The First 1000 (ish)

There seemed to be nothing for it. Amy wouldn’t remember. It was gone. Black. She walked on, raising her head to the familiar view of Cape May Avenue. At the dead end of the street, a rusted guard rail framed the bottom of a postcard slice of the Pacific Ocean. Being Monday morning, she saw the worn black garbage cans posted up to the end of the street, waiting to be emptied of the week and the weekend. Past the guard rail she noticed for the first time the sand berm that held back the high tides of winter was gone, bulldozed flat in preparation for summer.

She squinted her eyes to tamp down the shapes and colors of the cottages and car trim lit up by the bright sun behind her. The dull nausea of her hangover rushed back and she turned her gaze away from the ocean breaking on the now-visible shoreline. It was something. Living at the edge of the world. She had read somewhere about negative ions and their benefits. Where were they now? she wondered. Her meditation was for shit this morning. One bright moment came envisioning herself zooming out from her tiny cottage. There it was. Ocean Beach, a speck of a speck next to blue. Zooming farther, now see San Diego, now California, until she in her house became a non-distinguishable micro-piece of the planet. Out and out she went until her very galaxy was a swirl of light.

Amy walked down Abbott Street toward the pier, head swimming. Something about a conversation with Skat at Michael’s. Skat’s white hair bright over a deeply tanned and lined face, eyes twinkling sea blue. Faded tee shirt with hems worn out at the neck and sleeves, shifting as he played guitar. Standing in Michael’s front drive, Skat’s baby blue VW Bus with a white top parked on the street. Feeling impatience and dread as he almost side-stepped like a skier down the concrete slope toward her, his head thrown back, eyes slitted, but the twinkle still there, in his smile.

The paltry memories of the night came in flashes.

“What is that carved pendant on your necklace?” to Skat. “Is it the same one that caused Greg Brady to wipe out in Hawaii?”

“Who wants another beer?” Gin calling from the kitchen.

“Is this bong for me, bong mistress?”

“Yes it is,” Handing Michael a lighter like a sommelier would present a bottle of fine wine.

It was a swishy night for all present. Lots of beer and lots of weed. Skat noticed Michael, influenced by Gin and Amy, drank and smoked more than usual. Gin and Amy together were a whirl of party. When they stood close at the kitchen sink heads thrown back in laughter, Skat saw them as skaters joined crossed handed spinning as fast as they could. Skat had few beers, and few bongs. Something was cresting tonight. He felt it.

The small gathering skittered and trickled from room to room. After midnight, when the highs were reaching their highest, before it would start to wind down, Skat, with guitar in hand, asked Amy if she knew the words to Van Halen’s “Jump.” She nodded yes. He set down the low stool in the middle of the living room where the other three were gathered around the coffee table, bong in the center like a vase, with Gin’s unfinished load smoking leafy tendrils. He played a down-tempo intro and she came in on cue, with a melancholy “I get up. And nothing gets me down.” Near the end of the song, during the last chorus, she lost herself singing just when he looked over his guitar, hands still strumming, and saw a flash of bright all around her. Like sometimes happened, he saw a picture projected in front of him. Amy as a girl with a boy dressed as a pirate, holding her doll ransom. Whatever that meant. His hands didn’t miss the chord change.

Amy felt his gaze become interested, took it in like an invisible wolf whistle. her voice carried on with the song, but her body went on alert, sensing that he saw her, saw into her, and that he saw her realize it. Dozens of back and forth pings criss crossed in an instant before his face showed again his mellow grin.

“That was pretty,” he said as he stood to lean his guitar against the fireplace. The tiny spot in her heart that opened while she sang had clamped closed, but he still saw a faint pink glow around her that flushed her cheeks. Not used to being seen, that one. He looked at Robert and Gin to see if they saw Amy’s opening. Nope. No surprise there. Most people being on serious lock down themselves, didn’t often see anyone else open.

The LB were with the Child called Amy. The Guardian, the Child would come to call her Gita, always had been a Guardian, never in a body like the Child. The Second, the tall one, lived in many bodies. He reminded Gita of the peculiar pitfalls of being there, in a body, when the Guardian was puzzled, or bemused at the struggles the Child went through. The Others, a two-in-one—dual refelctions—focused on the details of the Child Amy’s Contract. In some views the LB could be called assigned to the Child Amy. Really all Children who volunteered to be embodied were accompanied this way.

Beyond the LB were many. Uncountable subtle energies, layers and workings. While LAL took care of the big picture. The LB were there for the Child. Since being embodied with it’s limitations and lessons created beauty for the whole, the LB watched over this Child closely. Her light, a candle-lit champagne full of bubbles was loved by them. She wasn’t aware of the LB, though they had been with her always. Recently she showed signs of opening to them, but it was only a small beginning.

Amy kept walking down Abbott Street and the LB saw her mind’s chaos create a swarm around her head, like flies over shit. Her recollection fuzzy, grasping at threads of conversation from the prior night. After Skat said “pretty” did Robert say “Tuneful Ames”? Was it something about the low-fi version of the song, suggesting a fall into the abyss rather than into a girl’s pants, that propelled them to different rooms in the house, breaking apart as quickly as they had melded together over the music? Michael to the kitchen, Skat to the back yard, Amy to the bathroom. Where was Gin? Probably already passed out in Robert’s bedroom.

A whole chunk came rushing back as Amy, legs on autopilot, reached the corner where Abbott became Newport Avenue, looked left, looked right, stepped off the curb. She had walked out the front door, down the stairs to the steep drive. She saw Skat, who had walked out the back door, smoking a joint at the top. That’s when he side stepped down to her, bad knees from so much surfing and skiing.

“That was fun.” Her voice sounded bright, and she felt him pick up on her need to fill the space between them, fast. Instead. Skat turned and gave her a once over, saying nothing. His eyes lingered a twinkle on her boobs, going further to rest a moment on her crotch before lifting back to her cleavage, eyes, knowing she would immediately look away.

“You’re good,” he said bluntly. “You don’t need me to tell you.”

“No. I just like to sing.” She looked back to him.

Skat looked ahead, away from her, with a smirk that was somehow still warm. Taking a long drag off the joint, holding his breath he looked right into he face. “Here,” still holding it. His smoke cloud heavy between them as he passed the fat doobie to her.