Safe Haven

Welcome to the first of my stories from Sunset Beach, a mythical town on the California coast. If you haven't yet read the contents of the folder, I strongly suggest you go back and do so. This will have a lot more meaning if you do.

         "Where you off to, Shirl?" the slovenly woman asked, barely looking up from the trashy paperback she held folded back on itself like a magazine.
          "To see my friends," the girl replied, pulling on a blue surfer jacket as she headed for the door.
          "Your friends ain't dumb enough to be out in this shit," the woman declared from the ripped armchair placed against the inside wall where she could watch the street without being seen. She took another pull from the Yago bottle. "Unlike your dumb ass."
          "You don't worry about my ass, ma," she said, zipping her jacket and slinging a leather bag over her shoulder. "The rain's stopped. I'm going down to the pier."
          "Now I know you're lyin'!" her mother said. She burped and took another swig. "I heard the news a half-hour ago. Pier's closed 'cause of the high surf. What do you got to say now, huh?"
          "It'll open again when the tide goes out." She turned toward the door.
          "That's right, you little tramp, go down there and give it away. The least you could do is charge for it. We could do with a bit more money in this house."
          "I'm still a virgin, ma."
          "Sure you are, and I'm the queen of England!" Another swig. "You think I ain't heard about this here sex revolution that's goin' on? There ain't no virgins anymore, 'cept for a couple of fast fourth-graders."
          Shirley Qualls turned back toward her mother, a disgusting woman, already drunk on the cheapest wine available, and it was barely ten AM.
          "Did you ever love me, ma? Once, maybe, when I was real little?"
          "Why, Shirley, I've always loved you. You're the spittin' image of your father, the good-for-nothin' bastard!"
          "Oh, fuck it," Shirley said, going out and slamming the door to cut off whatever parting insult her mother threw out behind her.

*           *           *

          Two more years, Shirley thought as she walked, head-down, toward Bishop Street, the north-south street that would take her to downtown Sunset Beach. Two more years!
          But her mood was already lifting. She loved the smell that arose after the rain, and rain was a rare treat in southern California.
          "A year and a half," she muttered as she made the turn onto Bishop. "In a year and a half I'll be eighteen and Welfare will take me off your payment. What are you gonna do then, ma, huh?"
          She hadn't even noticed the car that had slowed down to pace her as she walked, but she recognized the voice that greeted her from within.
          "Is this a private conversation, or can anyone jump in?" Helen Kott greeted her from the driver's seat of her mother's 1963 Nomad. Helen was eighteen, would be graduating this year, and had a family that Shirley could only dream of.
          "Oh, hey, Helen. Had another heart-to-heart with my mom is all. How are things?"
          "Things are wet, you ninny! You better get in this car before it starts up again."
          "Okay," Shirley said, looking down sheepishly. "Thanks. I just had to get out of there before one of us killed the other, and as drunk as she is, her chances weren't all that great."
          "Already?"
          "Always."
          "I don't know how you stand it in there, girl. You need to find someplace to go."
          "She'd hunt me down like a dog. I'm worth 273 dollars a month from the Welfare. She's not about to give me up easily."
          "Shirley... Is she, you know, abusing you?"
          "She takes a swing once in a while." She smiled. "She's usually too drunk to hit anything, though."
          "Next time she starts on you, Shirl, you need to call the fuzz."
          "Oh, and they're gonna do what, send that asshole Chappell down there to help her beat on me?"
          "Chappell isn't the only cop on the force, and anyway, he isn't as bad as everyone makes him out to be."
          "He hates kids, Helen."
          "He doesn't."
          "You have a good family, Helen. You dress nice, you drive a nice car. Some of the rest of us that don't fit his ideal of what teenagers should be like, well, we all know that he'd love any excuse to clean up 'his' beach."
          Helen sighed.
          "Where you going, Shirl?"
          "Foot of Providence. Thought I'd see if anything's cooking down there."
          "That's where Chappell parks, you know."
          "Yeah, he won't be there until later. Anyway, he can waste his time watching me while the deal of the century is going on right behind his car if he wants."
          "Shirl, you're impossible," Helen pronounced, crossing Providence to pull over in front of Simpson's Market. "You be careful out there, and try to keep dry."
          "Thanks. Drive safe," Shirley told her friend, and watched her drive away.

