Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 10: Mr. Tambourine Man

I pictured all those little bastards, the crickets and the frogs and the mosquitos, organizing a symphony. The frog bulging his throat, dropping the beat. The rest joining in as a grasshopper pinched a weed and conducted the choral. I should've written Silly Symphonies or something. God, I am sorta weird. The ambiance of the coastline at night began to overwhelm the sound of the fading, echoing footsteps until she couldn't be heard at all.

As promised, I began to unstrap the bungee cords that held Mary's bike in place in my trunk—Mustangs really aren't the greatest means of bicycle transportation. Her bike was possibly older than my car, I realized, when I lifted it onto the road and noticed foam sprouting from the tear in the maroon leather seat.

It was probably only a minute, maybe two, but it felt like Mary was gone for about seven hours. The whole routine of dropping Mary off on Fisherman's was getting repetitive and annoying, and I was never a big fan of mysteries. Above the buzz of the crickets, from a distance I heard the eerie chant of an owl.

Fed up, and terrified of the owl, I kicked my leg over the frame of Mary's bike, steered the handle, and pedaled down Seadrift, assuming that my roofless car would be all right amidst the sleeping streets.

Barricaded by a yellow steel divide, Seadrift ended at a cliff overlooking the ocean. I rode right up to the dead-end and looked down at the crest of the bay. A quick and easy passage to Heaven, I thought.

I hollered Mary's name. All I heard in response was the frog's bass line. Mary had literally vanished like she had the night before. The waft of seaweed and salt carried through on the wind smelled familiar, almost purifying. It didn't matter that from where I lived I was only a ten-minute car ride to the beach, the myriad of oceanic elements never lost their novelty on me. The sea possesses an unmatched charm of captivation; I could've sat and watched the steady crest of the waves drift in and out with the tide all night.

While pedaling my way back to my car, assuming she had to re-enter this dimension at some point to claim her bike, I looked to my right down a street named Bayview Avenue. Several houses down on the left, exposed in the wash of a stern yellow light, a girl in a pale orange tank top jerked a doorknob, tugging on it with all her strength, before pausing and trying again. Unsuccessful once more, she took a seat on the top step of her porch.

I biked down Bayview.

Bayview Avenue was a funny street. To my right, the side backing onto the ocean, stood marvelous homes of East Coast heritage and post-modern design. Gardened with all the expectations of the million-dollar mansions that ornamented the Jersey Shore.

And then, to my left, a makeshift collection of homes were compacted tightly together. Gravelly driveways stretched out of some. Others were kept enclosed by rusted fences. Signs forewarned Beware of Dog. From what I knew of Gilmore Park's history, Danae's Bay was the neighborhood for the dockworkers at the old, now closed, Carraway's Port, before it became a beachside "resort."

Two different worlds were brought together on Bayview and were divided by the asphalt that paved the lane between them.

"Mary?" I said, rolling up to her house and clasping the handbrakes.

"Danny?" She jumped to her feet. "What the hell? I told you to wait." Mary marched down the steps. "Go back to the car. Go."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm great," she said, walking my way. "Go back to your car. I'll be two seconds. Ashley has my house key."

"Oh, Ashley lives with you?"

"No? Er—yes. I'm waiting for her."

"Did I drop you off at Ashley's?"

"No."