Personal Yummy #38
On my short walk home after work—especially if he hasn’t been in for a Heineken—I almost always stop to see him. Sometimes I’ll pick up a package of gummy worms or sour fish, but that’s always secondary.
He works at the Gulf Station, which inhabits one of the corners shared by Murray and Forbes, and which is three doors down from The Grill. When I arrive there, he’s usually standing in front of the main window, in his blue uniform, either in the luxurious summer breeze or the biting, noncaring chill (depending on the time of the year), calmly watching the people and the cars go by.
Most of the time he quickly spots me as I pass the bagel shop and then walk toward the pumps and the front door of the station. Other times, he doesn’t, so I’m free to study his interesting, exotic, middle-aged looks, with his slim build; prominent nose; black hair and mustache; dark, tanned skin (year-round); and American Indian subtleties.
And then I get to hear him talk. It’s deep but not too deep, relaxed but not too relaxed, Southern-mixed-in-with-Pittsburgh accented—that voice of his. I’ve never heard anything close to it before, but what I think I like most about it is the longing and yearning that’s in it, and not just in the words themselves, but in the sound and tone of them. Plus, I love what we talk about, one of my favorite things.
“Ahhhhh, Jenna…the breeeeeze is just wonderful tonight…isn’t it? Makes me just cra-zy for the coast…”
“I know what you mean, Ken,” I reply, following his example and looking out toward the busy street, but seeing only sunshine, waves, shimmering sand, and sailboats, as I’m sure he is.
Yes, when we learn that we share this intoxicating love of the ocean—and everything associated with it—we can’t help but discuss our obsession each time we see each other, sharing bits and pieces of our adventures, until the stories, one day, are completely told.
I tell him about my many trips to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware with my mom and our friends—one night describing the exhilaration of diving into the waves, another night describing the beautiful boutiques that sell precious earrings, soaps, and candles, and another night describing the way we sit at the Rusty Rudder eating hard-shelled crabs by the open window that lines the ocean and allows a view of the setting sun—as he nods and shakes his head, it all just sounds so wonderful.
He then returns the favor and tells me about his many trips to Stone Harbor. When he has the chance he goes there with a few of his friends. They enjoy lazy days under the sun, long drives along the coast, and evening campfires on the sand. He usually goes in late September or early October, “the absolute best time to go, when the beaches are empty, there’s peace and quiet, and you have time to think—when that glorious mixture of cleansing air and beaming sunshine rejuvenates you more than anything else.” And I stand there smiling, feeling that environment surrounding me, forgetting that my nose is turning red and my fingers are aching. “Ahhhhh, there’s nothing like that coast, Jenna,” he says again and again, and I know exactly what he means.
On a rare occasion, I won’t stop to see him, especially if I’m exhausted or I don’t notice him standing outside the station or inside waiting on a customer. But in these instances he always seems to see me. As I walk by the pumps, a familiar, clear, thick voice suddenly escapes out of one of them, saying: “Oh there she is, that Jenna, that pretty one—that ocean-lover—just watch her walk by.” The first time this happens, I look up, startled, my heart racing, and I am rather confused and scared. But after the first time, and after I figure out what’s going on—and by whom—I quite like it.
Some nights, when it’s really slow at the station, he’ll even start to walk home with me, but he never ventures too far. “Yep, this is it,” he says, not quite touching the tips of his black shoes on the line that separates the station’s lot and the sidewalk. “This is all the farther I’m allowed to go. One step past this, and my job’s history.” He says this in a joking manner, but I can’t help but feel that he is actually very serious, that if he allowed himself to invade that boundary, he’d never go back. And it’s then that I completely understand why he loves the ocean so much—the infinite, ever-moving, boundary-less ocean.
“Sweet dreams…” he calls to me, as he watches me depart. And I’m positive this won’t be a problem, because he’s already given me so many.
******
The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.
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