*           *           *

          Shirley stood on the corner examining the streets in all directions. Very few people were in evidence, and given the rain squall that had just drenched the town, that was hardly surprising. She started west toward the foot of Providence and the parking lot that served beach-goers. She looked in the door of the Iron Pipe smoke shop, but nobody was in. She waved at Ollie, the proprietor, and continued on down to the lot.
          A low concrete wall separated the lot from the sidewalk and there were usually dozens of teens sitting on it, leaning on it, or doing skateboard tricks on the parking lot side of it. Today there was no one in sight but a thousand seagulls resting in the shelter of the pier. The Sunset Beach Fishing Pier, or just "Sunset Pier" as it was known colloquially, was an extension of Nantucket Street a block south of Providence, and covered the south end of the lot like a concrete awning. Back in the corner was a white San Diego Police cruiser with the red gumball machine on the roof; no hiding one of those things, no matter how you tried. Shirley paid it no mind, though. Chappell didn't come on until four. This was likely Flores, not a bad guy as cops went.
          That didn't mean she was going to strike up a conversation, though. Surf Place was a two block connector between Providence and Saratoga that had a string of ratty little apartments on the west side and everything from board shops to burger bars on the east. One of the ratty apartment buildings, the Tiki Lodge, was divided in half by a driveway, and she took the stairs up to the second floor where she knocked on the door. It was answered by a skinny youth with long, sun-streaked hair and the beginnings of what threatened to become a scraggly beard.
          "Hey, Shirl," he greeted her. "Come on in. What are you doing out in this slop?"
          "Coming to see you, silly," she said, brushing by him as she unzipped her jacket. Tossing it and her bag onto a beanbag chair, she flopped down on the overstuffed sofa that looked out through sliding glass doors to the roiling gray Pacific.
          "Sorry for the mess," he said. "I didn't expect company today. Can I get you anything?"
          "No, I'm fine. Just sit down and talk to me, Kevin."
          "Let me guess. Mom again?"
          She blew a long breath through pursed lips.
          "I had to get out of there. That woman is making me crazy."
          "Well, you're safe here." He opened the drawer in the coffee table and took out a plastic baggie and rolling papers. "We'll have you fixed up in no time."
          "You can get in a lot of trouble for having that stuff," she said, a lopsided smile on her face.
          "You can get in a lot of trouble for a lot of things," he countered. "Might as well have some fun while you're doing it."
          He sealed the joint, took a long drag as he lit it, and passed it over to her.
          "What'd the old bat do this time?"
          She took a long drag of her own and held it, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the couch. She sat up and passed the joint back to him.
          "Just the usual. Drunk off her ass before breakfast. Mad at the world and looking for someone to take it out on. As usual, I'm the only one she can reach."
          "Shirl, you've got to get out of there before she tries to kill you."
          "Yeah, that's what Helen said."
          "Helen's a smart girl."
          "Yeah, but nobody's smart enough to provide a solution. Like, where am I going to go?"
          "You could crib with me. I'm sure there's a hundred people around here who feel the same way."
          "It's not that easy." She took another drag, held it, blew it out. "I'm worth money to my ma. She's not about to let me go. She'd have the cops out doing a door-to-door search, and I'm sixteen. Can you imagine if they found me with you? You'd go to prison for a hundred years."
          "Maybe not that long."
          "Long enough." A tear appeared at the corner of her eye. "But I've got to do something."
          Kevin took her hand and looked into her tired, aged eyes.
          "Have you had anything to eat today, Shirl?"
          "Yeah, I filched a doughnut on the way out."
          "That's no good. Come on, let's get you something."
          "Are you sure you can afford it?"
          "Hey, what's the point of earning a paycheck if you don't spend it?"
          She offered a weak smile at that and followed him down to his beat up old surf wagon, a '55 Ford Ranch Wagon. He started it up, waited out a few backfires, then drove down to Providence and east across Sunset Beach Drive to Terrazzo's, a mid-scale eatery with a menu heavily weighted to Italian fare.
          "Kevin," she said for emphasis, "we can't eat here. The price!"
          "If the price was an issue, we wouldn't be here," he countered, and came around to open her door. "Milady's fare awaits."
          Inside, a waitress in casual dress, someone that they knew, showed them to a table with no hint of snooty looks despite their jeans and sandals; this was Sunset Beach, after all, where all sorts met and mingled.
          "So, what's my limit?"
          "Well, if you just order a reasonable lunch, we'll be fine. Have you ever had their beef ravioli?"
          "I don't get to eat here much," she said, looking down at the table.
          "Oh my God, it's to die for. Two beef raviolis," he told the waitress, "and coffees to drink."
          As she headed back to the kitchen, Kevin looked out through the smoked glass windows.
          "Looks like it's clearing up. Let's go down to the pier after we eat and see if anything's shakin'."

