Dan Hendrickson [2]72 Degrees
You’re wide awake at six a.m. when the sun tips its hand. You barely slept at all last night in the hot box that is your cramped third-floor apartment. There’s no air-conditioning, the windows are all propped open. You spent most the night on top of the sheets, waiting for a breeze that never came, just listening to the sounds of the city; cars whirring by on the street, college kids passing by on the sidewalk below, talking excitedly about their night at the bar. It sounded too familiar. That’s why you moved, to get out of the rut you were in. So far, it isn’t working.

You might have slept for an hour or two, long enough to have dreamt about the beach—which is odd. You’re not a beach person. You haven’t gone swimming in years. Still, the idea echoes in your head while the heat begins to build, while broad swaths of yellow light climb the cream-colored walls around you.

It’s a Saturday. You don’t have to work today and it’s going to be viciously hot again. Your friends back home would rag you to no end for even considering going to a beach by yourself. “Pathetic,” they’d say. But they’re not here, and you’re not there. Besides, there’s no one you know well enough to ask to join you.

It’s settled: You will go to the beach.

There’s a nice one within walking distance. You’ve driven past it dozens of times and walked around it once or twice, watching everyone else have fun. Today you’ll see for yourself what it’s all about.

Tell yourself it’s because you’re bored, because any more time spent in this broiling apartment might drive you mad. But deep down inside you know you’re going for the girls. Five months without a date is a long time. Four months in a new town with none of your old friends to fall back on has been a lifetime in itself. You moved, and that’s good, but now it’s time to get moving.

You roll free of the damp sheets. Your feet hit the gritty wood floor. The dry boards feel warm, not cool like you were hoping.

74 Degrees
Your second cup of coffee goes down smooth. You’re just enjoying the morning, reading the newspaper, and taking it all in. You can feel the city waking up around you and it thrills you in some vague way knowing you’re a small part of it. The light morning traffic sounds like a symphony to you. People jog by and zoom past on bicycles. There’s energy in the air, everything seems alive, possible. You never had this sense back home. The shaded downtown streets always seemed empty, the people you did walk past hardly ever looked your way.

The picnic table on the sidewalk outside the coffeehouse was empty when you got there and you have room to spread out your paper. You’re just getting to the sports page when a pretty girl steps outside with her coffee. From the corner of your eye you can see her thinking about joining you. She’s attractive, somewhere right around your age—twenty-five, you guess—give or take. She has long blonde hair and is wearing round, blue-tinted sunglasses. She looks to you like everything you’ve been missing out on your whole life.

The words to invite her to sit down are on the tip of your tongue, where they’ve always been when it comes to being anywhere near forward, but they refuse to fly. Instead you get nervous and swallow self-consciously. You study your paper for a moment, feign a look of grim concentration, and then look up at her hopefully. She returns your gaze and even gives you a friendly smile before turning around and going back inside. You smile, too, wryly, before flipping the page.

You promise yourself right then and there the next time a chance to meet a girl comes along you will go for it, because it’s better to die on the mountain than starve in the valley. Or something like that.

It’s still early. You aren’t thinking clearly yet.

76 Degrees
Instead of walking home after leaving the coffeehouse, you decide to go the grocery store to get supplies for the day. Before the heat comes down, before you change your mind and all you feel like doing is hiding out at the mall, maybe seeing a matinee by yourself. But you know that’s a dead-end street, with no chance for any interaction. No, the beach is where you should be today. You need to be out among people.

The morning air outside is already heavy, but not choking like it will be later in the day. You listen to the birds singing in the trees. Even they sound restrained. The sky above you is a stark blue and streaked with traces of high, silver clouds. It looks to you as though one more scorching day might bleach away what color remains.

Thoughts of the beach have you feeling light for the first time in weeks, happy. Your light-brown sandals flop rhythmically on the sidewalk, the sound echoing down the block.

The back streets are quiet, there’s barely any traffic at all. Nothing seems to move but you. You almost wish someone would walk past you just so you could smile at them, and perhaps even risk a “Good morning!” if they happened to make eye contact with you. Smiling, you look up at the sky. There’s no sense getting too carried away.

65 Degrees
It has to be at least ten degrees cooler inside the store. You grab a handbasket and walk over to the fruit and vegetable section. You’re in the heart of the trendy part of Minneapolis and the health-conscious hippies are out in force. You look at their tattoos and their piercings, and the way they intently study each piece of fruit, as though the fate of the world depended on them finding just the right bunch of bananas.

