I woke with a start and felt the grittiness under my bare arms. "Where the fuck am I...?!" I muttered under my breath. "What the hell?"
I looked around and slowly my eyes focused. I took a deep breath and my nostrils were filled with the salty smell of the sea. I took in my surroundings and realized I was under a pier of sorts.
As I got up to my feet, my head spun and the back of my neck tensed up in pain. I sat back and rubbed it. It's as if there was a cloud hanging over me. For some reason, it's as if I'm seeing everything in muted colors.
"What the hell happened to me?" I said to no one. "What happened last night?"
I took a few moments and thought about my situation as the dizziness faded away. I stretched my arms and felt something thump against the left side of my chest, just under my shoulder.
I looked down and noticed a gun in a dark brown holster.
"Oh shit." I took the gun and studied it. "A Colt 1911 Automatic. Wait. How did I know that?"
I dropped the gun and scurried backwards in the sand... That's when it hit me. I don't know who I am or how I got here.
I stood up and cleaned myself off. I holstered my pistol and continued to clean myself. I felt a bulge in the left back pocket and pulled a wallet out.
"Two hundred bucks. Not a bad thing," I chuckled appreciatively.
I lost myself in a flood of questions until my reverie was interrupted by a man's voice in a curious accent.
"You alright there?"
I spun around and whipped out the pistol at the direction of the voice. "'Ere now! Watch where you point that shooter then, right?"
Standing a few yards away was a disheveled, unshaven fellow. Judging from his clothing, I'd say he was a transient. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you were alright. I swear you Yanks are a bit touched in the head, yeah?" He smiled and tapped his forehead.
"Yanks?" I stared at him and looked around slowly. "Where I am...?"
The bum narrowed his eyes. "You ARE a bit scattered, aintcha?" With a sweep of his left arm he bowed, "Welcome to Brighton, chum!"
"Brighton?"
"Yeah, Brighton."
"Where's Brighton?"
The bum guffawed as if he was told the funniest joke in the world. I already didn't like him. For some reason, I wanted to shoot him twice between the eyes.
"Why England of course!"
"England! What the fuck am I doing here?" I yelled in exasperation. "Just who the hell are you?!"
The bum backed off and raised his hands protectively. "'Ere... Relax, chum. If anything, I should be askin' you the same things and as well whatchoo doin' with that there stuff over yonder behind ya."
He pointed slightly behind me and I noticed a rather large black slouch hat and a long red scarf. On the blood red scarf lay a red girasol ring. It glowed faintly.
"Who am I...?"
***Management Note: Amazing what a picture under a pier does for you writers! Thanks for a very mysterious flash, Gabriel. P.S.--What is a girasol ring?***
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Penetrating vibration of massive engines reverberating against concrete, shallow pools of oily damp, and pants legs sucking up sticky wet like plastic straws in soda cans.
The thrumming motor roaring in dull distance beats at my rib cage, infuses my torso, invades my body cavity, setting my organs to nervous dance. Feet like stone, unmoving, with the knowledge that it is already too late.
It was too late long before I began.
I woke with a start and felt the grittiness under my bare arms. "Where the fuck am I...?!" I muttered under my breath. "What the hell?"
I looked around and slowly my eyes focused. I took a deep breath and my nostrils were filled with the salty smell of the sea. I took in my surroundings and realized I was under a pier of sorts.
As I got up to my feet, my head spun and the back of my neck tensed up in pain. I sat back and rubbed it. It's as if there was a cloud hanging over me. For some reason, it's as if I'm seeing everything in muted colors.
"What the hell happened to me?" I said to no one. "What happened last night?"
I took a few moments and thought about my situation as the dizziness faded away. I stretched my arms and felt something thump against the left side of my chest, just under my shoulder.
I looked down and noticed a gun in a dark brown holster.
"Oh shit." I took the gun and studied it. "A Colt 1911 Automatic. Wait. How did I know that?"
I dropped the gun and scurried backwards in the sand... That's when it hit me. I don't know who I am or how I got here.
I stood up and cleaned myself off. I holstered my pistol and continued to clean myself. I felt a bulge in the left back pocket and pulled a wallet out.
"Two hundred bucks. Not a bad thing," I chuckled appreciatively.
