Alex, Approximately
Page 24
I should probably message Alex—just to feel things out, make sure he knows nothing about this fiasco. But at the same time, maybe I need to clear my head first. I wanted to find Alex so badly that I’d jumped to conclusions about Patrick and ignored good sense. That was a stupid mistake, but I don’t want to beat myself up about it too much. I just . . .
I don’t know what I want anymore, honestly.
“You okay?”
Porter stands next to me. The door to Video Ray-Gun swings shut behind us.
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I’m . . . just having a really bad day. It must be the fog.”
“Can’t be that,” he says. “Foggy days are the best.”
I wait for the punch line, but it never comes. He glances down at my knee; it’s scabbed over from yesterday’s takedown of the Maltese falcon thieves, but I was too vain to wear a Band-Aid today.
“I thought California was supposed to be sunny all the time,” I tell him. “Foggy days are depressing.”
“Naaa. They’re kind of magical.”
“Magical,” I repeat dismally, not believing him.
“What, is magic too lowbrow for you?”
“Don’t start with me today,” I say, more weary than frustrated, but if he goes much further, I can’t promise that won’t change. “Do you enjoy picking fights with people?”
“Just you.”
I search his face, unsure if he’s teasing. “You fight with Pangborn all the time.”
“Not true. He never fights back.”
“So that’s what you like?” I ask. “Someone who fights back?”
“Everyone enjoys a little witty repartee now and then.”
Is that a compliment? I can’t tell.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I do like someone who fights back. It’s a mystery, even to me. I’m just a beach bum, remember? Who knows what goes on inside this simple brain of mine?”
Yikes. Awkward. Some part of me wonders if I should apologize for that, but then I remember all the craptastic things he’s said to me.
A long moment stretches.
“Ever ridden a Ferris wheel in the fog?” he suddenly asks. “Oh! What about the aerial lifts?”
“Um, I don’t do amusement park rides.”
“Why?”
“They always break down and the seats are sticky.”
Porter laughs. “Jesus, Bailey. What kind of busted rides do they have back in our nation’s capital?” He shakes his head in mock disapproval and sighs. “Well, just because I feel sorry for your pitiful amusement park ride education, I suppose I’ll take you on the Bees.”
“What are the Bees?”
“The Bees. Buzzz.” He tug-tug-tugs on my shirtsleeve, urging me toward him as he walks backward, smiling that lazy, sexy smile of his. “Those wires with the chairlifts that are painted like bumblebees? The ones that take people up to the redwoods on the cliffs above the beach? You board them next to the big golden wheel on the boardwalk with the shiny, shiny lights? Get to know your new town, Rydell. Come on.”
“I just want somebody I can have a decent conversation with over dinner.”
—Tom Hanks, Sleepless in Seattle (1993)
11
“What’s the matter?” Porter asks as we head down the boardwalk. Then it hits me: like the Ferris wheel, the ticket booth for the Bumblebee Lifts is next to the stupid whale tours window. I didn’t think this through.
“Crap. I really don’t want him to see me again,” I say.
Porter is confused for a second. “Patrick? Why would he care?”
My answer is a long, sad sigh.
“All right, all right,” he grumbles, but I don’t think he’s genuinely irritated. I’m more convinced he feels sorry for me, and that might be worse. “Go stand at the gate over there. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t have the energy to argue. I drag my feet to the chairlift entrance and wait while a stooped, Filipino man—name tag: Reyes—with a raspy voice helps a few stragglers off one of the lifts. Other than one other touchy-feely college-aged couple, it doesn’t look like anyone else is waiting to get on. I don’t blame them. Tendrils of fog cling to the swinging seats, which look much like ski lifts, painted yellow and black. The fat wires that carry the lifts over the boardwalk to the rocky cliffs rest on a series of T-shaped poles; one wire carries the ascending lifts, one wire holds the descenders. Big white lights sit atop each pole, but halfway up the line the fog is so thick that the lights just . . . disappear. I can’t even see the cliffs today.
“Mornin’,” the Bumblebees’ operator says when I greet him.
“What do you do if something happens to one of the lifts?” I ask. “How can you see it?”
He follows my eyes, cranes his neck, and looks up into the fog. “I can’t.”
