A History Remembered by No One: Stories by Sea and by Land

Table of Contents

Don’t Look Now, but the Universe Is Laughing

Blank White Page

An Old Light

Much Ado About a Chromosome

Kites in Trees and the Call of the Sea

The Rush of Ships Upon Wide Open Waters

The Cardinal Rule

The Improvised Christmas

Twelve Dreams (Soon to Occur, in Some Respect)

The Modern Jalapeño Popper

Helping

Land Ho! (Porta Delgada, the Azores)

When We Meeyte

Time/Sex in the Crosshairs

Anything but Tranquil

Searching for Scotland

The Great Culture Clash

A Brief Survival Guide to Being Lost at Sea

Overboard!

Berkey

Lord of the Mosquitos

A Letter to Kurt Vonnegut Jr.,

A Forward to 44:

You Don’t Dance in the Street:

Crazy in My Happiness

So This Is the Blues

When the Lights Go Out

This Little Droid’s

Kickball Injuries and a Flock of Pint-Sized Geese

Whitey’s Close Encounters

An Antsy, Small Audience of Aspiring Cheetahs

The Burden of Heavy Ornaments

A Carlson Thanksgiving (That Shit Is Raw)

A Bloody Travesty of a Sorry Event

A Simple Trip

In Praise of St. Omar

Gingerbread, Some Say, Is Disgusting

We Know English Good Enough:

A History Remembered by No One

Salesman of the Year

A Fresh Rub

That Pain in Your Side Is Democracy (I Think)

Into the Memory Hole

2:20, Autumn Afternoon

Copyright © 2016 by Will Carlson

Mill City Press, Inc.

2301 Lucien Way #415

Maitland, FL 32751

407.339.4217

www.millcitypublishing.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Aimilios Prosalentis (1859-1926)

Boy in sailor suit, 1926

ISBN-13: 9781635056112

LCCN: 2016918985

Printed in the United States of America

For M.P.

Don’t Look Now, but the Universe Is Laughing

At some point in our lives, everyone meets at Starbucks. It ’s true.

In 1997 an experiment was conducted by Professor Maxwell Sloan of Loyola University to test his theory. For five years at the college’s campus franchise two blocks away from his office, Dr. Sloan resided at the corner table next to the fake sugars, watery creamers and repackaged Joni Mitchell albums. In 2000 alone, coffee was the cause of a $5,000 grant, a small price to pay to discover the magnet of humanity. He met couples from San Jose, travelers from Kolkata, gymnasts from Warsaw, two former lovers, lawyers from Capetown, Bobby Terrell who had moved away from Dr. Sloan’s fourth grade class when he was nine, and in September 1999, his favorite singer, James Taylor, stopped in while on tour.

Starbucks had been discovered as—given enough patience—the world’s welcoming mat. His thesis: man cannot resist the allure of individualized wholesale and gimmicked hip, especially if bad java is involved at asinine prices. He received the 2003 Nobel Prize for Sociology, while Starbucks stock jumped three dollars in one week. To celebrate, the Seattle-born chain introduced the Cabolli size, which roughly translates to Are you kidding me?

Now, this is not to say that by simply walking in and slapping down five dollars for a cup of Joe everyone will walk through the door and across your path. If you ever wondered what happened to your high school prom date Kip Gordon and whether or not he is now exceedingly fat, sit at one franchise’s counter and he’ll appear. It could be days, months. Be prepared to wait years, but it will happen. Just don’t expect Kip to recognize you or even want to talk about the old days or the new ones or anything between the two. He could just be there for a Cabolli, two marmalade danishes and a toasted bagel with extra strawberry cream cheese. So a word of caution: Starbucks is the gate, but not the key, and cannot be held liable for anything after the point when that one specific patron of Earth arrives. That part is entirely up to you.

I.

