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Twenty-nine
It’s a brilliant mid-April Tuesday. Waiting at the light over Highway 16, I can see Mt. Rainier as if it’s a pop-up in a gigantic children’s book. I notice another mountain in the distance past its southern shoulder, and realize that I have never seen this mountain before. That’s how clear it is. I take a mental note to look it up when I get to the library.
Exiting my
truck in the library parking lot always gives me an olfactory thrill, until I
realize that the cedar smell comes from the neighboring lot, where a dozen
trees have been cut down for a new office building. Across the street, an entire
forest has disappeared for the sake of some ginormous retail outlet. Such is
the steady encroachment of success – and the new Narrows Bridge taking form
next to the old one, promising to bring more commuters from Seattle and Tacoma.
I suppose I should be excited for the greening of my tip jar, but I am
beginning to mourn the old, modest Gig Harbor like a 70-year-old bench-sitting
nostalgia whore.
It’s a few
days before the tax deadline, so the foyer is still packed with forms. I pick
up an automatic extension, because if someone’s offering free time, I’m taking.
The
internet stations are lovely things, with sharp, thin monitors and keyboards
that give out tasty popcorn clicks when you type on them. I also enjoy the
printing policy, which operates entirely on trust. It’s ten cents a page, which
you deposit in a clear plastic box. The bottom of the box is cushioned, to
prevent the disruption of clacking quarters.
I find a
corner cubicle, enter the number on my library card, and immediately have my
answer – revealed by the news capsule on the search engine page: Soldiers Sentenced in Civilian Killings.
I have learned to hate headlines; their brevity constantly misleads. This one
makes it sound like Conrad and Kai carried out the killings themselves. The
headline is technically correct, but it has a rotten soul.
I click the
link, my heart tapdancing. Half a second into my download, I learn that Conrad
got a year in prison – for the coverup, for being the commanding officer. For
faking Harvey’s suicide. I scroll down until the second shoe drops: Kai,
suspended sentence, regular psychiatric evaluations. Because his was a noble
act. Because of his mental state after killing his best friend. Because he wasn’t the commanding officer.
In essence,
Conrad has done what a good leader does – taken the brunt of it for an injured
subordinate. I decide that I will track down Becky and see how she’s doing –
and find out if I can visit him.
Naturally,
I thought I might hear from Kai. It’s been a month since the trial. Becky hasn’t
heard a thing about him; I feel guilty even asking, my ulteriors showing
through like a cheap slip.
It’s May.
The trees have dropped all their blossoms, are beginning to green up. Life is
passing at the rate of freeway traffic, and I have arrived at Monday morning,
on the shore of a four-day karaokeless ocean. I get up. Java has made no
magical appearance. I manage to shower, and groom myself, and dress, just like
a person who could be seen in public with other persons. I stare out my French
windows at my too-familiar backyard: the Doug fir that leans in like a gambler
peeking at his neighbor’s cards, the tiny hump of faraway ridgeline that rises
over my fence. And ridiculous, overzealous sunshine, everywhere. Oh God oh God,
it’s noon. I will remain here all day unless I can manage to kick my ass off
this bed. There’s only one thing that will do the trick: drive, drive like
crazy.
I traverse
the Narrows, looking across at enormous sections of roadway dangling from what
look like kite strings. Highway 16 doglegs to the asphalt Mississippi of I-5,
heading south. But the roadside clutters up with bad memories: the Nisqually
Delta keep driving the Olympia marina keep driving. I spot the ramp for 101, a
binary sandwich of a number whispering promises of the Pacific Ocean, so that’s
where we’re going.
An hour
later, I’m cruising a long, lush valley past twin nuclear towers – coolers for
a power plant that was never completed. I see a sign reading Ocean Shores. It sounds like a generic
product: Toothpaste, Light Beer, Ocean
Shores. So okay, I’m buying.