Not reassuring.
After what seems like an extraordinarily long time, Porter returns, breathless, with our tickets and a small, waxed bag. “Yo, how’s it hanging, Mr. Reyes?” he says merrily to the operator.
“No food allowed on the Bees, Porter,” the elderly man rasps.
Porter stuffs the bag inside his jacket and zips it halfway up. “We won’t touch it until we get to the cliffs.”
“All right,” the man relents, smiling, and he extends an arm to escort us onto the next lift.
Before I can change my mind, we’re boarding a swaying chair behind the groping college-aged couple. Each seat accommodates two people, snugly, and though we’re covered by a plastic yellow-and-black striped bonnet above, it leaves our torsos exposed. This means (A) the coastal wind whips through the chairlift against our backs, and (B) we have a perfect view of the lovey-dovey couple ahead of us and their roaming hands. Terrific.
The operator pulls a handlebar down that locks us in around the waist. I sneak a glance at Porter. I didn’t expect to be sitting so close to him. Our legs are almost touching, and I’m wearing a short skirt. I make myself smaller.
“Fifteen minutes up,” the operator says as he walks alongside our slow-moving chair, “fifteen minutes back down, whenever you’re ready to return. Enjoy yourselves.”
And we’re off. My stomach lurches a little, which is stupid, because we’re not even off the ground yet; these Bees need more zippity-do-dah.
“You all right, there, Rydell?” Porter asks. “Not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” I say as my dragging toes leave the ground and we begin to take flight, ever-so-slowly.
“You’ll love it,” Porter assures me. “It’ll be great when we hit the fog in a few minutes.”
Once the lift operator ambles away to the gate, out of sight, Porter unzips his jacket a few inches and sticks his hand inside. A second later, he’s pulling something out. It’s cream colored and about half the size of a golf ball. I smell vanilla for one glorious second before he shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
His eyes close in pleasure as he chews. “Mmm. So good.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“Illegal to eat on the Bees,” he reminds me, slipping his phone out of his shorts pocket. “You sure you want to break the rules?”
I skipped breakfast. I was too nervous about meeting Patrick. What a dork. I still can’t believe that all happened. It’s like a bad dream that I can’t shake. And now Porter’s got warm vanilla wafting up from his jacket, right in my face.
I don’t know what I want anymore, honestly.
“You okay?”
Porter stands next to me. The door to Video Ray-Gun swings shut behind us.
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I’m . . . just having a really bad day. It must be the fog.”
“Can’t be that,” he says. “Foggy days are the best.”
I wait for the punch line, but it never comes. He glances down at my knee; it’s scabbed over from yesterday’s takedown of the Maltese falcon thieves, but I was too vain to wear a Band-Aid today.
“I thought California was supposed to be sunny all the time,” I tell him. “Foggy days are depressing.”
“Naaa. They’re kind of magical.”
“Magical,” I repeat dismally, not believing him.
“What, is magic too lowbrow for you?”
“Don’t start with me today,” I say, more weary than frustrated, but if he goes much further, I can’t promise that won’t change. “Do you enjoy picking fights with people?”
“Just you.”
I search his face, unsure if he’s teasing. “You fight with Pangborn all the time.”
“Not true. He never fights back.”
“So that’s what you like?” I ask. “Someone who fights back?”
“Everyone enjoys a little witty repartee now and then.”
Is that a compliment? I can’t tell.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I do like someone who fights back. It’s a mystery, even to me. I’m just a beach bum, remember? Who knows what goes on inside this simple brain of mine?”
Yikes. Awkward. Some part of me wonders if I should apologize for that, but then I remember all the craptastic things he’s said to me.
A long moment stretches.
“Ever ridden a Ferris wheel in the fog?” he suddenly asks. “Oh! What about the aerial lifts?”
“Um, I don’t do amusement park rides.”
“Why?”
“They always break down and the seats are sticky.”
Porter laughs. “Jesus, Bailey. What kind of busted rides do they have back in our nation’s capital?” He shakes his head in mock disapproval and sighs. “Well, just because I feel sorry for your pitiful amusement park ride education, I suppose I’ll take you on the Bees.”
“What are the Bees?”