Marley Watkins can’t decide if she likes Chicago. She must admit, it has everything. An entire section of the city devoted to theater, blocks of world-renowned restaurants and deliciously endless greasy spoons, miles of beautiful parks, history to choke the sky and a view of unsurpassed architecture. Everything, in fact, going to utter waste off the icy, God-vacant shores of Lake Michigan. She pulls her scarf around her with a good tug, takes a last gasp of warm air and explodes out from Union Station. It is only a visit, and a brief one at that, she considers, as her hair flails to the delight of a frigid wind, before Virginia’s much balmier Hampton University calls again.

A taxi heeds her wave. Within the cab she puts her hands quickly to her cheeks, rubs, and tells the driver an address. They speed off Adams and turn down the Magnificent Mile. She gazes at all the high-fashion shops and boutiques, her first glimpses of the darkened city. Certainly, she thinks, it’s nothing like Albuquerque, but she stops, knowing comparing the two is futile. Here she is, a virgin to the Windy City, and she finds herself reminiscing about a place 1,126 miles away, deep in the Land of Enchantment. She doesn’t get home too much anymore, regrettably. She thinks of her first two years at Sweet Briar, a beautifully rustic all-girls college amid undulating western Virginia, complete with—in her imagination—a moat and raised draw bridge. Never mind all that, she commands herself, all that is in the past. Hampton is the present, a choice she made with the best of intent. It has only been one semester—isn’t the first always the hardest? This seems to her like common knowledge and she eases slightly. Her mind instead yells at her for being silly, and snaps back to the question at hand, namely finding her way to his place. She tries another call from her cell as she watches the fare climb higher. No answer. Fortunately, the cab has nearly arrived at the address, and she pays without wasting a movement, thanking the driver cheerily. The apartment is towering and for the most part dark as she looks up. A try on the buzzer does not warrant a response. Another message is left to ask when he is to get off of work. So much for trying her best to be early. The first business is to get out of the chill.

Will Carlson flips through the last pages of a thoroughly inspected Tribune, except for the business section he always neglects, now buried under layers of more interesting pages. A petite waitress with tightly pulled-back dark hair and a green Kelly name tag asks him without a hint of the boredom she is suppressing if he would like another steamer, his nearly drained. It had always been steamers, going back to college, as he would catch one on the way to an especially boring class. Never did get the actual coffee bug, though. He declines the offer. There is still the matter of a blustery walk of several blocks ahead of him for a train departing in an hour, the last southwest escape to Galesburg, Illinois that night. He looks disagreeably at the gray scene outside the Starbucks-logoed window. It was good to get away for a while from work and the Galesburg Register-Mail, a tiny newspaper not ready to splurge daily on color photography or experiment with articles beyond farm expos and Kiwanis events. He is happy, just having visited his old college friends Collinsville and Tom out in the suburbs to usher in 2005. Again they had teased his Chicago curiosity by reminding him of the benefits of finally moving north too.

Maybe he should. Three years at the paper since graduation had brought him little more than a steady, humble paycheck and a scrapbook of dull columns, most only a mother could love. Perhaps it was time to get in with an Arlington Heights publisher, or the larger paper in DuPage. One day, maybe, the Tribune itself. His dreaming causes him to lift up the front page again to analyze the familiar blue banner at the top, but his attention is quickly drawn to a side story along the right edge: Afghani Extremist Leader Captured in Village Raid. It was another brief meditation on the ongoing wars abroad, like so many before, some of which Will had written about for his Register-Mail. In that moment he wonders if he ever could have been even a sandgrain in the beach of these historic times. No, he considers, he probably never would have made it through boot camp. That’s all for other types of people, is his verdict. He reaches behind for his draped coat, but a girl’s arm is lightly resting on the back of the chair. He takes a quick glance as he purposefully begins a reexamination of the sports section.

Marley Watkins is too bundled for much of her to be seen. Anything on the menu could easily satisfy her, as long as it is hot. She places an order for a large coffee, the smallest size available, and hands Kelly the petite waitress her check card. In a moment, a steaming cup is brought. Three seconds later, Marley’s arm brushes the back of a customer’s chair while reaching for skim milk. She thinks she hears a soft apology from the man next to her for his chair being pushed out. But she can’t be sure. Her world for that instant is the roasted dark heaven inside a paper cup as she takes her first sip, never registering a moment later a newspaper being folded, placed under an arm, and its carrier walking out the door into the cold.