A pale young woman with jet-black hair cropped in a bowl cut catches your eye. You freeze and then hazard a small smile. She rolls her eyes like she expected nothing less from you. You grab a pound bag of red grapes and move on.

It amuses you to think that here you’re the strange one. You, with your scrawny build, dark tousled hair and nondescript, clean-shaven face. You and your white T-shirt, khaki shorts and sandals. It would have bothered you once, not so long ago, the way she looked at you. It would have made you feel small and insecure.

Now it just makes you laugh. 59 Degrees
Linger in the frozen food section for a few heavenly moments. Take a deep breath of chilled air and then leave to find potato chips, a liter of water and the strongest sunblock you can buy. The sun never shines in the warehouse you work in and your skin is as pale as ice cream. It surprises you that you thought of picking up suntan lotion. You wonder when it was that you finally grew up.

65 degrees
In the checkout line, study the 30 SPF sunblock you picked up and wonder if it will be enough. The hippie clerk smiles and nods his head once crisply in your direction by way of greeting. To him, at least, you seem to be all right.

He weighs the grapes and then scans the sunblock, the water, potato chips, and sunflower seeds. You take a few steps back and pull two more bottles of water out of the cooler at the head of the aisle.

“You’re going to need these today,” the clerk mutters, taking them from you.

“Yeah. I’m going to the beach.”

Don’t be insulted when he raises his eyebrows a bit. Do stifle a grin when you see that he would give anything in the world to be you right now. This hasn’t happened to you too often in your life. Savor it.

When he takes the new twenty-dollar bill from you, studies it and gives you a grudging look of respect, try not to take too much pride in that. It’s your last one until Monday. He doesn’t need to know this.

77 Degrees
Charlie D. is waiting for you—and everyone else—outside the store. He’s leaning against the newspaper vending machine. His brown hair is flat and disheveled, it looks like he hasn’t shaved all week. His brown eyes are baleful and just by looking at him you know he’s out here looking for something he’ll never find, that the world has taught him lessons he’ll never recover from.

You met him the day you moved into the neighborhood and knew him your whole life five minutes after that. He flashes a broad smile when he sees you. People always seem to like you, even the ones you barely know.

“What’s it all about, Robby?” he says.

Look off into the distance, like maybe the answer is out there somewhere, and then look back at him and smile. Reach into your pocket and give him a dollar before he has to ask you and you both feel stupid. Watch him smile when he takes it, like he’s thinking, Now how did you go and read my mind? Watch him casually tuck it away, like the exchange never happened.

“You know what I’m going to do with that dollar?” he asks. “I’m going to take that dollar and buy a two-liter bottle of Coke, and I’m going to sit down in the basement and drink cold Coca-Cola all afternoon long. Mixed with whiskey, of course.”

Nod your head. You’ve heard worse ideas. Currently, you’re signed up to spend the night drinking on some rooftop with a few guys you know a little bit from work.

Tell him it sounds like a plan and make a move to leave. In the back of your mind, start to wonder how you will keep the grapes you bought cold without a cooler. When he sees that you’re leaving already and he gives you a hurt look, tell him you’re only trying to beat the heat.

“Can’t blame you for that,” he says. “How about you, Rob? Working today?”

“Nah. I’m heading to the beach.”

“The beach? No offense, man, but you don’t seem like the beach type to me. Not at all.”

Watch him study your pale skin uncertainly. Shrug. Glance down at your sandals, notice how the whiteness of your feet sticks out against the thin brown leather bands.

Say simply, “I gotta run, Charlie. I’ll catch up with you next time.”

Give him a smile and head back towards your apartment. The clock is ticking.

84 Degrees
They said on the radio the high would be 96 degrees today. That’s not factoring in the humidity. You find a parking spot a block away from the beach, in front of what you would call a mansion. It has distinctly Spanish architecture and floor-to-ceiling windows that allow you to see the beauty of the interior design. Stand there for a few moments, leaning on the roof of your beat-up Taurus, transfixed.

Then slam the door and hope no one has it towed. Tall oak trees throw a canopy of shade over you. A lawn mower drones peacefully somewhere over on the next block. Your towel is tucked under your arm, the grocery bag in your left hand. It swishes against your body with each step. The beach is crowded with people already, the water looks violently blue. Far off in the distance, towering above the small circular lake, the metallic skyscrapers downtown shimmer in the haze, seem to sway.

You feel a little like a space alien going out in public like this, dressed in swim trunks. Everyone else looks like they were born on a beach. You don’t like crowds or the thought of being half-undressed in front of strangers. You realize it will take a lot of courage just to remove your shirt.