“The Bees. Buzzz.” He tug-tug-tugs on my shirtsleeve, urging me toward him as he walks backward, smiling that lazy, sexy smile of his. “Those wires with the chairlifts that are painted like bumblebees? The ones that take people up to the redwoods on the cliffs above the beach? You board them next to the big golden wheel on the boardwalk with the shiny, shiny lights? Get to know your new town, Rydell. Come on.”
“I just want somebody I can have a decent conversation with over dinner.”
—Tom Hanks, Sleepless in Seattle (1993)
11
“What’s the matter?” Porter asks as we head down the boardwalk. Then it hits me: like the Ferris wheel, the ticket booth for the Bumblebee Lifts is next to the stupid whale tours window. I didn’t think this through.
“Crap. I really don’t want him to see me again,” I say.
Porter is confused for a second. “Patrick? Why would he care?”
My answer is a long, sad sigh.
“All right, all right,” he grumbles, but I don’t think he’s genuinely irritated. I’m more convinced he feels sorry for me, and that might be worse. “Go stand at the gate over there. I’ll be right back.”
I don’t have the energy to argue. I drag my feet to the chairlift entrance and wait while a stooped, Filipino man—name tag: Reyes—with a raspy voice helps a few stragglers off one of the lifts. Other than one other touchy-feely college-aged couple, it doesn’t look like anyone else is waiting to get on. I don’t blame them. Tendrils of fog cling to the swinging seats, which look much like ski lifts, painted yellow and black. The fat wires that carry the lifts over the boardwalk to the rocky cliffs rest on a series of T-shaped poles; one wire carries the ascending lifts, one wire holds the descenders. Big white lights sit atop each pole, but halfway up the line the fog is so thick that the lights just . . . disappear. I can’t even see the cliffs today.
“Mornin’,” the Bumblebees’ operator says when I greet him.
“What do you do if something happens to one of the lifts?” I ask. “How can you see it?”
He follows my eyes, cranes his neck, and looks up into the fog. “I can’t.”
Not reassuring.
After what seems like an extraordinarily long time, Porter returns, breathless, with our tickets and a small, waxed bag. “Yo, how’s it hanging, Mr. Reyes?” he says merrily to the operator.
“No food allowed on the Bees, Porter,” the elderly man rasps.
Porter stuffs the bag inside his jacket and zips it halfway up. “We won’t touch it until we get to the cliffs.”
“All right,” the man relents, smiling, and he extends an arm to escort us onto the next lift.
Before I can change my mind, we’re boarding a swaying chair behind the groping college-aged couple. Each seat accommodates two people, snugly, and though we’re covered by a plastic yellow-and-black striped bonnet above, it leaves our torsos exposed. This means (A) the coastal wind whips through the chairlift against our backs, and (B) we have a perfect view of the lovey-dovey couple ahead of us and their roaming hands. Terrific.
The operator pulls a handlebar down that locks us in around the waist. I sneak a glance at Porter. I didn’t expect to be sitting so close to him. Our legs are almost touching, and I’m wearing a short skirt. I make myself smaller.
“Fifteen minutes up,” the operator says as he walks alongside our slow-moving chair, “fifteen minutes back down, whenever you’re ready to return. Enjoy yourselves.”
And we’re off. My stomach lurches a little, which is stupid, because we’re not even off the ground yet; these Bees need more zippity-do-dah.
“You all right, there, Rydell?” Porter asks. “Not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” I say as my dragging toes leave the ground and we begin to take flight, ever-so-slowly.
“You’ll love it,” Porter assures me. “It’ll be great when we hit the fog in a few minutes.”
Once the lift operator ambles away to the gate, out of sight, Porter unzips his jacket a few inches and sticks his hand inside. A second later, he’s pulling something out. It’s cream colored and about half the size of a golf ball. I smell vanilla for one glorious second before he shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
His eyes close in pleasure as he chews. “Mmm. So good.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“Illegal to eat on the Bees,” he reminds me, slipping his phone out of his shorts pocket. “You sure you want to break the rules?”
I skipped breakfast. I was too nervous about meeting Patrick. What a dork. I still can’t believe that all happened. It’s like a bad dream that I can’t shake. And now Porter’s got warm vanilla wafting up from his jacket, right in my face.
