Olive Might The Ocean Be -- Chapter 19
A flying wedge of honkers skimmed along the water's calm surface about two hundred yards out, while we continued sailing down the highway. After considerable debate, we determined that every analysis of highway travel is subjective.
Even something unarguably objective like miles was suspect, in our opinion. What couldn't have been more than an inch on the map turned out to be--in real road miles--much much farther. We would need another rest stop, but all we could see, mile after mile, were trees, cliffs, jagged rocks, and wayward mariners hitchhiking with big boots. Evidently, they hadn't even caught enough for bus fare. Shirley said they probably wouldn't let them board their buses with those slimy boots. I looked at her beautiful upper one-fourth head and shoulder pads and tried to imagine what the rest of her would look like were the seat not in the way and she were undressed, glistening. We had the Jag's top down, so we could smell the salt and brine. Her hair whipped this way and that in the wind.
Cathy muscled her car up the long, curvaceous rest stop road. The others were in front of us, juggling their organic water bottles and suntan lotion. We parked away from a huge gathering of seagulls and crows that were feeding off the tourists, who would throw crumbs at the flying, hovering ones. I wanted to investigate, but Sheila said we didn't have any bread. "What's this?" I asked, fingering a loaf I pulled from my chair.
"That's not stale," Sheila said, pushing me into the restroom. She called in there and looked around for another exit. I asked if she wanted to assist me, but she had to go, next door, herself. Later, Debbie and I started ambling along the rocks and spray, looking for urchins, but all I saw was her exposed bra strap. It was midnight blue and held her bulbous melons and my attention. I got caught up in a clam shell and started grinding, grinding. She came back to pull me out and I leaned--gaping mouthed--toward her strap. Drooling on my wheel instead of her scrumptious hourglass figure and tight lips, I wiped my mouth with my hook. We strolled back to the Mercedes and hopped in. Kammi said our next stop would be at the hotel, though according to the map it still looked pretty far away. The engine purred like a walrus with sleepy eyes along the wind-torn shore.
Even though the Pacific Ocean remained pretty darn beautiful and it hadn't rained all day, I grew tired--even moribund--of the watch. My attention drifted toward Stephanie as she leaned and rolled with the curves of the road. Her mane rested partly on the headrest and partly on the BMW's door. She had the most gorgeous eyes, and she would blink at the telephone pole, the telephone pole. Stephanie said that I shook just then. I recovered and said, "Yeah, uh hum."
"No," she said. "I just... what's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just thinking about the green ocean."
"It's blue," she said.
"It changes colors," I responded, trying to remember why I had just thought about that telephone pole again... but making sure to remain silent. I wondered why none of the women talked about that night. Were they waiting for me to talk about the accident first? Surely there had been an accident, but why don't I remember a hospital?
Katelin swung around in the seat and checked my seatbelt--it wasn't fastened--and went back to driving. A cormorant flew in front of the Mercedes and then disappeared around a crag. The murky Pacific surged and receded, surged and... just laid there sometimes. I felt around in my pants and found a spare key. I showed it to Katelin and she said it was from the hotel. "But it has a different insignia than the one on this coaster," I said, pointing.
"That's from a different hotel," she said.
I sat back and stared at the coaster for clues. It had a coffee ring. Hmm, I suspiciously thought: she doesn't drink coffee. I thought about asking how the coaster acquired a coffee ring, but decided against it.
Then, right before my eyes, Cherry slowly removed her gloves. We were going around a corner, but it didn't seem to phase her. A trickle of saliva rolled down my jaw as she snapped at each of her fingertips. The Jaguar hugged the road like its namesake cat on the prowl. We skimmed along the highway and she leaned forward to push the radio's buttons. Her back arched again and again in languid, supple motions. I could feel myself tilting with her. I licked my lips and she said we were almost there. The hotel loomed in the foreground; I retrieved the brochure from the binnacle. Yes, I thought, there is a similarity.
The room stood moving, luggage everywhere, the TV on but silent, the ocean again crashing. "Another receipt?" I incredulously asked Wanda, seeing it there on the credenza. Then she showed me my signature, but it wasn't dated. Not wanting to appear aroused, I asked about our new balcony while devising how to pocket the receipt, preferably when no one was around. Iris was out there now, looking westward, the sun grazing her mouth. I thought she might love me, but I knew she wouldn't touch me. Karen might touch my hook, but only while phoning. Olive might the ocean be or maybe green gray brown. She was fast in my chest, pounding. We had room service on the way up and some liquor. I was hoping that somebody besides me would take off her clothes. The Jacuzzi bubbled in the background, softly whispering its liquid come-hither susurrations. We couldn't find Froggie. I splashed incontinently in the shallow end.
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