ONE: GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN

When his eyes slowly unwrapped from a drunken night’s rest, he was comparatively aware that he was resting flat on his back on a beach somewhere. His semi-glued lids flickered open as the rhythmic tones of the calming, gentle surf sang him a melodious wake up call, and his mind, concurrently with his vision, made its way back into focus. He spit out grains of sand that had stuck to his dry lips and was now staring straight up into the bright cloudless sky’s warmth, wondering where the rain was. Rain? What rain? Had it been raining?

He felt around himself, checking to see if he was wet from the thunderstorm, but he was dry to the bone. Thunderstorm? What thunderstorm?

For some reason, he was glad that he was alive. Alive?

As he struggled toward consciousness he felt a raw, fuzzy feeling that somewhere his days had been numbered, and, as he woke up on this deserted beach, he was spared with his life. His breaths coming in everyday regularity, without water being forced through his throat and filling his lungs, were the lucky sevens rolled on his solitary craps table. He couldn’t recall why he felt this way, and why such a thought of thank god I’m still here flashed in his mind. However, just as fast as that silly notion registered, it was gone. The few seconds of coming away from slumber had passed, and the dream-like shape of his post-sleepy consciousness faded away, leaving the fully awake Franklin “Macy” Adams in its place.

Franklin Adams sat up and looked around at his surroundings. It seemed to be late morning or early afternoon; considering that he had nothing to his name that could state the time, he couldn’t be exactly sure. These things were known for certain: he had spent the night on the beach, he had nowhere else to go and he was out of beer. The last known detail was for damn sure.

Wave upon wave of recollection came pouring in as he sat on his ass, looked to the ocean, and squinted out to sea. As he adjusted to the brightness of the day and richness of the lapping navy ocean, Franklin Adams quickly ran down his mental checklist of what led up to his stay at the conveniently located deserted sandy beach.

Sobriety ended roughly after sunset, once he discovered all those cans of light beer stuffed in that cooler behind his seat of that red Mustang. The red Mustang. That’s right. While that homely broad drove the Mustang toward the coast, he rode shotgun and helped himself to her beer. All of her beer, in fact. He recalled that he must have put away at least seven or eight cans before she even noticed that he was drinking the cooler empty, one beer after another. That’s right. That stupid broad. She kept going on and on about her ex-husband and how one day she was going to make him sorry for leaving her. She kept repeating that mantra over and over like he didn’t hear her the first hundred times she said it. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He had to endure her diarrhea of the mouth for at least a hundred miles. Franklin Adams almost reached over to punch her in the face, hoping to shut her up. He could just knock her out, open her door, push her out onto the side of the freeway, close the door, and take over the driving. Yeah, he’d be stealing her car, and yeah, when she came to she’d probably wave down a patrol car. The next thing Franklin “Macy” Adams would be doing is putting on one of those familiar orange monkey suits, right after some fat fuck of a deputy aimed a flashlight at him, and then crammed a tongue depressor up his ass once again. Fuck that shit! Macy wasn’t going to go back to County on the same day he just got out. For a split second, it seemed like it would have been worth it though, just so he didn’t have to hear that stupid bitch ramble on and on. Regardless, he found that the beer made her yakking a little more tolerable. The more beer he drank, the more he could put up with her constant bitching. So that became his plan (excuse) as he drank her beer. A decent trade-off, he figured. If he didn’t drink her beer, she’d end up unconscious on the side of Highway 1, and who’s fault would that be? She was damn lucky she had all that beer to save her from certain doom.

By the time early evening dawned upon them, they had made their arrival in Sonoma Beach, and he was barely aware of who he was. He vaguely could recollect something in the way of the ugly woman mumbling something about gratefulness for her generosity as they pulled into a gas station, or a convenient store, or whatever the fuck it was. All he knew through the blur of alcohol was that those florescent lights above were hellishly bright. With all the constant static noise emitting from her pie hole, he couldn’t recall if she was still talking about her ex, or if she was referring to him. Regardless, she was pissed about something. It could very well have been that there was no beer left for her that got her panties bunched up, but that was her own damn fault. Even through the hazy filter of his drunkenness, her voice was grating on his nerves again, and to try to shut her trap, he said something about going into the gas station, or whatever the fuck it was that they were stopped at for the moment, and getting more beer.