I wind
through the harborside towns of Aberdeen and Hoquiam, then follow a road along
the tidal flats – which right now contain about ten million pounds of hideous
muck. Escape arrives on an evergreen ascent, which flattens out along a
peninsula, and soon I’m turning left onto the main strip of Ocean Shores. An
Irish pub hooks me with a sign reading Comfort
Food; I wander in on road-stiff legs and order a potato chowder as thick as
tapioca pudding, topped with starry flakes of parsley. The bread is dark, chewy
and mysterious. I was so right to
kick my ass off that bed.
Roundly
fortified, I head into town, take an oceanward right and spy a
municipal-looking restroom between two enormous hotels. I park there, trek a
wide swath of dunes and discover a beach that runs a mile across and an
eternity to right and left, composed of damp slate-brown sand. I’m a little
alarmed when a car passes in front of me, a hybrid compact filled with
gray-haired passengers. After a half-mile of northward walking, I come upon a
college-age boy and girl, tossing a Frisbee, and give a smile as I pass. The
sun is to the south, so my shadow precedes me on the sand. I hear the girl
exclaim “Oh!” and then I find a small, dark oval hovering over my shadow. I
raise my left arm, turn my hand so it faces behind me and close my fingers on
the rim of the disc. I’m running a fingernail over its ribbed surface when the
girl, an energetic lankiness of elbows and knees, rushes up.
“Holy shit!
How did you do that?”
I guess I’m
in a mood. I give her a perfectly serious look and say, “The secret is to let
the Frisbee do what the Frisbee wants
to do.”
Carye takes
a second to consider my wisdom and then explodes in laughter. An hour later,
we’re gathered at a driftwood fire – more for atmosphere than warmth – and I
have just finished relating the Tragical History of Harvey.
“Shit!”
says Joe. “Shit!” He brushes away a hank of hair that seems irresistibly drawn
to his eyelashes, then takes another toke and passes it my way.
Carye says,
“We came out here because Kurt Cobain grew up here.”
I’m looking
for a segue – suicidal young men? – but then, we’re smoking. Segues are not
required.
“Hoquiam or
Aberdeen,” says Joe. “Depending on who you ask.”
“They seem
to be having a debate about it,” says Carye.
“Come to
the town that sucks so bad you’ll want to blow your head off,” says Joe.
Carye
laughs wildly. “But not before writing some kickass rock.”
I can see
why Joe and Carye are a couple. They speak in a tightly knit tandem, like relay
runners passing a baton. Or perhaps it’s just the weed.
“We’re from
Humboldt County,” says Carye. “In Northern California.”
Which is
why this homegrown is so almighty powerful,” says Joe, with a wheezy laugh.
“It gets
pretty cloudy there,” says Carye. “But we thought it would be cool to see how
bad it gets in a place called the Rain Coast.”
“Absolute
bullshit,” says Joe. “It’s been like Laguna Beach all week.”
“Where’s
Laguna Beach?” asks Carye.
“No fuckin’
idea,” says Joe. “But it sounds sunny.”
“But your story,” says Carye. “God, Channy…
What a great name that is: Channy. You are so
strong to have gotten through that. You are a powerful woman.”
Carye’s
admiring look – plus, probably, the weed – fills me up to bursting. As if to
disprove her conclusion I start to cry, and soon find myself wrapped in a Joe
and Carye sandwich.
When I wake
up, the sun is threatening the horizon. I’m curled up on a Mexican blanket; Joe
sits cross-legged next to me, trying to spin the Frisbee on the tip of his
finger.
“Oh! Hey,
Channy. Wow, I’ve seen the herb take some bad shit out of people, but you just
sorta collapsed.”
I blink
against the light and prop myself on an elbow. “How long was I out?”
Joe brushes
his hair out of his eyes and squints in thought. “’Bout, oh, two hours.”
“Really?
Fu-u-uck.”
“Ha! You
talk like a stoner.”
“Haven’t
smoked much lately. I’ve gone and turned into a lightweight. So where’s Carye?”
“Went to
the water to look for sand dollars. She loves
those things. Looks like she’s coming back, though.”
By the time
she returns, I have managed to shake the sand from my clothes and the cobwebs
from my head. I give them my phone number and demand that they come for karaoke
if they get anywhere near Gig Harbor.
