Naomi Hirahara: Santa Cruz Noir

On the beach that night, the mushrooms hit her hard. We were both laughing at nothing and she settled down next to me by the fire. I put her on top of me. I liked her like that. I kissed her. She became very still. She froze sometimes. I didn’t mind. I kissed her again, unbuttoned and pulled down her jeans, and then slid her up my chest and onto my face. The warmth between her legs. I had all of it. I felt a shift in her again as I laid her down. When I came, she pushed me off. Her pupils were huge, spooked. I put my arms around her, held her tight. She struggled. I hugged her tighter. “I’ve got to go, let’s go,” she said.

“Calm down,” I said. “It’s just the mushrooms. Sit down with me by the fire. We’ll smoke some weed.” She struggled. I hugged her tighter, her head on my chest. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Relax,” I whispered as I stroked her little head. Her whimpers turned to panic, then screams.

I nuzzled her head into my neck and that’s when she bit my ear. I hit her but she just bit down harder, so I hit her again and when she let go, I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to the ground. She was blubbering, drooling blood. It was my blood and I could feel it warm, running down my neck. I kneeled on her chest and held my hand over her mouth until she was still and the only sound was my beating heart and the raw ocean wind and waves upon the shore.

Had it really been a year? We could have had so much more time together but she didn’t give me the chance to plan, to curate a final moment for us, to draw it out, nice and slow.

The night fades into a soft purple. The fire has burned out and the ashes are scattering in the wind. There is the faint, sweet must of earthy matter decomposing in a dark channel within the ranging estuary behind the dunes. I love watching the sun rise up from behind the mountains.

In the bright morning, I follow the tracks I left on the beach in the night, stepping into each faint footprint. A wad of torn flannel is entangled in a matted patch of dry kelp. I pick it up, shake off the sand, stretch it taut, loosening the crusted salt from the fabric. Why did she have to bite my ear?

Between swaths of mussels, there are tide pools in the pocked surface of the rocky point at the northern limit of the crescent cove. I walk out to the widest pool, near the edge, just above the waves. Surrounded by sea anemones, there are hermit crabs between patches of eel grass. They are trudging along, dragging their shells, leaving little trails across the sandy bottom. I reach in, catch one, and hold it upside down, just beneath the surface of the water, until its alien head pokes out. The little crab lifts its soft body, tries to right itself, and pinches at my finger. The sea anemones seem to be waving at me. Their tentacles quiver in excitement. I drop the crab and the anemone puckers the meal into its gut.

The sun is hot on my neck. I’ve been crouched over the pool for hours. Feeding crabs to the anemones has become automatic, almost meditative. I ram the last hermit crab deep into an anemone’s distended blossom, overflowing with empty shells. It chokes on the meat and spews forth whole, half-digested crabs. The tide is rising and a wave washes over the pool, soaking my jeans. Another wave crashes over the rocky spit, I hold on and as the ocean recedes, I make a run for the edge, jump to the shore, and walk onto the dry sand.

The sun feels good. I pull off my wet pants and drape them on a flat rock to dry. I’m very hygienic. With Hep C, HIV, AIDS, one has to keep it clean. I have distilled water in a bottle and a little container of bleach, just in case, but I rarely share needles or spoons. With my jacket over my head to cut the breeze, I cook a bit of tar for now, no coke, and then for a little while, I let the windblown sand collect in my ears, my hair. I wish she was here, buttery and naked under the sun.

There are people at the far end of the beach walking their dogs. Maybe they’ll see me, the naked guy, and fuck off? I guess not. It’s a long walk and I don’t want to hitch in the dark. I put on my pants and leave. The path to the headland, up through the ravine, is steep and I’m careful not to slip on the loose, chalky scree. Between tilled fields, the path becomes a dirt road. Crows hop around something dead in a fresh row, stabbing at a chocolate clog of blood and fur.

If I sit here long enough with my thumb out, someone will stop. While I dump the sand from my shoes, a truck rattles by. Boxes of cabbage are on the open bed. As I lope over the highway, the wind scatters upon the harvested fields, rustling the faint smell of sulfur from the hollow brussels sprout stalks. More cars pass, no one stops. I pull down my stocking cap.

Finally, a pickup pulls over. The driver pushes open the passenger door. I get in. It’s good to always have a knife, especially when you hitchhike. I can feel it in my front pocket when I sit down and I shift forward a bit in the seat so it’s easier to grab. The Mexican behind the wheel looks harmless. His hands and face are dusted in fine, cut grass.

“Thank you.”

“ De nada .”

“Katie was a lovely creature but she shouldn’t have bitten my ear.”

He shrugs.

I lift up my cap and show him.

He nods and says something about a kitchen. Out my window, corduroyed farm rows flicker by. The torn strip of flannel has made its way into my palm and is soft on my lips. I catch him glancing at me.

“You’ve probably seen her picture in the paper, maybe downtown near the bus station.”

“ No sé. ”

“You’re correct. I don’t know. They asked me about her, the police. So many people pass through this town. Transients, on their way north, south. People come, people go, it’s hard to figure where they’ll end up.”

“ Si .”

“Yes. Not me, though. I’m from here. What about you? Mexico? Where you from?”

“Watsonville.”

“The original Santa Cruz Town Charter of 1866 forbade the ownership of property by Jews, Negroes, Mexicans, and subjects of the Ottoman Empire. You have a bunch of kids? Collect welfare? I’m sure you have a bunch of kids. Right?”

“ Si . Watsonville.”

I pat the cooler between us. “ Cerveza ?” and I pull out two beers. “Now, it’s just nukes. The city don’t allow nukes. A fucking shame.” I open both cans and hand him a beer.

He takes a small sip and then puts it between his legs. Five miles per hour under the speed limit. On his own, he would never ever drink a beer on the road. He’s been here awhile. He’s careful. I suck mine down and open another. I want to cut his throat but we’re in town now, on Mission.

“Drop me here.”

He pulls over. I get out.

“You be good, ” I say and then slam the door.

Walking through downtown, I notice the fresh crop of girls from the university shopping, enjoying their freedom. They all have perfect pussies.

“Hey, you, Katie’s friend!”

I turn to see a kid who seems to be somewhere between deadhead and squatter punk. “Can I help you?”

“She was only seventeen, man.”

“I haven’t seen her. I talked to the cops already.”

“Well, talk to me.”

“Look, kid, I’m sure she’s fine. She took a few things, her backpack, a sleeping bag. She’s probably up north doing the same shit; maybe she got some work trimming weed.”

“She wouldn’t just split. We spent eight months in my van going to shows. I know her. I know her mom and dad. She always called them to check in.”

“What can I say? She seemed happy, and then one day I came home and she was gone.” I step off the curb into the street. “Hey, kid, I miss her too. You know where I live?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Come by in a bit. She left a few things that the cops didn’t take. You can have them.”