Blurred (Connections #3.5)

Blurred (Connections #3.5) Page 5

My clothes are neatly piled on top of the dresser ready to be placed in my bag. My journal is packed, the one I haven’t been able to write in. I survey the room for what’s left—not that there’s much. All I’ll have to do before I leave for the airport is grab my duffle, my briefcase, and my board. But I have time so I quickly shower and head to the Bucket List for breakfast. The diner spills out onto the beach with its wide patio. It’s one of my favorite views of the Pacific. I could sit here for hours staring at the coastline, the glistening sand, and the stone cliffs. The place itself looks like a pirate ship with its faux fisherman style décor, complete with lobster pot lampshades on every table and a namesake mural that looks like a map lining the walls. The only difference being the purpose of the mural is to record your bucket list items and not navigate the sea.

“You’re finally doing it today?” my waiter Scott asks, pointing to the sharpie I have in my hand.

I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I am.”

“Way to go man, you did it.” He raises his hand and I slap it.

After I drink a cup of coffee, I approach the iconic wall with my marker and write my checked off items on it. It reads:

Ben Covington

Jog the Bondi Bronte Cliff Walk

Brave the surf at Tamarama

Yes, I did do it. I rode the waves of Tamarama yesterday despite its ferocious currents and strong riptides. It took me six months to get back in shape but I can now say: mission accomplished.

Time grows short and I move through town in an effort to say my goodbyes—not only to the locals but also to the places. I stop at Icebergs. It’s a local bar with its own outdoor pool wedged right into a cliff. The pool refills itself with seawater whenever waves crash against the rocks below it. And the joint itself is filled with happy, friendly people. No one cares what demons you carry. They’re just here to have a good time. Not to mention, the deeply tanned waitresses saunter around taking drink orders wearing skimpy bikinis . . . talk about living life easy.

Living in the Bondi bubble . . . life couldn’t be sweeter. But my visit here today isn’t to enjoy the pool or talk to the waitresses, it’s to say goodbye to Kale Alexander, the owner’s son. He and I hit it off right from the start. He reintroduced me to what I once loved—writing. Not just the thrill of catching the story that I had become addicted to, but he reacquainted me with the passion I once felt for words.

Kale writes for Surfers End Magazine and is worried he’ll be losing his job soon. The publication is tanking in circulation. We’ve had in-depth discussions as to why. His view was very eye opening but I didn’t necessarily agree with it.

When I walk in he’s sitting where he always does—a table near the railing overlooking the water, notebook in hand. He’s old school—no laptop, just pen and paper. Ironically, I think that’s the issue with the magazine—they need to enter the world of technology.

I clasp his shoulder. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

He looks up, lifting his shades. “Just trying to figure it all out.”

I sit across from him. “That’s heavy for this early in the day.” I bob my chin to one of the waitresses and hold up two fingers. She smiles and I direct my attention back to Kale. “Care to elaborate?”

He sets his pad down and leans with his elbows on the table. “Surfing is at a crossroads.”

“What do you mean?”

“Too many of us out there.”

I scrunch my brows together.

He points out to the water. “Watch that.”

I do. Two, three, four, five surfers systematically fading with one another in what at first seems to be some strange choreography. However, once the wave rolls over the surfers are shaking their fists at one another—obviously fighting for the waves and not bothering to wait their turn.

“Why is no blood being spilled over this? You can’t just fade someone rail-to-rail and get away with it,” he says slamming his fist on the table.

It’s a thin fabric that holds surfing together. Kale is a former champion and holds his standards high. I shake my head. “But there are so many unwritten rules out there and some have long passed their use.”

Our drinks arrive and I push one his way.

“Too early, man, I have to get something on paper before I can indulge.”

I push it further toward him. “I’m taking off today.”

He sits up straight. “Fuck, how about a little warning? I just got used to seeing your scrawny ass around here.”

“Yeah, right.” I grin and raise my glass before downing its contents. Then I stand up and extend my hand. “Hope to see you in another life, brother.”

He quickly rises and pulls me to him, patting me on the back. “Take care man and keep in touch. I’m serious about coming out to see your nephew in action. Who the f**k knows, I might even be writing about him some day.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be something. See ya, man.”

“Oh, and, Ben, make sure you teach your nephew better than what just happened out there. Courtesy is one rule that should never pass its time.”

I nod. “I completely agree.”

As I walk away he says, “In my day that would never have happened. If it did someone would have gotten a f**king punch in the head.”

I twist around and he snakes his arm around one of the waitresses and plunges his tongue in ear before looking over toward me. “Sure you don’t have a little time?” he asks his eyes darting to the chick in his arms.

I grin at him before I take a last look around. “Next time.”