“Y’got any
Nirvana?”
“Let’s see
– ‘Teen Spirit’ and ‘Come As You Are.’”
“Rockin’!
I’m there.”
I hug them
both, and give them the look of an adoring aunt.
I’m so
lucky that you two were here.”
“When you
have the Jedi Frisbee Trick,” says Carye, “luck you do not need.”
“Ha! Well,
thanks anyways. I feel much better. Bye, guys.”
“Bye!” they
say, in unison.
I walk
toward the sun, stopping once for a final turn-and-wave. By the time I reach
the parking lot, the sun has ducked under the horizon, which in Washington time
means somewhere between 8:30 and 9. I’m about to get into my truck when I hear
a jangle of sounds that resembles “Take Five” by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. It
seems to be live. I scan the hotel behind me and find a stairway leading to a
well-lit pair of glass doors. I have just found where the action is, and so,
like a good Jedi princess, I go there.
The doors
bring me to a high-ceilinged hall, ringed with mirrored posts and mauve
upholstery. The back is a long rectangle of booths, the near square a cocktail
lounge with an open fireplace, a marbletop bar and a perimeter of small tables
at the beachfront windows.
The
afterglow paints the barback mirrors in salmon hues, and blasting away from a
corner of the dance floor is a trio of upright piano, electric bass and green
drums. The players are all big, like they really ought to be playing football.
The bassist
stands about six-four, wearing a do-rag better suited to a biker bar. The
pianist has a clean-shaven pate, in the modern rocker style, with a bandage
over one temple. He’s pounding a solo like a ham-fisted Fats Waller, then lifts
up, studies his field and dances into a Mozartean flurry. How he does this all
in 5/4 is far removed from the scope of my knowledge.
In the
midst of my musical trance, I find a short, plump brunette walking my way, and
feel a sudden need to ask a question. Any question. I lean into the fringe of
her path.
“Excuse me,
umm… Who are these guys?”
Who are these guys? What’re you, high?
The
brunette gives me a compact smile. “I don’t think they have a name. But if
you’d like an audience with the bassist, I’m on intimate terms.
I give her
a puzzled look.
“Okay, he’s
my husband. And he’s having a heck of a time faking his way through this one.”
“Sounds
fine to me.”
“Yes, but
he’s scowling. Anyways, he’s Jon, the pianist is Paul, and the drummer is
Mark.”
I laugh, a
little too loud. “Aren’t they supposed to have names like ‘Razz’ and ‘Speed’?”
She puts a
hand on my shoulder. “I think someone’s been watching gangster movies. Hey,
would you like to sit with me? I’m a lonely band widow.”
“Sure. But
let me buy you a drink.”
“I will
just let you do that. I’ll have a chablis.”
I’m low on
decision-making abilities, so I get a chablis as well. We’re soon back at Pam’s
table, yacking like sorority sisters. It’s easy to see why she struck me as
approachable – she has large eyes and round, doll-like features. You’d expect a
squeaky Betty Boop voice, but she speaks with a calm alto.
“So,” she
says. “What’s your story?”
I can’t
help laughing. “That’s a little complicated. Why don’t you tell me yours?”
“Sure!
We’re from California, Silicon Valley. Jon wrote code for a high-tech firm that
very rudely laid him off. He had a tough go with the job-hunting, so the guitar
became a full-time pursuit: blues band, funk band, surf band. That definitely wasn’t cutting it money-wise,
though, so we sold our overvalued house and moved up here. I’m a CPA, so I can
work anywhere. Then he met the guys, so now he’s playing jazz. Paul’s an
English teacher, which puzzles me because he ought to be playing in New York or
something.”
“My thought
exactly.”
“And Mark
is in real estate. He’s getting over his divorce by singing Tony Bennett
songs.”
“Oh! He
sings from the drums?”
“He says
it’s a matter of simple beats and good posture.”
“So does he
sound like Tony?”
“Not tonight.
Poor dear, he’s fighting some nasty bug.”
Paul
concludes a lengthy exploration of “The In Crowd” and takes the group into a
wrap. The twenty folks scattered around the lounge respond with warm applause.
