Sand to Love on Dog Beach

I finally understood one of Beach-girl's concerns that she had alluded to in our one-time conversation. Without Herbert by her side, I couldn't help but notice that she started regularly getting noticed by men who would stop by and try to get her attention.

It was painfully clear how much she didn't like that.

The worst was when this one guy had his buddy throw a football to him over and over, getting closer and closer to her. It had the opposite effect. Instead of chatting him up, which he was sorely trying to make happen, she picked up her setting and moved it right next to mine.

I gave her a friendly smile, she rolled her eyes about and just looked irritated at the adult men that were acting like adolescents.

The very next day, it was the new-normal and Beach-girl parked in her new-usual space, about 25 feet from my own. It was a busy Saturday on the sand, the weather having been overly hot in the east part of the county, bringing a lot of people to the coast to cool off.

What was new was what Beach-girl was wearing. I could see she still had her two-piece on, it was a solid deep purple, one that she had been wearing all summer, but she now wore a white wrap around herself. Though it was partially see through, it still covered her up. My guess was that she was using it as camouflage.

It didn't work.

After brushing two guys off in a row, another man approached her and tried to chat her up. He was younger than me, probably 30, plus or minus a couple, and wasn't bad looking. Clearly into himself, probably a career in sales, he gave her a solid pitch. She wasn't buying. He didn't like that.

He sat right down next to her on her beach blanket. I heard her ask him to leave. He, of course, didn't.

I could see the irritation clearly in her face, she asked him again to leave. He instead attempted to put his arm around her, which she deftly blocked.

She attempted to get up on her own two legs, he moved his hand to her shoulder and brought her back down.

By then I was standing in front of them, unnoticed, when she barked at him, "Don't touch me!"

I got the fool's attention, looking down on him with my most menacing look. A first for me. "Listen, buddy. She asked you nicely to leave. I'm telling you to get up, right now, and leave her alone!"

He shielded the sun from his eyes with a hand and responded angrily, "Who are you, fuck-wad? I found her first, so go find your own pussy."

Beach-girl let out an angry shriek at that. She slapped his hand off her shoulder and using both hands pushed him away, using some of that momentum to rise to her feet and stand right next to me.

He went to his elbows and laughed. "You're a feisty one. I'm going to have some fun with you."

"She asked you to go," I reinforced, disgusted with his attitude, "so leave. Now."

That made him mad and as he got to his feet, he was close enough to me that I could smell the alcohol on his breath. Which was just great. An asshole with alcohol, that's never a good combination.

He growled, "I'm not going anywhere. I found her first. Now you go away, you little shit."

He took a step back and I started thinking I got lucky, I shuffled to position myself between him and her as a barrier, as if I could resemble being made of brick. He rushed forward and hit me with two palms to my chest, forcing me to stumble backwards and away until my calf found her beach-chair and I flipped over the whole thing, landing hard on something solid. I'd find out later it was her tablet device and that it cracked into more pieces than even my body had been reconstructed from.

If I was in a cartoon, there would have been stars floating about my head, but I didn't see anything like that. Instead it was just a solid red light from blinding pain, and I couldn't even hear the surf that was drowned out by a ringing in my ears. It was all very much like the time of the accident.

The first thing to get through the fog in my head was Beach-girl's panicky voice. "Are you OK?! Breath! Please. Breathe!"

I was aware that I had been holding my breath and let it all out at once, bringing a new wave of pain through my, well, everything really.

I tried to get up and Beach-girl asked me not to. Good idea, I thought. I wasn't going to move for as long as possible as every inch of me was twitching with electrical shocks from even the brief effort.

I heard a struggle, someone went down hard to the sand somewhere beyond my feet. It was one of the twins, he had tackled the asshole, pinning him face down in the sand, and his brother was standing over both of them with fists clenched, ready to go to blows if his brother tapped him in.

The asshole was screaming to be let up, the twin holding him down said, "I'll let you up but I'm going to rub your face in the sand first." I wasn't able to see it but it sounded like the asshole got a good mouthful.

I was now well aware of Beach-girl's face in mine, up close and full of worry. "Are you going to be OK?"

