Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Going South: The Dip

I peel my clothes off, drop them in a pile on the floor and grab a towel from the bathroom. Unlike a beach towel, this white motel towel barely wraps around me and comes down just over my back side. I lower it a bit on the top to cover more of the bottom, checking myself in the mirror to ensure all the important bits are covered.
My heart races as I reach for the doorknob. I already feel exposed and I haven't even stepped out of my room yet. Something inside me, something unlike anything I experienced before, urges me on. I tip toe out the door onto the shore-side boardwalk lit by one orange light, then jump two steps down to the sand and escape into the darkness, towards the crashing of the waves. My eyes scan the shore one way and then the next over and over until the water laps onto my feet. It feels chilly at first, and I stop to look down at the water swirling around my ankles. I feel instantly cooled to my core, but still sticky, sweaty and aching.
I toss my towel onto the dry sand after one last check in each direction then run into the black water with foaming white breakers. It splashes up my thighs as my feet pound down then break free to advance further and deeper into the cool. A wave crashes against my bare stomach, flowing forcefully between my legs, touching me like the ocean has never touched me before. Another wave builds in front of me. I dive head first through the base of it and surface on the other side where it is calmer, blacker.
Cold water, salt and sand whirl around my body, invading me, caressing me. The chill exhilarates me. I feel invincible ...almost invisible. Me against the great big black ocean. Me against the strip of twinkling lights that represent Nags Head. Me against Bosley. Me against the world. And, at the moment, I'm sure I'll come out on top.
After a few minutes bobbing and dipping between waves, I push the water behind me and head for the shore. My feet touch the sandy bottom as I check both ways again. Still clear. I press my feet into the sand and push against the pull of a growing wave. The water drops around me to my hips, then plasters me from behind with a wall of water, throwing me to my knees, grating my skin with sand and rocks. I relax and let the wave pass, holding my breath under the force of the water. When it passes, I get to my feet again and run. A second wave crashes into my calves but I'm prepared this time. I run free of the water, the skin of my whole body prickling into goose bumps from the breeze. I pick up the towel, shake out the sand and cover what I can, shivering as I run through the dry sand back to the motel, to the only room with the light still on.
Panic sets in as I leap up onto the boardwalk and realize I didn't bring the key. Standing by the door bathed in orange light, I look left then right. What am I going to do? I'll have to go to the main office and ask them to let me in. I look down at my barely covered body and sand-covered feet, look around one more time as if a better solution will miraculously appear then resign myself to the first solution. I walk along the boardwalk lining the ocean side of the motel until I get to the end where another boardwalk half buried in the sand leads the way around the front.
The lot is well lit, unfortunately. I scurry as quickly as I can across the front of the building, holding my towel closed where it joins. I pray it's the same girl at the front desk, not someone else – especially a man.
“I locked myself out of my room,” I say, shrugging, attempting to make myself smaller.
She pulls her feet off the counter and stands up then looks me up and down. “Your legs are bleeding,” she says with no expression.
I look down. They are. Before I can respond, she's asking my name.
“Mollie Bar.” Doesn't she remember me from earlier?
“Oh right. You owe the $50.” She reaches over a counter to a pin board and pulls down a key.
“I have that payment for you now,” I say as we walk together towards my room, almost forgetting to hold my towel closed.
After she lets me in, I rummage through my pants pocket and retrieve $50 from my tips.
“Thanks,” she says and I notice her name tag - Ali.
I expect her to leave but she lingers, eying my legs again.
“Don't get blood on the towels,” she says, gaze dropping from my knees to my feet. “And rinse your feet in the showers out back before you come in next time.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I say, fidgeting. “I will. Sorry about that. Thanks.”
She leaves. I let out a sigh. With key in hand, I head out the back door again to the showers out back that I hadn't noticed before.
Two showers are open to the air, one is surrounded by a tall fence-like structure. I step into that one, hang my towel up on the hook and rinse down. The water is colder than the ocean and it seems the breeze has picked up.
Wrapping the towel around me once more, I scoot back to my room, grab a clean towel to dry myself and collapse onto the bed, face up so my skinned knees won't stain the sheets.
I meet with John at 11:00 sharp the next day, wearing shorts and a plain t-shirt rather than the Dune Burger shirt I soiled with sweat last night. If he wants me to work tonight, he'll give me a new shirt. He ushers me past the kitchen and into his office, a small greasy room not much larger than a walk-in closet.
I wait to sit until I'm sure it's what he wants me to do.
“What happened?” he asks, catching me by surprise. I follow his gaze to my knees.
“Oh, nothing. I fell,” I say, shooing his concern away with a wave of my hand.
“Oh. Hm.” He takes a seat behind a desk that occupies most of the room.
I take my cue and sit in the chair tucked into a corner. He writes my info on an employee index card and shoves it in a box. We agree on a schedule and pay, and he tosses me a second t-shirt.
“Welcome to the Dune Burger,” he says, holding his hand out for an official shake. Soon we're walking together towards the front.
“Could you tell me where the nearest grocery store is?” I ask over my shoulder as we pass the kitchen.
“Sure. There's a Food Lion about five or six miles up on Croatan.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking of the walk. “Nothing closer? I don't have a car yet.”
“Not a full grocery store, no.”
I stop by the front counter when I realize John has ducked back into the kitchen.
“Chris is going out to pick up some supplies,” he says, returning from the kitchen with one of the cooks in tow. “He's headed that direction. I'll have him drop you off if you can find your way back okay.”
I glance at Chris over John's shoulder. Chris is inches taller than John, about ten years younger, light brown hair hanging down over his ears. I need some staple foods but my trust gauge is still out of wack.
~~ Should Ana accept the ride? ~~
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