Beyond Wonderland
by
Paul Jump
It
was when we arrived
out of breath,
soaked with sweat,
at the bus stop
only to see the
back end of the
number 73 disappearing
into the intense
heat haze that
we really began
to lose our tempers.
“Oh,
fucking hell!”
cried Eleni, above
the chinking of
the bottles in
her bag as she
dropped it into
the gutter in
frustration.
“It
seems only fair
to question whether
Odysseus would
ever have made
it back to Ithaca
if he’d
had to rely on
the MBTA,”
I murmured, waving
my hand with furious
vigour in front
of my face to
dispel the cloud
of diesel that
still lingered
in the heavy,
lifeless air.
“It
went two minutes
early!”
exclaimed Eleni,
her nostrils flaring
with indignation
as she glared
at her watch.
“When did
you ever hear
of a bus being
early in Boston?”
“The
worst thing is
that the driver
must have been
able to see the
train arriving
in the station
and deliberately
ignored it.”
I
squinted back
towards the subway
station marooned
in the midst of
a vast expanse
of shimmering
concrete which
must have been
replete with commuters’
cars during the
week but which,
on this sleepy
Sunday in the
dog days of the
New England summer,
was almost completely
bare.
“It’s
just ridiculous,”
resumed Eleni,
confirming the
perfect visibility
of the blue and
white train which
had conveyed us
– if conveyed
is not too grand
a word for such
an achingly slow,
sweaty, overcrowded
journey - from
Government Center.
“How can
the richest country
in the world have
such a fucking
joke of a public
transport system?
Even Greece does
better than this!”
“Maybe
there’s
another one soon,”
I suggested, raising
my voice above
the mounting din
of the jumbo jet
that was looming
bigger and unnervingly
bigger in the
brilliant blue
sky above our
heads, its wheels
already lowered
for its landing
at Logan Airport,
just six subway
stops back towards
Boston.
Alas,
however, from
what I could make
out through the
Pollackesque chaos
of knife scratches
and cigarette
burns inflicted
by bored passengers
on the timetable’s
plastic screen,
there was nothing
scheduled to arrive
for a whole hour.
“We’ve
got to get out
of this country
or I’m going
to become a suicide
bomber,”
hissed Eleni,
scowling like
Nemesis herself
in the direction
of the omnipresent
skyscrapers of
the financial
district, looming
strangely purple
in the hazy distance
“Well,
at least it has
warmed up a bit
since we were
last here,”
I remarked, sinking
down onto the
kerb after a pause,
ignoring what
I excused as her
typically Mediterranean
intemperance.
“Can you
imagine waiting
here for an hour
in January?”
Eleni’s
glare clouded
over somewhat
as she cast her
mind back to those
dark, bitter weeks
before she had
received her first
paycheque from
Harvard Medical
School, whose
offer of a prestigious
postdoctoral fellowship
had prompted us
to make the enormously
irksome, scarcely
relished move
across the Atlantic.
God, what a hard
time that had
been! We had even
resorted to stealing
from our local
supermarket, partly
out of sheer indignation
at Corporate America,
whose realtors,
hardware stores
and utility companies
had unexpectedly
wiped out our
entire savings
in one manic three-day
period, but mostly
out of sheer necessity.
Even the single
dollar it cost
to travel to this
northern tip of
the blue subway
line had seemed
a significant
expense back then
- but it just
hadn’t born
thinking about
the be shut up
all day in our
tiny apartment,
still cluttered
with half-emptied
boxes and half-finished
furniture, while
the winter sun
shone so crisply.
After all, such
a fine day was
rare enough even
in the summer
in Oxford, at
whose preposterous
university, still
proudly marooned
in the era of
Lewis Carroll,
I had met Eleni
four years previously.
Besides, how could
a couple of bewildered
Alices in this
surreal new England
possibly resist
an planning their
first excursion
to a station intriguingly
called Wonderland?
“It’s
hard to believe
this is the same
placed, isn’t
it?” I continued,
peering at the
ramshackle old
fairground beyond
the car park,
which had turned
out to be the
distinctly underwhelming
source of that
name. “Having
such distinct
seasons is like
moving to a different
country every
three months.
Don’t you
think?”
“Fuck
moving to a new
country every
three months,”
asserted Eleni,
with an ardent
shake of the head.
“I’d
rather just live
permanently in
Zakynthos. And
fuck waiting in
this desolate
shit hole for
another hour.
I demand the beach
now!”
She
kicked the kerb
with her sandaled
foot, crying out
at the inevitable
consequences for
her unprotected
toe. I chortled
at the time-honoured
slapstick of her
performance, but
God knew I shared
her frustration
with the situation.
Forgetting to
set our alarm
the previous night,
we hadn’t
even woken up
until around midday.
Then it had taken
us almost an hour
and a half to
complete the two
subway journeys
necessary to get
to this point.
And now, after
missing the three
o’clock
bus, it seemed
that we wouldn’t
reach our destination
until some time
after four: over
four hours late.
“Well,
there’s
the beach over
there,”
I suggested, gesturing
half-heartedly
at the concrete
wall beyond the
main road that
hid the ocean
from view. “We
could wait there,
I suppose…”
“No
way!” declared
Eleni, vehemently.
“It’s
disgusting! You
saw it last time.”
And,
sure enough, I
recalled very
clearly that it
had been the assortment
of condoms, tampons
and plastic bottles
littering the
snow-flecked sand,
as much as the
lacerating force-7
sweeping unobstructed
down the coast
from the Canadian
tundra, that had
driven us back
into the station
before the train
that had brought
us had even begun
its return journey.
“But
do you really
think the beach
will be that much
better at Pete’s?”
I asked, sceptically.
“He can’t
live that far
out of town, surely.”
Pete
Mulligan was a
senior postdoctoral
fellow in the
lab on the opposite
side of the corridor
from Eleni’s,
whose frequent
boasts of living
in a house right
next to the beach
had prompted a
popular clamour
for him to host
a barbecue: a
clamour to which
he had happily
bowed.
“He said
the water is very
clean where he
lives,”
shrugged Eleni.
“Well,
he would tell
you that, wouldn’t
he? He’s
probably been
masturbating for
weeks over the
prospect of seeing
you in a wet bikini!”
This,
after all, was
the man who, just
a few weeks previously,
had approached
Eleni one lunchtime
as she had lain
on the quadrangle
lawn in her summer
dress and called
her a shameless
siren for thus
tempting men with
her legs. Then,
when she had protested
that she was merely
trying to make
the most of the
sunshine, he had
asserted that,
in America, any
woman who didn’t
wear a wedding
ring was a temptress.
Of course, he
had known perfectly
well that she
was married to
me, but he had
evidently mistaken
her scorn of jewellery
for a lack of
conjugal commitment.
