More Whips; Fewer Chains

Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

The Beach

I woke up the next day feeling excited and in a good mood. I had a few hours before Fletcher was supposed to arrive at Grampa Charlie's place, so I decided to put my hair in a ponytail and go for a run. While I was out, I decided to get breakfast and read the newspaper. Luckily, there was no line outside of "Just Breakfast", so I went in and sat at a table. I ordered a cup of coffee, bacon and eggs. I've never been much of one to eat a lot of starchy carbohydrates first thing in the morning. They always seem to make me tired.

Out of habit, I glanced at the Wall Street Journal. I generally don't like reading the local newspaper, because it's rife with misprints, grammatical mistakes, and according to Grampa Charlie, incredibly biased when it comes to sports coverage. He always told me that in order to get real journalism, you need to look at the national publications, like the journal. Regardless of political affiliation, bad writing is bad writing. There wasn't much in the news, just Chernobyl, Regan/Gorbachev, and Bob Geldof being knighted. I remembered being glued to the tv set like everyone else, watching Live Aid last summer.

I was halfway through my eggs, when I realized that I should probably bite the bullet and check the local newspaper to see if there was a review of last night's concert. I went outside to put a quarter in the vending machine. There was Fletcher, on the front page of the entertainment section. If I hadn't been there myself, I'd have thought that the reporter was laying it on a little thick with phrases like, "Chambers is a true virtuoso" and "Native son gives tour de force performance". The only disparaging words written were about the conductor. I finished half of the article, before I realized I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk reading the newspaper, oblivious to my surroundings. I went back inside and sat down and made a show of leisurely reading the article while finishing my eggs. From the tone of the article, it was safe to say that I had no idea just what a big deal Fletcher really was. I started to feel self-conscious about our date.

I paid the check and walked back to my apartment. The more I thought about my upcoming date with Fletcher, the more anxious I got. I took a long bath and laid on my bed afterwards, dozing a bit. I made sure to set my alarm. I didn't want to risk oversleeping.

I woke up with about two hours to spare; just long enough to obsess what I was going to wear, do my make-up, and change outfits about twenty times. Since Fletcher said we'd be going on a picnic, I ultimately opted for shorts and a modest white cotton tank top. I wore a scrunchy in my hair, Wayfarer sunglasses, and my high-top reeboks in case we ended up having to walk.

At five minutes to 1:00, Fletcher pulled into Grampa Charlie's driveway in a black 1979 Porsche 911. He got out of the car, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, his silly driving hat, and gloves, carrying a picnic basket and blanket. He grinned and said, "Hello, again."

"Hello! Whose car is this?"

"It belongs to a friend of mine. I thought we'd drive out to Holland. I have a friend who has a private beach."

"Sounds great!"

We put the picnic basket in the tiny trunk, and I handed over the key to him. He got behind the wheel and reached into his pocket to pull out a leather pouch holding his pipe and tobacco. "Oops! Forgot about that", he said apologetically and put his pouch back in his pocket.

"I don't mind if you smoke. It's going to be your car soon, anyway."

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the pipe. I had never been around many pipe smokers. I didn't care for the smell of cigarettes or worse, cigars, however, I found that I actually enjoyed the rich, cherry infused aroma.