The sun is high and bright. You find a spot to spread out your towel twenty yards from the water. You’re glad you decided to come. A tanned female lifeguard in a red bikini sits in a tower chair and watches the water for trouble. She has sunglasses on and her sandy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. You’ve been at the beach ten seconds, and it’s already been well worth the trip.

The beach is a moving, living thing; people splashing around in shallow water, shifting their bodies languidly on the sand. There are children everywhere, running, screaming. Don’t panic. Take a deep breath. Sit down on your towel and pull an old newspaper out of the grocery bag. Carefully wrap the bag loosely in the newspaper and then use the bag to weigh down the edges of the paper so it doesn’t drift away.

As discreetly as possible, pull off your T-shirt. Try not to be horrified by your farmer’s tan. Remove the 30 SPF sunblock from the bag and squeeze some out on your hands. Don’t be alarmed when you spread it on your arms and shoulders and it doesn’t blend in, no matter how hard you rub. Act natural, like this was exactly what you thought would happen.

Look around casually, make sure that no one is watching you. Then continue to vigorously rub your skin until finally it begins to absorb the lotion. Do the best job you can applying it evenly, knowing you’re missing large patches of your back and shoulder blades. When you realize you’re going to be burned and burned badly in those places, try to put it out of your mind. This is all new to you. You’re going to make mistakes. Stretch a little bit. Glance around, see if anyone else is here by themselves.

Do not gawk at the cleavage of the two young women lounging in your line of view. You’re a pervert, sure, but not the sick kind. Lie back on your blanket. Pull your sunglasses on. Listen to the children screaming and having fun. Feel the sun on your body. Imagine how good the water will feel when you finally get up and push yourself into it.

90 Degrees
You’re in the water for the second time. The first time you went in for just a minute, to cool off when the heat got to be too much. This time you swim out to where you can’t touch anymore, near the edge of the swimming area cordoned off with floating markers and rope to keep swimmers away from the deep water and motorboats. There’s a young couple out here, too, standing face to face far away from everyone else. Though it looks like they’re just talking, you have the definite sense they’re doing more than that.With a sigh, swim back to shore. Give them their privacy. Do a hybrid dog paddle and sidestroke, luxuriate in the coolness of the water.

Getting out of the water, you notice a young woman in a silver bikini has spread her towel out next to yours. She’s on her stomach and reading a book. Look at her beautiful, gleaming body, slick with sunscreen, but don’t allow your face to register any sort of reaction. Focus instead completely on your towel and flop down onto it. Sit up and pull your sunglasses on. Stare out at the water for a long minute. Glance over to see what book she’s reading: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire—the book you just finished reading a month ago. Realize you have an in, an opening to initiate a conversation. This is your chance!

Look at her again, her mirrored sunglasses, her slicked-back cinnamon-brown hair, the contours of her body rising and falling exactly where they should. She’s easily ten thousand leagues out of your league—at least. And that’s probably a conservative estimate. Lie back and think about things for a minute. She just got here. She won’t be going anywhere for a while. Close your eyes. Make yourself close them. Wish desperately you were somebody else, someone who actually knew how to talk to women.

93 Degrees
Sit up. Decide this can’t go on. You only live once. People probably hit on her all the time. More than likely, she’s used to it. She looks nice, maybe she’ll be flattered. Even if she’s not interested, which will almost certainly be the case, chances are she’ll be nice about telling you to buzz off.

You don’t know where the words come from. You’ll never know. They just tumble out of your mouth, like small rocks from space.

“That’s a good book.”

She looks over at you—she has to see your plain build, your hopelessly bland face, your stupid farmboy hair—and yet she smiles. She rolls over on her side, resting her weight on her left elbow. Keep your eyes on her face, even when you realize she’s even prettier than you first thought. Still, notice how her body stays perfectly taut, shimmering.

“I like it, too,” she says, with just a trace of an accent.

“I didn’t think I’d like them,” you say. “But I did—like them.”

She smiles again and seems to be assessing you. It’s a look that falls somewhere between simple friendliness and mild interest.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “A friend told me about them. I’m hooked.”

Look out at the water. Nod. Breathe. Keep breathing.

“I like your accent. I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re not from around here.”

“I am not from around here,” she says, in a matter-of-fact manner that emphasizes her accent even more. “I am from Italy.”

Italy.

Your new favorite country in the whole wide world. Any country that could produce a woman like this is worthy of one’s eternal and undying devotion.

Give her a confused look. “What brings you to Minnesota?”

