He was listening to someone’s mother tell him about how her son was shot. It happened in Southeast Asia. Maybe it was Malaysia. He didn’t know, but he was on the phone with her and as she told her story he was transported to the club where it happened. He saw the gun in his hand and he was the one who’d pulled the trigger. He missed and shot the wrong man.
He still had to get out of town, so he drove to the beach. He twisted and turned on the infinite loops of an off ramp of an Interstate he’d never been on before. He was lost and got spit out two hours south of where’d he’d hope to be. Maybe it was Wilmington. He thought briefly he was all the way on the west coast in Pebble Beach again.
Either way, he watched the waves crashing on the shore all day. He wanted to ride them, but he was worried he’d lose his car keys in the pounding surf. So he watched until the sky and the water turned dark, then he walked along the boardwalk where he entered a small shop.
Perusing the greeting cards, he felt like he was being watched. He thought someone wearing a bunny suit was going to bust him. He was sure it was a private eye snooping around his car dressed like a rabbit. Somewhere else there were German Shepherds trying to sniff him out too.
He stayed where he was even though he was pretty sure he stuck out like a sore thumb.
Photo by Hans Eiskonen