Bills Hicks had a bit about how he didn’t understand what people saw in the beach. It’s where water meets land. What’s so special about that? But he had a change of heart on the matter while dealing with the cancer that eventually killed him.
I get that.
I never really liked the beach when I was growing up. It was just one of those places that my parents would take me from time to time. We’d get an ice cream cone from the little canteen in the parking lot and then walk along the water’s edge. If the tide was in then we’d only be able to walk a little ways but when it was out it seemed like you could walk forever. Sometimes I would find an interesting seashell or a cool rock, but otherwise it was just another thing that sometimes happened, no more special than anything else.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found there’s something calming about the beach. There’s a certain kind of relief that comes from watching the ocean, a relief that seems absent in the other areas of my life as of lately.
It’s a short enough drive from work to grab ten or twenty minutes of peace during lunch. Normally I’d go home on a day this hot, middle of a heat wave and all, but I’m avoiding that as much as possible.
Things haven’t been so great between Brenda and myself.
We’ve been failing to get pregnant for so long she’s convinced herself I must have something wrong with me. I agreed to meet with a doctor and have my sperm counted so long as she did the feminine equivalent.
There’s nothing wrong with my swimmers.
She refuses to talk about her appointment. I keep waiting for her to open up, to let me share her pain with her, but she’s locked herself up inside and tossed away the key. Despondent half the time. Flying into a fits of rage followed by sobbing the other half. I want to help her but she won’t allow me.
Yet I can’t just sit by and watch. It’s gotten too painful. I’ve considered a divorce but I just don’t think myself capable.
So instead I do this: I go to the beach on my lunch hour; I take longer when shopping for groceries; I drive the scenic route to get home. I do everything in my power to stay away from her because I love her too much to watch her fade away.
There’s little traffic on the back roads. Yet the beach is bustling with people. Families come out of the woodwork during the summer to pretend at being healthy and put together. Sluggish children pulled along by languid parents, false smiles beneath dead eyes.
The parking lot can fit a dozen or so vehicles, yet always feels tight. Along one side of the parking lot is a wooden walkway that leads down to the beach proper. On the other side is the canteen, a couple picnic tables, some benches.
I step out of the car, at the same time deciding to grab an ice cream . It’s rare that I decide to do so since diary destroys my stomach but the heat is too much not to seek some temporary reprieve. I have to wait in line behind an older woman occupied by two young boys. They run around the canteen playing tag, all but ignoring their mother as she calls out again and again for their order.
As I wait for them to resolve their transaction, I lazily gaze at my surroundings. Which is when I first see him. Not that there was anything to notice. His is just another face among the beach-goers. No different from how my own face must appear. Harmless. Unintrusive. Nothing more than another blip in the background noise that is the beach.
My ice cream is already dripping down the side when the cashier hands it to me. I can’t help but get it all over my fingers. There’s no point in grabbing napkins. It’s not enough to remove the offending ice cream. You need water to remove the texture. Unfortunately there are no fountains around. The only way to get water up here is to purchase it from the canteen. But the tide is about halfway in. I convince myself the walk will do me good. After all, I don’t get nearly as much exercise as I should. Not that I really count this as exercise considering I’m munching on my cone as I cross the warm sand.
The beach is more mud than sand at the moment. It hugs my feet with every step and begs them not to leave. There’s a sense of accomplishment when I get to the water, though all I do to celebrate is bend over and wash my hands in the surf. Standing up straight I take a deep breath, tasting the salt on the edge of my lips, and look out as far as I can see. Then I turn around and start back for the parking lot.
If life was like a movie then he would have been right behind me when I turned around. But there is no startling moment, no sudden reckoning with what the future intends.
As I walk back toward the parking lot, he walks toward me. I only notice this because he’s the only person heading towards the water. His steps seem far easier than mine, which I attribute to his small size.
He is a child after all.
A young boy of about eight, nine, ten, who can say? I’ve never been able to tell a child’s age on sight. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and bright blue swim trunks. It’s the perfect day for a swim. Kid’s got the right idea, I tell myself. Then I notice He’s not heading towards the water.
He’s heading for me.
