The Adventures of MCF

He awoke to the sound of purring, jumbled dream reenactments of the mess he'd had the misfortune to behold the night prior fading with consciousness. As Ben Affleck was banished from his cognizance, his head inclined backwards, to observe the small black-and-white cat perched atop his headrest, squinting down at him as sunlight streamed through the drawn shades.

He moved with great effort, reaching for his wristwatch in an exaggerated motion reminiscent of scaling a cliff. 11 AM. It was too late to catch the new episode of TMNT, but with the sun shining and six hours until mass, there was a whole world of adventure waiting for him.

“What should I do? Should I call Richie and ask if he's going to have a rehearsal this year?” His father's cry jarred him from the zen of his Rice Krispies. Every year, one of the marching bands they're active in meets for a rehearsal at a firehouse. There is no pay involved, and usually only 7 or 8 of the 40-plus members actually show. The same marches are played every year, and the rehearsal is a huge waste. He was half-hoping it would be called off this year, knowing in his heart that it would probably fall on a Saturday on which he was considering attending a large game pf paintball. It was difficult not to snap at his father, and some acid dripped through into his innocuous “I wouldn't worry about it.” He took hold of the illogical rage building, of the inner voice hissing that he should curl up in a ball and go back to sleep. No. Soon enough, many Saturdays would be lost in the service of others. Soon, every Saturday would be lost until the weather grew cold, and the last leaf fell off the trees. Soon, but not yet. Not today. Today he had no obligations to fulfill, no tasks to complete. Today, he would embrace his freedom.

“I'm going out! Tell her I'll be back in time for church!” he called out, his father's words of acknowledgment lost in the wind as he raced to the end of his block. He glanced at the contents of his passenger seat. A book. A digital camera. Sunglasses. The DVDs from the night before. The last were deposited at the post office, and he was on his way. What beach would he lounge on today? What adventure could he find? The car and the road were driving him, and he found they were taking him away from the North shore of the island that was his home. As he realized where he was going, a rare smile crept across his face. The dry skin on his forehead cracked with the expression, diverting him to a nearby supermarket to pick up some sunblock. Learning from past mistakes was yet another rarity bestowed upon him.

He flew down the parkway, weaving in and out of traffic. A familiar tingling and shortness of breath began to rear their ugly heads, but he quickly put the triggering thoughts from his mind. He thought about where he was going, and where he would soon be. The worst journey is endurable for the best destination. As traffic dissipated, he alone was soaring down an open road, a brisk wind coming off the Atlantic and across a bridge as his tires buzzed on the metal grating below. He saw the tower at last, and knew Jones Beach was within his reach.

Even for a brisk day in the middle of April there were an impressive amount of cars in the parking field. He was a bit surprised that there was someone guarding the field, asking for six dollars in exchange for a parking permit. He had come this far and was not going to turn back. After paying, parking, and applying the sunblock, he was soon walking down the beach. There were fewer people on the beach than on the boardwalk and in the various eateries, which suited him just fine. He snapped some pictures with his camera, discovering how hard it was to see the screen in a truly bright environment. Hopefully, the pictures would turn out fine. Children were flying kites. A group of college kids in sweatshirts huddled around a cooler. A family of four played an impromptu game of softball. A father cautioned his small daughter as she giggled and ran toward the crashing waves. He stopped to pick up a few seashells for his mother.

Myriad sights and sounds surrounded him as he strolled down the beach lost in the absence of thought, until he realized how far he'd walked and what time it was. Making his way toward the boardwalk, he noted seagulls playing in a large pool of water left behind by the tide perhaps hours earlier. Kneeling to take their picture, something glinted in the sand. A penny. 1996, the year he graduated college and met his girlfriend. Just then, a girl in sunglasses and a ballcap power-walked past on the boardwalk. A crazy notion of fate and destiny, and echoes of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind drove him forward. What a wonderful curve ball it would be if SHE was back, if that was why he'd been so compelled to come to the shore. If it was someone else, he'd continue on his way, but he'd at least know.

His legs were heavy after walking more than a mile, and she was becoming a speck in the distance. He knew it would be easier to walk once he was on solid ground again, but a lone fir decorated with Christmas ornaments distracted him. A solitary and unique being isolated on a sand dune beyond a “Keep off the Dunes” sign, it was an image screaming to be preserved. Logically, the woman couldn't be who he thought she was, his actions walking a fine line between romance and stalking, but this tree was ART. He turned from the diminishing speck that wasn't his ex-girlfriend, walked back out on the sand, and got his picture.

The wind tore at him, tears stinging his eyes as sand assaulted them. Mothers pushed carriages as elderly couples in jogging suits smiled at them. Nearby, a man guided his blind wife and her seeing-eye dog, describing the large black-and-white photos hanging on the wall to commemorate the beach's 75th anniversary. The woman said something softly, and he husband responded, “Sunblock? Nah, you don't smell sunblock. Not TODAY.” Sometimes, other senses compensate when one is lost.

The car threatened to stall, and though he had a cell phone, dreaded explaining just how far from home he'd ventured. The second try was the charm, and he was soon careening around the dangerous circle at the base of the tower at 70MPH, while faster and more impatient drivers left him behind. Yet there was no panic or anxiety in the drive home, and he felt quite at ease if a bit exhausted from walking several miles in the sand. His mom was still at work when he got home, arriving not long after. As they drove to church she expressed disapproval at the exorbitant parking fee, saying she would have turned around and come home, adding “...but if you want to spend your money, that's up to you. I guess you must have a lot of money and six dollars is nothing.” She asked what else he did that day, if he'd vacuumed the house or done anything to help her. He reminded her of the seashells, but she reminded him that seashells don't clean a house. Normally, he'd snap at some point during such an exchange with one of his parents, instantly feeling guilty as they looked hurt and wondered if they “weren't allowed to just talk.” This time, he just smiled, apologized, and assured her that he'd clean the house tomorrow. When they returned home, his father would mention that he HAD called Richie and that there wasn’t a rehearsal this year, but also added that Tony, another band leader, had called to remind them of next Sunday’s gig. Once more he smiled, outburst-free, and nodded.

Sometimes, the best perspective on reality and responsibility comes, ironically, from escaping those very things for a few hours.