She tells you she’s here on a summer internship, which is almost over. She’ll be leaving in three weeks for Italy, after a quick stop in New York to sightsee.

Nod. Frown. Say, “Too bad,” then try to figure out what you mean by that and how she might interpret it.

“How about you? Are you from around here?”

Look out at the water, make it clear you’re giving the question your every consideration. Say no. Say you moved down here a few months ago and keep talking. Tell her you don’t know many people yet. Tell her you always thought it would be an interesting place to live. Notice, but only for a moment, how the conversation is flowing.

“It is an interesting place to live,” she says, looking out at the city. “It is very different from Italy. The people are hard to get to know, though. I don’t know anyone, either.”

Notice how she took what you said and interpreted it correctly. Find yourself smiling.

Say, “People here are very friendly on the surface. Getting past that isn’t easy.”

“You don’t seem that way,” she says, and smiles at you a little differently this time.

The beach is full of sound; people splashing in the water, radios playing, cars rolling past on the street behind you. Looking at her, all of this disappears. The smile she’s still giving you makes you look away.

“How about the weather?” you ask. “Is it like this in Italy?”

“Near the sea,” she says, “in the summertime, it can be. But it’s not so ...”

“Muggy?”

“Muggy, yes.”

She considers the word and seems to file it away for future use.

“My name is Rob,” you say suddenly, touching your chest for some reason.

“Mine is Carla.”

“Hey, Carla. If you don’t mind me saying, you speak English very well. I don’t speak any foreign languages.”

“Americans don’t,” she says, and laughs. “Americans expect everyone else to learn their language.”

“It seems to be working,” you say, with some embarrassment.

“Yes,” she says. “Americans always get their way.”

She looks down then and seems to want to step back from that statement. Look oblivious. Let her know you missed any possible implication—though you didn’t.

“Will you watch my things?” she says. “I’d like to take a swim.”

Nod—several times. Say you’d be happy to. She takes off her sunglasses and you see the way her dark, beautiful eyes shine. Don’t even try to hold her stare. Forget about it. “Have fun,” you say. “The water feels great.”

Watch her walk towards the lake, but act as though you’re not watching her. Look over at some high school boys who are staring at you.

“Are you hitting on her?” one of them asks when she’s far enough away not to hear.

Shrug and say you guess so, though that doesn’t seem like what you’re doing. You realize then you really don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, it seems to be working.

“Way to go!” says another.

You’re sitting on a warm towel in the hot sun, talking to a gorgeous foreign woman and people are cheering you on.

This is new.

<b>95 Degrees
“How was it?”

She smiles. “It was perfect.” She pulls a smaller towel out of her bag and dries off her hair and her face. She bends and corrals her long hair with both hands and then pulls it back over her head, slicking it down with her hands. Her hair does exactly as she bids. She pulls on her sunglasses and smiles at you, not seeming to mind that you’ve watched her every move.

“Your stuff is safe,” you say. “A couple of bandits came around while you were in the water, but I fought them off.”

She studies your slight runner’s build and says, “That was very nice of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” you say, shy as a bumpkin, noble as a knight.

You can’t believe your luck. Try to decide if the time is right to press that luck. Wrestle with that in your mind while your mouth passes the time.

“What do you do back home?”

She grins shyly and looks down. “I am in school, of course, in fashion design.”

Hesitantly, she adds, “And I also model.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?”

Shake your head emphatically. “No. Not a bit.”

Your answer seems to please her. It seems like the perfect time to ask if she has any plans for the evening. For the first time maybe ever, there’s no one around to horn in on your flirting and make their own move, none of your friends are around for you to play second fiddle to. The moment belongs only to you.

“I’m going to go back to my book,” she says, before you get the words out. “I’m not sure how much more of this heat I can take.”

Nod. Consider that. Know you can’t leave here without at least asking her out. She’ll only be here three more weeks. She doesn’t know anyone, she said it herself.

“Sure,” you say. “Go right ahead. I think I’ll just close my eyes for a bit.”

She gets comfortable on her stomach with her book and you lie back on your warm towel. Despite your excitement, you’re tired. Swear to yourself on everything you’ve ever found holy that you will not fall asleep. You hear two children run past, laughing as they kick up dry sand that sprinkles your shins and feet.

Fat chance of that happening, you think. Fat chance of anything happening.

The old negativity rising up unbidden angers you. It’s never gotten you anywhere and you don’t need it anymore. It’s no longer an option.

Promise yourself that you will ask her out today, if it’s the last thing you do.

