Davis Palmer 1,225 words

N Carrywood Dr Fiction

Tucson, AZ  

ON THE BEACH

Revised version by Davis Palmer

The voice on the line belonged to my soon to be ex-roommate’s friend.  I told him Ed was out and was about to hang up.

“Wait.  I called you.”

An hour later I was in his car, a convertible past its prime.  I wasn’t quite sure why he’d invited me or why I’d accepted, but I was in no hurry to go home and hadn’t seen the ocean in over a decade.  Besides, it was hard to dislike a guy who always introduced himself, “Hi, my name’s Donald…as in Duck.”

I didn’t know him well.  When Ed and I were speaking, he’d join us on outings.  When we weren’t, Ed crashed in his room—save for the night Ed ditched me there.  Don was easy on the eyes but nothing special, the boy next door with a hint of muscle tone.  He had a girlfriend, a phys ed major.  I was surprised she didn’t show up.

“You take pictures.  I want to learn photography.  The season hasn’t started and we’ll have the beach to ourselves.  I’ll even pay for gas.”

It was too good to refuse.  I didn’t consider myself much of a teacher, but I had two Pentax bodies, a fast lens, a questionable teleconverter, and a portrait lens from a house sale.  I did my own black and white, shot slides on thinly disguised Dynachrome.  Don had a Konica Auto S2, a decent little rangefinder.  At least I could teach him composition.

It was a six hour drive to the beach.  We drove with the top down.   The closer we got to the ocean, the more beach music poured from the radio, Jan and Dean, Dick Dale, the Beach Boys.  It was a trip back in time as well as place.  If Lloyd Price had sung “I’m gonna get married,” I might have doubted my sanity.

The last time I’d seen the ocean, we stayed at a guest house.  Don chose an unrefurbished 50’s motel.  We had two double beds, a bath, and a clock radio.  Air conditioning would have been cooler, but the breeze smelled so fresh.

Don traded his shirt for a tee shirt, his jeans for shorts, his shoes for flip flops.  I enjoyed the view, tried not to be obvious, did not raise the Pentax and say, “Cheese.”  I didn’t change.  The clothes I always wore were casual enough.

“Grab your camera,” he said.  “Let’s shoot our first sunset.”

“What do you have?”

“Kodacolor.”

I grimaced.  “Back it out.  You need slide film.  Want a roll?”

I checked his speed setting.  I checked mine, made sure I had the body with the color film.

It was an hour till dusk.  The beach was not busy.  Several women and a lesser number of men were living Coppertone ads.  A radio blasted “I Get Around” and a few kids on surfboards rode the waves.

“You ever try that?” Don asked.

I raised my camera and wished for a real tele.

“I’d drown.  I have trouble on a bicycle.”

“It’s a real rush.”

“You surf?”

“I’ve surfed.  I like to try things.”

The sunset was beautiful and late.  I was starved by the time it started, let alone ended.  I took good shots, great shots, but Don was clearly no novice.  He didn’t need help.

We ate stuffed crabs and fries and washed them down with drafts.  We strolled in the dark till the day caught up with me.  I assumed he’d want to stay out, but he didn’t.  We went back to the motel, played hearts, drank Cokes, went to sleep early.

I expected him to leave me, to rent a surfboard or pick up a girl.  I would happily have strolled alone, lost in my childhood, hunted penny arcades and Voice-O-Graphs or taken sneaked shots of male sunbathers.  It wouldn’t have occurred to me to approach any.  My interest was to be covered, concealed, or my degree would be worthless.

Don stayed at my side.  We had a leisurely breakfast, a morning stroll.  We shot scenery, natural and human, side by side—dogs, seals, fishermen, surfers, tourists.  I sneaked a few shots of him.  I was too hesitant to ask him to pose.  I wanted to remember this trip.

The sun was high and we’d been talking about lunch when he kicked off his sandals, handed me his camera and his shirt.

“I feel like a run.  Can you freeze me in action?”

I could freeze a jackhammer.  He ran fast but not far, circled back and kept in range.  His hair was too short to look windblown, but the portrait lens caught the sweat on his skin.  I finished a roll and reloaded.  Shame on me.