“Don’t
be disgusting,”
chided Eleni,
though serious
censure was conspicuous
by its absence
from her tone.
“You
know he has, Eleni.
You said yourself
that he only talks
to your cleavage.”
“No,
I said he only
talks to Blanca’s
cleavage,”
she corrected,
with a sly grin.
“He prefers
my legs. He told
Blanca the other
week that she
has the best tits
on the third floor,
but that I have
the best legs…”
“Did
he really say
that?” I
asked, laughing
with relished
incredulity.
“Apparently.
Doug was there
too - although
Ulrike says he
once told her
that she has the
best legs in the
whole medical
school…”
“That
was before he
met you, of course,”
“I’m
not sure…”
“Of
course it was!”
I leaned forward
and gave her nearest
thigh a reassuring
squeeze, reciprocating
her giggle as
she leapt away
before I could
reach up any higher.
After all, it
was very hard
to take Pete’s
lewd comments
wholly seriously
when they were
dished out so
indiscriminately.
Indeed,
by all accounts
there was scarcely
a single European
female to whom
he had not made
some suggestive
comment or other.
He was apparently
labouring under
the blissful delusion
that Europe was
a continent of
free lovers, for
whose inhabitants
sexual encounters
were as casual
and as common
as cups of coffee.
And the source
of this delusion,
it seemed, was
the existence
of topless beaches,
by which it was
probably fair
to say that he
was obsessed:
it had taken less
than five minutes
from our initial
introduction at
a previous lab
barbecue for him
to begin interrogating
me, “man
to man”,
about what I had
seen on the beaches
of Zakynthos,
and he had repeated
his questions
several times
since.
Not
that I had resented
his doing so.
On the contrary,
there was something
distinctly refreshing
– as well
as amusing –
about the frankness
with which he
thus displayed
his preoccupations.
After all, God
knew that your
average Harvard
postdoc, regardless
of their continent
of origin, tended
to hold their
cards very close
to their chest
(academia, after
all, is hardly
the most attractive
of career options
for those of an
expansive temperament).
Yet Pete, by contrast,
let it all hang
out. He freely
admitted to having
a subscription
to the topless
news channel,
as well as to
frequenting topless
bars in Lynn.
Nor was he even
shy about divulging
his plans for
an excursion to
the nudist beach
which apparently
lurked behind
some particularly
well-endowed dunes
just beyond the
Canadian border.
Moreover,
it was not as
if I entertained
the slightest
fear that Eleni
might surrender
to his advances.
For the truth
was that Pete
Mulligan was exactly
the kind of unsophisticated,
unselfconscious,
unenlightened
“man out
of focus”
for whose production
she – in
common with the
rest of the Europeans
– condemned
American culture.
She decried the
“spray cheesy”
AOR he played
on the stereo
in his lab, the
slack jeans that
hung off his backside
“as if he
had shat himself”
and his endless
collection of
freebie “geek
chic” T-shirts,
bearing the logos
of academic conferences
he had attended
or pharmaceutical
products he had
ordered. But it
was the pot belly,
sustained by an
alleged average
daily intake of
four litres of
Coca-Cola –
swigged from giant
plastic bottles
between experiments
- which really
set the tongues
surreptitiously
wagging whenever
it was seen to
protrude from
beneath a machine-shrunken
hem.
And
then there was
the hair. Mulligan
bore far too close
a resemblance
to mullet for
Pete to avoid
becoming known
to all and sundry
as Pete the Mullet.
Reaching halfway
down his back,
it was the proud
recipient of regular
perms at his local
hairdresser, as
well as even more
frequent bleaching
in his own bathroom,
with peroxide
purloined from
his lab stocks
(a cost-cutting
measure with,
he claimed, saved
him $20 a month).
He also admitted
to giving his
thick moustache
the same treatment,
although rumours
still lingered
that it was all
the acid in the
Coke that really
did it.
“At
least one of your
lab mates could
have offered us
a lift!”
I murmured at
length, glaring
at a passing car
in displaced resentment.
“Or are
the back seats
of American cars
only for show?”
Most
of the Harvard
Europeans remained
remarkably loyal
to public transport
despite the appalling
service, but the
Americans were
a very different
story; according
to a Bostonian
lab mate of Eleni’s,
only “losers”
used the subway
at the weekend.
“Maybe
we could get a
lift back with
someone, at least,”
she suggested.
“No
chance: they’ll
all be back home
by now, watching
the Red Sox game.”
“That’s
true.”
“And
there won’t
be any food left
either.”
“No…”
That
seemed to be the
pattern at Medical
School barbecues:
the Americans
would arrive early
with a young child
or two and a plastic
Stop and Shop
bags full of burgers
and chicken drumsticks,
which they would
proceed to eat
while standing
around the grill
and chatting desultorily
about television,
pre-school care
and their most
recent out-of-town
shopping trips.
Then, just as
they began to
drift off home,
the Europeans
would start to
arrive with brown
paper bags full
of alcohol and
pockets bulging
with CDs, to which
the Mediterraneans
would spend evening
dancing while
those from the
North Sea rim
looked on drinking
beer, arguing
about football
and agreeing what
a global calamity
the election of
George W Bush
had been.
“So what
do you want to
do for the next
hour?” I
asked, surprised
to see an all-but-empty
rollercoaster
train executing
an all-but-silent
loop the loop;
we had assumed
in January that
the whole place
was derelict.
“The fair
seems to be open…”
“Fuck
that!” declared
Eleni, fixing
her eyes on a
large brown and
white car as it
emerged from the
heat haze. “Let’s
get this taxi.”
“Are
you sure?”
I asked, uncertainly,
still not quite
having regained
my sense of financial
security despite
the healthy dual
income we now
enjoyed. “It
might be expensive:
we don’t
know how far it
is.”
“I
don’t care,”
replied Eleni,
thrusting her
hand out with
all the gusto
of a punch. “I’m
not spending a
whole hour in
this fucking dump.”
“I
suppose you’re
right,”
I agreed, reluctantly,
rising to my feet.
“We are
very late…”
At
first it looked
as if the taxi
wasn’t going
to stop but, at
the last minute,
it suddenly lurched
into the lay-by
that constituted
the bus stop.
Instinctively,
I leaned down
to snatch Eleni’s
bag from its prone
position in the
gutter, but a
superior reflex
of self-preservation
threw me back
again as the car
closed in on my
skull in a Hollywood
screech of brakes.
“Why
don’t you
put that in the
trunk?”
said Eleni, glancing
impassively at
the green canvas
rucksack lying
less than half
an inch from the
taxi’s near
back wheel. After
all, erratic and
inattentive though
they almost invariably
were by British
standards, Bostonian
taxi drivers were
paragons of consistency
and discipline
compared to the
kind of kamikaze
dodgem racers
with whom Eleni
had got used to
sharing the roads
while learning
to drive in Athens
as an undergraduate.