Suddenly there was something else in view, it was the lifeguard. There have been many in charge of this beach over the years, and I knew them all as every one of them had at one time or another asked me if I needed help on the stairs. The recent group of lifeguards were all good kids.

The asshole finally coughed up enough sand to find a voice, "Thank god you're here. Get this guy off me, he just attacked me for no reason."

I heard the twin bark, "Do you want to eat more sand, asshole?"

The lifeguard asked, "What's going on guys?"

The twin standing watch over his brother and the asshole explained, "First, this asshole tried to assault this woman, and then when Mr. Peterson here tried to defend her, he got sucker punched by this asshole."

"We can't have that," replied the life-guard. The guy bent down, out of my view, but I assumed to speak face to face with the asshole. "I'm going to ask this guy to let you up, but only because I don't want our star varsity football players to get hurt with the homecoming game being in only a few months. Don't come back to our beach. OK? Like ever."

"OK, nice and easy like, why don't you let him up," I overheard the lifeguard say.

"Sure, but, um, Scottie. Would you look the other way? This asshole needs to eat a little more sand until he gets the point."

The lifeguard laughed. "Yeah, sure. Just don't get hurt you guys."

*

I somehow found my way to my beach chair. OK, that's bullshit. It wasn't 'somehow', I made it to my chair with a lot of assistance from Beach-girl and the twins. Even Scottie the lifeguard watched with interest and concern.

I managed to out sit most of them, convincing them I just needed to rest, but Beach-girl stayed while the rest of the guys went back to whatever they were doing. She looked at me, the worry having never left her face. She sort of sat at my feet, her knees pulled tightly to her chest.

"Thank you," she said, tears in the corners of her eyes.

"For what?" I asked. "For being a buffoon?"

"No. First of all, you are not a buffoon, and what I'm thanking you for is for coming to my defense."

"Yeah, well it was worthless, right? Fat lot of good, I did. Good thing the twins were around."

She gently nodded her head and studied me. Trying to read something but she wouldn't find anything, I'm an empty book.

I closed my eyes and feigned needing a nap. She stayed with me a long while until I sensed her getting up and start to gather her things. I was relieved. I really couldn't wait her out any longer, my back was killing me.

I tried to get up, but that didn't work out too well. I could only get as far as my knees in the sand. I looked around for Beach-girl and didn't see her, but I couldn't see much of anything through the pain. There was only one thing left to do. Crawl home.

I left all my stuff behind and made it on all fours to the base of the stairway. I took a couple of steps upward on hands and knees, grunting in pain and exertion. Wondering if there was a better way, while doing my best to shelve the embarrassment I felt for being in this condition and in plain view of all the beach goers.

I was abruptly picked up off the wooden stair treads by two strong arms, one under each of my armpits. It was the twins. One said, "We got you mister Peterson." They then moved me into a sitting position between them after they linked their arms into a makeshift chair and began to carry me up the stairs.

To my confusion, one of the twins asked, "Did you get everything?"

A woman's voice behind me responded, "Yeah, I think so. Do you know where he lives?" It had to be Beach-girl.

One of the twins responded, "Yeah, he lives next door to us. Building at the top of the stairs on the right, we're on the third floor."

Beach-girl acknowledged the information, "OK. I'm right behind you."

*

As we reached the final steps, given the indignity of having the proverbial sand kicked in my face by a bully and then needing some youngsters to carry me up the stairs like I was an invalid (which I felt like), I was thinking that this day couldn't be any worse. I was wrong, of course.

Meeting us at the top of the stairs was my neighbor, the twins' mother. "My gosh, what happened, boys? I saw you carrying him from the window, is he OK? What happened?"

One of the boys responded, "He hurt his back, Mom. We're going to bring him to his condo."

"He's going to need ice," I heard Beach-girl say.

My neighbor went into action, "OK, I'll get some. I'll get the key too in case his door is locked." Then like a shot she turned and ran off, ahead of my parade, made up of a sedan-chair and beach gear sherpa.

In a very painful exchange with my limbs being removed from the chair of human arms, I found myself chest down on my couch, my head turned, face to the edge of the cushion. Beach-girl sat on the edge next to me at my waist, holding a bag of ice to my lower back. The boys bent down so I could see them easily as they said their goodbyes and I thanked them for the lift, trying to make a pun out of it, all trying not to sound rude. More like trying not to sound like a total pussy. Their mother beckoned Beach-girl to see her in my kitchen where there seemed to be a lot of hushed tone discussion.

