My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

21.

As I stir in the warmth of the early August morning, burrowing my face sleepily into the pillow, my first waking sensation is one of sensual pleasure. I’ve had a delightful dream about making slow, sweet love, and it’s so real I think my partner is right here in the bed, holding me in a gentle embrace, kissing my face and neck.

Damn. I was certain the embers of my recent attraction to Jax had burned out along with his half-baked business schemes, but I guess I had that wrong. Alas, as I regain full consciousness and the dream returns to me in more detail, I realize it wasn’t Jax making love to me. It was Charlie.

Double damn.

I jump out of bed, hurrying to escape the bedroom like a burglar fleeing a crime scene. I’d been successful at keeping Charlie out of my thoughts and fantasies ever since the breakup I instigated at the end of June . . . or at least I’d been successful until recently. One evening earlier this week, I went to a movie by myself. On the way out of the theater, I spotted Charlie walking several yards ahead of me with a petite, dark-haired woman. I ducked into the restroom to make sure he wouldn’t glance back and see me, dateless, exiting the multiplex in his wake.

At first, I said to myself: Good for Charlie, I’m glad the poor man isn’t nursing a broken heart. But I quickly buried this generous impulse and allowed pettier emotions to surface. Didn’t take him long, did it? I guess his feelings for me weren’t that deep after all. Son of a bitch. This brief flash of anger faded, leaving me with something even worse – a sensation of grief and sadness. My eyes filled with tears, and I was grateful to be seated in a locked toilet stall where nobody could witness the pitiful display. Was I mourning the loss of Charlie, or experiencing simple jealousy because I was alone and he was not? I tried to convince myself it was the latter.

But now, after this all too vivid dream, I’m not sure. I need to drive all thoughts of Charlie (and of sex in general) out of my head. I retreat to my office and the comfort zone of work. The morning air is heavy, and intense yellow sunlight streams through the blinds. The June gloom that lingered into July is gone now, superseded by one of LA’s typical late summer heat waves. I turn on the air conditioning, grateful to have a luxury not available in most of the older apartment buildings along the coast.

As I scroll through my inbox and reply to the most time-sensitive messages, it occurs to me I haven’t had a real conversation with another human being all week. Robert canceled the weekly Skype meeting because most of the staff is out on vacation, so all my business communication has been via email. Michael is traveling on holiday until the week after next. I only know this, I’m ashamed to say, because of the out-of-office automated response I received after emailing him a few days ago. I wrote to remind him it was time for a decision on whether to keep or discard the box of his mementos in my storage locker. Since I can’t expect to hear from him anytime soon, I guess I’ll have to extend the locker rental.

Adding to the sense of isolation is my self-imposed exile from Seaside Fitness. I’ve run into my beach-walking buddy Audrey and her dog, Petey, on my habitual esplanade stroll, but she has always been in a hurry, affording me only a quick smile and a brief hello as she and the terrier continue on their purposeful journey. And that’s been the extent of my verbal interaction this week.

Today, however, I’m scheduled to have tea with Mrs. Ostrowski. I hope the tea will be iced, given the weather forecast for the afternoon. It’s probably a good idea to call and reconfirm since several days have passed since her invitation. But when she picks up the phone and I ask if we are still on for three o’clock, she stutters with confusion.

“I—I thought—weren’t we—wasn’t it for tomorrow, dear?”

“No, you said Friday.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” she says.

“Okay, but . . . today is Friday.”

Silence. “Oh. I—I’m afraid that won’t work. I’m sorry.”

“How about tomorrow? I could come tomorrow.” I don’t need to consult my phone calendar to know there is only one appointment scheduled for the next two weeks, my semi-annual rendezvous with the dental hygienist.

But she demurs. “I’ve been a bit off the last few days. I think it’s a summer cold, and I’d hate for you to catch it. Let’s make it another time, dear,” she says, without proffering an alternate date for the raincheck.