“Boot!”
I corrected, waving
my hand vigorously
in front of my
face, as much
to dissipate the
rush of adrenalin
that the near
miss had evoked
as to dispel the
cloud of dust
it had kicked
up. “It’s
a car, not a fucking
elephant!”
“It’s
not a fucking
shoe either,”
she retorted,
opening the rear
door. “Just
pass the bag to
me. I need to
get the address
out of it anyway.”
She
sat down with
a little shriek
as I leaned down
and picked up
the bag; it was
only when I sat
down beside her
and the black,
sun-heated black
leather came into
contact with my
bare legs that
I realized that
shriek had not,
after all, been
one of exasperation
at my habit of
chiding her for
every Americanism
that slipped into
her vocabulary.
Indeed, I was
obliged to call
on all my English
reserve so as
not to echo her
reaction at twice
the volume.
Stretching
her skirt down
between the backs
of her thighs
and the seat,
she reached into
the front pocket
of her bag and
removed the white
post-it note on
which Pete had
written his address.
She leant forward
and passed it
to the driver
– a seriously
overweight Hispanic
sporting a good
three days of
stubble and huge
sweat-stains in
the armpits of
his shirt - who
grunted something
we took to indicate
that he knew where
it was, then proceeded
to screw the paper
into a ball, toss
it out of the
open window and
drive off in much
the same whiplash-threatening
fashion as that
in which he had
come to a halt.
“Well,
however hot it
might feel, at
least we needn’t
fear being incinerated
today,”
I murmured, peering
fearfully out
of the back window
at the startlingly
close owner of
the horn which
had angrily greeted
us as we joined
the main road.
“What
are you talking
about?”
asked Eleni, even
she looking a
little nervous
as the driver
simply leaned
forward nonchalantly
and turned up
the radio. “You
get burned even
when it’s
cloudy.”
“I
mean that Phaeton
is evidently too
busy driving his
taxi today to
concern himself
with his father’s
chariot.”
Phaethon
was a reckless
young man who,
one day, manipulated
his father, Apollo,
into letting him
drive the chariot
of the sun. However,
Phaethon’s
inexperience,
and consequent
inability to control
the horses, threatened
to consume the
Earth in flames
until Zeus struck
him dead with
a thunderbolt.
Not that Eleni
was remotely interested
in her country’s
ancient mythology
– as the
silence with which
she responded
to my explanation
attested. Indeed,
it is fair to
say that she had
actually come
to resent my frequent,
irresistible allusions
to it, on account
of her immortal
suspicion that,
as a Classicist,
I was only interested
in her because
I associated her
with Eleni of
Troy. On one occasion
when she had drunkenly
voiced that suspicion,
I had replied
that any man would
be interested
in a woman who
evoked comparisons
with the most
beautiful female
who ever lived
- and that any
woman other than
her would be flattered
by such a comparison.
However, that
had failed to
placate her. She
said any man who
was so enslaved
to received, hackneyed
notions of beauty
that he started
a war over the
woman who best
embodied them
was a fool and
a criminal.
A
sign flashed past
us reading: Lynn
15.
“Lynn?
Isn’t that
where Pete’s
topless bar it?”
I asked, my forehead
banging against
the window glass
as the taxi juddered
through one of
the numerous potholes
which, much to
our initial surprise,
littered the road
surfaces in this
land of the automobile.
“I
think so,”
she nodded, with
a faint smile.
“So
much for him wanting
to live out here
to recreate his
beachside Californian
childhood!”
“He
says he also likes
it because it’s
cheap. Apparently
he pays half of
what we do - although
God knows why
he needs such
a cheap house:
he earns more
than I do and
it’s not
as if he has kids
or a car. He never
even goes on holiday,
apparently: he
doesn’t
even have a passport.”
“He
must have an extremely
serious pornography
habit,”
“I
don’t want
to know,”
she frowned, peering
at a roadside
banner in Spanish,
the numerous grammatical
failings and English
corruptions of
which would doubtless
have been pointed
out to us, with
a mixture of amusement
and dismay, had
any of the Harvard
Iberian contingent
been with us.
“How
old is Pete?”
I asked, eventually.
“Late
thirties.”
“And
yet he’s
still a post doc?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t
he have been a
group leader by
now? Or isn’t
he up to it?”
“No.
He’s very
clever. Apparently
he knows more
than his boss
about many things.”
“So
why doesn’t
he apply?”
“That’s
a good question.
Maybe he doesn’t
want the responsibility…
It’s shit
around here, isn’t
it?”
I
put my finger
to my lip urgently.
After all, it
was highly likely
that our driver
– who already
seemed hell-bent
on killing us
- lived somewhere
in the vicinity,
and we couldn’t
entirely rely
on his incomprehension
of English spoken
with a Greco-British
accent. But once
I was sure he
wasn’t watching
us in his overtaking
mirror, I did
see fit to nod.
For despite the
preponderance
of the kind of
colourful weatherboarding
which I still
found distinctly
exotic and picturesque,
the area was undeniably
shabby and desolate:
the kind of anonymous,
blue-collar hinterland
your average SUV-driving
Brookline resident
would rush through
as quickly as
possible on their
way up to the
fashionable beaches
further up the
coast, without
a thought for
the poor bastards
who were obliged
to call it home.
Then
again, what would
our driver’s
family back in
Mexico have said
had they know
that he was, at
that moment, driving
a taxi with $30
on the meter?
$30! Such a sum
would have been
beyond their wildest
dreams. Indeed,
it was close to
going beyond my
worst nightmare
too. God, what
a preposterous
undertaking this
was! To hell with
conscience! Why
hadn’t we
just taken the
commuter rail
to that king of
misnamed towns,
Manchester-by-the-Sea?
For once, I wouldn’t
even have resented
paying the dollar
‘walk on’
fee for the admittedly
lovely beach which
the local council
had the –
to our Old World
sensibilities
- outrageous gall
to charge. After
all, it wasn’t
as if we would
have been missed:
Pete had apparently
invited practically
everyone on his
floor of the Medical
School: at least
thirty people,
not counting respective
spouses and children.
No, we wouldn’t
have been missed
at all…
Eventually,
after another
$5 had been accounted
for, we turned
off the highway
onto a long street
of small, mostly
whitewashed, weather-boarded
houses, each fourth
one of which was
indicated by a
telegraph pole
on the footpath
in front of it,
leaning at a unique
angle to the vertical
such that the
cables zigzagged
their way into
the distance like
the spiders’
silk-ways that
had used to glimmer
every morning,
dripping with
dew, on our little
lawn in Oxford.
The
taxi finally pulled
up at the tall,
possibly man-made
sand dunes that
blocked off the
end of the street.