II.

The cakes on the bottom shelf of the case make a little girl point with longing at the sweets beyond the glass. She looks up, two large black eyes flashing to her father far above.

Daddy, chocolate! She presses, slightly anxious. Her tall, tanned father must excuse himself from the middle of ordering two waters and an orange juice to look down at his wide-eyed daughter. The jingle of the door’s bell lightly chimes its greeting as three enter behind them.

Not now, her father calmly tells her. But knowing this will likely not be enough to pacify the girl he adds, We’ll be home soon, and Mommy is making us dinner.

The three at the door are clearly tourists and no one pays them any mind. The father of this new group has shaggy brown hair and short jean cutoffs, the wife shorter and stout, lugging a vacation bag from which just about anything could be pulled if the need arose. Their travels have given them a good color, but it is the kind of tan that says, I’m rare. They look weary too, ready for the cool air and large beds of the hotel. A son, seven years old, races ahead of them out of habit, but finding the store a small size he brakes, to instead intermittently hop.

"Dad, do you really have to go the bathroom again?" The blonde boy asks aloud to the embarrassment of all. Realizing he’s again spoken too soon he turns a shade of red and glances down, forgetting all about hopping. The small girl ahead of him cannot be distracted from her hopes without trying once more.

Daddy… she whimpers a shallow, last effort, letting her father fill in the rest.

You heard me, Marley, the man with broad shoulders far above says firmly. Seeing any further attempt a dead end, she decides cake is now not worth her time; in another second she is distracted into scampering over to the window to investigate the outside. Few cars are sitting in the lot, and even fewer butterflies and birds are out in the Floridian summer heat to entertain. Her eyes turn their attention to the people inside as her father digs for money at the counter.

How did you like Cocoa Beach today, Willy? She hears the woman ask, now sitting at a table several feet away. The boy seems to consider the question seriously.

It was much better than Lake Storey at home, he rattles off. Did you see the sand castle I made? Are we staying here longer or we going back again to Walt Disney World to ride some more rides? My favorite was the time trip in the golf ball thing—‘member that? The woman agrees with the drum of Will’s voice while checking her watch, wondering whether her husband is lost in the restroom. She then glimpses the little girl with dark tangles by the window, staring back at them with uncertainty. A question comes to the mother as she sees her reemerged husband, now in line for coffee.

Will, how would you like a little sister like that, someone to play with? It is better, she reasons, to let her son know sooner than later, but in small steps to let him warm to the idea that she recently found out the family would be increasing. Will is thrown from his thoughts of sea shells and twirling tea cups by this odd question, and looks over at the little girl. He can’t say, because he doesn’t know much about girls being good playmates. Barbies are NOT fun.

He has little time to consider this important issue though, before Marley’s father offers her his hand and leads the little girl out the door and into the Florida sunshine.

III.

Something about Ocean Beach speaks to Will more than any other part of San Diego. Fittingly, he discovered the little seaside bohemian bubble completely by accident, during one of his many solitary walking excursions. Now the sandy, sleepy enclave was a regular escape from the Point Loma sonar school a few miles away, his tiny Naval base on the opposite side of the thin strip of peninsula.

This Illinois boy could not hope to fit the easy coastal vibe without years of training. He must be the only one today not wearing sandals, but no matter. Here he is. For the briefest of moments he could imagine a viable, future civilian life: being a regular at the reggae club Land’s End, tanned and well-stubbled, walking bare-chested down the main street in nothing but trunks, flip-flops and sunglasses.

He is brought back to reality as a car edges out from the intersection, threatening to go anyway. Must not be a local. Surveying the lone strip to the town, few places are open this Thursday evening. The hour walk from the military base has been enjoyably scenic, but the return trip east has not been earned yet, Will is sure. How many chances are left, before he’s shuffled off to some other naval installation?

