.”
We return to the restaurant. I walk away to use the bathroom while he retrieves the card he forgot. He tells me to wait but I can’t. It’s an emergency. When I finally emerge, I can’t find him. I step outside, sit on a bench and am about to text him my location.
“Where were you?”
“In the bathroom.”
“I told you to wait.”
“I couldn’t.”
There is a short fight in the car and stony silence for twenty minutes.
“You know, my friends and their wives live separate lives,” he says.
He thinks I want him to be someone else. Someone who doesn’t smoke, someone who lies in the sun, someone who doesn’t talk as much.
“I’m going to be a healthy, happy woman one day,” I whispered in a man’s ear once.
“I like you the way you are,” he said. I was drinking too much, fucking too much, dancing with the dark.
“You cut a tragic figure,” someone told me around that time. I was pleased because that’s what I was going for.
This man now, this is the man who brings out the good in me. I have a star chart from when I was born that says I should be with someone who is highly verbal. I offer him something to eat. He needs some time alone. He spends the night at the casino. When he comes home in the morning, he has won.