I don't want to look ungrateful, but it is going to come out sounding that way. The situation was out of my control and I couldn't do anything about it. The second I was delivered to my home, I wished everyone would have just left. This doting over me didn't seem done yet and I just wanted it to stop. Other than my neighbor watering my plants when I was traveling, the closest I'd ever had to having people in my home were the food delivery guys, and they never stepped past the threshold.

Bigger than all of those frustrations were that Beach-girl was in my home, and in my wildest dreams I never would have thought that would ever happen. If I did, holy crap, I would not have hung my favorite painting over the couch in the living room.

The fact she didn't punch or slap me meant she hadn't seen it yet.

My neighbor left, meaning I was alone with Beach-girl. After she asked, I described to her where she might find some Tylenol and she brought me a couple, with a bottle of water. I asked her if it was just Tylenol, she responded, "Yeah. Tylenol is acetaminophen, right?"

I tried to hide my agony when I said, "Yes. But it's just acetaminophen, right?"

She replaced the ice on my back, "That's what it said on the bottle."

I grunted at the exertion of lifting my head to take the two pills. She tried to help, but it was a little worse that way, I spilled some of the water on my carpet.

I tried to urge her to leave without sounding rude or unappreciative, "Hey, you don't have to hang around here. I'll be alright. You must have better things to do."

"It's no problem," she said sympathetically, moving the ice to another spot on my back. "I mean, you say you're fine, but you're really not. I think you need to see a doctor."

I groaned. "I have a cortisone shot scheduled in a few days, I get one every 6 months. So good timing I suppose."

"Hmmm," She let out, either not believing me or maybe thinking that wasn't soon enough. She was quiet for a while, both of us brooding. She broke the silence using a tone that reminded me of my mother, "OK, I'm going to ice you down for a bit longer, and in that time, be thinking if there's anything I can help you with before I go."

I gave up. Whatever. She was only being nice. That attitude would surely end when she saw the painting.

Should I care? She'd probably find a new beach after that and I'd never see her again. That kind of bothered me.

I got a weird feeling and then realized I didn't feel anything at all, not even the ice pack. From my vantage point, I could see the couch was now on the sand of the beach. There were designs carved into the sand that reminded me of Van Gogh's Starry Night painting.

Cool!

That's when I saw Herbert sitting on the sand next to my couch. He didn't open his mouth, but I heard him ask, "Do you have any carrots?"

"No," I responded sadly, wishing I could give him some. "Sorry about that, buddy."

He told me that it was all OK by swiping his tongue from my chin to my forehead.

*

When I first became aware of anything, it was still daylight. That was great until I realized, as I focused on the painting on my wall, that it might not have been the same day as it was when Beach-girl was in my home. I then became aware that I was in my orthopedic easy-chair, covered in a blanket.

"Oh, god," I heard in a whimpering voice, "you woke up." She let out an amazing sigh of relief. "Are you OK?"

My eyes slowly lowered to the couch where Beach-girl sat, wringing her hands almost violently. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her hair was down but bunched into a tangled mess.

I was still trying to get over the sleep, awareness slowly getting through. Her eyes were pleading for me to get through. I could almost physically feel her aura of pure anxiety.

I moved a little for the first time, got a little painful twinge for the effort. "Yeah, I'm OK," I told her. "What's wrong, you look so worried."

Her response didn't make any sense, "I'm sorry. I'm sooo sorry." Little tears started running down her face while her lower lip trembled.

I don't know about anyone else, but when I see a woman cry, even if it is in a movie, there is nothing sadder and my heart breaks cleanly in half. "Nooo, don't cry. What is it?"

"I thought I might have killed you," she replied.

"Killed me?" My head suddenly hurt. What was going on?!

"After I brought you the acetaminophen, you started acting weird. So I went and looked at the label on the bottle again and I had missed it before, it was acetaminophen and . . ."

We finished the last word in her sentence together, "Percocet." That explained a few things.

