Pismo Beach

As it so happens, the words, “I QUIT” were quickly followed by, “You can’t quit! You’re fired!”

Fine. Quit, fired, who gives a shit? I don’t qualify for unemployment anyway in the field I was in, so it hardly matters. If my demanding, never satisfied boss wants the last word, let him have it. As they say, no skin off my ass. My last thought as I walked away was, “Good luck filling my position, dickwad.”

I might have also thought, “See you in hell,” but that’s not very nice, is it?

I probably should have applied for something else before I quit, but it was immediate, if that makes sense. I had a bad day and when he came up to me, critiquing the work I had done, pointing out that I had missed a few things on the agenda for the day, I just had enough. The words ‘I quit’ rolled off my tongue and made their way out of my mouth without my permission. But once they hit air, I realized that I truly meant them. I was done with it all.

I realized that’s how every day was. No matter how much work I got done, there was something he felt was more pressing than the work I did. He’s a good delegator but has this thing where one is supposed to read his mind and prioritize just as he would and even though I worked for him for over 20 years, I never got good enough at reading between what he said to figure out which of the hundred tasks I had that day were important to him. 

***

I’m looking at a 1969 VW Microbus that I found on Facebook marketplace. It’s been well tended to and the owner is obviously an old hippie. “It’s sweet,” I tell the blonde and gray haired man in his early 70s, his hair long and in a neat ponytail running down his back, “why are you selling it?” The VW is orange and white and the interior is quaintly retro—orange curtains that look to be nearly new, not sun-worn; the carpet inside is brown shag carpet that I remember one apartment or another I lived in as a kid had; and the bed…well, I’ll replace that in short order. I have a thing about beds that other people have slept on. I don’t even like sleeping on hotel beds, if I’m honest.

He tears up a bit. “My wife died a few months ago—August 15^th to be exact—and…”

I nod and pat his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Good memories—this van. We went everywhere. We lived on a commune back in the sixties and early seventies. I traded some pot for it.” He’s smiling at the memory of it all and so am I. The few times I’ve slipped in front of the young men who worked under me and called marijuana ‘pot’ they corrected me and said, ‘Weed. We call it weed now,’ with eyerolls. The retro ‘pot’ makes me smile. It’s of my generation and the older gentleman’s in front of me as well.

“No kids who want the van?” I ask. I mean, it’s a cool ass van in my opinion. I can’t imagine that if he has kids, one of them wouldn’t see that.

He shakes his head sadly. “They all moved on and left me here in Ramona. They’re all part of the corporate machine now; bowing down to The Man. They wouldn’t be caught dead in it,” he explains and nods at my old red Mercedes, “even that would be beneath them.”

“Kids,” I say sympathetically, “few of them get it these days, huh?”

“I don’t know where we went wrong,” he says sadly, “we worked so hard to reject all that and here we are.”

“Well, eventually you have to eat,” I say, understanding. The counterculture movement failed, and Corporate America won that battle. I’m just as sad as he is that money has to be a thing. I was born in the wrong generation. I understand this Boomer in front of me far more than my Gen-X peers. “What’s her name?”

“Bertha,” he answers, fairly amused that I’d ask that.

“I had a ’67 VW Fastback. Her name was Bertha as well. Seems appropriate for a VW.” I nod at my old Mercedes and ask, “Are you sure that’s not too bougie for you?”

He thinks about it and then shakes his head no. “I’ve grown emotional in my old age. I can’t bear to drive her anymore. Not without Lydia at my side. You’re the first person I’ve shown her to who seems to get it; I’d like you to have her.” 

“I’ll take good care of her.”

He examines me for a bit and I silently allow it. “What’s your story?”

“I’m going to let Bertha there help me write it,” I say.

“Make it a good one. You got family?”

At that, I’m silent, considering it. “We all do, right? We’re all part of the human family.”

He smiles.

***

My roommates are all gone when I go home and pack my things. I’m surprised as I pack the medium-sized Amazon box that I find so little that matters to me. A few books, even less toiletries, a box my dad made for me one year that I keep photos in. The biggest thing I grab is a 25-pound bag of dog food and the Amazon box is amazingly light. Shit. I’ve packed more for firestorms that we’ve had to escape from than I am right now, expecting to never come back here.