“Sure, that’s fine. Feel better, Mrs. Ostrowski,” I say with false cheer. It’s disheartening to acknowledge how bummed I am that my old neighbor has canceled our afternoon date. Am I that starved for social contact? But I refuse to wallow in self-pity. Solitude is what I’d wanted, after all. I search the event calendar on a local entertainment website and purchase a single ticket to a concert up in Santa Monica the following week. Then I browse the movie listings and make notes on a couple of films I’d like to see.

But what if I run into Charlie again? Despite the low probability of another chance sighting, I resolve to attend a different theater farther from the beach area, where he is not likely to go. When Michael was a middle schooler, that was the only way he would let me take him to the movies. He didn’t dare risk the embarrassment of being seen with his mother at the neighborhood cinema.

Now that today’s schedule looms empty, I run through the possibilities. I could contact the free-lance writers who are scheduled to provide articles for upcoming issues, but it’s past three o’clock on the East Coast, and nobody will want to hear from me on a Friday afternoon in August. I haven’t been to Seaside Fitness since walking out on the NIA dance class last month, and I’m feeling indolent and flabby. I need real exercise—something more challenging than a three-mile beach stroll on a flat promenade.

I’ll go for a hike.

It’s mid-afternoon when I arrive at the same trail network Charlie and I had hiked on that June weekend, our last together. I find a parking spot close to the trailhead right away. The summer sun beats down with relentless power, and only the merest hint of a breeze stirs the air. My car thermometer read ninety-two degrees on the drive up the hill. Here in the coastal regions, it’s unusual for the mercury to top ninety. No worries. My water bottle is full, I’ve applied high SPF sunscreen to every square inch of exposed skin, and I’ve remembered to wear my biggest visor. It can only do me good to work up a serious sweat. I’ve been entirely too lazy.

At the trailhead, I consult a detailed map of the intersecting trails, thinking I’ll try to duplicate the route I traveled with Charlie. I’m not an ace map reader in the best of circumstances, and this one looks antiquated and hard to read, with its confusing network of loops and triangles. Still no worries. Wherever I walk on this hilly landscape, there will be a view of the sea below to help orient me. Posted beneath the map is an old sign that says, “Beware of rattlesnakes,” with a faded yet scary picture of the fearsome viper.

I start down the main path at a brisk pace, but the intense heat soon causes me to slow down. I recall Charlie and I hiked for a couple of hours, but in today’s conditions that target is too ambitious. I continue along the wide dirt path, sending billows of dust into the air as I hike. Before long, everything is covered in a thin film of brown dust: bare limbs, clothes, sunglasses, visor. I didn’t expect it to be so damn dry up here. I take a liberal swig of the now-tepid water from my trusty BPA-free plastic bottle (thank you, Judge Judy) and soldier on.

Off in the distance, I see a familiar sight – the small grove of cypress trees that Charlie had pointed out. Good, I’m right on course. I remember he said to bear left at the fork in the trail near this grove . . . or perhaps he said bear right? On arriving at the fork, I hesitate before I hook a left, thinking of Robert Frost and pondering what sights would await me down the other unchosen path. Though I’ve exchanged greetings with a few other hikers along the main path, I am going it alone on this narrower ancillary trail. The brush stands much taller than it did in June, and it is substantially browner and drier.

The trail narrows further. That’s when the first alarm bell sounds in my head. I don’t remember the path being this tight and overgrown – in places, the branches are so thick I almost need a machete to hack my way through. And as I continue to fight through the thorny brush, raising little scratches all over my bared arms and shins, I notice something to do with the view.

There isn’t any.

On the previous hike, we always had a glimpse of the Pacific below. But from my current vantage point, I can’t see the water at all. I’ve hiked down into an area where two steep, rocky hills stand between me and any possible view that might help me calculate my position. Now that I’ve descended into this canyon, the last whisper of a breeze has disappeared. It’s blazing hot here with no shade in sight. I drink a little more water.