Mark attaches a sheet of paper to the shaft of his hi-hat with a binder clip.
“That’s his
cheat for new songs,” says Pam. “Although I always wonder how he can read when
the words are bouncing up and down like that.”
Paul nods
them into a slow, bluesy intro, and then Mark comes in on “Do You Know What It
Means to Miss New Orleans?”
“Wow!” I
say. “He does a wicked Louis Armstrong.”
“He’s not
doing Louis Armstrong,” says Pam. “That’s what he sounds like tonight.”
“Yikes!”
“Hey!” Pam
spots a couple at the door and waves them over. One’s a burly, balding man with
a thick mustache (Ocean Shores apparently breeds nothing but offensive
linemen), the other is a fiftyish woman with a broad, generous face and a thick
head of frosted blonde hair. They seem inordinately happy, or perhaps just
drunk. After a round of hugs and greetings, they join us at the table.
“Channy,
this is my brother Allen and his wife Sarah. They’re winos.”
“Please,”
Allen objects. “Connoisseurs.”
“Okay,
Mister Hoit du Toit,” Pam says exactly like a sister. “Where have you been? The
gig started two hours ago!”
Allen and
Sarah look at each other and smile. Allen says, “We can’t tell you yet. Not
till the appetizers get here.”
“Better be
a good story,” says Pam.
“Oh it is,”
says Allen.
The song
ends rather abruptly, and we give the band an applause laden with question
marks. The players bend toward each other, conferring, then Jon takes the mic
from Mark’s boom stand. He holds it awkwardly, as if it’s about to go off.
“Um, hi.
I’m Jon, your bass player.”
The
relatives at my table shout, “Hi, Jon!”
“Um, yeah,
hi. Our vocalist has given his all tonight, and by that I mean he’s got nothin’
left. The thing is, we promised the ladies from the dance class that we would
play ‘Mustang Sally,’ and if we don’t we might not make it out of here alive.
Would anyone in the audience like to sing it with us? Because you really don’t
want to hear me or Paulie try it.”
And I’m on
my feet, walking across the floor. I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe it’s
the pot; maybe it’s being at the western edge of an entire continent, or the
Jedi Frisbee Trick – but obviously I’m the one to sing this song. I take the
mic from Jon and say, “Whenever you’re ready, boys.”
The
surprising thing is, this is easier
than karaoke, because in karaoke there’s no give to the music. At one point,
I’m pretty sure I’m way early on the chorus, but the band performs a quick
shift and everything’s cool. Plus, I’ve got a baker’s dozen of seniors shaking
their booties in front of me, breathing hard and utterly delighted by my rescue
act. This, I think, is why Ruby loves this so much. After a
bass solo from Jon, I repeat the call-and-response, and Mark marches us into a
drum-break finish. Sweet.
Jon sneaks
up to my shoulder and says, “That was great! Y’know anything else?”
I turn to
Paul and say, “What about ‘Great Balls of Fire’?” Which is like asking a dog if
he likes steak.
“Oh, I am
all over that,” says Paul with a
grin. “Just watch me for the start.”
He gives a
three-count, plays the four-step launch and I’m off. Somewhere in the midst of
all that karaoke, I have learned how to front a band. The seniors are
jitterbugging as Paul draws out his solo to Herculean proportions, kicking out
a leg to play a few notes with his wingtips. He nods me back into the bridge,
then to a chorus repeat, then a big fat splatter of an ending. Suddenly, I’m a
Vegas emcee.
“Paul! Lee!
Lewis! on the piano. Liquid Jonny on the bass! Frogman Mark on the drums!”
“How do you
know all our names?” asks Jon.
“I’ve been
talking to your wife.”
“Ah! So
what’s your name?”
“Oh,” I say,
and turn back to the mic. “And I’m Channy from Gig Harbor, your emergency
fill-in.”
“Hey
Channy!” says Paul. “Last song. You know something jazzy and slow?”
That one’s
easy.
“Misty.”