Withdrawing the
entire $40 contents
of my wallet,
I passed it all
forward and wincingly
told the driver
to keep the change
(even if he hadn’t
been so big and,
apparently, unhinged,
we had learned
never to dream
of withholding
a generous “gratuity”
from an American
taxi driver after
more than one
had taken us to
task over our
doing during Black
January, when
we had been forced
to use taxis to
bring home the
furniture we needed).
Then I followed
Eleni out, slammed
the door behind
me and took her
hand in mine as
the car executed
a hasty three-point
turn and then
diminished into
the distance.
“Welcome
to Ithaca,”
I muttered, as
the sound of the
engine was superseded
by the chirping
of the crickets
and the faint
thud of a basketball
being bounced
in a distant driveway.
“It’s
certainly as desolate
as Ithaca,”
agreed Eleni,
looking around
her in bewilderment.
“Never mind
the Odyssey you
have to undertake
to get here.”
“Imagine
what it must be
like on a winter
night.”
“Fucking
hell…”
I
reached my arm
around her waist
as we perversely
savoured the imagined
horror of being
buried where we
stood, in our
summer clothes,
by an invisible
nor’easter.
“So,
do you remember
which number Pete’s
is?” I asked
at length, as
we were recalled
to reality by
the almost comforting
roar of another
plane, invisible
behind the sand
dunes.
“I
think it’s
that one,”
she said, pointing
to the little
house at the very
end of the street.
“Number
seventy-five.”
“It’s
double-glazed,”
I observed, disapprovingly.
“I don’t
suppose that bothers
Pete.”
“No…”
“And
at least it keeps
out the noise
of the planes
better: apparently
they start landing
at five-thirty
every morning.”
“Christ.”
She
set off towards
Pete’s driveway.
“Where
are you going?”
I called after
her. “I
thought it was
going to be on
the beach?”
“Yes,”
she agreed, without
stopping. “But
it might be over
by now: there
aren’t any
cars here, are
there?”
“But
if it’s
over, it’s
over,” I
protested, inching
forward as she
approached the
house. “Pete
probably has a
lot of cleaning
up to do: I’m
sure he won’t
want us hanging
around.”
“Well,
we’ll ask
him,” she
said, stopping
and glancing over
her shoulder as
I lingered on
the pavement.
“You’re
not scared, are
you?”
“Eleni,
as Aristotle so
rightly noted,
there is a happy
medium between
cowardice and
foolhardiness.”
“But
what is there
to be scared of?”
she laughed, scornfully.
“He’s
not a Cyclops.”
“Don’t
be too sure! He
is almost the
size of one, for
a start. And his
two-dimensional
world-view suggests
that one of his
eyes might well
just be painted
on. No, Eleni,
I wouldn’t
put it past him
to eat me alive
and then ravish
you with his red-hot
poker!”
I
was joking, of
course, but, at
the same time,
I did feel some
genuine unease
about the prospect
of encountering
Pete in his own
lair. After all,
who knew what
such a big, strong,
sexually frustrated
Republican was
capable of doing
when confronted,
in his own house,
with the golden
Greek apple of
his desire and
her pinko English
stick of asparagus
of a husband?
Who knew what
depraved implements
of restraint he
had stashed away
under the stairs?
“Don’t
be stupid,”
responded Eleni,
with a frown of
distaste, marching
towards the front
door purposefully.
Protective
instinct impelled
me reluctantly
after her. However,
instead of knocking
on the front door,
she merely peered
at it curiously.
Hurrying up to
her, my gaze,
too, was caught
by the pair of
his white post-it
notes (evidently
a freebie from
the reagents company
whose logo they
bore) stuck side-by-side
on the white plastic.
I am on the beach
read the first
note, while on
the second Pete
had drawn a neat,
detailed little
map indicating
how to find the
precise point
on the beach which
he had chosen.
“X
marks the spot,”
I remarked, vaguely
touched by the
entirely needless
effort which his
cartography had
evidently involved.
For all that was
really required
was the sentence
Go to the beach
and look right.
“Only
a scientist could
have drawn that,”
smiled Eleni,
retracing her
steps up the driveway.
The
X was drawn immediately
adjacent to the
water’s
edge. Indeed,
Pete had chosen
today for his
barbecue precisely
because the high
tide was due to
occur around midday,
when everyone
was supposed to
arrive. That way,
people wouldn’t
have to walk far
from the encampment
to play their
part in the inter-lab
water volleyball
tournament for
which they had
expressed such
enthusiasm when
he had proposed
it. However, our
slow, sweaty ascent
of the dunes revealed
that, by now,
the lazy little
waves were breaking
a good two hundred
yards from the
strip of dazzlingly
bright, dry sand
which indicated
the high water
mark.
“Can
you see him?”
I asked, hastily
sliding my feet
back into my sandals
on account of
the unbearable
temperature of
the sand.
“That
must be him,”
she said, pointing
in the direction
indicated by the
map. ‘You
can see his hair
sticking out of
that awful hat
of his.”
I
imitated Eleni’s
pose as she stood
with her hand
held to her forehead
like the brim
of Pete’s
beloved LA Dodgers
cap. And, sure
enough, there
was that very
item, about fifty
yards away, beneath
which could be
seen Pete’s
equally unmistakable,
shirtless belly
rising out of
his lap like another
dune as his reclined
in a beach chair.
He was surrounded
by all manner
of inanimate objects
but, it appeared,
not a single human
soul.
“He’s
on his own,”
I murmured, darkly.
“Yes,”
confirmed Eleni,
watching as he
lifted a bottle
to his lips and
then set it down
again in the pocket
in the arm of
his chair. A gull
lumbered above
our heads as if
weighed down by
the heaviness
of the atmosphere.
“Should
we just go back?”
I ventured, uncertainly.
“He’s
probably not going
to be very happy
about having to
entertain us if
everyone else
has already gone.
It’s not
as if we’re
really his friends
or anything...”
“Fuck
that,” she
responded, with
only a touch less
than her usual
emphatic conviction.
“There’s
no way I’m
spending $42 and
travelling for
three hours just
to walk up a fucking
sand hill. I demand
at least a swim.”
“I
suppose you’re
right…”
I admitted, with
a heavy sigh.
“Come
on,” she
said, setting
off down the slope
towards him. “The
gannets might
even have left
us a bit of food.”
“Christ,
I hope so,”
I responded, following
in her rapidly
filling footprints.
“I’m
starving.”
As
we approached
Pete, the identities
of the objects
by which he was
surrounded gradually
revealed their
identities. There
was a giant plastic
drinks cooler
with a miniature
surfboard wedged
into the sand
adjacent to one
of its thinner
sides, like the
stone at the head
of a grave. Next
to that there
was a ball, a
pair of beach
tennis racquets,
a neatly folded
pile of multicoloured
towels and various
white plastic
bags. It was only
when we were almost
upon him that
I detected the
strangely flat
voices emanating
from the little
radio half-hidden
in the sandal
at his feet.