After lunch, we took his car and toured the area.  We found a beach straight from my childhood, gingerbread guest houses and a short boardwalk.  In front of one house was a ’60 Rambler American with a For Sale sign, $300.

“You want it, don’t you?” he nudged me.

I nodded.  He was right, but it was the way he said those words.

We ate on the boardwalk, over the water.  I spent more than I meant to, but didn’t much care.  Freedom was fleeting, and life would soon catch up to me.  I’d never fit in.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to try.

The third day, the last day, we slept in.  After breakfast, he bought lunch meat, bread, and cheese.

“Coke or beer?”

“Coke.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked and bought the beer.  “We’re going on a picnic.  Pack lots of film.”

I wasn’t sure the two ideas went together, but did as told.  I expected we’d rent a cooler or take the car, but he put the food in a shopping bag and we set out on foot.  Our progress was slow.  We shot waves, greeting straggling surfers, fed a cloud of gulls.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Don said.

We?

A mile out, we were carrying our shoes.  I had my shirt open, something I never did.  Don wore his shirt as a scarf.  A sudden breeze carried it into the waves and he ran after it, grabbed it, sailed it above his head as it dripped.

The beach turned rough, sand mixed with grass and rocks.  We passed no one for half an hour.  Don stopped, spread a towel, handed me a sandwich and a beer.  I sat beside him.  We watched the waves and ate.  He put an arm on my shoulder.  I was afraid to move.  We had another beer and another.  I felt a pleasant buzz.

“Want me to pose?” he asked.

Don popped up like a jack-in-the box.  He dug his toes into the sand and flashed a grin.  I took a shot, then another.  He spread his arms as if conducting, shifted his weight.  He unfastened his belt.

“You want it, don’t you?”

Those same words.

“You can lie to yourself, but why lie when it’s just us?  I had you pegged the day I met you.  This worth a picture?”

He stepped out of his shorts, spread his legs, and smiled.  He stayed naked and playful long after I’d shot every pose I could imagine.  We lay on the towel, skin against skin, till the air finally turned cold.

090731   On the Beach

 Davis Palmer 1,233 words

N Carrywood Dr Fiction

Tucson, AZ  

ON THE BEACH

by Davis Palmer

The voice on the line belonged to my soon to be ex-roommate’s friend.  I told him Ed was out and was about to hang up.

“Wait.  I called you.”

An hour later I was in his car, a convertible past its prime.  I wasn’t quite sure why he’d invited me or why I’d accepted, but I was in no hurry to go home and hadn’t seen the ocean in over a decade.  Besides, it was hard to dislike a guy who always introduced himself, “Hi, my name’s Donald…as in Duck.”

I didn’t know him well.  When Ed and I were speaking, he’d join us on outings.  When we weren’t, Ed crashed in his room—save for the night Ed ditched me there.  Don was easy on the eyes but nothing special, the boy next door with a hint of muscle tone.  He had a girlfriend, a phys ed major.  I was surprised she didn’t show up.

“You take pictures.  I want to learn photography.  The season hasn’t started and we’ll have the beach to ourselves.  I’ll even pay for gas.”

It was too good an offer to refuse.  I didn’t consider myself much of a teacher, but I had two Pentax bodies, a fast lens, a questionable teleconverter, and a portrait lens from a house sale.  I did my own black and white, shot slides on thinly disguised Dynachrome.  Don had a Konica Auto S2, a decent little rangefinder.  At least I could teach him composition.

It was a six hour drive to the beach.  We drove with the top down.   The closer we got to the ocean, the more beach music poured from the radio, Jan and Dean, Dick Dale, the Beach Boys.  It was a trip back in time as well as place.  If Lloyd Price had sung “I’m gonna get married,” I might have doubted my sanity.

The last time I’d seen the ocean, we stayed at a guest house.  Don chose an unrefurbished 50’s motel.  We had two double beds, a bath, and a clock radio.  Air conditioning would have been cooler, but the breeze smelled so fresh.

Don traded his shirt for a tee shirt, his jeans for shorts, his shoes for flip flops.  I enjoyed the view, tried not to be obvious, did not raise the Pentax and say, “Cheese.”  I didn’t change.  The clothes I always wore were casual enough.

