The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia - 2
Wednesday, July 3, 3:49 P.M.
This is the second installment of the novella The Useless Consolation of Hydrophobia
Wednesday, July 3, 3:49 P.M.
I'd had enough and closed the laptop, ignoring the shattered windows…
I imagined myself striding through a cool littoral village, picturesque with fluffy clouds and ships boasting glossy, towering masts. Seagulls squawked in the distance. The sand, too, was cool and golden, enhancing the charm of the painted walls; their allure further heightened by the absence of a nearby parking lot or sewer drain. Laughter echoed through the wind, mingling with the distant sunlit cliffs.
The evening approached, and a bandshell was set for music. Church steeples ascended in the distance, along with that striking red and white lighthouse that stood heavy and tall on a rocky outcropping engulfed by the salty foam.
Now, rain dribbled into the cracked pavement of the cobbled, forgotten streets. It was all the same to me, whether in my mind or when I was here.
Behind the waterfront loveliness were the inviting dim-lit dives. Old concert posters clung to lifeless walls, and the rusty hoardings lay on the dusty floors of a long row of warehouses, all devoid of windows, and behind them was a long, splintery pier.
I strode toward it, and the town hollowed behind me.
Approaching, I saw the pier filled with solemn figures dressed like elderly Europeans tarrying for winter ice cream.
Then, a fight broke out, and a rasp rose from the rusty nails inside the pier's boards. Men and women squeaked and squawked; their hands grasped each other’s wooly shirts as legs were hoisted toward the railing in an attempt to toss their owners into the sea. Fists swung and connected with cheeks and chins. Children recoiled from the horribleness of it all.
"They do this every dusk," a mournful voice lamented from somewhere behind me.
What ended it was a loud shriek that seemed to come from the end of the pier, followed by crude laughter. Hands were released, and legs were set free. The horribleness ended as swiftly as it seemed to begin.
The combatants pivoted to the west and monitored the sun as it slowly relaxed on the watery horizon.
To get closer to the sunset, the small crowd, with confidence and purpose, slowly moved toward the end of the pier.
Without question, I began to move along with them.
A disheveled youth, dead-eyed and glazed over by some drug, slurred, "Have you ever made it to the end of the pier?"
He mumbled other words, but they merged with crowd noise and scattered in the breeze. Then, they became clear again.
"What?" I said.
"Did you enjoy the fight?" he said.
"What?" I said.
"The fight, you fool. You were here. You saw it," he said.
I gazed at him, dumbfounded.
"You think you're better than us?" he said.
"Yes," I said, surprised at my words.
"The pier doesn't end. There is no end," he said.
"I can see it. It's right there," I pointed.
"You're just another fool," the boy said. "You watch those films with the girls and their pouty lips."
"What?"
He sneered smugly. He wasn't as young as I had first assumed. His grey eyes were almost fossilized, and the skin behind his ears looked like creased parchment, dirty and worn.
"They cannibalized those old cartoon silhouettes. And the Chateau Marmont. And that minx, you know, that tight yellow thing. Those lips and eyes, big, knowing. Whistling your name? Oh, no, my son, not your name." he said.
I wondered how he knew. We continued our stroll. The village dissolved behind us, though not wholly, into the shadows cast by the orange blob that sank into the murky sea.