“Pete,
I’m really
sorry we’re
so late,”
began Eleni, breathlessly,
before Pete had
even noticed our
approach. “The
T was a nightmare;
I can’t
believe you travel
all that way every
day!”
Her
bag chinked noisily
as she dropped
it unceremoniously
onto the sand
in front of him.
“You
are certainly
the Ulysses of
the New World,”
I agreed, following
her lead and sinking
down onto my knees
like a citizen
of Ithaca upon
the return of
his long-lost
king.
“Odysseus,”
she corrected,
her lack of interest
in her country’s
mythology not
being so complete
as to tolerate
my occasional
lapse into what
she called the
Roman usurpers’
nomenclature.
“Sorry,
the Odysseus of
the New World.”
“And
now we’ve
missed everyone,”
she continued,
reverting her
attention to Pete.
“I know
it’s very
bad manners to
be so late. We
won’t stay
long: I just need
a swim after all
that time travelling.”
“How
was water polo?”
I asked, a little
perturbed by Pete’s
apparent reluctance
to speak.
“There wasn’t
any water polo,”
he replied, reaching
toward the pile
of towels and
tossing the top
two towards us.
“You can
lie on these.”
“Why?
Was the current
from Canada down
again?”
I persisted, standing
up once more to
spread the towels
on the sand.
“No.
But you can’t
play water polo
on your own,”
answered Pete,
turning down the
volume on his
radio despite
the rising clamour
of the next plane
looming in the
distance like
a petrified gull.
“What?
Didn’t anyone
want to play?”
cried Eleni, rolling
over onto the
towel I had just
spread beside
her and slipping
her dress over
her head. “The
lazy buggers!”
“Actually,
nobody even showed
up,” replied
Pete, almost inaudibly
above the mounting
noise, adjusting
his sunglasses
as Eleni adjusted
the bra of her
bikini.
“What?
Nobody at all?”
she cried, incredulously.
Pete
shook his head
enigmatically
and continued
to feast his eyes
on her siren’s
curves, placing
his index fingers
in his ears as
the noise reached
its height.
“It’s
a shame because
I went out and
bought all this
chicken,”
he resumed, as
the plane’s
rear sank towards
the loops of the
Wonderland rollercoaster,
still just distinguishable
in the distance.
“Do you
want some? It’s
a bit cold now,
but it should
still be OK…”
He
reached down into
one of the plastic
bags and withdrew
a huge bucket
of Kentucky Fried
Chicken wings.
“I
don’t eat
meat, unfortunately,”
I said, recoiling
despite my hunger.
“Do you
want some, Eleni?”
“Maybe
a bit,”
she answered,
taking the bucket
dubiously, removing
the lid and peering
inside at the
lumps of soggy
batter.
“Drinks
are all in the
cooler. You’re
not teetotal as
well, are you?”
“Heaven
forbid,”
I answered, walking
on my knees towards
the cooler. God
knew that I had
been burned enough
times –
both figuratively
and literally
– by the
heady combination
of alcohol and
sunshine. Nevertheless,
given the decidedly
awkward social
circumstances,
as well as the
effective lack
of any other form
of sustenance,
the attainment
of that characteristically
woozy, one-step-removed-from-reality
feeling struck
me as a highly
attractive proposition.
“If it wasn’t
for alcohol, Eleni
and I would still
just be passing
acquaintances.”
“The
English race would
die out if they
didn’t have
beer to remove
their inhibitions,”
assented Eleni,
with a sly grin.
“Isn’t
that pathetic?”
“On
the other hand,
at least women
in England aren’t
constantly pestered
by lascivious
men,” I
added, unable
to resist a quick
glance in Pete’s
direction.
“No
– that’s
why English women
flock to Greece
and Spain to lie
on the beach all
week in nothing
but a thong. No
Greek woman would
ever be that desperate
for attention!”
“Do
you need a hand
with that?”
asked Pete, watching
me struggling
with the clasps
on the cooler,
ignoring Eleni’s
pregnant comments.
“No,
I think I’ve
got it,”
I replied, finally
eliciting a click
from the mysterious
little mechanism.
“Open sesame!”
I
lifted up the
lid and peered
inside at the
mass of beer bottles
submerged beneath
an inch or so
of melt water.
“Christ,
Pete, I see now
why you marked
this spot on your
map with an X,”
I exclaimed, pleasantly
surprised to see
a few bottles
of my favourite
Mexican beer glowing
among the dull
brown ranks of
Budweiser. “This
is a priceless
chest of gold
you’ve dug
up!”
“If
you dig down a
bit toward the
left, you’ll
find cocktails
too,” he
responded, more
to Eleni than
to me. “I
can highly recommend
them: that’s
why there are
none left at the
top!”
Wincing
with the shock,
I plunged my arm
into the slush
and pushed all
the beer bottles
to the right of
the chest to reveal,
shimmering in
the water like
tropical fish,
about thirty little
plastic tubes
filled with various
brightly-coloured
liquids.
“Jesus,
look at this Eleni.”
She
walked on her
knees towards
me.
“Oh!
You used Falcon
tubes from the
lab!” she
cried, excitedly.
‘That’s
such a good idea!”
“The
piña colada
is particularly
good,” remarked
Pete, stroking
his moustache
suavely.
“What’s
the orange one?”
asked Eleni.
“That’s
a California screw,”
replied Pete,
admiring her bottom
as she leant over
the chest. “Vodka,
orange juice and
grapefruit.”
“Do
you have sex on
the beach as well?”
I asked, dryly.
“I’m
afraid not,”
answered Pete.
“I don’t
know how to make
that one. What
is it?”
“I
don’t know:
we should ask
a Canadian.”
“Well,
I’ll have
a California screw
if you please,
barman,”
grinned Eleni.
“I suppose
you want one too,
Pete?”
“Hell,
why not?”
“Then
I’ll have
a piña
colada,”
I said, plunging
my free hand into
the slush. “Somebody
has to preserve
some sense of
decorum.”
As
I fished for the
tubes, I met Eleni’s
gaze knowingly,
aware from the
soft look in her
eyes that she
was as moved as
I was. The poor
bastard. He had
brought out all
this stuff to
play with, ordered
all this food
and drink, even
gone to the trouble
of making individual
measures of cocktails
for everyone,
and no-one had
even had the decency
to turn up: not
even those of
his own lab mates
who had convinced
him to organize
the event in the
first place. He
had been sitting
there on his own
for three and
a half hours,
watching the tide
go out with nothing
but the baseball
commentary for
company, until
we had finally
arrived –
reluctantly, unforgivably
late and with
a distinctly satirical
attitude. The
poor bastard.
Strangely
enough, Pete himself
didn’t seem
unduly concerned
by the mass no-show,
soon launching
into lengthy monologues
on the Canadian
nudist beach and
the superiority
of the Los Angeles
Dodgers to the
Boston Red Sox.