I have one final stop to make before I leave—the beach herself. As I make my way through the sand, I think about the many hours I’ve spent here . . . surfing, walking, running, looking for myself. On this beach, I found a part of what I was missing. It was finality, a feeling of closure. Something I missed over and over with everyone I lost. I’ll especially always regret how things ended with Dahl. As I meander down this beach for the last time, I want so much to let that guilt roll off my shoulders. But there are some burdens that just won’t wash away. While I wipe the sand from my feet and slip back into my shoes, I try to focus on the possibility of new beginnings instead of the fact that when I head back to California no one will be awaiting my arrival.

Just as I enter the gleaming glass doors of the Sydney Airport, my cell rings and I grab for it from my front pocket. I see Caleb’s name flashing across the screen.

“Hey, f**ker. How’s the newly minted agent?”

Caleb snorts. “Hey, f**ker, yourself. And you’re being a little premature with your greeting. I haven’t graduated yet, but I am doing f**king amazing. I drove my first surveillance detection route yesterday.”

“Sounds like a kinky fantasy life if you ask me.”

“Scraping ice off cars and specialized training classes don’t add up to anything whatsoever kinky.”

“Sucks to be you then.”

“Yeah, yeah it does. But not you I’m sure. How’s Australia?”

“Not a waste of time, I can tell you that, but I’m headed home now.”

“For the trial,” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Absolutely f**king not. But I do want to hear more about your shenanigans. When are they letting you out of Quantico?”

“Soon. Really soon.” His laugh is low. “But it’s not like I’m in prison.”

“I’d say that’s up for discussion.”

“Over a few beers?”

“Is there any other way?”

“Really, how are you doing, man?”

“I’m managing. I need to get a job when I get back and figure everything out, but right now life is good.”

“Hey, one day at a time, right?”

“I’m not in AA, f**ker.”

“I know, Ben, but when you get back—take it easy. And make up with your sister. Jason said she really misses you.”

“Yeah, yeah. One day at a time.” I groan and roll my eyes.

“Listen, I gotta run. I have a simulated bank robbery I have to get to, but I’ll call you next week. And, Ben, I just found out I won’t be home until the end of the year, but I’ll have a month off then and I’m planning on spending it with you.”

“Aren’t I a lucky bastard then?”

“Hey, seriously, man, call me if you need me and, Ben, take care.”

“Yeah, you take care, too.”

I’ve always liked being independent because if you didn’t depend on anyone, there was no one to let you down. But Caleb and Trent are the exceptions. I looked forward to their calls. Caleb was the one person, besides Dahl, I had always depended on. And Trent was the one person besides Dahl, I’d always allowed to depend on me. The fact that he’s doing so well right now is the shiny spot in my life. He’s out of rehab and back in school. He’s even training for a local surf competition.

The first time I called Trent from Australia was the hardest. I had just arrived and he told me Dahl went to Paris for her honeymoon. For the longest time when we were younger, I wanted to take her there. I wanted to be the one to show her the Eiffel Tower she had always dreamed of photographing. The days that followed that call are all a blur. After that, whenever I called Trent, I quickly changed the subject whenever her name came up.

The airplane door swings shut with a thump and I twist my head toward the window. This is it, there’s no turning around—I’m really going back. As the plane takes off I look at the golden coastline and say goodbye to what just might have been my own piece of heaven. White sandy beaches and crystal blue water blend together and I close my eyes as that life fades away.

When I open them, the wheels are touching down and my old life comes rushing back. Shit, while I was gone I did a great job of not thinking about anything and I only hope I can keep it up. Even Dahl seems to have faded in my memories. Her birthday came and went and I never remembered it until days later. I’m not sure why—maybe the passage of time, maybe the distance. It doesn’t really matter though; whatever the reason, it’s working.

Standing stiff with tension, I look around Los Angeles International. Home sweet home. I had Trent pick up my car months ago and told him to keep it. Now I have no wheels. I shuffle over to the rental office and take the cheapest they have. I hand the attendant my credit card and get a sick feeling knowing I’m living off of borrowed credit.

I shove my stuff in the shitty sedan and exit the airport, hopping on the 405S. The freeway is jam-packed with cars, but that’s nothing new. If it’s not an accident or a stalled car bringing traffic to a stop, then it’s construction. I mean really, where else in LA do you get to park your car for free except on the f**king highway. I always hated this town, and today nothing feels any different.

Thirty minutes later I’m still inching along the road listening to the radio when I look ahead and see the bumper sticker on the car in front of me. It reads, “Life is only what you make of it,” and those eight words remind me of the advice my mother gave me just before we took Trent to the recovery center.

She looked at me with such sadness and placed her hands on my face before saying, “Please, be happy for the life you have. Make the best of it and don’t waste it. Instead, try to put your life back together. Benjamin, please try. If not for yourself, then do it for me. I only want to see you happy.”

I grip the steering wheel and jerk my car toward the 110, and away from the road that would take me to Laguna Beach. I silently answer her plea because I didn’t then. “I can do that for you Mom. I can try.”

With her words ringing in my head, I know what my first step toward a new life has to be—securing a job. So I reluctantly decide to call my old editor from the LA Times. She liked me and I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear from me. I dial the paper and enter her extension. I get her voicemail and leave her a message.