September 5, 2005

the eyes of death

Today I crossed many bridges and saw many bays. The coast is truly scenic. It is more suited to a cabin on the water than a blitzkrieg down the coast to LA, but we’ve been over that. I’m obsessing a little, but that’s all right I suppose because, after all, I’m still talking to myself. We have begun to indulge in little fantasies – what if we were to drive off this beautiful cliff into the beautiful ocean below? I’m sure the car would travel in a perfect arc directly towards the blinding sun and down into the breakers. With no splash whatsoever: 10!

I stop in the “sprawling metropolis” of Reedsport for lunch. I chose McDonald’s over Dairy Queen, my only choices fronting the highway. Inside I find the cutest redneck family ever. They have been motocrossing and the little girl has mud all around her mouth and down her chin. It looks as if she’s been eating a literal mud pie and is not yet accustomed to the location of her mouth. She’s got a strong jaw line that will make her, as a woman, either stunning or a tad bit mannish. I ask if I might take her picture to which she replies “Fuck you.” Adorable! Her father is eyeing me like I have designs on his what, let’s say, ten-year-old daughter. I think to mention that the not yet nubile girl, while pretty, is not exactly my type (and by the way, if your wife is any indication, she’s going to turn out butch), but decide that explaining would simply escalate the situation. They take out and I stay in, but the father gives me the eyes of death on the way out the door.

When I do leave, a loud air raid siren begins blaring the second I reach the car. I look for an ambulance, police car, or fire truck but see none. I look for planes and bombs in the sky, but there are neither. Has it already come to this? Clearly, they are now searching for me. Paedophile alert! Start the warning system – crash telephones – code B. I flee at the maximum allowed (radar enforced) highway speed of fifty-five miles per hour. It seems terribly slow and the sirens get louder before they trail off.

Once at Gold Beach I decide to call it a day. It’s 3:30. I am not pushing hard enough. If I hope to make it to Vegas before Christmas I shall have work longer days from here on in.

Gold Beach is very cold and grey this afternoon. I suppose it may always be this way, but I wouldn’t know. Even the sand is a peculiar grey colour. My mother is a girl of the Cape and my father is a harbour-town boy, so you could say that a beach of some sort is in my genes. However, my practical beach experience is limited, as I’ve at some point developed a distaste for beaches. My fear of being crushed by heavy crescents of water doesn’t help either. I do know enough to realize that on a beach one must go barefoot and, as a very minimum, dip ones toes in the water. I don my sun hat and do my duty so as not to bring shame to my family names.

The Pacific is cold; I return to my motel room.

Dinner is at what I am assuming is the classiest restaurant in all of Gold Beach. The entrees are pricey, but the burger is the same price as one I might have purchased at the nearby fast food box. I opt for the burger. The service is fantastic, much better than I have received in a while. The waiter/proprietor is a most affable gentleman, reminiscent of the waiters seen in French cartoons. By that I mean garcon’s who are literally bent over backwards in service to their patrons. He has a girl I assume to be his daughter working as the seating person. What are they called again? I ask to take their picture together and am refused again, this time without expletives.