Going South: Beach Party

The walk home from the store takes me almost an hour. I am sure, as I sniff the open milk carton, that I've lost half my food to the heat. The sniff proves scentless so I shrug and put the milk in the mini fridge. It's just big enough to hold the milk, yogurt, cold cuts, berries and a couple bottles of water. The rest of the food goes on the counter.

An hour later when I'm finished with my shower and standing before the mirror, I see that the sun has created unsightly tan – or should I say burn - lines across my upper arm and mid thigh. Next time I make a trip to the store, I'll have to remember the sun block.

Grabbing my shorts, I regret to think of the party tonight. If I decide to go, how would I work the outfit issue? I refuse to arrive at my first event wearing my DuneBurger shirt. But where would I change? I could change in the bathrooms at work but then I'd have to bring a bag with me and keep track of it all night. I don't have a swimsuit so at least there's no issue there. I simply won't swim tonight.

A fitted camisole catches my eye – the best solution under the circumstances. I pull it on then cover it with my red DuneBurger tee. I fold a few dollars into my pocket and head out.

Taking orders and reporting them to the kitchen makes it difficult to avoid making eye contact with Chris. Why is it so hard for me to look at him? Is it because he made my heart skip a beat and now I feel guilty? Or maybe that I have him all wrong and that's just embarrassing... Either way, I won't lead him on. I won't even think about him again.

Liz works the register. Clare and Laura, both whom I guess are in their early twenties, bring orders to patrons outside and clear dirty tables when they've gone. The girls don't say much to me but then I don't say much to them either.

“You ready?” Chris says as I return the mop to its place in the back room some time after eleven.

“Yeah.” It's a given that I'm going even though I debated all night up to this moment.

I follow him past the kitchen and around the front counter, ignoring the look I catch Clare and Laura exchanging. I don't care what they're thinking. I don't want to know. I don't even know what to make of it myself, never mind being concerned with them.

Beyond moth territory near the outdoor light and into the dark gravel parking lot, I jump into the wrangler for the second time today. Chris pulls his shirt off and tosses it into the back seat before getting in, leaving him bare-chested in cargo shorts. My pulse explodes and I fret about taking mine off now too or waiting until later when he's not looking. If I wait, it could draw more attention to it. Sitting in the front seat, I lean forward and pull it over my head, casting a glance in his direction when the deed has been accomplished. He watches me, smiles and starts the Jeep, Dave Matthews Band breaking the silence.

My heart races so fast, I feel faint. My hand grips the t-shirt, resting on the seat next to my thigh. I have to remind myself that I do have a camisole on under the t-shirt. I am not sitting bare-chested as he is.

He turns the music down as we approach a stop light.

“They got their start here. Did you know that?” he says, gesturing towards the dashboard.

I assume he's referring to Dave Matthews. “Really? No, I didn't.” I don't really care either. I'm not a fan.

“Yeah, they used to play in a joint down the strip. I'll take you there sometime if you want to see it.”

“Oh, thanks. You don't have to do that.” I move my hands to my lap, taking the shirt with them.

“I wouldn't mind. I go there often.”

He goes there? Not 'we' as in him and his wife? I let it drop without responding.

“You look like you got some sun,” he says, looking at me then back at the road. “Was that from your walk home today?”

I nod. How embarrassing. Yes, I'm a fair-skinned loser without a car. God, help me. I look away from him. If he can see my sunburn, he can probably see me blushing.

“If you need a car, I might be able to help you out.”

“Oh... well eventually. But I don't have the money right now. Thanks anyway.” Why is he being so helpful?

“Alright. Well let me know.”

He turns off the road and pulls up to a wood guardrail along the beach. The glow of bonfires and twinkle of cigarettes butts sets my body on fire. Here goes nothing...

I hadn't thought about my shoes when I got ready earlier. Now I regret it as sand slips into my sneakers. As soon as I'm comfortable here, I'll take them off.

“Hey! Chris!” a girl yells, waving her arm. Three other girls beside her light up with smiles. He advances ahead of me to distribute hugs.

