Rusty Sunglasses
It was the law of the beach: all men turn to rust. No warning for when it hits. Reasons are vague in a transactional existence. All you can do is spend time and take it as a memory. The page flipping hours harden you and break you down like decorative furniture not far from the waves.
At least, the view ain’t bad. The sunlight in the alley looks better than it did in other cities I’ve lived in. Out on the boardwalk, different brands of swimwear move, North & South, like migrating birds, confused about which exhilarating direction to go.
I was barreling through my third year here and stiffly set, like yesterday’s poured concrete, in the smooth rhythms of a salty tune. Good waves rolled in, and more beer was the only reason to leave the pleasure on the porch. Our hideout in plain sight, and endless smiles were an easy stroll away.
Elder Steve was our neighbor – E.S. as we called him – and across the narrow street from our porch, he resided. We were 3 bro-migos in our mid-twenties, and E.S. was maybe 35 to 40 years our senior. A relic in the area like a rust covered beach cruiser, locked up and forgotten.
He would go to the bar with us, but his liver didn’t have our stamina. The right combination of chemicals could keep him up late; functioning at our pace, telling stories on the porch as the ocean’s power pulsated a short distance away.
His youthful charisma reminded me of a boat that accumulates barnacles quickly, and yet, still makes passes on the bay. I could never tell whether it was age or money that supplied his confidence to chat up ladies, decades his junior.
After another year, our routine was as consistent as the summer fun tourists that flood Mission Beach when the warm, seasonal change hits. I had a much-needed day off, so I went surfing with my roommate, bro-migos. Between wave sets, I mentioned, “Haven’t seen E.S. last few days.”
“He’s probably visiting Hong Kong down in Mexico, and decided to extend the trip,” Shanders hollered, taking off on a curling lip.
We rode through dead hours on Mother Earth’s rolling energy and sent smiling praises to the big-braddah upstairs. After several swell servings, bellied up at the aqua-bar (ocean), we returned to the sun-soaked porch to sip a few south-of-the-border recovery beers.
My wide frame shades blocked the nuclear radiation from the sun as my skin rusted from the rays. The ambulance arrived as groups of beach towels and coolers lumbered up our street to bake in the afternoon oven on the sand.
We watched with curious, street-cat peculiarity, as a Daygo police car arrived. Moms would approve of our use of sun protection, but under it we were perplexed, nonetheless. The cop went inside E.S.’s beach-shack castle, and we leaned against the brick wall barrier of our porch to better assess the situation – riding high hopes that E.S. was alright.
Suddenly, with our stomachs in our throats, the medical workers came through the front door with a metal stretcher. On top was a full sack, like a bag of un-opened potato chips.
Our stomachs made a hard return to our belly regions, and Shanders dropped his ¾ full can-of-beer; making a loud, dense thud, and the liquid dribbled out on the cement porch – the air in our lungs did the same into the beachside atmosphere.
“Excuse me, sir?” Sheezer – my other roommate – asked in bare feet, soles tough as shoes.
“What’s up, man?” the medical worker said.
“Uhh, what’s going on? Where’s Steve?” Sheezer asked.
“He’s gone…the rust got him. The beach will do that, ya know,” the medical worker said, and they loaded the stretcher, locked it in place, and drove off because that’s what ambulances do.
We were shocked, E.S. was gone, and that’s what happens on the beach, when you live there long enough. Another casualty of the sandy-toed-life, so we sipped beers and felt stiff in the sun.
You can learn more about Nicholas by clicking onto his bio: https://thievingmagpie.org/nicholas-viglietti-bio/