Olive Might The Ocean Be
I thought the world of her. Which started out nice, but soon I found myself mentally hornswoggled. Not that that was any of her doing, mind you. Let's put it this way: more formidable forces have been assembled--but none unleashed--than the one I unleashed upon myself through the visage of her. Unfortunately, much like Archie's friend Veronica, she had eyes for another. And Betty was in there somewhere, too.
There's talk of "sneaker waves," but the ones I see look rather innocuous. Thuds here and there, but mostly we're hearing the prattling of a steady light rain on our balcony's canopy. And the spray. Don't wanna forget the spray. The lightest of cotton candy pink floating this side of the horizon...
On the TV, Heather said a storm was coming. "A 'storefront,' more like it," Betty intoned, making a mental note to remind herself to shop before the weather grew too severe. Lists of things to do piled up on her refrigerator; her refrigerator magnets would bulge, then fall, when their responsibilities mounted out to here. Aunt Veronica's note said: "Shop for more to-do lists." That was on the freezer, the more important bulletin board, which held plenty of reminders to quit thinking of her. I remember her slightly curly thin wisps in back, and how they came down like muttonchops along her dainty ears. And how she would wink at me... or no, I often thought: that's probably just her contacts screwing with her again. Once, she latched onto an outcropping of her hair and washed her pumps in the ocean. Then, later that same day, I saw her down by the docks, getting her pumps filthy again. And mucking up her polka dotted pants. And now I'm supposed to just quit thinking about her(?)... or at least according to all those nasty notes on the refrigerator I am. But I can't.
Hear enough of it and it mounts up inside and eventually becomes you, like a Dalmatian's spots growing and growing until it's a Black Lab. Woof. They met the other day--those purebreds--and quite a few beach bunnies were there, witnessing the event. What a wonderful thing it must be to be the top dog, barking out orders, hovering over others when you're not even there--micromanaging from the hot tub, as it were. (The subtle wisps behind her ears and around back down toward her collar...)
Earlier, there were a lotta pigeons out there, flapping their lips and moaning, but now it's grown eerily silent. All except for the pounding waves, of course. I don't know what went wrong; I think I fell down and went boom. Here's my wheelchair, in case I forget how to use my legs (or whatever else could go wrong.) There's my respirator: it muffled the whimpering earlier.
Actually, there's a lot here to keep our spirits up. The maid just left us a surprise package, for one. Kim tore off the ribbon. Then she opened her mouth wider than a hole made by The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders on Opening Day. Soon we could see in her mirrored sunglasses what was throwing her for a loopner. They were a somewhat small pair--barely larger than her eyeballs--so one could easily see her eyebrows fluttering rapidly above them. Then, the cover of the gift box flopped down. Inside, underneath wads of tissue and foamy peanuts, we saw the gray and black outline of a Blue Whale making its way along the Oregon coast... in oil. That storm was due to arrive any day now.
After dining in the hotel's restaurant, we came back to our suite and found all the windows open. Betty started to close 'em, but Kim heard a seal bark, so she asked her not to. Veronica said it might get a little wet in here if we kept them open during the storm. Betty nodded, grabbed her raincoat, and said she was going for a stroll. (The wisps of her mane would trundle down to the bent part of her rain slicker. She would flick 'em back sometimes, but they looked like they matted themselves down pretty good on their own. And we talked a few times... but I have to admit I don't remember a lot of the things she said.
Her hair, her polka dots, I remember. What came out of her mouth? She said a few things about her university. She said some things I out and out knew made us not a potential couple. Period. But only a few things. Couldn't be mean if she tried. Wouldn't know how to say an unkind word to anyone. What a lovely pair we might've made. She was here once, you know. Took away that nasty room service cart. Got dared to, that's why. Feisty. No one would argue with that. She seemed good natured, all the way till the end. Yes, it was wonderful while it lasted. But since our special arrangement with the proximity people ran out, we haven't seen hide nor tail of each other. She said I called her a cow when one of her friends mentioned her couch. After that, her friends referred to any and all couches as cows....)
Been running on the memory of her polka dots ever since. She could do a lot of things, and all of them with equal aplomb. She still has me by the heartstrings. I think about her to this day. I still can't remember her name, but I know it'll come to me. When I pointed out a rip in her britches once, she brushed off my comment too quickly, as if she knew about the rip but wore them again on purpose to show off her scrumptious thigh. They had a hole in 'em about the size of a nickel. I pointed this out to her. She was there with a pretext in hand almost immediately. Which makes me wonder: did she know it was there all along? What if I had touched the hole in her pants while delivering my comment (or veiled compliment, if I remember correctly)? Something like: "I was just pointing but my finger got out of hand, that's all." That might have been my excuse had I gotten it into where that nickel was. Or maybe I would have distracted her. Goodness knows, she distracted me often enough. Oh, she was lovely. I sit up nights thinking of her, wishing the proximity people would reconsider.
But they're not likely to. Not right away. Not with all this tumult in the forecast. Both weatherwomen warned of huge waves today. From our terrace, though, they look rather puny... though I have to admit they are currently enjoying quite a long run at their destiny. It appears some of them start from as far away as two football fields. Twenty-five footers? Doesn't look like it. Thirty foot sprays though. It's anyone's guess what those two women go by. Do they--those weathergals--have a way of measuring from the inseam to the crest of them beaches? I'm just using the naked eye at the moment. What is the yardstick, Gabrielle? So, there're some swell bigs out there. I've decided to remain at this hotel until things calm down.
FORWARD to Chapter 2 of "Olive Might The Ocean Be"
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