Oh! The “beautiful?”-people!?
A
bevy of kaleidoscope-color near-bikinis offering “barely” strategic-coverings of
tanned-to-bronze youthful toned-bodies undulated incongruent waves to-and-fro
along the crowded, hot boardwalk distracting visitors and viewers from the
awesome-beauty of the ocean backdrop as Pacific-blue white diamond-sparkle
lulling-caresses surf-kissed brilliant white sand-beach under a cerulean-sky
dazzled with Golden-state sunshine---Heaven?...on
earth? Well! Maybe?
“Spunky”
Jackson, local “celebrity”-surfer (Well! Once upon a “long”-time
past---perhaps) sat backwards on a picnic bench table vaguely observing the
throng of “beautiful” people before him. Hair (or, what remained of a once full
curly-tussle mass) bleached white-blonde by sun and saltwater surf of far too
many years flowed ungracefully as the afternoon winds picked up. No effort
calmed the tangled mess as the eyes of the once-“heroic” conqueror-of-the-waves
showed a lifeless-stare absent emotion necessary to appreciate the spectacle.
Soon enough (again and again) the next onslaught of “beautiful” self-proclaimed cool-dude contenders would arrive.
“Spunky”
( a.k.a. Eugene Conognish- in his pre-surfing life) had seen his day; a good
run!?
Of
late, he found satisfaction in the faux-attitude of pretense as an “idol” to be enough;
it was a great deal of work to masquerade as a disciple of the
Great-expectations of the “elite”-crowd; easier to be the “King” in a
fantasy-world like the one of Disney.
Just---Pretend…”same”-result!
Oakley
fashion-statement sunglasses had slid down the long, pointed nose of “Spunky”
as he snored on the wooden makeshift “beach”-chair; no one seemed to notice the
“old-man” among the subdued-cadenced heartbeat of “tomorrow’s” up-and-comers,
each jockeying for front position to be noticed by---Hmm!...fellow-”Elites”?
That
one of the darkened lenses had a vertical crack with a triangular piece of
glass missing from its corner did not interest the passers-by; Spunky had salvaged
the accoutrement from a trash can a few days prior and had not, as yet, managed
to lose the fashion-statement.
A
discarded tiny 35mm film canister served to contain his “white-powder” courage
which Spunky indulged, sparingly, of late (the stuff was getting
downright---expensive) by utilizing the long nail of his left little finger to
“cup” the ecstasy so he could inhale it. He must break the habit!? Oh! He had tried, unsuccessfully, myriad
tomes, always to embrace the demon---again!
A
young man and woman in their early thirties happened by Spunky’s “domicile”;
the little girl with them stared at the “blob” sprawled on the picnic table
bench sporting broken sunglasses hanging precariously askew on a huge
proboscis, her innocent-eyes wide in an astonished stare..
As
“little-darling” took a deep breath in preparation to make a statement, Mom
shushed her.
Further
down the walkway, the child looked to her mother saying, “He looked like
Gramps!”
“Yes!
Dear!” Mommy replied, hurriedly ushering her daughter toward the beach and surf.
Spunky
slept through the epiphany---the innocent-child would have never guessed his
age, any way…34! Ah! The “Good”-life among the “beautiful”-faux elite royalty!?
What a show!?
Bravo!?
One
day---perhaps…I’ll savor that blue-Pacific Red-sunset,
once more!?
Uh!---sans…”any” Royal-elites!
Amen!
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