Only three dwell in the Starbucks on the corner as he enters. A girl with heavy mascara and blue hair reads poetry sprawled on a burgundy couch. Dickinson, by the looks of it. That leaves the tall male with several piercings behind the counter and one other customer, a girl of some interesting concoction of ethnicity at a table, buried in enough paperwork that she must be trying to balance the federal budget.

Coffee, venti please, Will asks after crossing the shop, not looking at the menu. He wishes to appear as if he knows which size is which, while not remembering which size is which. Handed a massive Starbucks cup in no time, he wonders how big the Cabolli must be. Crazy place.

The black of the coffee pleads for creamer, and he pours a generous portion. That is when he turns and, not realizing his proximity to the studious girl, stumbles past her crossed legs. The venti becomes a large at best, most tumbling with full-bodied aroma to the tiled floor.

I’m so sorry, Will sputters to a startled, wet pair of legs, before his eyes move up to the legs’ face. The legs’ face’s brain at the moment is most concerned with whether coffee had landed on a single sheet of the tree on her table. Here, I’ll get some napkins, he promises, already snatching them from dispensers with both hands, then making as quick work as he can of the mess.

I’m okay, the girl hurries, using a napkin of her own to mop a few drops off her ankle. It’s just a spill, I think I’ll be okay. Normally this would be the cue that escape is now possible, but instead Will waits for a moment, a large ball of damp napkins in his hand. Instead he takes a seat across from her.

I hope I didn’t ruin your work, you look like you’ve been at it for days, Will says as she shuffles one of the many stacks. Only then does he seem to take in all in the work she’s done. I’m a pretty good writer too, if you need something redone.

Well, it’s only been the better part of a day, anyway.

Here? All day in a Starbucks? I really am sorry, he replies. She pauses for the first time to give him a good look.

No, no, not with all this. This morning it was all lectures and such at this convention I’m in town for.

Downtown, Will safely guesses.

Right. All for an internship I don’t even know if I’ll be offered. Still up in the air, actually—all of it—but I’ve got to make the best impression. She has now dismissed all the piles in front of her. Will takes the moment to quickly dispose of the still dripping napkinball to better wipe her mind of his gaffe.

Oh, which college? He asks, taking a sip of his cup.

It’s called Sweet Briar.

With a name like that it can’t be anywhere out here in the West, he says with little inner conviction.

It’s a girls’ college in Virginia, near Lynchburg. Virginia. The state of Virginia—very far away, Will confides to the half-filled cup he holds.

How do you like it? He offers, the next most obvious question, yet the girl now seems eager for a little conversation as a break from her toil.

Aside from its being in the middle of nowhere, it’s okay. I’ve been waiting to try something new, go in another direction. A slight smile emits from her. Will lightly wonders if she might be coming to southern California. I looked into a few historically black colleges recently, a school in Hampton, but I’ve decided to return to Sweet Briar for my junior year. Oh well, the few seconds were nice, he reasons. A moment of silence between them.

I’m sorry, he says for the second time, reaching across the table. My name is Will. They shake like five-minute friends, her hand soft and strong, confident.

Marley. Her smile broadens. So, what do you do here, Mr. Will?

I’m going to a school for sonar, at Point Loma near here, and adds, Spilling coffee on strangers is just a night thing I do. She laughs at this, and it sounds very good and real, even musical to him.

What school is that? Marley asks, considering, and slightly confused.

Um, well, it’s not a school like a university, really. Tread slowly, Will tells himself, but there is no stable footing to be had. …I’m in the Navy. His stomach clenches.

Really? She brightens unexpectedly at this. My parents were in the Air Force, both of them. Now it is her turn to ask a softball. Have you enjoyed it? Suddenly completely comfortable, an internal clutch in Will is released. He leans a little closer, his eyebrows lifting a hint.

Can I tell you? Not at all, actually, he reveals to her with a grin. It is good to say out loud. Will gives her the other side of him: This isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing. It was sort of a mistake—an interesting one, yes—and one that eventually will come to an end. With few regrets.

And once you trade in your sea legs?

