To get away for a few days, we drive down to Long Beach and catch a ferry to Catalina. The crossing is crowded and uncomfortable and we’re feeling a bit seasick so are not in a great mood when we finally dock in Avalon Bay.
By now it is hot and there are people everywhere. We have to be aggressive just to get a taxi. The hotel made it sound easy — ”Just jump in any one of the yellow Volkswagen vans” — but it’s not that simple. For one, most of the vans aren’t yellow at all. The one we ride is brown. Elaine asks the driver if he is from New York. “You’d make a perfect New York cabby,” she says.
The air-cooled VW roars as he speeds down the narrow streets, braking hard for indecisive tourists in their rented golf carts (only residents drive cars here) and nearly forcing cyclists off the road altogether.
Near the waterfront, we pass a group of girls wearing bikinis and carrying beach bags. They are young and fit and proud, and when I look at them, they look back, an unspoken challenge in their eyes. Even the taxi driver seems intimidated, slowing the van and giving them room to pass. (More likely he’s just giving himself time to take in the view, and the girls know exactly what’s going on.)
When the driver finally drops us off at the hotel, we feel better instantly. The hotel sits high on a hill on the east side of the bay, near the Chimes Tower, and our room has an excellent view of the boat-filled harbor. Above the fray.
After checking in, we walk down the hill and have an early-bird dinner at a second-story restaurant on the street that runs along the waterfront. Elaine picks it because it advertises “exotic cocktails” and she feels she needs one. We share a bucket of steamed clams, which are a bit tough and salty, but it doesn’t matter. We are in Avalon and we have a great view.
Afterward, we stroll through town, check out some of the shops. We separate, as we usually do, and I spend most of my time shuffling through a rack full of postcards outside one of the stores. The real attraction, though, is a woman across the way, casually showing off her perfect buns in a bright red thong. I’ve never seen a woman bold enough to wear one on the beach, let alone the street. She doesn’t seem the least bit self-conscious, either, as she tries on sunglasses with her friend. I’m waiting for her to turn so I can get another look.
Her friend is a stunning blonde in a lime-green two-piece. Our eyes meet and she doesn’t look away. I do.
I put the postcard I’m holding back in the rack and walk away as casually as I can, but I feel like I’m running. What else can I do? I’m married. Today is our anniversary.
From the story collection Precarious, by yours truly.