Perhaps the edge
had been taken
off his disappointment
and resentment
by the sun and
the alcohol, or
perhaps he was
just too polite,
too American to
express such negative
feelings. Either
way, it was hard
to believe he
wasn’t churning
up inside, and
the more of his
cocktails I drank,
the more I wished
there had been
something more
we could do for
him than just
pretend to be
interested while
he explained the
rules of baseball
in both its American
and National league
forms.
Indeed,
such was the intensity
of my pity for
him that I was
positively glad
when Eleni responded
positively to
his suggestion
that we go for
a swim –
and my refusal
to accompany them
was inspired not
so much by the
alcoholic haze
as by a desire
to give him the
sole enjoyment
of her wet-bikini-clad
company for a
quarter of an
hour (albeit that
that bikini was
not of his beloved
thong variety
- which, according
to him, could
be seen in surprising
abundance if you
walked down the
beach towards
central Revere,
where the Brazilian
girls congregated).
“He
thinks he’ll
become radioactive,”
jeered Eleni,
standing above
me and prodding
my back with her
foot.
“Oh,
the water’s
perfectly clean,”
asserted Pete,
a little half-heartedly.
“Massachusetts
Bay used to have
a deservedly bad
reputation, but
they’ve
cleaned it up
real well. I swim
every morning
and evening in
the summer and
it hasn’t
done me any harm.”
It
occurred to me
to make a joke
about its having
bleached his moustache
but I refrained,
having already
learned from awkward
experience at
work how little
Americans appreciate
the kind of ribbing
that is second
nature to the
English. So, murmuring
that I was too
drunk to swim,
I closed my eyes
again and pretended
to be on the verge
of sleep, before
propping myself
up on my elbows
to watch them
as they walked
towards the water.
Just in case…
An
hour and a half
or so later, when
the sun had disappeared
behind the clouds
which had suddenly
precipitated from
nowhere, I challenged
Eleni to a game
of beach tennis.
Not that I was
feeling quite
the same intensity
of compassion
for Pete by now:
there was only
so long that boredom’s
tide could be
held back by an
alcohol-waxed
moon of pathos.
Nevertheless,
it occurred to
me that the best
way to cut short
his tediously
earnest defence
of the sporting
credentials of
his favourite
event at the Athens
Olympics, the
women’s
beach volleyball,
would be to confront
him with the sight
of Eleni demonstrating
similarly breathtaking
skill. Moreover,
I knew what it
was like to be
alone, as he was:
I knew what it
was like for television
screens to constitute
one’s most
potent source
of sexual gratification.
And I just felt
like celebrating
the fact that
that was no longer
the case: the
fact that my pale,
skinny phenotype
had proved more
attractive to
Greek women than
it had to English
ones: the fact
that Eleni was
my gorgeous wife
and that Pete
the Mullet could
look all he wanted,
but he could never
touch. Ah, I was
even prepared
to let her beat
me, for once...
However,
before we had
even reached the
first set tie-break,
the sky had grown
so dark that we
deemed it time
to make a strategic
withdrawal from
the beach. Not
that we were afraid
of getting wet:
indeed, the humidity
had already become
so extreme that
it felt as if
the air was condensing
around us. But
lightning was
a different matter:
only last week
someone had been
mortally struck
while walking
his dog along
the beach at Wonderland.
And then there
was that horrifyingly
ironic story Eleni
had recently told
me – as
irrefutable proof
of the non-existence
of God - about
the man in Greece
who had been struck
at his friend’s
funeral on account
of the large iron
crucifix he had
been wearing around
his neck for the
occasion…
After
folding up his
dangerously metal-legged
chair and sliding
it into its cylindrical
bag, Pete leant
down and pulled
out the plug of
the chest, leaving
Eleni and I to
watch with the
glee of urinating
children as the
melt-water gushed
out of the hole,
instantly dredging
an elaborate series
of dark, winding
canals in the
off-white sand.
“I
don’t think
we’ll be
able to take everything
in one go,”
I remarked, looking
around at all
the paraphernalia
and recalling
the considerable
dead weight of
beer bottles that
still remained
in the chest.
“Do you
want to wait here
for us, Elen,
while we take
the chest?”
“Sure
we can take it
all in one go,”
retorted Pete,
placing the surf
board on top of
the cooler, followed
by the towels.
“Are
you sure?”
I asked, dubiously.
“My biceps
may not look like
much, but I can
assure that they
look much stronger
than they really
are.”
“You’ll
be fine,”
replied Pete,
dismissively,
thrusting the
folding chair
under one arm
before lifting
the chest with
his other hand.
“I carried
it here on my
own.”
“Ooh!”
giggled Eleni,
rushing up and
feeling his bicep
admiringly and
he led the way
slowly, jerkily
toward his house.
“The Californian
Heracles!”
“Odysseus,”
I corrected, a
little breathlessly,
imitating Pete’s
tiny, rapid steps
which were the
only means of
moving the chest’s
cumbersome bulk.
“The Californian
Odysseus.”
“I
think he looks
more of a Heracles,”
persisted Eleni,
gathering up the
remaining items
hastily. “Don’t
you agree, Pete?”
“But
Heracles doesn’t
fit him,”
I insisted, watching
her over my shoulder.
“He’s
not doing twelve
labours, is he?
Whereas he does
travel home a
long way every
night –
and he is often
waylaid by topless
sirens!”
“Topless
sirens: now you’re
talking!”
grinned Pete.
“Odysseus
it is, then,”
I answered.
“His
name sounds cooler
too,” confirmed
Pete.
“Well,
if you’re
the Californian
Odysseus,”
declared Eleni,
hurrying up with
us, her arms laden
with bags, balls
and the dress
she still hadn’t
had a chance to
put back on, “Who
is the California
Penelope, who
you travel all
this way to come
home to every
night?”
“There
is no Californian
Penelope,”
he answered, with
a dismissive laugh.
“Are
you sure?”
she persisted,
as we began to
ascend the dunes.
“Positive.
Now you want to
hurry through
these dunes: they’re
full of ticks
that carry Lyme’s
disease.”
Eleni
gave a cry and
dashed ahead of
us, leaving us
to make our elephantine
progress between
the malign clumps
of grass as quickly
as we could: an
effort which had
turned even Pete’s
face a liquid
red by the time
we had reached
the summit. His
claim to have
done all this
by himself earlier,
I concluded, could
only have been
a piece of utterly
mendacious bravado:
in reality, he
must have brought
the beer little
by little and
only put it in
the cooler on
the beach.
As
we descended the
dunes, the ever-rising
agony in my arms
was mitigated
somewhat by the
amusing sight
of Eleni standing
at the top of
Pete’s driveway
surrounded by
all the stuff
she had dropped,
urgently scanning
every inch of
her body for anything
that might correspond
to her notion
of what a tick
must look like
before slipping
her dress back
over her head.
