Black Sand, White Surf by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

 

“Well, that was one hellishly long, curvy-ass road, Milton!” 27-year-old Janelle exclaims as the pastel green, 1951, two-door Studebaker Champion comes to rest just before a log wheel-stop. “Where in the world are we? Do I hear the sea?” What a forlorn, fog-enshrouded place. There’s no one around. No houses, no stores, no anything. He could rape and kill me and no one would ever find my body. Ever. Oh, why am I thinking such gruesome thoughts. He’s a good guy. I think. I hope. / Good deal, the condom is still in my back pocket. Perfect. This should be a memorable night – quite an unforgettable night.

 

“We’re just north of Shelter Cove, [on the northern California coast] my sexy chanteuse. And, yes, you do hear the Pacific Ocean. Want to walk down to it? The fog won’t bite, but I might.” Wide-grinning, 29-year-old, short-tawny-haired Milton chuckles menacingly. That look on his face … It’s suddenly so creepy.

 

“Oh, will you please stop it, Milton?!” Janelle insists with faux exasperation. “You’re scaring me.” She likes me. Or, does she? Of course she does, or she wouldn’t have ever got in this car and agreed to go with me to such a secluded, far-off-the-beaten-path place.

 

“Ok, ok, no more joking around,” Milton assures with a serious expression. “I’m all business from here on.” All business?

 

“And, exactly what is all of your business, mister?” Janelle enquires, and then giggles, feeling less tense.

 

“I’d like to merge my business with your business,” Milton dryly divulges.

 

“What?!” Janelle blurts. Knew that sex was on his brain.

 

“The next Sarah Vaughan paired with the next Dave Brubeck. What do ya say, princess?” Wow!

 

“Well, you certainly know how to flatter a lady, sir. But, I didn’t know that you played piano, Mr. Strawbridges.” [a play on Milton’s last name]

 

“I’m getting the hang of it quickly. Yes, rather quickly. I’m a fast learner, sweetheart. It’s just tilting black and white rectangles. Not really that complicated. Most people overthink it. I get in a zone and – bam! – it’s magic. Twinkle fingers.” Don’t think he can really play.

 

“Milton, my dear, it’s more than that. Have you even learned any chords yet?” Darn, she called my bluff.

 

“I’m a cord-free kinda guy, babe; I don’t like to be tethered.” Oh dear … Think he’s had one swig too many. Don’t think he’ll be able to get his rod up. Should be safe. Anyway, my period is coming up. I’m sure that I’m infertile right now. I can relax.

 

“An untetherable lad, are you? We may only make for a one-night shipwreck, twinkle fingers.”

 

Milton chuckles. “Speaking of shipwrecks, Janelle, did you know that two schooners collided right off this coast exactly forty-eight years ago [1907] on this very date? [July 21st] It was a foggy night, just like right now, when a passenger steamer, the Columbia, rammed the cargo ship San Pedro. The collision was much worse for the Columbia, though; it sank, and eighty-eight souls were lost, despite a gallant rescue effort by the crew of the San Pedro to save everyone in the chilly water.” Certainly don’t want to get anywhere near that frigid seawater.

 

“That’s a most horrible way to die,” Janelle declares.

 

“No doubt. Drowning via hypothermia. Awful.”

 

“Is it cold outside?” the slender, attractive, long-relaxed-ebony-haired African American woman then asks after a three-second pause. Sure looks like it.

 

“It’s not too bad – just a wee brisk. I would put my chip down on 59; yep, I bet it’s 59 degrees, [Fahrenheit; 15° Celsius] sexy goddess of the night. Sweater weather.” Sexy goddess of the night? Yep, he’s thinking of having sex with me tonight. But on a cold-ass beach? No freakin’ way! Where is that cottage he was talking about? Wish we could just go there now.

 

“Hey mister, 36 is the highest number on a roulette wheel,” Janelle rectifies. How does she know this?

 

“Did you once work in a casino?” Milton enquires while setting the parking brake.

 

“Nope. Never. My one and only occupation has been off-night singer at the MoMo Club.” [a popular interracial jazz joint in the capitol district of Sacramento in the post-World War II years; razed for redevelopment circa 1956]

 

“Just checking, my lovely. So tell me, Janelle, where did you grow up?” Milton is quite eager to hear her answer.

 

“Jackson – Jackson, Mississippi. Not the best place for an aspirational, agnostic black family. Most of the whites hated us, and our fellow blacks shunned us because we never showed up at the local Baptist church on Sundays. When my dad’s half-brother said that there was a pipefitter apprentice opening in Chicago, we were gone. And when that job fizzled-out in the Great Depression, a cousin told my dad about a public works job in Sacramento. Thus, we moved again. No regrets so far. Chicago’s winters were so darn cold; I don’t miss them. At all. And, what about you, Milton? Are you a Sacramento blue blood? A Comstock ‘loder’ with bars of bullion in a basement safe?” Huh? What in the world?