I’m always
having a love affair with one song or another, and this one arrived on the lips
of Ruby Cohen. It’s a lovely, joy-laced melody, like a falling leaf that keeps
nearing the ground only to be swept back up by one gust of wind and another.
It’s also got a shadowy undercarriage, which certainly matches my romantic life.
Ruby ran me through it after a handful of karaoke nights, supremely patient,
because I think she knew what a stretch I was making.
Paul gives
me a lilting, rubato intro. I scan the old couples dancing before me, close my
eyes and lift the mic. The words come out of me like colored breath.
Toward the
end, I already know I’ve captured it. Ruby calls it “inner applause” – the
outer applause that follows feels like an echo. I turn to thank the trio, then
head for my table as they begin breaking down their equipment. I find Pam and
kin beaming at me over a tray of oysters and a bottle of champagne in an ice
bucket.
“Well
didn’t I find a diamond in the rough!” says Pam.
“Thanks! I
run a karaoke bar, so I guess I developed some skills.”
“I’ll say!”
says Allen. He hands me a glass. “We saved the last for ya.”
I take a
sip. “Damn!”
“No,” he
says. “Dom!”
To perform
a spit-take would be downright criminal, so I force down a fizzy swallow.
“Perignon?”
“My little
surprise,” he says. “We went to the Quinault Casino this afternoon, and I won
ten thousand dollars at the blackjack table.”
“Holy
shit!”
“He’s
taking us all to the Ocean Crest tomorrow for dinner,” says Pam. “It’s a
five-star restaurant.”
“Wow! What
fun. Could you take me too?” I realize immediately what a presumptuous question
this is, and I cover my mouth in embarrassment.
Allen, God
bless him, lets out a broad laugh and says, “Sure! Why not? I think you’ve sung
for your supper.”
And now,
I’m glad I asked. Because really, I need all the pleasure I can get.
I spend the
night four blocks away, at Jon and Pam’s. The bed in their guest room is
extraordinarily comfortable; it’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in months. I
wake to the ching of pots and pans in the kitchen, and wander down the hall to
find a plate of bacon, eggs and waffles waiting at the kitchen table. It almost
makes me want to cry. I marvel at the power of strangers to take me in like
this – a thought that is due to return a dozen times over the course of the
day.
Once we’re
all bathed and dressed, I follow Pam’s Toyota along a golf course to Allen and
Sarah’s house, adorned with the latest accoutrements of new housing:
sienna-colored stucco, ceramic roofing and variegated windows with bay,
porthole and archway frames. To the right of the driveway is their apparent
cash cow, a spotless mocha-colored truck cab. The interior offers every
imaginable variation of wine art: a photo of cabernet grapes, a poster from a
Yakima Valley wine festival, a cartoonish sommelier constructed of corks and
corkscrews. The back window affords a view across Grays Harbor to the snub-nose
pyramid of Mt. Rainier.
Allen and
Sarah are still radiant from their Monday jackpot, although I’m beginning to
suspect that their sunniness is a permanent condition. They pile into Pam’s
back seat and we caravan up the coast. Twenty miles along, we pull through a
town called Moclips and turn into what looks like a modest motel court.
“We’re a
little early,” says Allen, “so Sarah and I were thinking of walking down to the
beach.”
We all join
in descending an impressively lengthy set of stairs to another limitless
slate-brown beach. Pam and I are the only ones wearing casual shoes, so we
leave the others on the viewing deck and take off across the sand. The findings
are modest – crab shell here, half a sand dollar there – but interesting enough
to spur a conversation.
“I was just
thinking,” says Pam. “You never told me your story. What brought you out to the
coast?”
“Hard to
beat a story with a ten-thousand-dollar jackpot,” I say, knowing full well that
I can. “But maybe I can shorthand it for you. Have you seen the stories about
that soldier who went nuts and shot all those Iraqi civilians?”
“Oh! The
trials at Ft. Lewis? Just recently?”
“Yes. Well.
I’m the widow.”
Pam stops
and puts a hand to her solar plexus. “God! I… really? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all
right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s hard to know how to respond. But believe me, he
was sane when I married him. He might even have been nice. So please don’t
think of me as a victim.”