What do I really want to do? Here Will pauses a moment. Go ahead, say it. I want to write. Call this the long research phase—seeing the world, he laughs. Maybe I have that clichéd Great American Novel bouncing around me, waiting to come out. He wants to wince, having unveiled his protected, seldom-spoken dream. He cannot tell, but she has gained an entirely new respect for this Will, someone she hadn’t expected to meet at a coffee joint near the little stop by the bus route a hotel map had called Ocean Beach.

So why don’t you? You can still be writing, even while you’re still in, right? He chews on this for moment, and concludes she is right. Is this stranger inspiring me right now, as we share a table at a Starbucks? he wonders. He replies she is right. You don’t have more enlistment time left, do you? She questions, hoping the best for him. Will’s spirits drop suddenly, cold and blue.

Four years. Choke. She is noticeably sorry for asking the question. "Yeah, they have me heading for Osaka, Japan in a few months, around November. To a frigate called the Vandergrift." Will wishes he has a new, dry napkinball to pull at slightly. The conversation has been killed, and the two sit in silence across from one another for a moment longer.

Well, the time will go by quickly for you, she tries in an attempt at clipped positivity. He wishes she hadn’t, yet nods in agreement all the same, stirring cold coffee.

To making the best of it, Will tries with a sincere smile, focusing on just being there, in the café, pleased to be experiencing at least the beginning of a much-needed, real conversation, raising his cup an inch or two in toast. In another life he’d sit and talk with this Marley about her origins, her travels, her taste in music, her considered thoughts on the just-emerging photographs from Abu Ghraib prison and the coming presidential election. He’d like to have an excuse to look at her dark eyes a while longer. How far away was Lynchburg from Osaka, really?

Well, I should let you get back to work now, Will says in a tone that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. Marley Watkins gives him the biggest smile yet and extends her hand a final time, wishing luck. Goodbye, Marley.

When will Fate ever finally allow him a girl like that?

IV.

Marley Watkins-Benton is smiling to herself as she sets down a cup of coffee, soaking in a glorious revelation. It had exploded on her just that very morning, while stepping out of her home and entering the warm sunlight of her garden: she was happy.

Happiness? It had been a question like no other, something in the back of her mind for as long she had known her name. It had never been the overriding goal of her life—no, not even close—yet on the rare occasion it would corner her mind, posing this issue of happiness to it. Finally she had her answer.

She doesn’t mind that it had taken years, decades to be certain; it was an important point not to be rushed, she decides as she brushes a strand of grey hair from her face. She is now sitting in the small Starbucks across from the park she liked to visit in the afternoons, contemplating whether ordering some cake is warranted.

Better than simply acknowledging her happiness was understanding what it had been to make her so. It had been her entire life, from beginning to end; everything had contributed to her new sense of lightness and well-being. Even the early, rough times when she had secretly doubted, even with the great effort she had put forth, or the difficult years spent with Neal in Lisbon. If not for every scratch and bruise as well, she knew this morning would never have occurred. No triumph had ever been wrapped in secret joy; it had just made her hungrier to test her will once again and the limits of the world. Hell, she was going diving off the Great Coral Reef to celebrate her 69th birthday! Australia was the last box to mark, and it would be complete: her life. It didn’t matter that she had always felt drawn to the Land Down Under, especially in her early thirties; she would be making the visit. Finally.

It all made sense now: the accumulation of thousands of well-spent days were the sum of her fully-lived life. Her happiness stemmed from the countless wonders she had seen with her own eyes, content she had lived as well as a mortal might. Two marriages come and gone; one a mistake yet one quite satisfying, even lovely. Yes, even the mistakes had been gloriously made. Katherine Hepburn to the last.

She need only ask herself where the Navajo Reservation of her beloved New Mexico might be today without her efforts, without the foundation she had formed more than thirty years ago—its mission a guarantee every home would be equipped with running water and electricity. It had been so successful she had no choice but to tackle social health care. She is lost in memories now, back at a groundbreaking ten years ago at the birth of the native clinic that would bare her name, the Marley Watkins-Benton Navajo Health Center—the crowning achievement of her long toils. It had all been worth it, and she was at peace with all of her days. What more