 

“No, not a blue blood; not Sacramento royalty by any stretch, love. No solid-silver spoons in my mouth growing up. And, no, no one in our family ever found a gold nugget. Dad just worked hard at The Sacramento Bee. First to arrive; last to leave, every single day. Never called in sick. Not once. So, how does your story go in your teenage years, Janelle? Who was the first crush?” He sure wants to know all about me. He likes me. He wants me. But, could we really be a couple? Sacramento is not like the Deep South, but … people would look … and talk … just don’t know how it would work. Dad and mom might be ok with it. But, would his parents and siblings? Doubt it. Well, maybe just see how things unfold. Maybe it could work out after all. Or, maybe just a fantasy. Such a gamble, though. But, one only lives once.

 

Janelle then opens the passenger door and jumps out of the car. “I’ll tell you my whole adult story if you can catch me, loverboy.” Loverboy? Yep, tonight’s the night!

 

Milton then leaps out of the car, stumbles, steadies himself, and gives chase. Well, she’s got a decent head start. Hope she doesn’t fall and get hurt. Hope I don’t fall and get hurt. 

 

Janelle immediately finds the footpath. Her agile, athletic body dashes beachward. She beats Milton by 22 feet (6.7 meters). She’s fast. Wonder if she ran track in high school.

 

“I won!” Janelle joyously announces as she jumps up and down on the slightly damp, dark sand. “What do I get?”

 

“You get the hard sausage,” Milton audaciously replies with a liquor-effected slur.

 

“You vulgar animal!” Janelle sternly quips. And then grins.

 

They begin to kiss and fondle for the first time. Wow! He seems like such a nice guy. But, he’s a bit cocky. All these rich-side-of-town white boys are. / This is going so smooth. What a perfect night. Time to start undressing her. Oh, wait.

 

Milton then lays a thick wool blanket on top of a canvas cover. Just as they begin to get busy …

 

<slam>

 

Janelle is startled. “That was a car door – your car door!” Who would be up there? And how would they have gotten there? Never heard an engine or rolling tires. This isn’t good. / Was that really the sound of my car door – or another car door – closing? Kinda sounded like a rogue wave crashing onto that hollowed-out rock. Think Janelle is paranoid.

 

“Ok, you stay here, Janelle,” Milton instructs. “I’ll go investigate.” What?! No way!

 

“Stay here?!” Janelle exclaims. “Alone? Are you crazy? I’m not going to stay here on this desolate beach by myself.”

 

Milton ponders the situation for four seconds. “Ok, here’s the plan: you follow me, but stay thirty feet [nine meters] behind me. Try to stay hidden – off to the side of the path in the shrubs – if at all possible.” In that briary brush? No way!

 

“Sorry, I forgot my vanishing cream, dear. And, I’m not wearing a suit of armor.” Guess I can’t stop her. Hope she doesn’t get involved in a bad scene at the car.

 

Milton sighs and then begins to cautiously walk towards the Studebaker. Janelle follows, lagging a safe distance behind. A swell breaks loudly. Was just a wave. Bet she watches too many horror movies.

 

As his low-cut loafers march up the rise, he slows his gait. Milton them creeps up the berm. The parked sedan enters his line of sight. It looks fine from 20 feet (six meters) away. All is humanly quiet. There is no person to be seen. Anywhere. The car hasn’t moved an inch. Nothing appears to be damaged. Yep, my sweetie is imagining things.

 

Milton then motions for Janelle to come up to him, which she stealthily does. Wonder what’s up. What did he see?

 

“Looks good from here, babe,” Milton whispers in Janelle’s left ear. “Probably just a big wave.”

 

“It was a person,” Janelle counters.

 

“Ok, maybe it was just a two-bit, good-for-nothing thief looking to go for a joyride – just looking for a quick-and-easy swipe. I left it unlocked, but I have the keys in my pocket. Once he discovered that there was no ignition key, he slammed the door in frustration and bolted. Yep, I’m sure that’s what happened. The reprobate is most likely long gone.” Is that what really happened? Hmmm …

 

“If he’s on foot, how could he be long gone? He’s probably still around here. We must be careful. Do you have a gun?”

 

“No, I don’t have a gun. Just relax, sweetheart. It was probably just a juvenile delinquent – probably just the local knucklehead.” Who could be dangerous!

 

“Ok, what should we do now?” Janelle asks with a fearful expression on her angular face.

 

“I’ll gather the stuff from the beach, and we’ll simply drive off, and get the hell out of here. Bill’s [Milton’s pal] cottage is only a mile [1.6 km] up the road. We’ll be fine there.” Why did he decide to come down here in the first place? White boys are weird.

 

“I’ll go with you,” Janelle firmly asserts.

 

Soon they are both in the car, heading back up the narrow, snaking, gravel-to-dirt-to-gravel road. It is pitch-dark; there are no streetlamps. After three dialogue-less minutes, Milton is turning left onto an earthen driveway.

 

“Ok, Janelle, this is the turn for home. We’ll be safe and sound in this cabin tonight.” Sure hope so.