I lost myself in a flood of questions until my reverie was interrupted by a man's voice in a curious accent.
"You alright there?"
I spun around and whipped out the pistol at the direction of the voice. "'Ere now! Watch where you point that shooter then, right?"
Standing a few yards away was a disheveled, unshaven fellow. Judging from his clothing, I'd say he was a transient. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you were alright. I swear you Yanks are a bit touched in the head, yeah?" He smiled and tapped his forehead.
"Yanks?" I stared at him and looked around slowly. "Where I am...?"
The bum narrowed his eyes. "You ARE a bit scattered, aintcha?" With a sweep of his left arm he bowed, "Welcome to Brighton, chum!"
"Brighton?"
"Yeah, Brighton."
"Where's Brighton?"
The bum guffawed as if he was told the funniest joke in the world. I already didn't like him. For some reason, I wanted to shoot him twice between the eyes.
"Why England of course!"
"England! What the fuck am I doing here?" I yelled in exasperation. "Just who the hell are you?!"
The bum backed off and raised his hands protectively. "'Ere... Relax, chum. If anything, I should be askin' you the same things and as well whatchoo doin' with that there stuff over yonder behind ya."
He pointed slightly behind me and I noticed a rather large black slouch hat and a long red scarf. On the blood red scarf lay a red girasol ring. It glowed faintly.
"Who am I...?"
Years press down as I come here again. I'm glad that the town hasn't changed too much, that there's just as much (or just as little) noise here as possible.
Taking off my coat, I lay it on the sand and sit. The pier over me stretches off to the distance.
Years. Years ago, this very spot held us secret and safe. A boy and a girl, in love with being in love. A promise made here, that we laughed about as we walked later through the touristy places, announcing it to the world. The sun, so bright, colored everything about that day golden.
I hold a golden circle, it reminds me of the sun on that day. It reminds me, too, of the night that I asked for it back. Your eyes, pinpricks of black in green irises, voice thick and slurry. A shell of what you had been, what I had loved. The rag soaked with chemicals in the corner, the bottles of alcohol on your shelf. They took me away from me... YOU took you away from me, to a land of shadows where I could not, would not follow. You refused my hand in help. When I caught up with you, you were nearly nothing. And you were worried that I would give the ring to somebody else. Stupid girl... this ring was yours. It will always be yours.
I look at the ring with a smile on my face... a smile which seems fresh and new and lovely. It's been so long since I stretched myself into a happy shape. If now is not the time, I don't know when it would be.
I stand up and aim ahead, to where the perspective lines of the pier converge, to the future we plotted here. I rear my arm back and pitch, the golden ring a spark for a moment in the sun, then a ripple in the shallow sea, then nothing more.
My coat over my arm, I leave, following my own footprints where there once had been two.
Stupid girl... this ring was yours. It will always be yours.
"Water under the bridge." So they say.
Sometimes that water pounds against the bridge, splintering its support, until it washes away into the waves.
They became friends in sixth grade, and would do everything together. In high school they joined the same clubs, skipped classes together, thought the same thoughts, and sized up each other's potential boyfriends. After college and in the adult working world, they phoned each other at least once a day to compare notes and support each other. And even now, any long pauses in their conversations needed no explanation.
At the age of thirty, one of them called to announce her engagement.
The other stated, "He's no good for you! I know you. You won't be happy."
"You're wrong. You don't know me. You have no idea what will make me happy."
On her wedding day, she looked at her new husband and felt a momentary qualm. But then she looked out at the packed ballroom, at all the people (minus one) who came to celebrate her marriage.
And she thought, "Screw water under the bridge. She's a bitch."
Parker knew from the breathing of the air that something had happened here, amongst the pillars supporting the massive dock. A bout of synthesthesia told him that the air tasted like blue, the cold felt like spicy marigolds, and the melancholy was just hanging there like dirty quilts.
If he looked closer, he would feel the wet slap of humidity on his face like the insistent nudge of an erect cock. If he dared think about the recent history of this place he would see himself. Drunk and dancing. So fucking unafraid of a stronger man, a disregard of the potential children of such an encounter. A little wild, still, at his age.
And all the images from the night subsided into the bright throbbing of the sun, as the ink from the business card in his pocket leached into the bay.
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