*           *           *

          It was early afternoon when they drove back to the pier, and with the storm breaking up, kids were beginning to congregate. Kevin parked near the wall and kept the radio on as KCBQ, the local top 40, cycled through the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys of course, then started Light My Fire. Shirley reached to turn it up.
          "You like them, do you?" Kevin asked.
          "This band is gone!" she replied. "Have you heard their album?"
          "A couple of times."
          "What's your favorite track?"
          "Break on Through. What's yours?"
          "Gotta be The End."
          "Damn, girl, that's some heavy shit."
          "You know it. You hardly need dope to get off on that one."
          He started to say something else, but she shushed him, closed her eyes, and began to sway in the seat to the rapid beat of Light My Fire.
          Damn, she's beautiful, he thought, a thought immediately followed by Careful, boy! Sixteen will get you twenty. The band was well into the instrumental section when Kevin tooted the horn. Shirley's eyes snapped open throwing a dirty look, but she saw Kevin waving toward the street.
          "Hey, man," he called across the seat through her window.
          "Hey, buddy," a stocky youngster returned the greeting, "what's good?"
          John McIntyre, Kevin's best bud, put one hand on the wall and vaulted over. The girl with him, tall and rangy with straightened black hair, black makeup, a couple of piercings, and a long black dress sat on the wall and swung her legs up onto it. John just picked her up and stood her on the near side, and the two of them came over to Kevin's window.
          "Hey, you guys know Shawn, right?"
          Kevin gave her a blank look, one that she returned in equal measure.
          "So, what are you and Jailbait doing down here?" John asked, unconcerned with Kevin's reaction.
          "I've asked you not to call me that," Shirley said, turning down the radio.
          "Aw, I just do it 'cause I love you," John said. "Give me a year or so and I'll stop. So, what's goin' on?"
          "Just listening to the radio," Kevin replied. "Hop in and join us."
          John opened the back door and held it while Shawn slid across the seat, then got in and shut the door.
          "So, you got any stuff?"
          "I might. What's your deal, you gone blind?"
          "What?"
          "You don't see that representative of the local constabulary parked over there? Why don't we just light up in front of him?"
          "That's Flores. He won't hassle us."
          "And you know that, do you? Want to try him out?"
          "Ah, maybe not. Why don't we go to your place, then?"
          "Yours is better."
          "Fuckin'-A right, it is. My mom's home, though."
          "Oh, yeah, sometimes I forget about you children who live with your mommies."
          "Hey!"
          Kevin started the car, pulled out of the lot, and made the short drive to the Tiki Lodge.

*           *           *

          The four friends climbed the stairs and waited for Kevin to get the door open. As they entered the apartment, Shawn was impressed for the first time.
          "This is nice," she said, looking out across the beach to the angry breakers pounding the shore. "You in the market for a roommate?"
          "Hey!" John and Shirley said simultaneously.
          "A girl can ask," she shrugged as Kevin pulled a record from the rack and set it on the turntable. She waited until the strains of Mercy, Mercy filled the room, then added, "Well, are you?"
          "Sorry," he said. "Cohabitants of the opposite persuasion are strictly forbidden here."
          "Damned shame," she said. "I'd kill to wake up to that view every morning."
          "Well, kill the landlord and maybe you'll have a chance."
          They engaged in some non-serious speculation about how that might be accomplished as Kevin broke out a box of shortbread cookies and began to roll a joint. They pulled up chairs to the coffee table and passed it around until it was gone. Comfortably buzzed, John and Shawn got up to dance as Satisfaction started the B-side, and Shawn proved to be quite accomplished, even hindered by her long skirt.
          "Do you think she's pretty?" Shirley asked, sitting down beside Kevin on the couch and passing the box of cookies.
          "Not bad. She sure knows how to enhance what she's got."
          "Is that what you call making a spectacle of herself?"
          "You don't approve?"
          "Flaunting your body in front of strangers? Not my deal."
          "What strangers? We're all friends here."
          "We are? I don't know her. You don't know her. If John had known her for more than two days you'd know her, and yet she just invited herself to move in with you. This is enhancing what you've got?"
          "Well, she has John's attention, that's for sure."
          "But not yours?"
          "Guys check out girls, it's the way of the world. She's not my girlfriend and I have no intention of trying to make that happen."
          "Am I your girlfriend, Kevin?"
          "You know that can't happen, Shirl," he said, taking her hand and pulling her up from the couch. He drew her over to the window, looking across over the beach and out to sea where an opaque wall of fog awaited the setting of the sun. "There's nothing I'd like better, but until you're eighteen..."
          He shrugged.
          "It's so unfair! Just because I was born after a certain date."
          "That's the law, Shirl. But let's make a pact."
          "What kind of pact?"
          "If we're both still free on your eighteenth birthday, we'll revisit the prospect."
          "Okay. Pinky swear." She held up her little finger. He took it with his and they shook on it.
          "Before then, Shirl, I want you to know something."
          "What's that?"
          "This is your safe haven. No matter what happens, when you're here, you're safe. Promise."
          She gave a deep sigh.
          "You make me want to move in right now."
          "Sorry."
          "No, don't be sorry. That's a wonderful thing to know. I just wish it was for always."
          "It is."
          "Not really. The sun's going down and the fog's going to be nasty tonight. I really need to be heading home. Last place on earth I want to be, really."
          "I know. Want a ride?"
          "No, I'm good."
          "I can walk you, then."
          "You have company. I'll be fine."
          She collected her stuff, put on her jacket, and stepped to the door.
          "You be careful, Shirl," Kevin told her. "That's a bad situation you're in down there."
          "Don't I know it? The old cow'll be passed out by now. I'll be fine."
          Kevin wrapped her in a hug and placed a brotherly kiss on top of her head.
          "You be safe out there, Jailbait."
          With a playful glare, she was out the door.

