lips. "I'll
be your Queen of Bridgetown. And this place will be our little
secret."
She backed away, put a finger to his lips.
"Now, let's get back to the others before they start to wonder if
the coyotes got us."
Then they left the strange and delightful
cavern of light and mist, and began their trek back up the narrow
shaft of darkness.
Meanwhile, back at camp, Wayne spilled his
beer.
He felt a burning anxiety. His eyes darted
around. No one saw. Thank God.
He began to blot the stain out, but it didn't
do much. He looked around again. Beads of sweat dripped down his
forehead. He was hot under the collar.
Everyone else was laughing. Not at him, but
amongst each other. Which was, in its own way, worse. They all got
the joke, whatever the joke was, and he didn't. Why did he always
feel so alone at these things?
How was it that he—a UCLA mechanical
engineering grad student, for crissakes!—found the simple act of
standing around, drinking a beer, so goddamn stressful?
He looked down at what he was wearing—a
button-up cotton shirt and slacks. In the desert.
He cursed his own sense of propriety. Why
couldn't he just throw on a tee shirt like a normal person?
Everyone else was dressed like they just came
in from Haight-Ashbury. Blue jeans. Loose-fitting batik tops.
Scruffy faces.
Yet, in this moment, he felt inferior to all
of them. Why should he? Maybe it was because there were so many of
them here, now. Maybe anyone in his position would feel so out of
place.
No, it wasn't just that. There was something
more.
He spotted a couple of waifish girls, flowers
in their hair, sitting on an old torn sofa someone had loaded up in
the back of an old Chevy and brought along with them. One of the
girls was making the other laugh almost to the point of tears.
They looked adorable.
Graceful.
Carefree.
Totally and utterly beyond his reach. They
were happy. They all were, everyone here. Everyone but him. But
why?
He was satisfied with his life.
Wasn't he?
Successful. Proud in many respects, and with
a secure future. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd
laughed like those girls were laughing.
"Looks like you're losing your beer there,
man."
Wayne turned to see a sweaty, chubby guy of
truly indiscernible age. He could have been eighteen, could have
been forty. This man, who for some reason was wearing a Hawaiian
lei, extended a hand out to Wayne. But it wasn't to shake. He was
offering him a joint.
Wayne was about to issue an automatic "No
thanks," but took another glance at the scene around him. He
couldn't last another hour here sober. Just couldn't.
"Thanks," he said, and took the joint from
the man with a curt nod.
He held it up to his lips, and sucked in,
taking a long, deep drag. He held his breath for several moments,
until the urge to cough issued forth a series of convulsing hacks.
He handed the joint back to the man, tears in his eyes.
"Like a champ," the portly boy-man said. He
was clearly getting quite a kick out of this. "You know, we weren't
too sure about you when we first saw you here. Kinda thought like,
'Hey, maybe this guy's just here to babysit us.' But you're
alright!"
Wayne, still coughing, could only offer him a
thumbs up and another nod.
Finally, Wayne started to settle down, though
now he began to feel the horizon shifting.
He looked back at the two girls on the couch,
their faces even more perfect in the flickering campfire light than
they had been moments earlier.
The anxiety was melting away. Not in a
figurative sense—it felt physical, like a waxen patina of shame was
simply dripping off him, and his skin was touching fresh air for
the first time in eons.
Wayne was content to just absorb the scene
for a moment.
He noticed the girls were glancing back at
him while they conversed. He looked away, back to his new buddy
with the lei.
"Thanks, man," Wayne said.
His voice sounded funny. It was like the words had come out before
he'd had a chance to form them. He said