Lighthouse Nights

3

part one

summer, 2010

the sun was always brighter on weekends in grand harbor. it performed its usual routine during the week, but from friday to sunday the rays worked overtime, searching the visible stretch of lake michigan for every facet of every ripple, glimmering across the water like a navy sequined dress.

from the sky, the pier looked like a twig stuck in the immaculate blue at the sandy crest of a beach town. from gabe’s point of view, it extended past the horizon to an infinite vanishing point with two crimson lighthouses dominating the afternoon sky.

he stood on his bike peddles and drifted to the corn-dog hut at the base of the pier; white wood, yellow trim, a mile-long line of candy-coated vacationers in an endless search of “local flavor.” a hand-written note was taped to the glass: “the original corn dog: hotdog, breading, ketchup, mustard, napkin and a stick. fat-free option: napkin and a stick.”

gabe unstrapped his orange backpack and waited in line until the heat made his t-shirt stick to his ribcage like a new layer of skin. he ordered three dogs with just mustard, hoisted his sack to his shoulders, and biked with one hand down the length of the pier.

his pier.

the catwalk flickered overhead as gabe weaved between its trail of black arches. a group of teens egged on a dare-devil comrade as he considered biking off the edge. 

on gabe’s right, a photo of his mother greeted the pier’s guests with a photoshopped smile from a bench ad. “welcome to your new home,” her speech bubble declared; followed by a phone number, website and “bethany jones realty” in bold yellow print.

the first lighthouse was a cylinder, tapered at the top, with a craggy cement base big enough for kids to play tag. gabe peddled faster, rounding the massive obstruction and dodging a clump of old people fully engaged on a landmark tour of the city.

the second lighthouse was a cube mounted at the tip of the pier with a similar cement ledge around its base. 

the ledge was gabe’s throne. he dismounted his bike, snapped the kick-stand, removed his backpack and placed it on the ground.

a covey of bikini-clad coeds nested on beach towels in front of him. the lineup created an eye-pleasing barrier of color between the concrete pier and lapping water, and gabe tried keep his eyes on his work instead of the oiled curves and crevices of GIRL splayed before him.

he brushed a strand of brown from his eye, a developing habit after three months of declined haircuts. from his bag he removed a twelve-megapixel slr camera and a leather companion-case with three additional lenses and a set of filters. it was the best amateur photography kit money could buy.

the assignment: three photographs depicting REAL emotion.

simple enough. gabe held the viewfinder to his eye and watched his world contract and blur until the surreal vignette dissolved into a beach. he took a picture and checked the result in the digital display.

develop a unique worldview. run away from home. get stoned. lose your sentimental outlook on life. the words were annoyingly persistent; a continuous loop in gabe’s brain since the day his dreams were axed, dismembered, and shoved in a dairy queen dumpster.

he focused his lens on a fisherman. the man unwound in a canvas folding chair, his pole in one hand and a cigarette in the other. gabe twisted the zoom on the wrinkled face; a matted beard, fading liver marks, and unblinking eyes that found peace in some distant memory.

was it unique? no. was it sentimental? maybe. gabe snapped a picture anyway.

the next thirty minutes were spent with his eye behind that lens, searching the mess of faces for any hint of REAL; real joy, real pain, real darkness, you’re a romantic gabriel, and he thought of rose.

most girls were pretty in gabe’s blooming post-pubescent eyes, but rose was prettier. she attended the same monday-night photography class and--since the very first session--sat beside him. gabe didn’t sit by her, 

she. sat. by. him. 

after five class periods of innocuous flirtation, it was time to make a move.

gabe unhooked the strap from his neck, secured the lens cap, placed his precious back in the bag, then removed a pen and sketchbook.

the sunbathing girls erupted into a spontaneous fit of giggles as gabe chewed his pen and longed to touch them; to graze fingertips along blonde arm hair, dark thighs, puckered bellybuttons; to smell the fruit in their hair and the sugar on their breath; to pull the dangling end of a rainbow knot, exposing creamy lines in a flawless tan; to delve with all five senses into the cherry enigma between their legs.

he inhaled through pursed lips, then wiped the saliva off his pen and allowed the newfound passion to influence his sketch. it was a flower--a rose for rose--with a thorny stem and bulging heart.

his phone beeped; a text from john. “doing bad. chat later?”

gabe responded, “hang in there! be home in 2 hours!”

john was a new friend; maybe his only friend. he lived in japan.

when the sun became a useless source of UV rays, the girls pulled out their cellphones and feverishly tapped the thumb-pads. within minutes, muscle-appropriate boys arrived with baseball caps turned sideways and sun-bleached hair flipping from the rims. from his perch, gabe watched the immature displays of affection as bikini straps were snapped, asses pinched, and breasts groped by hands twice the size of his own.

focus gabriel.

the drawing became an invitation: to rose. dune-grass grill. tuesday evening. 9:00. will you join me? he signed his name and tore the masterpiece from his sketchbook.

this had to work.