Selling

Mark Barkawitz

February 2006

He drove back to Leucadia the next day with the three-hundred dollars–the high-end bud was selling fast–that he owed to John and Casey. It was another nice day. He took care of business quickly, then decided to go to the beach. That’s what he liked most about his job; it left him plenty of free time. Most of his friends and customers were in the nine-to-five trap. He was glad to have gotten away from that for awhile. Even if it were only a temporary respite. He parked his car in the lot on the cliff overlooking Beacons, one of his favorite surf spots. There was a small swell running with waves breaking about three-and-four-foot with nice shape. A slight breeze blew out of the north, but it wasn’t enough to cause any ocean chop. He cursed himself for having left his surfboard at home on the garage rafters. A poor decision made in haste (he hadn’t felt like taking the time to put on the roof racks) as he was leaving the house that morning. He chalked it up to a lack of sleep from the previous night’s emergency escapade. But he figured a joint might get him a ride. So he put a pack of matches and a couple jays in the pocket of his T-shirt, grabbed his towel, and headed down the zigzag steps that led down the cliffs to the beach below.

The sun was sparkling on the water. It was mid-week, mid-day, and school was back in session, so there weren’t too many surfers in the water. He spotted three, young surfers with their sticks on the beach, sat down near them, and lit one of the joints. When they looked over, he held it up and asked: "Want a hit?"

All three came over. By the time they had finished the joint, he’d borrowed one of their boards and a shorty wetsuit. Even though the water was still pretty warm this time of year, he still liked the insulated security a wetsuit offered. He spent the rest of the day in and out of the water–catching waves, getting high, joking with his new friends, Tom, Larry, and Kevin, who had wild, curly, red hair and liked to be called Neptune. Marty didn’t leave the beach until late afternoon. Instead of rush hour traffic on the freeways, he drove the coastal route, as the sun began to set–bleeding red, gold, orange–over the ocean’s horizon. He was in no hurry; Life in the Fairlane, he sang to himself. He stopped in Laguna Beach for a late lunch at a natural foods store: an avocado sandwich with sprouts and tomato on wheat berry bread with a big glass of orange juice. He was famished from surfing all afternoon. He remembered a girl. They had had lunch at the same wobbly table. Had almost married. He wondered where she was now? Didn’t matter. That wave had broken and washed over the sands.

It was dark by the time he got home. He took a shower, read a little, and had started making a late dinner when the phone rang. He turned down the heat on the zucchini and covered the rice, then went in the front room to answer.

"Hello."

"This is Huntington Hospital. I’m Doctor Davis. Is this Mr. Hepp?"

"Yeah."

"You brought a Miss Sarah Smith into the Emergency Room last night?"

"Yeah. How is she? Boy or girl?"

"It’s a little girl."

"That’s great. Sarah was hoping for a girl."

"Mr. Hepp, we’re trying to locate Miss Smith’s mother. Do you have any idea how we can get in touch with her? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent."

"Urgent? What’s wrong?"

"We need to get in touch with her mother."

"I don’t know how to get in touch with her mother. Is there something wrong with the baby?"

"I’m afraid I can’t give out that kind of information unless you’re a relative."

"Look. I’m her neighbor. I brought her in there. She doesn’t have a husband and you can’t find her mother. I’m about the closest to a relative you’re going to come up with presently. Now, what’s wrong?"

"Well," the doctor paused, "maybe you can help. Miss Smith died this morning."

"Died?" He felt his legs weaken. He sat down on the arm of the couch.

"I’m sorry. We did all we could. There were complications with the birth. And she had a violent reaction to the anesthesia. She went into shock. We couldn’t resuscitate her. The baby’s fine though."

He didn’t say anything, so the doctor continued:

"Her two boys were in here earlier. Apparently, they had taken the bus down here. I sat them down myself and tried to explain. I asked about the grandmother, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get much out of them. I left to get a nurse to watch them but when we returned, they were already gone."

"They probably went home. I’ll go down and check."

"And would you try to get their grandmother to call us?"

"Sure."

"Thank you, Mr. Hepp. And again, I’m sorry about your friend."

"Yeah." He hung up the phone, but just sat there awhile. Dead? Then he remembered the boys, grabbed a shirt, threw it over his shoulder, and hurried down to Sarah’s place.

The evening outside had turned cool. His hair was still wet from the shower, and again, he didn’t have on any shoes. At Sarah’s, the front porch light wasn’t on, but there was a light on inside the small house. He put his shirt on as he knocked. Lamar answered the door. His eyes were swollen and red.

"Hospital just called, man. I’m really sorry about your mom."

Lamar didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring back at Marty.

"You and Joey all right?"

"We’re okay."

"The hospital’s trying to get in touch with your grandma."

"I already did. She’ll be comin’ over soon."

"That’s good. Want me to stay with you guys until she gets here?"

"No."

"You sure, man. I don’t mind."

"No, I’m sure."

"Well, okay, if you’re sure."

"I’m sure."

He nodded and Lamar closed the door. He began to walk home. His feet were cold now. So were his ears. His hair was still wet. He felt like smoking a joint when he got home. Nothing else to do. Then he remembered his supper was on the stove at home, and he began to run.

Mark Barkawitz has earned local and national awards for his fiction, poetry, essays, and screenwriting.

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