No one here gets out alive

Let me level with you. I’ve alluded to the fact that looks-wise I’m not what most women would call a prize. Bald and in my mid (ok…late) forties. I have a job where I sit on my ass all night. Keeping irregular hours, and surviving on take out and stuff I can microwave has lead to a bit of extra weight around the middle (I’m in shape! Round is a shape!). I don’t even have a dad bod, more like a creepy uncle bod. I stand a staggering six foot five- naw… I’m just shittin’ ya. It’s more like five foot six.

The small saving graces that I have are that I can grow a beard that doesn’t look like I’ve just glued a bunch of pubes to my face, and even under my extra layer of padding I still have a solid layer of muscle on my broad frame. This means that I just barely manage to not look like an anthropomorphic penis. Bald white guys do not look good without beards.

All in all I look more like Jason Alexander than Jason Momoa.

Which is why it kind of comes as a surprise that Barbie is waking me up on Sunday morning by knocking on my door. I guess with the reduced male population even I might look good after a long enough drought, but Christ, it’s unnerving to have a looker like her making eyes at me when the best I’ve been able to do for the last couple years has been make regrettable decisions after last call.

It wasn’t always that way. When I was younger I had no trouble finding a bed warmer or three, but I started letting myself go after Lisa died. I mean it was my fucking fault. I was too cheap to pay a professional to do a break job. So I bought a bottle with the money I saved and crawled into it to try to forget my late wife.

Sadly the only answer you find at the bottom of the bottle is “Buy another bottle” so after a moment of clarity, I dried out and started looking for work away from the scene of my crimes. That’s what Black Beach was supposed to be.

A fresh start.

Barbie didn’t actually have any plans that included me beyond asking if I wanted to go for a run with her. Well, it’s supposed to be a fresh start, right? So I did. And proceeded to prove that dumpy old guys do not run well. The only thing that kept me going was watching that bubble butt bounce along in front of me (hey, I admit that I’m a dirty old man. You telling me you wouldn’t look?). By the time she was done, I was almost done in. I flopped down on the black sand that gives the town its name and immediately regretted it. Black sand gets hot.

After what I can only assume was a comical Homer Simpson-esque yelp I bounced back on to my feet, only to fall once more as underused muscles all decided to simultaneously form a union and go on strike. I stared blearily up at the sun as my back and ass slowly cooked on the taconite infused silicon and wondered for the first of what would be many times how the hell a place renowned for being fucking cold could get so goddamn hot.

So I lay there, contemplating my own mortality as Barbie swims into my field of vision, briefly convincing me that I’ve died and gone to heaven or at least a relatively good facsimile thereof. After all, there was an angel, and more importantly an angel with a bottle of water.

“A little out of practice, Danny?”

I hold up a hand, indicating a tiny bit with my thumb and index finger and gratefully accept the water bottle. “It’s been a while.”

Over food at Julie’s we agree to make running a regular thing. Barbie apparently runs every morning after work. Yeah. Schedule is gonna be weird.

After she leaves, I find myself truly alone in public in Black Beach Bay for the first time. My body is screaming at me to just climb upstairs and collapse, but I’m a glutton for punishment, so I decide to walk around town.

Aside from Julie’s, Main Street is dotted with small businesses, most of which seem aimed at catching the tourist trade. The few that weren’t like Mann’s which is a mom & pop grocery store,, we’re experiencing a brisk trade, while the tourist traps like Kolodjzie’s Tchotchkes, and McNeil’s Moped and Kayak Rental Service seemed to be at ebb tide, as the season was only just beginning. Those that straddled the line like the Gulp & Guzzle gas station and The Tent Pole: Cock Bait & Tackle Gentleman’s Club and Sporting Goods Store (what a combination…) were reminiscent of sleeping lions waiting for the time to strike.

Still stiff from my run and subsequent collapse, I find that my muscles are using their collective bargaining power to demand a break, and capitulate by plopping down on a nearby bench. I sit for a few and just take in the scenery; even putting aside the infinite variety of women present, this little town is beautiful. It’s like someone pulled it right out of a movie.

I’m musing on this, which is why being joined on my bench comes as a surprise, and in fact do a double take at the fact that my new companion appears to have the same genitalia as I do. “Beautiful day, son.”

The guy looks to be in his early sixties, and has a voice like he’s lived on a steady diet of gravel, cheap whiskey, and Camel straights for at least the last fifty of those years. Iron grey hair in an Old No. 1 high and tight, craggy features surrounding steely grey eyes, the guy looks like the picture of a retired marine, confirmed when he offers his hand to me exposing the Corps’ insignia tattooed in black on his right forearm.

I resist the urge to salute and instead shake his hand. “That it is, sir. Danny Davis. I’m new in town.”

“I know who ya are. I was up all night Friday with a backache so I tuned in to your show. Better than the pinko commie crap on MPR. I’m Harold Dix, but most folks just call me Harry.”

Harry Dix. Seriously? I suppress a chuckle which is pretty easy to do as his handshake turns out to be a real bonecrusher. “Nice to meet you Harry. Nice town you have here.”

“That it is, son,” he says, relinquishing his death grip, much to my hand’s relief. “Especially now that the Morrison ratio is in effect.”

“Morrison ratio?”

“You know… five to one, one in five? Ratio of women to men in this town. ‘Course even before the seam played out we still ran on the Berry-Torrence ratio. Gonna let you guess that one.”

“Surf City. Two girls for every boy. You know, I am in radio…”

“Got it in one, hotshot. Yep. There’s always been more women ‘en men ‘round these parts. And I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I got more ass than a toilet seat when I was younger. Shit, I got me one of them subscriptions for little blue pills even now.”

We had rapidly progressed into the TMI zone here. The old man was weirding me out a little bit. “That’s a pretty unusual birth rate, Harry. Any idea why?”

“Fucked if I know. But grand pappy alway told me to never look a gift whore in the mouth. “

I made my excuses and departed, thinking on Harry’s words.