 

Milton parks the car at the end of the long, hooking, level drive. The out-of-view-from-the-road cottage is dark. But after entering with the key from under the front porch mat, it is quickly illuminated. And all seems to be in order. They peruse the five small rooms; no one is in the half-stone/half-log, cozy, 603-square-foot (56 square meters) cabin. They both relax. Maybe it wasn’t his car door. Maybe it was another car door, and they tootled off as quietly as they came.

 

Seventeen minutes later, Janelle is in Milton’s arms under the blanket in the larger bedroom. They have a delightful round of coitus primus. Then all is dead-quiet once again.

 

“Wow!” Janelle mutedly exclaims. “I enjoyed that. Now, please keep me warm, my human heater.”

 

“Certainly, my special lady.” Special because I’m his first non-Caucasian lay?

 

“Special? Special in what way, my dear?”

 

“Special in all ways, girlfriend.” Girlfriend? Yes!

 

“Ah, thank you, boyfriend.” Sweet. What a perfect night. Well, except for whatever that noise was earlier. Glad it didn’t derail the night. Glad Janelle is at ease now. I know, I’ll make her some hot tea. Bet she will like that.

 

“Hey, look at this crazy piece of art on the wall, babe,” Milton announces while pointing at the small, oil-on-canvas piece.

 

“Looks weird,” Janelle remarks. “Woah! I see two eyeballs. And two faces. What’s the title, honey?”

 

Milton removes it from the wall and hands it to Janelle. “Look on the back, sweetie.”

 

Janelle turns the artwork over and reads: “Black Sand, White Surf.”

 

“That’s us, babe!” Milton broadcasts full of glee. “That will be the name of our act. We’re gonna be famous, sweetie.” Huh? What?!

 

<slam>

 

“Oh, no! That was definitely your car door, Milton; that wasn’t an ocean wave.” Janelle is utterly fearful. The blood drains from her cheeks in terror.

 

“Ok, here’s what we’re going to do: first, we’re turning off all the oil lanterns and battery lights,” Milton states, now very concerned about their safety and well-being. “We’ll only keep this flashlight on for now.”

 

“Ok … uh, ok,” Janelle replies frightfully. We’re going to die; I know it. That evil madman out there is going to kill us. Can feel it – imminent death – is nearing. We’re doomed. Our lives … are over. This is where it ends.

 

“Honey, crouch down so that he doesn’t see our silhouettes in the windows,” Milton instructs. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Glad he can think; I can’t right now. So afraid. Hope that man’s not a killer. Please, no! Don’t want to die tonight.

 

“Ok, yeah, sure.” Janelle is now gasping for air out of mortal fear. She’s freaking out. Need to calm her down.

 

“Relax, honey; it’s going to be ok,” Milton whispers as they exit the main bedroom with Janelle holding onto his waist with her right hand. “We’ll outsmart him. Don’t worry.” Don’t worry?! That’s impossible!

 

They barricade the front (and only) door with an old couch, extinguish/switch off all the sources of light in the cottage, including the flashlight once they are in the smaller bedroom. There are now no sounds except for their heartbeats on a twin-size mattress.

 

“Why this room, honey?” Janelle nervously mutters in the darkness. Why couldn’t we have just stayed in Sac? [Sacramento] Big mistake coming to this forsaken place. 

 

“Sweetie, that window is smaller and much higher than in the other rooms. He won’t be able to see us even if he walks up to it; he’ll just see the ceiling and upper walls. In every other room, he could easily spot us. We must keep him guessing as to which room we are in.” Guess that sounds logical enough. Wonder where he is right now. Does he have a gun or a knife? Yikes!

 

The minutes hang on the black cottonwood curtain rod. And expire like hours. They alternate falling asleep, but never for more than forty minutes. Dawn finally emerges.

 

“What do we do now?” Janelle asks.

 

“I’m going to take a peek out the front window,” Milton responds.

 

“Ok, but don’t go outside,” Janelle pleads.

 

“I won’t,” Milton assures.

 

Two hundred seconds later, Milton walks back into the 70-square-foot (6.5 square meters) bedroom.

 

“Why aren’t you crouched down?” Janelle asks in an annoyed tone of voice.

 

“He’s gone. Whoever it was has left. I looked out all of the windows. There’s nothing out there – no humans, no bears, no wolves, no big cats, nothing.”

 

“You think it’s safe for us to leave?” Janelle asks, ready to gamble on an early morning escape.

 

“I do,” Milton calmly states. “Let’s just make a dash for the car, and take off.” Hope the engine starts. Hope the a-hole didn’t break anything.

 

Milton and Janelle do just that as the diffused sunrise gleam trickles through the sky-scrapingly-tall coastal redwood trees. The Studebaker starts right up. They are back in Sacramento in six hours after stopping for brunch in Ukiah.

 

The next Tuesday evening at the Momo Club, Janelle is talking with Milton at a small table before she goes on stage.

 

Big, brawny, bombastic Bill accosts them. “Slam, slam, thank you, ma’am.” He guffaws boisterously.

 

“You bastard!”