I grab Max, my dog, hook him up on lead and lead him out to our new old VW Microbus and watch as the confused dog gets inside and sniffs around. I can almost hear his thoughts about the missing Mercedes convertible we used to ride around in. ‘I’ll miss sticking my head up and letting the wind blow through my fur. But this is pretty cool, I guess. More room to roam around in.’ He settles down quickly as if to say, ‘Good move. I think I’ll like it.’ I slide a side window open for him because I know he’ll like having the option to stick his head out as we drive.

I don’t bother leaving a note for anyone. If they have questions, that’s what my cell phone is for.

***

I’ve been gone nearly a month and Max and I are hanging out on Pismo Beach watching the sunset together when the first text comes in.

I expected to hear from him sooner, to be honest and I consider that pride is the only reason it took so long. I expected him to contact me right away wondering what protocols exist for this or that or, at the very least, to complain that I left something undone before I quit and wanting to know how to finish it up.

My underlings are pretty good though. I figured out a couple of days ago that I probably haven’t been inundated by questions because the two of them stepped up. They’re good that way and one thing I’m proud of is that I trained them to do their work very well. They were good to work with. Polite young men; a little testy because of their age—they would complain bitterly when a new task was given to them and they were quite prone to trying to zone out on their phones, fucking around on them when they were supposed to be working. I understood, though. I was a teenager at some point.

The text from my former boss is terse: “You can’t just leave.”

“Your hypothesis has holes in it. I did leave.” I type back.

“Where are you?” comes back.

“It hardly matters. You fired me.”

“I didn’t mean it. I need you. We’re worried about you.”

“Sorry for that.” I am I guess. Sorry for worrying them. At 47, they should hardly be worried—I am a grown-ass woman.

“Come home.”

I’m still tired, if I’m honest. I spent over 20 years working overtime—12, 13, 14, 15 hour days. I have a gig in San Luis Obispo cleaning motel rooms. I only have to work as long as it takes to turn the rooms over and I’m efficient at it, so I only work about a six hour day; sometimes as long as seven and a half, but not that often so far. It gives me more time to enjoy where I’m at and spend time with Max. I didn’t get that in San Diego. “No” I type back, “I’m digging life right now.”

I am digging life. I work my shifts and hang out on Pismo Beach, chatting with people from all parts of the country at night as we cook collectively or separately and then sit down and throw back a few drinks and get goofy together.

“But the bills are due. You’re the only one with access to the bank account because you have to do things your way.”

“I can pay them. I did bring my laptop.” 

At that, the phone rings. “Beck. Be reasonable. We’re married. You can’t just take off.”

“Paul? Fuck you. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I fucking did backflips to make you happy and you nit-picked everything I did. If the kitchen was spotless, you wanted to know why I didn’t dust. If the house was perfect and all errands were done, you complained about how shitty dinner was. If dinner turned out well, you complained that the dishes were stacked up. I mean, seriously, Paul. How much did you and the boys think I could take? I’d work all fucking day, and I mean ALL fucking day—between cleaning the house, cooking, running errands, doing all the bookwork for the business…”

“It was a lot,” he interrupts. “We’re all sorry. The kids…”

“The kids are fine. Don’t play the ‘but the kids’ card with me. Ian is 19 and Will 17. They don’t need me now.” They don't. I'm not even sure they liked having me as their immediate supervisor.

“I had no…I didn’t realize how much you did,” he admits sounding contrite.

I’m silent because in the 24 years we’ve been together, it’s his first admission that I did more than watch soap operas (which I never did but that’s the image he had) or fuck around on the computer (which I did do—housewife is a lonely job, and it was my only connection to humanity other than brief conversations with my fellow moms when the kids were young. But that all ended when the boys hit their teens and became protective about their lives).

Well, that and Paul’s bitching about how I did things and how displeased he was with my performance or driving our sons around while they grunted in answer to my questions. I guess that’s social interaction of sorts. Maybe a little too insular for my liking now, though. Now that I’ve experienced nightly interactions with other humans.

“Please? I’m sorry. I really am.”

He sounds sincere but I’ve heard this before. The few times I was laid out with a strained muscle in my back or the flu, it was very apparent what my role was when there were no clean dishes; no cooked food; no clean clothes to wear. Nothing changed with that knowledge. As soon as I was functional again, he’d come home from work, bark at me for a bit on where I had failed for that particular day, shower, get into his ratty-ass pajamas, sit in front of the TV and bark orders at me, legs plopped up on the table in front of him.