*           *           *

          But the old cow wasn't passed out when Shirley unlocked the door and stepped inside.
          "About time you showed up," her mother greeted her from the decaying armchair where she spent most of her waking hours. "I suppose you been out feedin' your face?"
          "I ate."
          "And you didn't bring me nothin', I suppose?"
          "You didn't say you wanted anything."
          "Why do I have to say that?" her mother asked, staggering to her feet and continuing to stagger as she held the back of the chair for support. "You know there's no food in the house."
          "How is that my fault?" Shirley asked, walking toward her room. "You're the one with the money. I notice there's never any shortage of wine in here."
          As she started to pass, her mother took a roundhouse swing and slapped her hard in the face. As she spun away, Bessie tried to kick her but missed by a yard and fell on her ass, continuing down from there until she lay on her back looking up at her daughter.
          "That's right," she slurred, "I'm the one with the money. So, how do you get food out there? What do you do, turn tricks for burgers?"
          "God, you hateful old cow! That's the last time you ever get to hit me. Why do you even bother to stay alive?"
          Shirley thought for a brief moment about kicking her in the stomach, but that wasn't her, and she stormed off to her room and slammed the door. She threw herself down on the bed and sobbed for a few moments, but then stopped to listen for movement in the living room. She heard none.
          If the bitch comes in here and hits me again, I'm going to kill her! she thought, but knew in her heart she wouldn't. Curling into the fetal position, she gave reign to some quiet tears as she thought about her situation. She thought about her friends, mostly Kevin, and how odd it was that she was happy anywhere except at home. The place that should be her safe haven was an unmitigated level of hell every moment she was here. There had to be a solution, but as long as she was a minor, her drunken mother owned her as surely as any slave had ever been owned. She lay on the bed for a long time, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep, before she got up and padded quietly to the door.
          Her mother still lay where she had fallen, snoring loudly in her drunken stupor. Shirley eased her bedroom door open and came out for a closer look.
          "Mom?" she called, not very loudly.
          Bessie's reply was a sharp, loud snore followed by a slurred string of mumbled curses.
          Satisfied that her mother was down for the count, she stepped carefully into the other bedroom and went through the purse she found there. That task completed, she returned to her own room, pulled her denim duffel bag out of the closet and tossed a few changes of clothes into it. With the bag's strap over her shoulder, she returned to the living room and went to the door. She looked back at her mother and, shaking her head in disgust, tossed her house key toward the passed out drunk sleeping it off on the floor.
          "Bye, Mom. Thanks for nothing."

*           *           *

          Quarter to one in the morning. Nick Messenger, a twenty-year-old beach resident, was driving home from his night shift at the McDonald's over by the Five. The fog was as bad as he'd seen it, and he was keeping his speed to a crawl because he could barely see thirty feet ahead. On the left side of Voltaire, a big-rig was stopped under a streetlight, obviously looking to cross Voltaire and take I-8 to parts east. It wasn't moving and posed no hazard to him so he paid it little mind. Had he been more attentive, he might have noticed a slip of a girl with dark brown hair and a blue surfer jacket tossing a duffel bag in before climbing into the passenger seat. But his only thoughts beyond the dangerous drive home were of his waiting bed.

The End... Sort Of