“This is Mollie,” he says, then lists off their names, none of which I will remember. They greet me with a friendly wave of the hand then offer us beer. I decline then regret it. I don't want them to think I'm a priss but I want to keep my senses too. I decide to accept the next offer.

An hour later, I'm sitting on a piece of drift wood by the fire alone. Chris has his arm draped around the shoulder of one of the girls. The others have scattered and two new ones have appeared. I scan the beach. There must be over twenty bonfires on this strip of beach. Several different stereos can he heard, all melding together into some sort of beat and noise. The sweet smell of pot fills the air. I glance at the black ocean and remember my night alone with it longingly.

“Hey, I didn't know you were coming,” I hear from behind me.

I peer up over my shoulder at John. He steps over the driftwood and sits next to me.

“I didn't know you were coming either,” I say. How lame.

“Who'd you come with?” he says, tossing back the remains of his beer.

I hesitate about telling him. Is there something going on that I don't know about? I feel out of place and out of the loop. Is this an invitation-only party and that's why the girls at the shack exchanged the look? Or is Chris a player and I'm falling into his trap?

“Chris,” I finally say, looking across the fire at him. “He just gave me a ride,” I say, sounding quite guilty.

John grins and gives me the honor of looking away.

“His wife is pretty.” Maybe if I show him I'm not jealous, he'll know I'm not into him. Am I into him? I wonder...

John lets out a laugh which causes Chris and the girls to look up. When they've gone back to their chatting, John leans closer.

“That's not his wife. His wife is over there.” He points to a woman sitting on a blanket with a guy and a girl. I'm so confused.

“Oh,” is all I say.

“Let me get you a beer,” John says and stands up. I don't object. I don't even react. I feel as small as the grains of sand beneath my feet – my bare feet now.

He returns a moment later with an open beer, hands it to me as he stands beside where I sit and says, “Enjoy,” before walking away.

I take the beer with me and walk down to the water. The closer I get to the rushing crash of waves, the more the world around me disappears. I chug the bitter beer, happy for the buzz, and walk through the shallow water towards the pier a few hundred feet away. It's dark and eery under it's stalky legs. For some reason, its danger draws me closer and I wonder why I can face this threat but not the threat of a mass of people I don't know just behind me spread across the sand.

The pier stands at least a full story over my head and reaches a few hundred feet out into the ocean. I stand beneath it, watching the water find its way in a rush around the posts and towards me. Hidden in the darkness, I turn to face the beach, scan it slower, watch the people and analyze them. I see Chris on the blanket, making out with his wife now. Interesting. I can't seem to locate John. But it's dark. Faces are hard to make out.

As I watch people stumble around from blanket to driftwood to bonfire to bare sand, I figure each of them is either drunk or high. I am not. I just want to go home.

I have no idea how far I even am from my motel. Thinking back, I estimate it took us about ten or fifteen minutes to get here from the shack. That's maybe six or seven miles – another hour walk at... who knows what time it is? I'll definitely need a ride. But Chris has had too much to drink. I know. I watched him down one after another when I was sitting by the fire. Besides, I'm not much into interrupting a make-out session to ask for a ride home.

By the time I walk back up the beach, Chris's wife is laying alongside him with her head on his chest. I pass the blanket on my way to my shoes.

“Hey. Mollie,” Chris says, sitting up. “Have you met my wife, Alana, yet?”

She props herself up onto her elbows.

“No,” I say, reluctant to stop walking. “Nice to meet you,” I say pleasantly and move on.

“Hey, wait!” Chris yells, catching up with me. “Where you going?” he says, walking next to me.

“Just getting my shoes. I should be heading back now.”

“Oh.” He stops walking. “How are you getting home?”

I stand and look at him. I don't have an answer.

He seems to be as confused as I am. “We can give you a ride but I'm kinda buzzin. We usually sleep it off a bit first.”

Sleep it off? Like sleep... on the beach?

“We've got a big blanket. You can join us if you want.”

“I was going to see if I could find John actually.”

“I think he already left... a while ago.”

I look past Chris to where his wife lies on the blanket, glance back at Chris then up towards the road where I consider the long walk home in the middle of the night. I don't know the area well enough to be sure of my safety and I dread an hour walk.