Of course, Macy was just recently a sprung man. He didn’t have one dime stuffed in his pocket and nothing to his name. Paying for things was never his style to begin with—especially beer. In the early years of teenagedom, Franklin perfected the use of his five-finger-discount card, good at nearly all non-participating retailers. Beer came way via the ‘ole grab-and-dash’ at a convenient store. To get away with it, you just had to make sure that a line formed at the register, distracting the clerk. Once you were sure that the clerk didn’t have a clear path to you, you opened the see-through door imprisoning the free beer, pulled a case out, and then ran like hell out the front door. Franklin’s deftness at it tended to allow at least a block and a half down the distance before someone started chasing him. Why buy when you can fly?

Could it be that he felt bad for drinking all of her beer? Macy wondered about this as he strolled up to the front doors of the gas station/convenient store, or whatever the fuck it was. Could there be a conscious building back there in his being? Maybe some other fool would feel bad. After all, the ugly bitch was nice enough to pick him up on the side of the road so close to the county jail. After all, once the ride started toward the coast, she did offer to contact her brother, who owned a shoe store, to help Macy get a job. A job. That’s funny. She seemed to be a nice enough person… just not one that you want to bring home to show dad. Hell, not even to bring home to show the dog. But feel bad for drinking the beer? Naw, not Macy. Maybe some other fool, but not him. Franklin took silent, dark pride in the fact that he didn’t give a shit about taking what he had a rightful need for. Life had given him a very short stick to piss on, and that would give anyone reason to take what they needed. Guilt? That was just something you didn’t cop to in court. He just needed more beer.

So Macy told his homely driver to wait in the car for him while he went to get more beer. Even drunk off his ass, the familiar process was so automatic that he didn’t have to think much about it. With a self-assured step, he slid out of the car and swaggered toward the store. As he did, he made a lower adjustment on the bill of his nondescript baseball cap screwed over his stringy hair, then stepped through the automatically opening doors and walked into the store. Once inside, he took a quick glance at the front counter as he pretended to be looking for something in one of the three isles. Luck be a lady tonight as the counter had three people lined up before the register. The clerk was well immersed in his duties of ringing them up. Macy was well aware of the security camera placed high in the corner of the boxy room, diligently on with its sentinel, menacing red light. He made sure that he kept his head low so the camera only saw the top of his hat and not his face. Sure, he would still be recorded for all of those johnnie-law assholes to scrutinize, but what were the chances that the cops would spew the energy to discover who he was and track him down? Macy was smart enough never to hit the same store more than once. A case of beer wasn’t worth the effort for the cops. At least that’s what he figured since over the years his method of beer theft has had a 100% return rate with no side effect consequences. Prescription hard-on pills should be so lucky.

Macy quickly spotted the cases of Bud behind the glass doors of the coolers. He reached in and coolly snatched a case as if he had every intention of taking the case up to the counter and taking his place in line. Of course, what he really had in mind was to spin on his heels, run like flames were coming out of his ass, and go right out the door. Which is just what he did with the swift grace any fatherless twelve-year-old shoplifter would be proud to call their own.

All was well until Murphy’s monkey wrench got tossed into his well-oiled steal, which consisted of when he burst out the doors of the store just in time to see his getaway car make a right turn out of the parking lot and drive away without him and the freshly sprung beer. Macy stopped dumbfounded, standing there motionless for exactly one second, astonished that that revolting hag’s Mustang was getting smaller and smaller in his field of vision.

That fucking mirror-breaking, traffic-stopping, two-bag wearing, one-toothed, nagging ugly-assed bitch!

He should have punched her in the face.

But, this wasn’t some discarded chum left floating at the surface of the sea. This was Franklin “Macy” Adams we were talking about. Franklin was crowned “Macy” years ago by his high school buddies because Franklin had so valiantly used his five-finger discount card at enough fine retail establishments that his bedroom closet was stacked floor to ceiling with boxed goods, looking like a department store warehouse. With Macy’s being the largest retailer in the area at the time, the nickname seemed to stick every time Franklin opened his closet to show his buddies the stash. Stealing was second nature by then.

