It’s not what a person might call domestic. Tame ill suits it. Chaos bristles out of every dirty, unshaven face, every peeling storefront, each one of us chasing after our Day at the Beach. For this writer that means silence. Silence and stillness. You can find both at the beach, any beach, even Venice Beach.
10:30 in the morning is quiet. The vendors haven’t quite set up yet. There’s plenty of available parking and meth heads linger like wet party streamers abandoned on the patio from the night before. It’s quiet back here in the neighborhoods.
I can’t see it yet but the surf whispers above the traffic. Or is it the traffic whispering? Some sort of bizarre call and response between the pavement and the sky. I like it. That’s what I came here for.
The rhythmic hiss pulls me in toward the coast. The closer I get to the water the less it seems the party ever ended. It’ll pick up soon. That’s how this opera goes. The brutal Venice Beach cacophony emerges all on its own. All I have to do is outrun it.
Too impatient to look and too stubborn to pay, I parked as far as I’m willing to walk from the actual beach. Closer to the strip rumbling diesel engines pulse all around me. Starline Tour Busses crowd out the sun all down the block. Most of them still and nearly empty, they run the a/c in anticipation of their sweaty, suntanned late afternoon meal.
The growl of the diesel engines clearly establish them as the mega fauna of Venice Beach. One of the drivers, a 50 year old Middle Eastern man, swills malt liquor and sings along with Lil’ Kim. Only his lyrical precision reassures me that come 4:00, when the winds kick up and hundreds of fluttering, brightly plumed, beach toweled tourists waddle their way back here, his Magic Stick will steer this absurd, man-eating elephant from plowing into the Quiznos at the end of the block.
He dances in the aisle of the bus and his enormous pachyderm sways just behind Lil’ Kim’s beat. Everyone here dances. The city herself had been rollicking for hours, the same raucous ballet playing out, over and over again every day. Anxious and unwilling to find myself caught up in the accompanying bloodbath of dissonance I plod on.
In every direction people and traffic keep in time with one another. With a steady baton of traffic lights, parking gates and bicycle cops an unseen maestro brings them to the stage, pulls a rhythm from the surf and pushes our Venetian ballerina over the boardwalk and back into the neighborhoods. He pulls her out again over the streets to the basketball and handball courts through the public bathrooms and back over the sandy parking lots. He demands her participation. Thirsty, sunburned, carsick, the coryphées persist because the maestro persists. They will have their day at the beach and he will have his performance.
Our strung out star begins her warm-up routine as I round the corner onto the boardwalk. She spent the night whirling and hollering. She’s rested but not yet ready to dance again. She breakfasts on a crowd of eager beach goers and boardwalk hardened artisans. The lazy, violent Angelina yawns each sliding storefront up into the rafters. The steal rattle announcing more T-shirts and sunglasses. Fishermen extend the reach of her two piers as far as she’ll go into the ocean. They thrust deep-sea rod toes out toward the water, nylon chords and barbed steal toenails wiggling in the waves.
I see men and women a few hundred yards away gathering for a drum circle. A street-painter who never let a lack of talent keep her from depicting the landscape in pastels and magic marker starts screaming at a guy with a tambourine. To my left, in the parking lot, a middle aged, blond woman begins a slow and methodical tai chi sequence. Her plat-formed flip flops scratch at the sandy parking lot, every gesture and scratchy step compromising her balance.
A hipster in dark sunglasses taps away at his friend’s table with a pair of drumsticks. It’s covered in vegan bumper stickers ostensibly printed by the adjacent pastel and sharpie painter. His rhythm is halting and sporadic. I can’t tell if they attended the same art school or if he’s signaling for help. I hesitate on an impromptu rescue attempt. If I stop to transpose the Morse code or engage him in any overt capacity I risk being swept away in this dance.
The painter continues to scream at the tambourine player, “It’s not fucking right, man. That’s all my fucking stuff. You can’t just move all my shit like that. You should’ve gotten me!” Her voice is harsh and loud. She bursts into a coughing fit. In her rage she refuses to cover her mouth. Her lips are cracked and chapped with the careful signature of exposure.
“Michael!” she calls to someone down the boardwalk and chases after him.
My gaze follows the sound of her shouting and I’m almost run over by a wheelchair. A bored and angry looking parent pushes a smiling ten-year-old boy. His limbs are painfully contorted but he screams with a full-throated joy that seems to escape the attention of his parents and most of the people in the immediate area. Nobody cares. The music has started. Everyone has scampered off to their places for the opening act.
I’m almost there.
I jump the piss soaked wall on the other side of the bike path and shuffle a few steps onto the beach. Immediately the silence embraces me like a giant, clean, puffy, white cotton blanket. Insert sigh here____________. There’s at least 200 yards between me and the nearest beach blanket.
This is one of my favorite games, at once thrilling, cleansing and relaxing: I close my eyes. I calculate the distance and direction of the nearest group of people and I pick a number. Today I pick 100.
Start walking. 100, 99, 98, 97, 96 … wonder if “Mike” has any idea where the painter’s stuff is. I had no idea how many people play handball in Venice Beach on Sunday. Was that a hot dog stand next to the court? Did I bring enough cash to get a hot dog? Or a sausage? Sausages are bigger … 81, 80, 79 … Thank God I found a good spot. I hate having to move the car and re-park before I’m ready to leave. Focus! Breathe … 65, 64, 63, 62 … how close is that laugh? Don’t open your eyes. Just walk slowly. If you walk too close she’ll say something. 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52 … nothing yet … 51, they’re gone. 50, 49, 48, 47, I love that breeze. 30, 29, 28 … will she ever forgive me for dragging her out here? Nine months. I’ve got nine months. Well six if I want to be ready. She trusts me and I love her and all I want to do is make her happy but … breathe… I love her … 14, 13,12, 11, 10, 9, breathe, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Stop. Stand still.
Sit.
Open your eyes.
Silence and stillness. I can hear bits and pieces, but everything is insulated by that thick cotton blanket. It’s all going to be fine.
A big Mexican family is bivouacked about 50 yards away. They laugh and chase each other around the blankets. Men, women, children, infants, grandparents tease and push one another around with affection and familiarity. I love big families. I never had one.
A chubby eight-year-old boy sees a brother or an uncle in the distance. His high-pitched voice shrieks with excitement. He leaps up and runs as fast as he can for about 20 feet. He trips and falls in the sand, gets up and repeats this maneuver the entire width of the beach. The man is carrying too many chairs, more umbrellas, a beach bag and dragging a very heavy cooler through the sand behind him. Every few feet something drops and he has to resituate himself before continuing his trek across the beach. The clatter of aluminum poles takes on a rhythm all its own. The family must be unaware of the dance because they ignore the struggling pair and leave them to their staccato devices. At last they meet. They drag their supplies back to the blankets and everyone begins to set up the remaining bits.
Who doesn’t want that?
A big family. At the beach.
BB