~~ Should Ana sleep on the beach or walk home? ~~

The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday EST time. NOTE: We're back to the old poll again. If you have issues with it, say so along with your vote in a comment.

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

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? ~~

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.

Going South: New Girl

I take a quick look around the restaurant in search of an excuse to start immediately. That's when I realize there are no waitresses, no bussers, just a long line of customers waiting for their food. In a split second, I've made up my mind.

“You look like you could use the help now. I'll work until closing without pay. If you think it will work out for both of us, I'll come back tomorrow morning to settle the details.” I'll worry about the money tomorrow. Tonight, I need to secure a job.

Both John and the young cashier stare at me, my mind still whirling to find a place for me here – right now without training ...or trust. In the few minutes I've been here, I understand the system. Take the order, submit to kitchen, take payment, call number, hand over food. Simple.

“I'll take orders while she handles the register,” I say with a nod towards the girl after what feels like a five minute stare-down and before I remember I don't know the menu.

“Liz, the register will be easier for her. You take the orders and let her cash.”

A sigh of relief is not enough to express my delight. I am elated ...and in disbelief. Without waiting for further instruction, I step behind the counter. John is already back in the kitchen. Liz is taking the next order.

“4.95, .99, 1.50,” she says with each item the customer orders.

After a momentary setback, she points out that I need to hit the food button after each amount. After that, I'm good to go. Total, payment method, count back change. Easy. The line begins to move again – a family, eight teens, a couple, a mother and her young daughter.

John returns to check on me, tossing a t-shirt at me. “Put it on over your clothes. You need to look like you work here.”

I slip it on quickly, ignoring how hot I already am with just one shirt on. John sticks around for a moment, watching, assessing me. It should make me nervous but I am surprised to discover my own confidence. I am doing well, sweating bullets but doing well. His absence after inspection almost goes unnoticed.

“Special, side cheese,” Liz yelled to the kitchen, shoving the order slip into the spinning stand.

“66.95,” I say to the tall guy who is overdressed in a collared shirt and suit pants, smiling at me with a dimple in his chin. Then I realize I've made an error. I immediately blush, searching the register for a cancel or void button. Nothing.

“I've only got twenty,” he says, obviously trying to relax me with a joke.

“Sorry. It's only 6.95,” I say, shrugging. I can't find any way to cancel the order and Liz is busy with the next customer. So I hit the cash button and give him 13.05 in exchange for his twenty. “Sorry, we're out of tens,” I say, handing him two fives instead. Could this transaction go any worse?

He hands a five back to me. I look up, confused.

“For you,” he says, perfect teeth revealed through full lips. “You look like you need it.”

Five dollars closer to paying the motel... I think about it as I hold it suspended over the pooled tips bin – the pooled tips I gave up for tonight.

“I'm sorry. Tips are pooled here,” I say, making up rules I'm not sure exist just to cover my butt. “Do you still want to leave it?”

His gaze drops to the bucket below my hand. “Yes. Keep it.”

I drop it in and turn towards Liz to see where we're at. She'd been watching me, curious to see what I'd do, I'm sure. Tall guy is still in ear shot so I can't discuss it with her. We move on.

I have no idea when closing is but a couple of hours into working, when the line has dwindled down, I pause to stretch my back and realize it is almost 10:30. Helping Liz seems silly now as people trickle in two at a time. The other two girls working in front near the register are wiping down the counter and reloading the napkins. Some tables inside the restaurant are littered with trash, plastic trays, cardboard french fry boats, spilled ketchup.

“Should I clean up those tables?” I ask Liz. She has become my unofficial manager.

“Sure,” she says, without much expression. Is she happy I offered? Or is she laughing behind my back now? Either way, I'll keep working until John says to go home.

Using the scattered trays, I pile up the trash and dump it in the garbage can. The larger trash on the floor I pick up with my hands and toss onto another tray. I'm sure there's a broom around somewhere. I walk past the register and past the kitchen for the first time. Beyond the kitchen stands a mop, two brooms and some rags. I head straight for it, pulling a rag out of a bucket of soapy water and ringing it out.

