{"id":442,"date":"2019-05-08T03:12:28","date_gmt":"2019-05-08T03:12:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/community.scrippscollege.edu\/scrippsjournal\/?p=442"},"modified":"2021-04-04T13:09:29","modified_gmt":"2021-04-04T13:09:29","slug":"our-love-in-santa-monica","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.scrippscollege.edu\/scrippsjournal\/our-love-in-santa-monica\/","title":{"rendered":"Our Love in Santa Monica by Ethan Ashby"},"content":{"rendered":"
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The sun melts the steely surface of the ocean like an acetylene torch. Your Toyota Corolla\u2019s air conditioning system pumps soft, sterile air onto our goosebumped arms, as the watercolor sun smears away the faint green of the dashboard. The lenses of your chocolate-colored sunglasses steal a fleeting look at us in the rearview mirror. Our beach blanket lies tousled across the back seat\u2013crumpled and frayed at its corners like a page torn out of a travel magazine. A few surfers race towards the water in wet suits. Their restricted legs shuffle into the foam as their boards catch their stomachs before the crest of a wave. The harried call of a California gull rings out over the throb of the surf.<\/p>\n

Gaudily-colored parasols stand askew in the sand like oversized cocktail umbrellas. They shade the sunburnt faces of children clutching damp sand castles, into which their imaginations burrow and find asylum. The parasols screen the lenses of polaroids and iPhones cradled by infatuated youngsters, intent to catch the ephemeral thrill of a tender moment like a surfer catching a wave. These beach umbrellas shelter coolers full of glassy Coronas flecked by melting ice, primed to glimmer gold in the afternoon lux as friends shout \u201ccheers\u201d to a promotion, an engagement, or just the end to another goddamn week of work. They shield the frenetic circuitry and pulsating bass of boomboxes poised next to sleek, tanned bodies and beautiful faces that bob to the arrhythmic interjections of Tom Petty over the ocean\u2019s own tempo.<\/p>\n

Our parasol screens the light from your milky torso and the threadbare beach blanket, the outline of your freckled shoulders, and the divots your toes unknowingly make in the sand.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe sand\u2019s so warm,\u201d you remark, taking up a handful and letting it run through your fingers.<\/p>\n

I hum in assent, and adjusting my position on the blanket, \u201cWhen I was younger, I used to come down here every weekend and just lie out in the sand. I\u2019d soak up the sun and then run out into the water. It\u2019s funny: the cold was such a shock and such a relief at the same time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were lucky to grow up by the beach. A real beach I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess.\u201d Hardly a real beach by my estimation. I prefer your kind of beach: the craggy rocks, the swirling fog, and the precise impressions our footsteps leave on the cold shore. I prefer your beach\u2019s quietude to the bustle of tourists in broad hats, flitting in and out of quaint shops that sell overpriced shaved ice and shell necklaces. Squatting behind the beachgoers, a long, dark pier supports an autumn-colored ferris wheel that methodically turns and raises the hands of passengers in unabashed, childish delight. I once rode that ferris wheel in the fourth grade with a girl named Stacy who smelled like blueberry markers. I recall my heart bouncing like a shell necklace inside the collar of my shirt, as we gripped each other\u2019s hands tightly and dangled between the turquoise potentiality above and opalescent obscurity below.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it certainly distracted me. For better or worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

You roll over on the beach blanket and face me with those chocolate-colored sunglasses, a wry smile spreading across your lips.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIsn\u2019t that what we all need sometimes? A little diversion?\u201d you tease with a melodramatic toss of your head.<\/p>\n

I roll my eyes. You could be so corny sometimes. But I don\u2019t mean that in a negative way. \u201cCorny\u201d is a nostalgic-kind-of-happy, like watching your favorite romance flick that lusty film critics label as \u201cpass\u00e9\u201d and \u201cnot cool anymore.\u201d It takes guts to not try and be cool. I wish I was more like you. I turn my gaze towards the stretch of beach to my right.<\/p>\n

***
\nLike a child chasing an errant beach ball, I watch a clean-cut man and sun-kissed woman<\/p>\n

emerge from a parked van, and slice through the machinations of the beach crowd. They stride over to the ankle-deep water, followed by a small camera crew. The crew begins snapping pictures of the two models who yelp and laugh at the pass of each icy wave, their arms wrapped around each other in a photogenic embrace.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook over there! A photoshoot,\u201d you say with the piqued interest of a gallery-goer.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m looking. Those will certainly make very pretty pictures. That is the kind of love that makes for great pictures but not great paintings. Everybody typically stumbles across that kind of love once or twice in their life: a flattering snapshot of faded jeans and tangled limbs covered by a thin filter of artifice. That is the kind of love that adorns the walls of dimly-lit, aromatic clothing outlets and sells people on a sunset-soaked reality they wish they could pull over their shoulders like a Taiwanese-made jacket. But who the hell needs a jacket in Southern California? Neither of us are artists per se, but I think we\u2019d know how to go about trying to paint our love: start with grey sheets of fog applied in wide, wet brushstrokes, the creases of a 3-year-old crumpled movie ticket, your dog Ellison\u2019s collar hung across a harsh line etched in charcoal, a branching, skeletal piece of driftwood in the foreground, your cold right hand (which I held through the sleeve of your fleece jacket), a good luck note scotch-taped to the canvas, a fireplace, a glass of the cheapest sauvignon blanc, a pair of high heels tossed across a worn futon, and the gutted back half of your Corolla splattered with vanilla ice cream from Ghirardelli Square.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeez get a room,\u201d I say, stifling an awkward laugh. What must it be like to fake love for a living?<\/p>\n

I feel your warm, sunny arms unfurl across my back and watch your fingers mesh across my chest. I feel your cheek anchor against the back of my shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re pretty, huh?\u201d your squished smile utters.<\/p>\n

I nod in assent. Look at us being pretty now. Maybe the cameraman will take our picture. Dear god, I hope not! I\u2019d much rather be corny and hold your hand, tune out Tom Petty, and listen to your breathing on this golden ribbon of granular glass.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna jump in the water. You wanna come?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pausing, \u201cYou go ahead, I\u2019ll watch our things.\u201d<\/p>\n

I struggle to my feet, wiping away the stray grains of sand sticking to my shorts, and stride past the models, camera crew, and into the water. I feel the familiar chill\u2013that alchemy of shock and relief\u2013wrap around my ankles and climb up my legs. The din of the beach softens slightly as I push myself further out. My tip-toes give way to weightlessness as my arms fan out in wide, looping strokes. The waves lap against my chest and stir some visceral, primordial impulse from beneath the sediments of my conscience. I want to lay back and tailspin in the waters of my youth.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Something tethers me back to the present. I turn my eyes back to the beach. You\u2019re still sprawled across the beach blanket. You\u2019re waving at me. I can\u2019t tell if you\u2019re smiling, but I sure am. Now it\u2019s my turn to be corny. Kicking my legs vigorously, I hold my arm high above the water and wave my hand with the enthusiasm of a little kid showing off for his mom\u2019s camera. Would this make for a nice photo? I\u2019m not sure. There might be too much glare from the sun. There might be too many beachgoers in the way\u2013all yearning to surrender to a current of sentimentality so ghostly and primitive that they don\u2019t even know it\u2019s there. The photograph\u2019s edges might be too smudged by nostalgic fingers. Who knows if this would make a good picture? There\u2019s one thing I\u2019m sure about: our love in Santa Monica would sure as hell make a nice painting.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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