Just as soon as I notice he stops and stands still. A moment passes between us. I can tell he’s waiting to talk to me, though I can’t fathom why.
He speaks as I approach.
“Hey, Dad,” he says in a dulcet tone. At first I think it’s some kind of joke, but nothing about the delivery or his body language implies humor. It was said as an observation, the same way he might say “The ocean is blue.”
“No,” I say slowly. “This is the first time we’ve met.”
He shakes his head. “You’re my dad.”
“Not me, Kid.”
He stomps his foot. A spray of mud splats against my shirt.
“Look, Kid, maybe I look like your dad and you got us confused?”
“No, it’s you.”
“Or maybe you’ve been out here too long? Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get you a drink of water at the canteen.”
“Thanks, Dad!” He’s running back towards the parking lot before I can open my mouth to protest. It’s for the best since I don’t want to be the guy yelling at children on the beach. Besides, one of the people around have to be his mother or his actual father. I can tell the employee at the canteen that the kid is lost and they can figure out who his real parents are.
The kid’s waving to me from a spot in line when I crest the rise to the parking lot. He’s smiling ear to ear and for a moment it was hard not to find it adorable. He’s a cute kid and seems to be full of life, though that also means he must be a handful. I’m thankful that he isn’t mine. I need to be eased into fatherhood. Let me figure out how to keep a baby alive before you hand me some hyperactive kid already most of the way to being a teen. Still, part of me will be a little sad once we get things sorted out. Not so much because I’ll be leaving the kid behind so much as there’s no way I could tell Brenda this story.
“Let’s grab you some water and see if we can find your parents,” I say as I take my place in line for the canteen.
“Can I get an ice cream too, Dad?” he asks.
I check the change I have on hand. “Here,” I say as I deposit the coins into his hand. “Get yourself whatever you want, Kid. But tell me first, do you see your parents anywhere up here?” He looks at me and laughs. I know what he’s about to say before he opens his mouth so I add, “What about your mother?”
At this he glances about with a look of great consternation. The line moves closer to the till. Finally, after half a minute he says, “Can we go see Mom after we get our ice cream, Dad?”
“Yeah, Kid, we’ll find your mother.” I’m starting to get irritated. Clearly there’s something wrong with the child, heat stroke or some kind of cognitive disorder. Either that or I’m the butt of some annoyingly childish joke. Part of me wants to walk away to avoid being the child’s fool. Not to mention I need to get back to work soon. But I calm myself enough to be rational. I’ll ask the cashier about the child’s parents. Explain that I think he may be suffering heat stroke, but that I have to get back to work. They can help the boy find his folks, or they can call for an ambulance if they think it necessary. Either way, his fate would no longer be my responsibility.
The line was slow moving but eventually we make our way to the front. The cashier looks at me with impatient eyes.
“First off,” I say in my most authoritative voice, “I would like a bottle of water and a small ice cream for the child.” I point to the kid. “Then-“
“What flavor?” asks the cashier.
“Oh… I don’t know.” I turn to the boy. “What flavor do you want?”
“Bubblegum,” he says with a hop.
The cashier nods. I continue, “This child seems to have gotten me confused with his father.”
“Because you are my father,” the kid whines.
“But, I assure you, I very much am not his father.”
“I’m right here, Dad.”
“I’m worried that he may have heat stroke or something. Hence the water.”
“And the ice cream.”
“And the ice cream. But I can’t be responsible for this kid. I gotta get back to work. So… I don’t know if he should wait here with you or what… but I’ve got to go.” I clap my hands as punctuation.
Through my speech the cashier just watches silently. There’s no change of expression on his face. For a moment I think somebody has pressed pause on the world. But then he sort of squeezes his eyes shut tightly and pinches the bridge of his nose like he suddenly has a headache. He looks down his nose at me and says, “What kind of shit is this?”
Stunned, I can only mutter, “I have to get back to work.”
“This isn’t a fucking day care, man. I’m not about to watch your kid.”
“That’s not my kid. He approached me on the beach, I’ve never seen him before.”
“You see me every day, Dad,” the kid interjects.
“You were at my window with him ten minutes ago, buying an ice cream to eat in front of him. Like an asshole.”