I pass the kitchen again on my way back out, peek across the grills at John and two other guys. They nod as if they know me, as if I've worked there for months and I momentarily have a flashback to my teens when I waitressed in downtown Boston. It was a different kind of restaurant, different menu, different prices, but the atmosphere behind the front counter seemed just the same – hot sweaty workers flipping meat on a grill, metal tools clanging, sizzling, spattering, frying.

I use the wet rag to wipe off the empty tables and smile at a boy entirely too young to be out past 10:30.

“What's she doing?” the boy says to his mother while he watches me.

“She's cleaning,” mom answers in a pampering voice.

He continues to watch me.

“That's some ice-cream sundae you got there,” I say, a subtle reminder to eat instead of watch while making a friendly gesture.

Reminded, he looks down at his ice-cream which is half melted and mostly chocolate sauce. “It's my present,” he says.

I move one table closer and wipe it clean. “Ah.”

“I was a good boy today,” he says, quite proud of himself.

Mom gets nervous and ushers his attention back to her. “Eat your ice-cream now. It's late.”

I sense there's more to the story than she'd like me to know so I move away, heading back through the kitchen to get the broom.

At 11:20, when the last guests leave, John peeks out from the kitchen and says, “Clean up,” to Liz who is leaning against the register grooming her cuticles with her teeth. Liz looks sideways at me across the room. John's gaze follows.

“Oh,” he says, making a full appearance by the counter. “You did that?” he asks me, gesturing to the clean restaurant.

“Yes. I hope that was okay.” For a moment, I think he'll be mad I cleaned while customers were still here.

“Yes, it's okay.” He looks back at Liz as if he's about to ask her something. Then he looks back at me. “How'd it go tonight?”

I join him on the opposite side of the counter. “Good,” I say with surety. My lower back has a piercing pain and my mouth is dry as cotton.

“Great,” he says.

“Oh,” I'm reluctant to add. “There was one thing.”

“What?”

“I rang up an order wrong but Liz was busy so I left it and just counted the change back.”

“Oh.” He moves to the register. Liz reluctantly moves out of his way, dumps the tip jug over and begins counting it. “Tell me what happened,” he says, eyes on the register. I can't tell if he's angry or not.

“It should have rung up as 6.95 but came up as 66.95.”

“So what did you do?” He pushes several buttons now.

“I hit the cash button, took his twenty and gave him change.”

“Okay,” he says, hitting one last button which begins a long printout. “No problem.”

No problem? Really? “I hope it was alright. There was a long line and I wanted to keep it moving.”

“It's fine. You handled it well.” He waits for what I assume is an end of night report from the register. “What's the total?” he asks Liz as she finishes counting the tips.

“523,” she says. He makes a note on a paper log.

“Give Mollie a hundred. Split the rest between you three.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. My heart leaps in my chest.

“She cleaned, Liz. So you're getting out of here half an hour early with less work. Give her a hundred.”

Liz counts out a hundred and hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I say to Liz modestly and then to John, “I really appreciate it.”

“Come back tomorrow morning at 11:00 so we can make this official.”

“Great,” I say, my stomach flickering with hope.

It's almost midnight when I get back to the motel. I'm exhausted and need to cool down. A hot bath would sooth my aching muscles but a dip in the ocean would be refreshing and therapeutic. I pick up my duffel bag from where I left it earlier and drop it on the bed. Unfortunately, I failed to pack a swimsuit during my escape. There's always the birthday suit.

I go to the back window, pull the drapes back and peer out at the ocean just hundreds of feet away. It's dark and looks deserted. I’ve never skinny dipped but I feel… empowered.   

~~ Should Ana go skinny dipping? ~~

Vote by the poll. The official tally will be taken from the poll which closes midnight Thursday (your local time).

In addition, leave comments below if you’d like to expand on your vote. Click on the word ‘comments’ below to open the comments form. Watch next Tuesday for the following episode based on your votes.

Note: Don’t vote according to what you think I want for the story. Vote as if you were Ana or Ana were your friend. What would you do?

If you like this story, please share it with your friends. 

At 50 readers, I'll give away a free copy of Livid.