I’d ask for help. “Please? I’d like to sit down and enjoy the movie you picked out. If you’d just help me with the dishes, I could do that.”

“I work all day,” he’d bark, “I earn all the money to keep you in this house. It’s YOUR job to keep the house running.”

You know, other than when I was sick, I didn’t see an entire movie or TV show for years. I’d look at titles to help him pick something out and he’d say, “We saw that.” I didn’t know; I always came in mid-movie or show and tried to catch up with the plot.

I'm silently considering that when I hear, “Beck?”

“Paul?”

“I love you.”

“You have a shit way of showing it.”

“I’ll change.”

We’ve been here before. It’s not like this is new, right? I mean, I was pretty vocal the whole time that I was overwhelmed by my responsibilities; that my days were endless—they started an hour after I woke up and ended when my head hit the pillow. Unless sex was on the table. THEN, my day ended 20 minutes after my head hit the pillow.

“No, you won’t. You’re doing your salesman bit on me,” I say, nodding hello at a fellow camper who just came in from surfing, compulsively petting Max’s head as I do when I’m a bit worked up about something. The mere sound of Paul’s voice stresses me the fuck out. When I realize that, I wonder just how long that’s been a thing. For as long as I can remember now. I used to love the sound of his voice.

At that, he’s silent because he is—he’s trying to manipulate me into coming home because he doesn’t want to take care of the house and the errands and the meals and the drudgery of tending to life. All he wants to do, all he’s ever expected to have to do, is to walk out the door in the mornings and come home. Breadwinner is all he sees himself as being—not a partner, but a money machine. He was content with that. Not happy—Paul isn’t wired for happiness—but he was content with the status quo for all his bitching at me.

He tries a different angle. “Don’t you love me?”

Hm. Now, there’s a question. He spent nearly two decades with his arms crossed while I sat next to him on the couch—not so much as a hand on my leg or arm around me. He wasn't even affectionate when he wanted sex. He would just grab a boob when we were in bed together and that signaled that he was in the mood for a little action.

I’m silent too long and he becomes angry and hurt. “You don’t love me?” It’s spit out as partial wounded delicate flower man and partial accusation.

I was madly in love with him—so much so that my feminist ass went completely domestic. I allowed him to domesticate me, that’s how much I loved him. At one point. But without affection, those feelings died out a long time before I left. I start crying a little at the memory of being in love with him and I really have no interest in hurting him. It’s just…I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I put myself first. It’s a hard admission, but I make it. “I’m sorry; I don’t love you anymore.”

At that, he’s incensed. “I’LL FIND SOMEONE ELSE YOU KNOW.” It’s said so loud that I have to move the phone from my ear and Max cocks his head at me.

“I hope you do. I wish nothing but good things for you.” I’m sincere when I say it—I wish no ill on him. It's been nearly a month, after all and I've had time to cool down. “Take care.” I hit the off button and turn my phone off when he calls back.

The surfer I waved at while on the phone comes over, dressed in jeans now, and offers me a Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade and I take the bottle, nodding thanks as he puts his chair down next to mine. “Cool sunset tonight,” he says, not looking at me.

“It was,” I agree. “I bought a couple of steaks. If you want.”

“Want to talk?”

“About?”

“You were crying, Rebecca. I’ve been here two weeks now, and nothing but smiles and jokes from you the whole time. Do you need an ear?” he asks, still not looking at me.

“Nope. Thanks though.”

“What’s your story?” he asks, examining me.

I shrug. “It’s boring.” I examine him back. I hadn’t noticed, really. I think I’ve been in mourning—grieving for what was and what is no longer. He’s a good-looking man. Blonde, blue-eyed, mid-40s like me and he has a crush on me. I hadn’t noticed any of that—he was just a pleasant presence and Max didn’t mind him so neither did I. I try the words that I tried so often with Paul, and I’m scared before I say them because the constant rejection of them through the years has me tentative. “Would you…” is all I manage to get out, suddenly becoming shy. 

I don’t know how he knows where I was going with it, but he moves his chair closer to me and puts an arm around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and then put my head on his shoulder. He comforts me while I cry and doesn’t ask anything. I think that he’s going to make a move for sex because, men, right? But he doesn’t. He leads me into Bertha, Max following us, pulls down the comforter and puts me to bed and leaves me there with, “See you in the morning, Rebecca. Everything will seem better in the morning. It always does,” and gently slides the door shut.