No, wait. . . “Stealing” was not an accurate term. “Appropriating” would be a better word. After all, Macy never looked at it as stealing; he was only taking what was rightly his to begin with. The way he saw it, that short shit stick of life he received at birth gave him an automatic, never-expiring coupon book to redeem what he needed, whenever he needed it. Others had the benefit of a normal life. He was only equalizing the playing field. A new way of labeling his efforts was penned when Franklin learned of the word “appropriate” the second time around in his high school English class by way of trying to spell “appetite” on a failed report. He immediately applied the term to his way of evenness. To steal was wrong… to appropriate was A-Okay.

Fuck English Class! English class sucked. Which is why Macy tried to spend the least amount of time in high school English classes as possible. Didn’t need to learn that shit then. Don’t need it now.

By now, appropriating was second nature. So very apparent was this six sense of appropriation that by the time Macy had the thought he should have punched that ugly woman in the face after all, he was already hot-footing it down the block with the case of beer held tightly under his arm.

His legs were pumping hard, clearing at least three and a half feet of sidewalk through each stride. His lungs were breathing fire, but he didn’t really notice; Automatic Getaway Mode was set and his autopilot was on. Closed business establishments, empty parking lots and sporadic parked cars whirled by without notice. It wasn’t until he made it across several blocks that autopilot commanded him to stop.

Assured that no one was giving chase, Macy took the time to examine where exactly he was. He was in the clear by now. Somehow, he had made it all the way to the edge of town, right up to the beach, which happened to be closed at that moment.

Now came the realization that he was out of steam. A drunken run for the money across town can be like running track for the Summer Games. Well, not the Olympics, but maybe some high school heat match. Maybe not a high school marathon, but perhaps a middle school sprint. Okay, maybe not middle school. Let’s leave it at pre-school playground to be certain. Yeah, Macy could run the shorts off any 4-year-old jock star around, and maybe even the guy athletes as well. Still, he was out of breath and in dire need to slam a brew down his throat. As Macy stood on the sidewalk before the deserted sandy strip of the beach, he tore open the cardboard treasured box he held so close to his heart and extracted himself a cool one. The hyperventilating of all that running made trying to drink his beer a challenge, but have no fear. As sure as his husbandless mother would open her legs for anything that forked green (or even coin), alcohol would find its way into Macy’s bloodstream. His burning, heaving throat was cooled by the free beer, and the compulsive warmth of that old friend satisfied his hungry liver once again. The taste was heavenly. Beer always tastes better when it’s free.

It was pitch black night by this time, coloring the beach grey and bouncing the silver moonlight on the calm waters that lapped to the shore. Somehow the gentle calmness of the waves was calling to him. Somehow the soft sand of the blanketed beach was beckoning him. It seemed that a silent, distant voice was inviting him to come over, or it could have just been an urge to pass out.

Whatever it was, Macy clumsily climbed over a single chain link that roped off the main entrance to the beach and swaggered onto the sand. He sat on his ass and planted the case of beer next to him as if it were his date after the prom.

Macy sat with a beer in one hand and an eye on the night’s black sky. For most people, this kind of solitude—drinking alone on a beach and staring out to sea—filled them with a lukewarm feeling of melancholy, and perhaps a small sense of sorrow. But for Macy, sitting alone and continuing a good buzz while staring out to the ocean just made him bitter. Surely, there’s a master plan out there somewhere that someone has their fingers on that has given Macy the shaft. He didn’t deserve to have cops hassle him everywhere he went. He didn’t deserve to do jail time. He didn’t deserve to have no place to go and end up in some piss-ant coastal beach town. Fuck all that, he thought as he killed off another can and popped open one more. My time will come, he assured himself.

By the time he got to the bottom of the case, his eyelids were heavy and it was taking a tremendous effort to keep his head up. Just as he started to drift off into his yeasty sleep, his mind burped a thought: Why is it raining?

As Macy fell completely into the Sandman’s spell, he was vaguely aware that it wasn’t raining, but he didn’t give any weight to why he thought it was in the first place.