7—Walk on Crab Avenue

As the door of the Netarts Grocery closed behind him, a large white cat with black markings sauntered toward me. His demeanor and the splotches of black fur on his face suggested that he’d just emerged marked but victorious from the paintball war to end all paintball wars. After casting a surly glance in my direction, the cat hopped into the president’s box. 

“Good morning, Mr. President,” I said. 

“Meh,” the cat replied. 

“Lugs,” I remarked, “what an interesting name. How did you come by it?”

“Meh,” said the cat. Then appearing to wait briefly for some additional favor that I failed to offer, he looked past me as though I’d ceased to exist. 

I walked into the store and was greeted in a friendly but reserved manner by a slim brown-haired woman behind the counter. “That’s quite a president you have,” I said. 

The woman rolled her eyes. “He’s mad. I put the lid on the jerky.”

The door opened. 



In walked the president followed by a young sandy-haired man wearing muddy boots and jeans with red suspenders over his grimy blue and white striped shirt. He smiled at me then looked down at the cat who sat staring up at the jar of jerky. The man laid a bill on the counter, lifted the lid from the jar, and took several sticks. 

“Meh,” said the cat. 

“I cut him off,” the woman told the man who shrugged at the cat, then flowed into conversation with the woman: Had anyone claimed the orange shag carpet Tom was tearing out of the old beach house? Maggie might take it for Harley, but she had to figure out where to put it because Harley couldn’t pick it up until next week. Although it was possible that Bill could swing by with his van.  

As I surveyed the rows of candy, packaged cakes, and wine the flow of their conversation surrounded me like slow water: Jeff was wiring a house up the Trask. He and Amelia were getting back together. Barko said it wouldn’t last. Rain was on its way and wouldn’t let up for a week.

The president hopped up on the counter. His rotund furriness dwarfed the jar of jerky. “He’s starving,” the man implored. 

“Meeh,” whined the president. 

“Go ahead,” relented the woman with a roll her eyes.  

I suddenly felt anxious and alone. It wasn’t that I’d been made to feel like an unwelcome stranger, but rather that I’d come from an alternate universe of flawless faxes, sunny skies and flip-flops, six-lane traffic, twenty-four-hour slot machines, and time that was money. In that world orange shag would be a joke. Here it was a manifestation of transcendental simplicity. I paid for my merlot and assorted chocolates and left. 

The drizzle had changed to an invisible mist. Pulling up the hood of my jacket, I headed down Crab Avenue, the main lane of town.

Out front of the Bayside Deli, I was joined by an amiable black Lab. Turning the corner past the deli, we passed a fire hall. Across the street from the hall, a man was scratching his head under a rusty car hood. The dog arfed. “Hey, Rocky boy!” the man exclaimed and began to shadow box with the happy arfer. 

“Good morning,” he called to me. “Looks like it finally quit raining,” he said looking up into the mist.

“I’m from the desert,” I remarked stupidly and apropos of nothing.

But the man stepped back from his car and stood as if I’d just brought fascinating tidings from afar. “What part?” he asked.

“Las Vegas,” I said.

“Not much rain there,” he said.

“Lots of people, though,” I said. “Six thousand new residents a month.”

“Where are they getting their water?” he asked.

“A mirage north of town,” I said.

We laughed, and Rocky arfed. 

The dog and I walked on, and fifty yards or so later came to the main road. Here, we passed the community club—Potlucks every third Tuesday, a sign said—and turned into the parking lot of the Sea Lion. I knocked on the door. 

Fax confirmed. 

As I pulled out of the parking lot, the mist turned into rain. In the rear view mirror, I watched Rocky arfing goodbye and felt an inexplicable melancholy at leaving the little town. By the time I got back to Oceanside, the rain had stopped. My mood lifted as I jogged down the mountain to the beach, eager to begin my communion with the ocean. But the moment I set foot on the beach, panic swept over me.           

Next: “Off the Middle Path”