Collapsing World

The other evening I was across the street waiting for the sun to go down. It isn’t quite the same thing as watching the sun set because more times than not the clouds on the horizon obscure the red ball’s plunge into the Pacific Ocean. It looked promising this particular night as the day had been unusually clear of clouds and the volcano’s vog.

I’ve been coming to this place which is on private property every night. I did the same thing back in April and May. I figured it’d be just a matter of time before someone would approach me, suspecting me of trespassing. This was the night.

Because of his clean pressed shorts and Hawaiian patterned shirt, I assumed he belonged with the lady who had two precocious children who stood on the sea wall yelling at the breakers as the surf roared over the rocks. I didn’t invest more than the two seconds to make that assumption when he sat down three lawn chairs away. He said nothing and since I didn’t want to get involved in any conversations with anyone who lived there, I didn’t acknowledge his presence. But he caught my eye when I looked down the rocky shore line at the three local fisherman casting their lines into the waves.

“Where are you visiting from?” He asked.

“I live here.” Oh, God, I’m going to get into a conversation. I looked around for the lady with the two kids. No where.

He looked surprised. “I thought I had seen you before, but not in awhile.”

I guessed it begged for an explanation. “I spent the summer in New York. Actually, I’m poaching. I live across the street.”

He laughed. “Well, if anyone ever tries to chase you out of here and they will, tell them you are with me. I’m Robert and I am the president of the property association.”

Busted. I apologized for any problems my presence had caused. “I use to go over there.” I pointed to the group of seedy characters gathered on the other side of the property wall, near the fishermen. It was a public access point to the ocean were local color hung out. When they weren’t busy tossing around a football, they were tossing each other into a sea pool. “But they are a little too sketchy for me.”

We engaged in some additional small talk. I figured I had to be polite now that I have permission to be there. Robert wanted to know where in NY I spent the summer.

“Saratoga.”

“Saratoga Springs," Robert corrected.

“That’s right. You know it?” I waited for him to tell me he had been to the race track.

“Nice place. I use to live on Loughberry Road. Remember when the Vichy bottling plant burned down?"

“You are kidding me. Small world.”

“Yeah. My father worked for the paper before taking a Gannett job in Newburg.

“Your father worked at the paper?” I asked. This was unbelievable.

“The Saratogian.”

“My Dad did too. A printer for 33 years.” I looked out across the ocean expecting to see the small world collapse. Maybe someone planted a Candid Camera in a palm tree.

It turned out Robert had also spent twenty years in Santa Cruz. I was tempted to ask if he knew the captain of the Cosmic Muffin. But that seemed too weird. Instead I asked, “Um. You’re not a sailor, are you?”

“No, Powerboats.” He said.

Thank God.