Surfing Away From The Beach

 

 

Waiting To Go Out

 

So you're standing there in the doorway listening to that song you like as it plays on the radio. I'm sitting on the sofa watching you despite the newspaper being open on my lap. You look exactly the way I remembered; perhaps you're even more attractive now? I like the way you have your hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing your slender neck. But even as I think this the doubt edges in, that feeling that I'm no longer sure who you are. The Susan I've been carrying around in my head is a person I've constructed myself from the few days we've spent together, lines in e-mails and the brief letters we've  exchanged.  I've taken your words and built your life backwards from these scant elements, like those early palaeontologists who constructed fabulous creatures from a single discovered bone.

 

I now realise the Susan I can see standing across the room from me, the you I can reach out and touch is a different Susan to the one I know

 

You seem to be shifting before my eyes, even though our physical positions remain unchanged. I'm acutely aware of how little I really know about you, your life outside the tiny points where our two lives have intersected.

 

The phone rings. She picks it up and says hello. Her mood seems to change slightly. 'Hold on, I'll take this in the other room' ­ she disappears into her bedroom leaving me to leaf distractedly through the newspaper.

 

'That was Simon. You know I told you about him earlier.

 

 

The Car Journey

 

"You're quiet"

 

Susan was right; I hadn't spoken since we'd set off. We were driving into town to meet a friend of hers at a bar they liked to hang out in. I still felt tired from the flight. It seemed an age since I had crawled out of bed that morning, the alarm clock set insanely early because of my usual fear that I'd miss my flight. The morning had followed me across the globe as I made my flight from London to California; but now it felt that Thursday had finally outstayed its welcome.

 

'Hey is that a drive-in?'

 

'Yeah, they show old movies and stuff there. I haven't been in years'

 

I turned to look over my shoulder as it slipped into the distance.

 

'You know when I was a kid it used to drive me mad when my dad would send me to bed. I would lie in bed and I could hear the sound of the television coming up through the floor; snatches of dramatic music, someone screaming, gunshots. I used to see the titles of all these films in the TV guides late at night and they would seem so mysterious. Titles that seem so enigmatic to a child that you can't imagine what the movie could be about.'

 

'Like what?'

 

'I don't know, the one that always sticks in my mind is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It obviously wasn't about cuckoos. I used to beg my Dad to let me stay up and watch them, but he was always really strict about things like that. As I was lying in bed I could hear the sound of the television downstairs and I'd try to imagine what was going on. Those films became something of an obsession, it actually became a bit of a disappointment when I finally got round to seeing them.'

 

'Hey I love One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, it's a great film.'

 

'I know, I like it too, I'm just saying to me it changed from this almost mythical film in my imagination to something more mundane.'

 

'I'd like to see the movie that was in your head then if you thought it was better.'

 

'I'm not explaining this very well.'

 

I went back to looking out of the window.

 

I had met Susan at a blues bar in London. She'd been over with her job and had popped in to listen to some music as a way of escaping the monotony of her hotel room. I'd noticed her standing on her own and after spending half the evening working through all the possible consequences of talking to her I finally made a move. She had been surprised that it had taken so long. We met up the next couple of days and then she went back home to America. Since then it had been e-mails, the odd phone call and finally an invite. On the plane over I'd began to [have doubts?]

 

She looked different ­ she wore her hair back how, she was dressed for a warm Californian evening rather than the multiple layers of woollens that she'd constantly been wrapped in whilst in England.

 

'Hey stop it'

 

'What?'

 

'Quit staring at me. I hate it when people look at me when I'm driving ­ especially guys.'

 

I couldn't tell if she was genuinely angry or not. Feeling scolded I returned to staring out the window.

 

'You'll like Simon.' She said changing the subject. I was already determined not to. Who was he? What was his relationship to Susan? I wanted to ask these questions but also to avoid the answers.

 

Instead I distracted myself by flicking through the small pile of CDs she kept beside the driver's seat.

 

An unfamiliar one stood out from the pile; it appeared to be a CD of 60s bubble gum west coast pop. Four guys with toothy smiles, blonde hair and toothpaste-stripe shirts balanced unconvincingly on surfboards in front of a tropical beach backdrop. The name of the album, picked out in bamboo cane typography was Surf Safari. "I used to love that album sleeve as a kid but something about it used to always bug me. It was years before I realised what it was.ı She paused to see if I'd notice. I just held the sleeve dumbly in my hand. I shrugged so she explained. ŒThe band are surfing away from the beach."

 

'I guess it looked better like that'

 

I continued digging through the pile.

 

'I didn't expect you to like this one,' I said picking out one by a punk metal band I'd vaguely heard of.

 

'There's a lot you don't know about me.'

 

'That's true,' I replied.

 

I opened the CD's jewel case and slipped out the booklet inside. 'I guess you don't really know much about me either.'

 

'I probably know more than you think,' she looked across and smiled. 'Look we're here now.'

 

 

 

 

 

We pulled over in front of a small bar. It looked like so many of the small business along the road ­ a small boxlike building with a sign outside.

 

 

At Night

 

I twist my body yet again fighting against the geography of your sofa; itıs no longer possible to find a position that is comfortable itıs now just about distributing the pain, finding ways to stretch out the tension. The room too canıt settle. A few minutes ago the unnecessary heating system rumbled into life and now the sounds of shuddering pipes add punctuation to the steady throb of the refrigerator in the kitchen next door. A cacophony that plays below silence. Did I hear you sigh? If I strain I imagine I can hear you moving in your room.