A Door in the Ocean by David McGlynn

Author:David McGlynn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781619020894
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2018-05-16T00:00:00+00:00

Durden and Rich had moved to the high desert, forty-five minutes away from the ocean but closer to their jobs. I saw them when I could, which wasn’t very often. However, after a few months in Newport, I learned that a few women from my freshman dorm lived two streets over from me, and three of my ex-teammates from the swimming team shared a house at the peninsula’s far northern end. I ran into them at the grocery store or jogging along the boardwalk, and the coincidence of our encounter always felt like good fortune, an opportunity not to be wasted. A lot of parties formed this way.

The party I went to at the end of February took place in a house with heavy oak paneling on the cabinets and walls and brown shag carpet. The room was dark even with all the lights on. Six or seven guys in baseball caps sat in lawn chairs beyond the sliding glass door, staring intently into the bell of a glass bong. Every face kindled with a goofy, expectant hopefulness. I half expected a genie to appear in the cloud.

I pumped a beer from the keg and then held the tap for a woman wearing a black cardigan sweater buttoned across her silk blouse. Her name was Veronica; she was an office manager for a car dealership in Fountain Valley. She asked me what I did, and I told her, and I told her I was hoping to go to graduate school to become a writer. She shuffled back a half step and looked me up and down. “You’ll need some Clark Kent glasses,” she said. “And a corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows.” She nodded and smiled. “I can see it. Very literary.”

She didn’t wear much makeup or jewelry, only a pewter charm bracelet dangling a chorus of winged cherubim. Her friends waved her into the living room where they had gathered on the carpet. She asked if I wanted to sit down. I followed her out of the kitchen, a beer in my hand. If I could make the conversation last, I’d ask for her phone number.

After several failed attempts to find a topic the group could discuss, a freckled guy in the circle proposed playing a game called “I have, I have never.” The rules are simple: You confess a secret, and anyone in the circle who’s made the same mistake cops a plea by taking a drink. Freckles lifted his cup and said he’d had sex in the driveway of his parents’ house. Everyone in the circle drank, everyone but Veronica and me. The next guy said he’d done it in his parents’ bed. His head was shaved on the sides, a spiked mohawk down the center. He slapped my knee. “Your go, bro.”

I hefted my cup and said, “I’ve streaked the beach in Mexico.” I didn’t mention that the streaking occurred during my spring break with the campus fellowship. The circle drank, glug, glug, glug.

The Mohawk piped up again, out of turn, “Oh yeah? I’ve done it on the beach in Mexico.

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