Trying to fight the rising tide of panic, I tell myself I have an approximate idea where I am. With all these intersecting side trails, I’m not sure if I can retrace my steps back. But it isn’t like I’m seriously lost; I just need to get back to one of the main paths. I pull out my cellphone to consult Google Maps, figuring GPS will guide me to the nearest road. I’m dismayed to find that I don’t have a cell signal – not even one single puny bar. At the top left of my cellphone screen is a mocking “No Service” message.

I compose a mental list of all the calamities that might transpire on this journey. I could trip on a hidden root and fall, twisting my ankle, unable to walk or summon help. I could pass out from heatstroke. What are the symptoms? Consulting the dictionary app on my phone, which is still working, I find the definition:

HEATSTROKE: A life-threatening condition marked especially by cessation of sweating, extremely high body temperature, and collapse that results from prolonged exposure to high temperature.

Two of the three symptoms apply. My skin is sizzling hot to the touch . . . and though I haven’t collapsed yet, I’m not sure how long I can hold out. Cessation of sweating is trickier to evaluate. My clothing is soaked with sweat. But how can I tell if I am still generating fresh, healthy perspiration or if I’m a desiccated hag on a collision course with heat-related cardiovascular collapse?

The term that troubles me the most in all of this is life-threatening.

I take another gulp from my water bottle. The liquid now tastes as if it’s been heated over a Bunsen burner. I’ll have to ration the few remaining ounces with restraint. I try to conjure up other hostile scenarios, as if by cataloging all the ills that might befall me, I’ll strike a pre-emptive blow to ensure that I come to no real harm. There’s something else I should worry about, but I can’t think what it is.

That’s when I hear the rattlesnake.

It sounds more like a buzz than a rattle. My first reaction—that is, after my heart completes its wild leap from my chest into my throat—is to freeze in my tracks. I should now back away from the snake with slow and deliberate steps, but I’m uncertain how to do that. The problem is, although I can discern even muted sounds from a long distance off, I have poor directional hearing. Judging from the volume of the rattle, he doesn’t sound too close. But I don’t dare take another step for fear I’ll go the wrong way and find myself within striking range.

Not moving a muscle, I remain frozen in place as it rattles on. After waiting for what seems like two hours (but is probably more like sixty seconds), I see the snake slither across the narrow trail and disappear into the brush, headed in the direction from which I had come. I’d considered turning back and attempting to retrace my previous route back up to the main trail, but there’s no way I can follow that strategy now and risk walking into a literal viper’s nest. I continue the arduous trek forward, hoping the path will soon intersect with one of the main trail arteries.

The next forty-five minutes are mental and physical hell. Every little noise triggers another wave of anxiety. A rustling in the bushes turns out to be a squirrel jumping from one branch to another. A chirping sound, which I attribute to a baby rattler, turns out to be emanating from a cute little yellow bird. My throat is parched and my lips are cracking. My feet have swollen up after miles of walking, causing my toes and the tips of my heels to rub painfully against the hiking boots.

I ascend the path up a long and difficult hill, and at the top, I find the main trail. The vast ocean sparkles below me in the distance, blue and tranquil, oblivious to my agitation and discomfort. I turn left to hike back to the trailhead. It’s a steady uphill path, with a few trees along the edge of the road to provide at least a smattering of shade, but it will not be an easy climb. I accentuate the positive. In another half an hour, tops, I’ll be back at the parking area. The promise of a soft leather car seat and an efficient air conditioner keeps me motivated for the final leg of the journey.

When I stumble across the parking lot and half fall into the driver’s seat, I buckle up, but I don’t drive off at once. Sitting quietly, I take a series of deep breaths as I allow the cool air to wash over me. I should stop at a market to buy a big bottle of water, but I’m anxious to get home to my own place. It will only be another twenty minutes.

I take it slow and easy. As my body temperature continues to cool, I’m beginning to feel more like myself. I stop at a long traffic light, closing my eyes against the bright sunlight, and reflect how fortunate I was that nothing bad happened to me despite all my worrying. I blink my eyes open, watch the light change from red to green, and pull out into the intersection. By the time I see the big black SUV bearing down on me, it’s too late.