One day Mystery walked through the door. He didn't come alone, but with another man. They had coffee and a burger. It was a quiet afternoon, and my friend was in the back making waffle cones. I waited on the two men, and found myself intrigued by the younger of the two. He was thin, not too tall, with long brown hair that had just the right amount of wave to it. His eyes were dark blue, almost black, and they seemed to hold secrets deep inside. We talked, mostly about little things, and they left. I told my friend about him, and the day went on.
That night we chose not to go to Hollywood. We wandered the Boardwalk, listening to the street musicians and chit-chatting with the friends we had made among the homeless veterans and runaway teens. We walked along the beach, sat on the swings, and headed toward the Santa Monica pier. Down that way, north of our usual Vnice Beach haunt, there was a coffee shop. We stopped by for espresso, and as we turned to leave, I ran headlong into him - the mystery man with the deep eyes and beautiful hair. He caught me and we all laughed. He told me he knew I would be there. So sincere was his comment, I never questioned. We were together after that. For a week, perhaps a bit longer, we were an "item." He went to Hollywood with us the next few nights. We shared partial life stories, first names, held hands, and made out beneath the walls of the Pavilion on the beach. I knew three things about him: he was from somewhere in the midwest, I was attracted to him, and he said he was the devil. I found it humorous at first. It seemed he had to leave his home because his mother didn't appreciate having Satan living there. I never saw him drink or do any kind of drug, but his behavior was not normal. I looked for track marks on his arms, but knew I wouldn't find any. His eyes were too dark, the pupils too wide. I realized then why he was so mysterious. He was not sane.
We walked together one day, hand in hand, so he could show me where he lived. It was a few blocks north of the coffee shop where we had run into one another. There was a pier that reached far into the ocean off the beach there. All along the edge of the pier were sleeping bags and bedrolls. We walked past them all - almost to the water - and he introduced me to his friends, the men who lived there, mostly old hippies and junkies, nodding out in broad daylight, waiting for night. He showed me his place, there at the end of the line, and told me he would die there.
It wasn't long before we went our separate ways. We kissed and said goodbye, knowing our lives were not meant to run parallel. A week or so later, he and his friend came to our apartment, cold in the rain that had fallen for two days. They just stopped by to say hello, they said, but when they left, we sent a blanket along for each of them.
A month later, my friend and I sat on the beach with some others. We shared a bottle of wine and pondered the stars. Looking out over the beach, we saw something lying on the ground near the water. Curious, I got up and walked close to it. My friend ran up behind me, and we went closer. There on the wet sand, where the tide had deposited it, was the blanket we had given my mysterious boyfriend. The next morning, early, we walked down to the pier where he had shown me his place. His friends remembered me and greeted me kindly. I asked after him; no one knew where he had gone. I reached the end of the line, and there was his box of belongings, still tucked beneath the pier, but there was no sign of him. The man who slept nearest him was there, reading a book, so I asked him if he knew anything. "Well," he said, "one night he was there, and the next morning he was not. Perhaps he woke up early and walked someplace and has not returned. Perhaps he was washed into the Pacific. He would not be the first." After saying this, the man went back to his book. My friend and I went back to our part of the beach and on with our lives.
I thought I saw him once, at the end of the summer. But when I looked again, he wasn't there.
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(c) 2000 Suzanne B. Jacobson