Surf City

It was only supposed to be a week. But Danielle met Devon and Devon was tall, like basketball tall, and she liked how she could dangle off his biceps like a flower pot, but less delicate. He bought her first surf lesson and showed her the less popular beach where they could knock back a few local pilsners and he could have her however he wanted. He told her he liked her freckles and that his girlfriend back home had none. She stared over the black sand, and the sea, rubbing either sunblock or cum into her stomach. She wondered what time it was in Maine. What Shelly or Bob were doing. If the beer was cold. If the dog was let out enough times.

Devon said he was sticking around for a month but crashed his scooter taking a corner at two am. Nothing broke, just a few bad burns, an angry girlfriend and some return flights booked after repeated tequila shots. He asked her to come to his room before his flight. He lay on her stomach and whispered about fate, the future, how they were unlikely but possible. She thought he was too young to be trapped but what did she know of him? That he hated IPAS and that his copper skin made his eyes alternate colors in the light. He left blood marks from his road rash on the hostel sheet.

She hung out at the bar on the first floor till they offered her the small gig of picking up bottles, and wiping tables, and cleaning up after the Australians or Americans or the English boys that came in like wrecking balls and would often puke on the floor, heads bobbing like big strapping babies. She had worked at an Irish pub at home, so she knew the kind.

Shelly wasn’t listening to anyone about her treatment, so Danielle’s calls home to her were short. Bob watched Shelly from the kitchen table, the pregnant pauses, the omissions. He wanted her to share, but Shelly reminded Bob about the boundaries that came with being a step-father, that he was a good player but relatively new to the game. Still he couldn’t help but to egg her on, under his breath, stopping his hands from motioning forward, suggesting that she must tell her distant daughter that the cancer jumped a stage.

***

Lucia scans the shoreline. She’s trying to signal her son Marco. His hands are wrapped up in the mangroves, pulling out blood clams. The brackish ravine flows around him. His hair is naturally dark but the ends have lightened like the many blonde surfers. When Lucia was younger she taught her boy how to surf, how to chase the waves, how to ride them. But he doesn’t like to anymore. His face goes serious as he tells his mother ‘it’s the principle of the matter.’ He doesn’t feel the need to share the playground of his childhood. He doesn’t like how the pupuserias serve Jägermeister now.

Marco hands his mother the charcoal bounty. His palms and fingertips are pruned from hours of digging. She thanks him by popping open a few. She knows how much he loves them but he’s a kind boy so he never takes any for himself. He knows his mother wants to sell them. She takes a lime and hot sauce out of her purse, squeezes and dashes them over the cracked shells. The clams recoil, a sign that they are safe to eat.

Lucia cherishes moments like these because moments like these are numbered. Marco had told the family he was leaving to work on the big American cruise ships. They were impressed by his English and they needed to hire young staff in the HR departments. He figured he could see the world this way, find new playgrounds. That night Lucia had wrapped herself in her husband, cried softly, making sure not to be heard and damning herself for ever suggesting the English lessons in the first place.

Marco wipes his mouth before kissing his mother on the cheek. She pulls him in close, whispers ‘te amo hijo.’ He holds her gaze a few seconds before pulling away. He must run to his next job, collecting tickets at Movie City, if he’s going to make it on time.

It’s almost dusk by the time Lucia is done selling her clams. The heat has gotten to her, her knees and feet hurt. She sits on the curb, kicks off her shoes, gently massages up and down her legs. Her husband is still an hour away so it will be a bit of a wait.

Danielle walks by Lucia. They both offer slight smiles, nothing more, nothing less. They have never spoken to each other, but they recognize each other, from around Surf City.

SACHA BISSONNETTE is a reader for Wigleaf TOP 50. His fiction has appeared in Witness, The Baltimore Review, Wigleaf, SmokeLong, ARC poetry, EQMM, Terrain, Ghost Parachute, The No Sleep Podcast and elsewhere. He is currently working on a short fiction collection as well as a comic book adaptation of one of his short stories. His projects are powered by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the City of Ottawa. He has been nominated for several awards including the pushcart prize twice and BSF thrice. He has been selected for the Wigleaf top 50 2023, 2024 and for the 2024 Sundress Publications Residency and is the winner of the 2024 Faulkner Gulf Coast Residency. Find him on X @sjohnb9 or at his website sachajohnbissonnette.com

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