“Grab your camera,” he said.  “Let’s shoot our first sunset.”

“What do you have?”

“Kodacolor.”

I grimaced.  “Back it out.  You need slide film.  Want a roll?”

I checked his speed setting.  I checked mine, made sure I had the body with the color film.

The beach was not busy.  A few families, a few couples, were spread out.  Several women and a lesser number of men were living Coppertone ads.  A radio blasted “I Get Around” and a few kids on surfboards rode the waves.

“You ever try that?” Don asked.

I raised my camera and wished for a real tele.

“I’d drown.  I have trouble on a bicycle.”

“It’s a real rush.”

“You surf?”

“I’ve surfed.  I like to try things.  I’m not like Ed.  We just grew up together.”

The sunset was beautiful and late.  I was starved by the time the show ended.  I took good shots, great shots, but Don was clearly no novice.  He didn’t need to be taught.

We ate stuffed crabs and fries and washed them down with drafts.  We strolled in the dark till the day caught up with me.  I assumed he’d want to stay out, but he didn’t.  We went back to the motel, played hearts, drank Cokes, went to sleep early.

I expected him to leave me, to rent a surfboard or pick up a girl.  I would happily have strolled alone, lost in my childhood, hunted penny arcades and Voice-O-Graphs or taken sneaked shots of male sunbathers.  It wouldn’t have occurred to me to approach any.  My interest was to be covered, concealed, or my degree would be worthless.

Don stayed at my side.  We had a leisurely breakfast, a morning stroll.  We shot scenery, natural and human, side by side, dogs, seals, fishermen, surfers, tourists.  I sneaked a few shots of him.  I was too hesitant to ask him to pose.  I wanted to remember this trip.

The sun was high and we’d been talking about lunch when he kicked off his sandals, handed me his camera and his shirt.

“I feel like a run.  Can you freeze me in action?”

I could freeze a jackhammer.  He ran fast but not far, circled back and kept in range.  His hair was too short to look windblown, but the portrait lens caught the sweat on his skin.  I finished a roll and reloaded.  Shame on me.

After lunch, we took his car and toured the area.  We found a beach straight from my childhood, gingerbread guest houses and a short boardwalk.  In front of one house was a ’60 Rambler American with a For Sale sign, $300.

“You want it, don’t you?” he nudged me.

I nodded.  He was right, but it was the way he said those words.

We ate on the boardwalk, over the water.  I spent more than I meant to, but didn’t much care.  Freedom was fleeting, and life would soon catch up to me.  I’d never fit in.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to try.

The third day, the last day, we slept in.  After breakfast, he bought lunchmeat, bread, and cheese.

“Coke or beer?”

“Coke.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked and bought the beer.  “We’re going on a picnic.  Pack lots of film.”

I wasn’t sure the two ideas went together, but did as told.  I expected we’d rent a cooler or take the car, but he put the food in a shopping bag and we set out on foot.  Our progress was slow.  We shot waves, greeting straggling surfers, fed a cloud of gulls.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Don said.

We?

A mile out, we were carrying our shoes.  I had my shirt open, something I never did.  Don wore his shirt as a scarf.  A sudden breeze carried it into the waves and he ran after it, grabbed it, waved it above his head as it dripped.

The beach turned rough, sand mixed with grass and rocks.  We passed no one for half an hour.  Don stopped, spread a towel, handed me a sandwich and a beer.  I sat beside him.  We watched the waves and ate.  He put an arm on my shoulder.  We had another beer and another.  I felt a pleasant buzz.

“Want me to pose?” he asked, popped up like a jack-in-the box.  He dug his toes into the sand and flashed a grin.  I took a shot, then another.  He spread his arms as if conducting, shifted his weight.  He unfastened his belt.

“You want it, don’t you?”

Those same words.

“You can lie to yourself, but why lie when it’s just us?  I had you pegged the day I met you.  This worth a picture?”

He stepped out of his shorts, spread his legs, and smiled.  He stayed naked and playful long after I’d shot every pose I could imagine.  We lay on the towel, flesh on flesh, till the air finally turned cold.