“Could
you open the front
door for us, Eleni?”
called Pete, over
his shoulder.
“It’s
not locked.”
“You
don’t lock
your door?”
she cried, in
surprise.
“There’s
no need.”
he replied, breezily.
“That’s
one of the nice
things about living
out here.”
We
made our way up
the driveway and
through the door
which Eleni held
open for us, setting
the chest down
on the kitchen
floor.
My
exhaustion was
such that it took
me a few moments
to even register
my surroundings.
When I did, however,
I was surprised
to note that,
far from every
grubby surface
being piled high
with three days’
unwashed dishes,
everything was
strikingly clean
and tidy. Nor
was the bathroom
anything like
the pubic hair-riddled
latrine we had
envisaged –
with gleeful revulsion
- on the subway.
And even the bedroom,
where our tour
of the house reached
its end, hardly
resembled the
malodorous pit
we had expected.
True, the Dali
poster and Pamela
Anderson calendar
on the walls,
not to mention
the science fiction
novel and electronic
game console on
the floor, made
it look more like
the bedroom of
a freshman than
of a very senior
postdoctoral fellow.
Furthermore, the
net curtain in
front of its window,
combined with
the deep brown
of its carpet
(the symbol, for
continental Europeans
like Eleni, of
Americans’
lamentable preference
for ‘comfort’
over style), lent
it a darkness
and sense of insulation
from the outside
world which was
distinctly unpleasant
after two previous
hours spent on
a semi-deserted
beach. Still,
it was relatively
recently vacuumed
there wasn’t
a single soiled
undergarment to
be seen anywhere.
“You’re
welcome to wait
out the storm
here, by the way,”
remarked Pete,
as he set about
creating waves
in the waterbed,
onto which he
had succeeded
in enticing Eleni.
“No, it’s
OK,” she
replied, giggling
with a mixture
of pleasure, surprise
and unease at
the peculiar sensation.
“We should
get back: we’re
supposed to be
meeting Blanca
for a drink later.”
That
wasn’t true,
but I wasn’t
about to expose
her. For the sight
of her lying there
on that oversized
bed next to Pete
the Mullet suddenly
brought all my
earlier misgiving
flooding back.
For even though
there were no
obvious stains
visible on its
purple satin comforter,
there still seemed
to be something
essentially unclean
about it. After
all, who knew
what undreamt-of,
internet-ordered
phenomena lurked
in the black cabinet
at its head? Besides,
my exertions with
the cooler had
combined with
the alcohol and
the consummately
close atmosphere
to precipitate
quite a headache,
such that my patience
for small talk
was rapidly coming
to an end.
“Suit
yourselves,”
he answered, ceasing
his exertions
and looking at
his watch. “You
should be on the
bus before the
rain starts anyway
if you get the
next one: it’s
due in ten minutes.”
There
was no direct
evidence of disappointment
in his tone as
he proceeded to
explain how to
get to the bus
stop – although,
an hour previously,
I’m sure
I would have interpreted
the needless detail
into which he
went as a redirection
of such a feeling.
“I
think I just heard
thunder,”
I declared, cutting
short a lengthy
subsequent monologue
on the traffic
conditions on
an average Sunday
evening in the
Revere area.
“Yes,
you should get
going,”
agreed Pete. “You
can shelter under
the awning of
the grocery store
next to the bus
stop if the storm
breaks before
the bus comes.
Just make sure
you stick your
hand out so the
driver stops!”
“We
will,” assured
Eleni.
With
effusive declarations
of what a wonderful
afternoon we had
had, we made our
way to the front
door and stepped
outside. However,
just as we did
so, the door of
the house opposite
also opened, and,
from it, emerged
an attractive,
blond-haired woman
of around thirty-five,
her face heavily
made up, her jeans
stretched onto
shapely hips and
her ample bust
covered by a short
pink T-shirt that
ended just above
the gold stud
in her belly button.
“Why,
hello, Peter!”
she called, with
an exaggerated
grin. “You’ve
got visitors,
I see! Whatever
next?”
“Yes,
this is Eleni
and Paul,”
replied Pete,
a little sheepishly.
“Guys, this
is Martha, my
neighbour.”
“Pleased
to meet you,”
she said, approaching
us and offering
us a red-nailed
hand to shake.
“Eleni
works with me
at Harvard,”
continued Pete,
pulling his door
closed behind
him. “She’s
Greek.”
“Oh
really?”
cried Martha,
as if that were
the most fascinating
thing she had
ever heard. “I’ve
been watching
some of the Olympics
from there. It
looks awesome!”
“Yes…”
muttered Eleni,
doing very well
to disguise her
horror at having
the “O-word”
mentioned to her
yet again. For
she was even less
interested in
sport than she
was in mythology.
The
rather awkward
silence was filled
by another growl
of thunder and
the gathering
shriek of yet
another plane.
A glance at the
sky revealed the
clouds to have
taken on the strange
purple-yellow
darkness of a
black eye.
“Well,
I must dash,”
said Martha, taking
a step backwards
onto her own driveway.
“You’re
working tonight?”
asked Pete.
“I
sure am,”
she grinned, walking
towards her new-looking
red coupe. “Are
you guys taking
the bus to Wonderland?”
she called, opening
the car door.
Eleni
and I both nodded
reluctantly as
she opened the
car door.
“Can
I offer you a
lift to the bus
stop? I’m
going the other
way or I’d
take you all the
way to Wonderland.”
“Oh
no, it’s
OK,” answered
Eleni, as the
noise reached
its height.
“We
like to walk,”
I added.
“They’re
Europeans!”
added Pete, with
a comedic wink.
“Whatever,”
she responded,
stooping into
what I still instinctively
– and confusingly
- assumed was
the passenger’s
seat until I saw
her multi-ringed
fingers grasping
the steering wheel.
“It was
nice to meet you
guys anyway!”
“You
too,” we
assured her, as
her high heels
lifted up off
the ground and
disappeared behind
the slamming door.
“So
there is a Californian
Penelope after
all!” giggled
Eleni, as the
car reversed into
the road. “I
thought I detected
a woman’s
touch in your
bathroom!”
“No
way,” declared
Pete instantly,
returning Martha’s
wave with exaggerated
relish. “We’re
just friends.”
“Are
you sure?”
she teased.
“Positive,”
he asserted, colouring
slightly.
“Why?”
“Why?”
echoed Pete, incredulously.
‘What kind
of a question
is that?”
“A
good question.
What’s wrong
with her?”
“She’s
just not my type,”
he shrugged, watching
her car shrinking
into the distance.
“What
do you mean, not
your type!”
cried Eleni, staggered
by his statement.