97 Degrees
You can’t decide if she’s sleeping or just resting. Her head is resting on her left arm, which keeps her book propped open to the page she’s on. Loll your head over and laugh just a little bit in amazement. Somehow she looks even prettier asleep. Sit up and look out at the water. There are more clouds now off to the west, the kind that could mean rain later. Sweat glistens on your skin. Under your left arm on your side is a jagged red strip of skin you completely missed with suntan lotion. It’s going to hurt tomorrow and look silly in the mirror.

Get out your suntan lotion again and slather it on the trouble spot. Place it quietly back inside the grocery bag. The heat is intolerable now. The water calls out to you.

Check again to make sure she’s not going anywhere and quietly get up. The beach and the shallow water are jammed with people. As far as thirty feet out from shore, you have to pick your way through bodies to get to open water. You feel confident wading through the crowd—sure of yourself.

When the water reaches your waist, drop down so that only your head is showing and swim out for the ropes. It feels wonderful. You’re not a great swimmer, but you took lessons as a kid and remember some of them. You’ve always been very comfortable in water. Lighter, more graceful.

Let your momentum carry you out to the ropes. Off to your left, you can see people on an adjacent beach. Between the heat and the water and the girl, it’s become the perfect day.

Take a minute to catch your breath. Back on the beach, Carla is standing up.

She’s looking around, perhaps for you. Perhaps not. Then she bends down and starts to gather her things. You raise your hand and wave but she doesn’t see you. This is your worst nightmare come to life. She crouches down in the sand and seems to be searching for something. You could shout, but she’d never hear you above the din of the crowd. Realize you have no chance of reaching her before she leaves—none. Still, you have to at least try.

The marker rope is limp and gives you nothing to push off of. You’re a long ways from shore. Ask yourself angrily, Why couldn’t you have waited to take a swim? Then, Why aren’t you a better swimmer? Stroke. Kick. Stroke. Kick. She’s stuffing her book in her bag. Stroke—she picks up her towel and looks around again—kick! You’re lost in a tangle of bodies. If you shout now, you’re going to look like the desperate fool you are.

Hear your muffled, insistent heartbeat in your ears, the sound of yourself desperately gasping for air. Consider how you must look from shore. The lifeguard is probably just about ready to blow her whistle and jump in to save you.

Forget about that! Keep swimming! Just keep swimming!

She steps smoothly into her sandals.

The people in the water with you are perfect obstacles; moving around, splashing.

You go left, right, you wait while a father pushes his daughter by on an air mattress. You duck underwater, swim beneath the mattress and come up gasping for air. It takes you a second or two to find her in the crowd. She’s moving away from the beach towards the walking path and the street, her bag in hand, her towel slung over her shoulder.

You’re up to your knees, up to your ankles, and then finally free of the water. The dry sand is hot on your feet. You jog a couple of steps and try to look natural about it, failing with each step. She’s at least fifty yards away from you now. If you put on your sandals and ran, you might be able to catch her. And then what? Say, Hey, you’re really hot. Care to join me for dinner? None of the scenarios in your head end well for you.

Your day at the beach is over. You’ve missed your chance.

Tell yourself, like you always have, that things work out for the best. Say to yourself quietly, “It wasn’t meant to be.” Resist the urge to kick yourself in the balls for being so stupid. Put your head down and plod back to your towel. Small children run past you, screaming bloody murder. Get out of their way. It’s a lot easier just to move aside.

The space she occupied looks depressingly empty. A lot of people have left for the day so no one comes forward to claim it. Look for her in the crowd one last time, but there are too many people; you can’t find her now. She may have stopped to pull her shirt on. Maybe she was never there at all.

Exhale. Let your head fall to your chest. Close your eyes. Open them and notice an empty water bottle near your towel, something written in the wet sand. Carefully walk up to it and take a good look; ten small numbers are etched there.

A phone number.

Blink once and smile. Commit the numbers to your permanent memory. Promise yourself that even if a million years pass you will never forget the sequence of these numbers. Then gently erase them with your left foot. You’re not a genius, but you’ve always been good at remembering numbers.

Take a look around before you leave. Pick up your things. Stare out over the water one last time, at the city looming in the distance. Shake your head and grin.

87 Degrees
It’s hot as hell again in your apartment, but you don’t care. You’re freshly showered. The damp towel around your waist helps keep the heat at bay.

Pick up the phone and dial a number. When your co-worker answers, tell him you won’t be able to make it tonight.

Tell him you have other plans.

Fiction fan? Read Brad Zellar’s short fiction blog at www.rakemag.com/yoivanhoe [11]