“I guess
that’s what war does to people.” She reaches for a sand dollar – a full one –
and hands it to me. “I can see why you wanted to get away.”
“Yes.
Little did I know the lovely distractions waiting for me in Ocean Shores.”
“Gateway to
the Pacific Storm Front,” says Pam, then looks back toward our companions.
“Uh-oh. Allen’s pointing at his watch. Guess we’d better head back.”
I study the
long ribbon of stairs winding into the spruce trees. “Do you suppose they have
an escalator?”
“I… get the
feeling that burning a few calories right now might be a good idea.”
After a
brisk uphill climb, the host takes us through a low-ceilinged hall into a
woodsy side room. The west-facing wall is all window, affording a bird’s-nest
view of the forest and beach below. A large pickup speeds by on the sand.
For a few
minutes, I feel a distinct pressure to be on my best behavior, but once the
appetizers arrive I lose myself in the raucous chatter all around me. Our
carnivorous rapture begins with Alaskan king crablegs, continues with mushrooms,
foraged in local forests, then proceeds to a cloth bag next to Allen’s chair.
He reaches in and pulls out a weathered-looking bottle, then hands it to the
sommelier and asks, “Would you do us the honor?”
The
sommelier’s eyes get big (no small trick in a five-star restaurant) and he
says, “I’d be delighted.”
I turn to
Pam and ask, “What’s up with that?”
“It’s a
1969 Cab from Napa. Allen got it at an auction.”
The
sommelier takes laborious care in removing the cork, then slowly pours it into
a decanter, making certain to leave all the sediment in the bottle. He pours a
small ration into each of our glasses, and we wait as Allen goes through the
ritual of swirl, smell and sip. He breathes out, letting the flavor simmer on
his tongue, then delivers a one-word review.
“Damn!”
Being a
neophyte, I’m not expecting much, but much is what I get. My first sip delivers
a smoky, fruity wave of warmth, with just a hint of ripe Bing cherry. It is the
most amazing substance that has ever touched my lips. Except for the roast
venison that follows. And the pickled cabbage. And the huckleberry crisp. Our
table is a madrigal of groans and sighs, verging on an epicurean orgy. Between
courses, Allen regales us with trucking stories, like the retired Soviet tank
they delivered to a military base in North Dakota, and fills in the details of
his blackjack odyssey (“I absolutely could not lose; I must have taken twenty
hands in a row”).
Much too
soon, we’re waddling to the parking lot, and I‘m hugging all these
near-strangers like a long-lost cousin.
“Thank you
so much for letting me impose on you,” I say to Allen. “I really, really needed
this.”
Allen gives
me a lopsided smile. “Pam tells us you’ve been through some trauma. I just hope
this takes the edge off a little.”
“Thank you for saving our butts last night,”
says Jon. “I really wasn’t kidding about those blue-haired ladies and their
Wilson Pickett. Maybe we’ll give you a call if Mark gets sick again.”
“Ha! I’ll
work on my drumming.”
“You be
careful driving back,” says Pam. “And take care of yourself, okay? Don’t think
you have to wait till your next trip to the ocean to pamper yourself.”
Under
Allen’s instructions, I head back into Moclips and take a landward left, on a
road that claims to be headed for Kurt Cobain’s twin hometowns. I think about
Pam’s phrase: Take care of yourself.
It actually seems like that’s all
I’ve been doing; it was nice to let someone else have the job for a while.
Halfway
home, I have to pull into a rest stop. The garnish on my venison inspired a
debate about a “Rosemary” song from the sixties (Simon and Garfunkel excluded)
which quickly devolved into a group case of “songstipation.” As always happens,
the answer arrives after I have stopped thinking about it. Our problem came
from trying to mash two songs into one: “Smile a Little Smile For Me
(Rosemarie)” and “Love Grows (Where my Rosemary Goes).” As the VFW guys who
hand out free coffee cast curious looks in my direction, I stand at the pay
phone and sing the two songs into Jon and Pam’s answering machine. Then I
bundle into my truck and head for the darkening mountains, homeward bound.
Photo by MJV
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