"Yeah, Percocet," she said practically under her breath. "You asked if it was just acetaminophen and I told you it was. I fucked up. I'm so sorry." She took a deep whimpering breath and exhaled, wailing as she said, "And I gave you TWO! The bottle says just take ONE!" The waterworks started all up again.

"Hey," I said calmly, "I'm OK. It's alright. I'm fine."

She blew her nose from a box of tissues, and I noticed my entire coffee table was covered with used ones. She added it to the pile.

With a trembling lower lip, she said, "I'm so glad. I was so worried about you. I stayed up all night and watched you, ready to call 9-1-1 and try to resuscitate you myself if you stopped breathing."

Worried about me? How long had it been since anyone worried about me? I couldn't remember.

"Thank you. I mean, you didn't have to do that. It's nice to know you cared that much." I didn't finish that sentiment like I did in my head with a 'but why?'

She visibly calmed, took another deep breath and exhaled. I realized I still hadn't moved more than a couple of inches since I had opened my eyes. I stretched out, ignoring the pain, and took stock of what we were wearing. She was in tight yoga pants and a U2 t-shirt, I looked down and saw I was in sweatpants and my B. B. King t-shirt. The last thing I remembered was that we were both in beachwear. I uttered, "Oh."

She answered the unasked question in my head, "Yeah, you insisted on finding that shirt to sleep in last night. One thing I can say about that Percocet, it made the pain go away enough that you brushed your teeth and went potty all by yourself before you laid down in your chair and went to sleep."

I caught the briefest of a wince from her as she was remembering more things than she let on to.

I remembered something she had said and was now really worried, "You said I was acting weird?"

"Yeah, well . . . you were seeing things, I think. Things I couldn't see."

I had to ask, "Did I, um, say anything?"

She blushed bright red. "Well, you, uh, you told me that I was beautiful." She summoned a little smile at that.

"I'm sorry." I looked away from her.

"Don't be. It was nice. And genuine. Thank you."

I suddenly realized I had to piss something fierce. Well, that and I had to get off this topic. I worked my way off the easy chair, tried and failed at suppressing the old-man noises that came from my overly dry mouth.

Once on my feet, I told her I was sorry that I scared her, adding, "I don't even know why I have those pills here. I know they made me act stupid when I was in the hospital and the nurses were giving them to me constantly, like they carried them around in Pez dispensers. I haven't had an opioid since, but on one of my doctor's visits, he pushed the prescription on me and I filled it like a robot. The guy is really intimidating."

I made my way to the bathroom and closed the door. I pissed sitting down because my legs were shaking.

"What now?" I asked myself.

*

She used the bathroom after me, and I remarked to myself that it was another first.

She offered to make me breakfast as she cleaned up her mountain of tissues, I managed to beg her off, hopefully without sounding too rude.

I finally shooed her off for her to go home. I urged her to get some sleep and apologized again for everything. Then she said I had no right to apologize, and she apologized. She apparently wasn't going to leave until we had a back-and-forth war of apologies, I gave in and let her have the last word just to end it.

She gathered her things and then I walked her to the door. She stopped before we reached it and I almost walked into her. She turned and went in for a long lingering hug. I sort of resisted until it reached my brain of how good it felt, and I hugged her back in earnest, feeling her breasts smash against my chest as I did so.

We finally untangled our limbs, and she wistfully told me again that I gave great hugs. We said our goodbyes and then she was gone, but not before she stopped and turned a few steps from outside my door and gave me a wave with the wiggly fingers.

*

I don't know how long it was since that day, maybe a week, week-ish, I don't know, but I had just finished a late lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when someone lightly knocked on my door. I made grumbling noises at myself as I made my way to the door, first thinking it was the Amazon delivery person before remembering I hadn't ordered anything lately.

It was Beach-girl. She had a broad grin on her face, and her purple bikini on, nearly hidden under her lacy wrap. Her usual backpack was slung over only one shoulder, like she tended to carry it.

"Oh, hi," I greeted her in surprise.

"Hi," she returned. "Did you get that cortisone shot?"

"Um, yeah. Couple of days ago."

"Well?" She looked at me expectantly, wringing her hands. I didn't know what to say, so she asked, "How do you feel? Any better?"