“What more
could any Californian
man ask for than
big tits, blue
eyes and blond
hair – albeit
bleached blond
hair…”
She
was teasing him,
of course, but
I felt sure there
was some genuine
component to her
bewilderment since,
for all her self-confidence
and sophistication,
she did suffer
from a mild inferiority
complex towards
women who conformed
to the popular
stereotype of
beauty.
“I
don’t like
trashy women like
that,” he
asserted, with
a shake of the
head, as Martha’s
car turned onto
the main road.
“What
bullshit!”
she cried. “What
about Pam Anderson!
What about all
those women in
the topless bars?”
Even
Eleni was too
tactful to ask,
but it did seem
highly possible
that one of those
bars constituted
Martha’s
place of work.
Quite apart from
the natural talent
she obviously
possessed for
such work, there
was surely no
way anyone could
afford a car like
hers on a normal
barmaid’s
salary –
and what other
kind of work began
at six o’clock
on a Sunday evening
in Lynn?
“Oh,
they’re
just eye-candy,”
responded Pete,
dismissively.
“I’d
never actually
want to get involved
with anyone like
that.”
And
that, we agreed,
as we stood at
the bus stop watching
all the Brookline
SUVs returning
from Crane Beach,
was Pete’s
problem in a nutshell:
he had no interest
in “getting
together”
with the kind
of American Aphrodites
with whom he actually
had something
in common: the
only team, as
it were, in his
ballpark. For
somewhere down
the line he had
become obsessed
with the kind
of cosmopolitan,
Old World Athenes
with whom he was
rather incongruously
thrust together
by a common professional
interest in biomedical
research. (Perhaps
that obsession
even accounted
for his apparent
lack of scientific
ambition: perhaps
he didn’t
want to become
a boss because
he thought that
it would put up
a barrier of status
between himself
and those postdoctoral
objects of his
desire). And all
because he had
got it into his
head that Europe
had entirely rid
itself of the
Puritanism he
claimed to despise
in his own country’s
culture when it
had expelled the
Pilgrim Fathers
in the seventeenth
century, leaving
its women free
to remove their
bikini tops on
the beach without
expecting to be
paid a cent for
it: opening up
the possibility
of his entering
an unimagined
sexual Wonderland
if only he could
lure one of them
back to his water
bed.
“And,
course, he is
never put off
by the fact that
he never gets
so much as a hint
of encouragement
from any of them,”
I murmured, thoughtfully,
as the first raindrops
began to speckle
the sidewalk.
“No,”
confirmed Eleni,
retreating under
the awning Pete
had promised us,
in front of a
shop window obscured
by a giant sticker
of a cartoon watermelon.
“Although
it seems to me
that his problem
is actually even
worse than that.”
“How
do you mean?”
I asked, hurrying
to join her as
the cool drops
began to spatter
on the back of
my neck.
“Well,
it seems to me
that rejection
only makes him
keener. Telling
him to fuck off
that day on the
quadrangle only
made him come
to my lab even
more often.”
“Perhaps
he just thought
you were playing
hard to get,”
I suggested, as
the rain suddenly
began to pound
the pavement.
“Every man
knows that when
a woman says no,
she really means
yes.”
“No,
but I think it
doesn’t
only apply to
women,”
she continued,
pressing her back
against the watermelon
as the splashing
raindrops grasped
at her legs like
enchanted minions
of Pete’s.
“Think of
how little he
resents his lab
mates for not
coming today.
I mean, would
you respond to
such a slap in
the face by making
excuses for them
all and looking
through the paper
to find when the
next Sunday afternoon
high tide would
be?”
“No,
I wouldn’t,”
I agreed, as the
bus finally lumbered
into view, ploughing
through the deep
puddles which
had already formed
in the gutter.
Sure
enough, as Eleni
confirmed to me
that evening,
Pete spent his
Monday morning
coffee break not
in demanding explanations
as to why people
hadn’t shown
up but, rather,
in extracting
solemn promises
that they would
not fail again
in three weeks’
time. And, by
all accounts,
he was more solicitous
than ever during
the ensuing period
whenever his lab
mates asked for
his help with
their experiments.
Meanwhile, Eleni’s
experiments were
interrupted by
person after furtively
grinning person
as word got around
that she had,
by some miracle,
avoided the combined
perils of sudden
illness, experimental
obligation and
the loss of her
post-it note with
Pete’s address
on it (delete
as appropriate).
For, Americans
and Europeans
alike, they were
all desperate
to hear exactly
how sordid Pete’s
house was, as
well as exactly
how depressed
he had been about
the mass no show.
And they were
hugely disappointed
when Eleni, bristling
with vicarious
indignation, brushed
them off with
non-committal
monosyllables.
All
the same, it was
not exactly a
sense of moral
superiority that
warmed our hearts
as we took our
place amid the
sickly stench
of diesel on the
number 73 bus.
After all, we
ourselves had
hardly been free
of morbid curiosity
regarding Pete
the Mullet’s
home environment
- and even the
fact that we were
the only ones
who had deemed
our promise to
attend his barbecue
to be worth keeping
was conceivably
best explained
by our unique
squeamishness
about citing lame
excuses. Nor was
it fear that caused
us to squeeze
each other’s
shoulders so tightly,
for all the vehicle’s
frequent, violent
lurches as it
smashed through
the flooded potholes
like a fishing
boat on a stormy
sea. No, it was,
rather, a tender
sense of satisfaction
that our presence
– however
tardy, however
grudging it had
been - had happened
to save Pete the
Mullet from spending
the whole day
waiting on the
beach on his own,
as the tide edged
ever further away.
And there was
something emotionally
beautiful about
that – if
not for Pete himself
then at least
for us.
Yes,
that was why,
in the end, we
didn’t feel
the need to waste
three months’
wages on wedding
rings. It was
because, when
I remarked that
the bare-chested
Pete had resembled
a beached whale
- or perhaps,
given his moustache,
a beached walrus
- our grins both
faded in unison
as we recalled
the poor creature
that had been
stranded somewhere
on Cape Cod a
couple of weeks
previously and,
despite the best
efforts of the
locals, had died
an agonized death
utterly beyond
the reach of its
own kind. It was
because, when
Eleni added that
he had looked
exactly like the
kind of Germanic
barbarian of whom
the native Ionian
girls made such
fun as they sizzled
on the beach and
retched in the
gutters during
their summer holidays,
we both reflected
that, after all,
that was hardly
a stereotype to
which a Californian
could be expected
to be sensitized.
It was because,
as we dashed,
hand in hand,
through the almost
preternatural
Niagara that was
bombarding the
Wonderland station
car park, our
minds dwelling
on the image I
had had just evoked
of Pete kneeling
beside his bed
and masturbating
over the impression
Eleni’s
body had left
in his comforter,
we both felt nothing
but sadness, nothing
but compassion,
nothing but blessed.
©
2007 by
Paul Jump
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