“What? No. I bought an ice cream to eat alone because I came here alone, I always come here alone.”
“I don’t know what shit you’re trying to pull. But I want you and your son to get the fuck away from here. We don’t have time for whatever game you’re playing. You’re holding up my line.”
“Fine,” I stutter as the blood rushes to my face. “I’m going back to work. The boy’s your problem now.”
“Dad?” the kid asks in a tone that would make the most hardened war criminal take pity. But not me. I’ve made up my mind. I’m done. I’m definitely going to be late now, and I feel insulted.
As I march away from the canteen I hear the cashier yell after me, “Hey, get back here and take your child. Hey. Somebody stop him. That guy’s trying to abandon his kid.”
“He’s not mine,” I yell over my shoulder as I increase my speed. I can feel the eyes of the other beachgoers boring into me. Everybody’s staring at me like I’m the most disgusting filth they’ve ever seen. But I don’t know the kid. I tried to help him. What more could they expect from me? He’s not mine and that’s all there was too it.
I hear feet scrambling behind me and then suddenly something latches onto my leg. I look down and see it’s the kid. He’s given my leg a bear hug and is holding on tight, his fingers interlinked together.
“Come on, Kid,” I say. “Let go.”
“No.”
“Really, Kid, let go.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
“I’m not your fucking father,” I say as shake my leg in vain. No matter how hard I shake, he holds firm.
“Why don’t you love me, Dad?” he wails at the top of his lungs.
I know I shouldn’t but I reach down and pry his fingers apart. With his hold on my leg broken I grab him by the shirt, lift him in the air, and toss him aside. We’re in the parking lot so the landing isn’t mud or sand but dirt and rocks. I wince as he connects with the ground. I can tell it’ll sting for days.
All at once people are yelling at me from every direction. I get into my car and peel out of the parking lot as I’m pelted with rocks and ice cream cones. I speed the whole way back to work.
I make it back to the office five minutes late. I’m shaking as I enter the building. At first it seems like I won’t be able to focus on my work. However, as the afternoon wears on and the evening approaches, things start to slowly return to normal. By the time I’m ready to head home, I’m almost happy about the experience. It’s one helluva story to tell, though not to Brenda. The only real downside is that I don’t know what’s become of the kid, which takes away from the satisfaction of the story. That and it’ll be quite some time before I can show my face around the beach again.
I get home at the usual time. To my surprise, Brenda’s nowhere to be found. She normally beats me home. It’s not like her to go out without telling me. But at the same time, it’s not so unusual as to raise an alarm. There are any number of potential reasons for her to be late. I let it go and head upstairs to take a nap.
I’m awoken some time later by a knocking on the door. I rise hesitantly after waiting for Brenda to answer it.
“Alright, alright,” I call ahead. Opening the door I’m met with two police officers. One is a woman in her mid-forties with bleach blond hair. The other looks to be about twenty years her senior, a pudgy white guy with mean looking in eyes. “Is there a problem officer?”
“Are you Mr. Long?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, you’re under arrest for child endangerment, child abandonment, and assault against a minor.” I protest that there must be some mistake. I try to explain what happened that afternoon, but they won’t listen. They read me my rights as they cuff my hands behind my back and lead me down the driveway and out to the road where they’re parked. I make a fool of myself, yelling and screaming that they’ve gotten it wrong, just totally and completely wrong.
As they shove me into the back of the cruiser all the words leave me and I go quiet.
Brenda’s standing on the sidewalk staring at me with the most hateful look I’ve ever seen in my life. Her mouth moves and though I can’t hear her through the glass, I can tell what she’s saying:
“How could you?”
And there, clinging to her leg like he did to mine, is the boy from the beach. He’s listening to the police officers and nodding, tears streaming down his face. The officer with the mean eyes ruffles the kid’s hair with a meaty palm. Then the officers get into the car.
As we pull out into the street I can’t help but look back at everything left in my wake. I see the kid pull away from Brenda and take off running after us. One of the officers cracks their window a little, enough that as we’re rounding the corner and leaving the kid behind, I can hear him call out to me:
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
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