Central Valley and the Coast:  A Guide

Tie Camp.  A coastal town that's never been much.  When the forest was all around, a tie camp for the loggers and mill operators and laborers that supplied railroad ties to the freight and logging companies in the region.  Early on, a muddy, gloomy, violent place.  The mill managed to keep the town going through the fifties.  Then a few beach cottages.  Now a stop between Rock River to the south and Pink Bluff to the north.  Still, incredibly, those same few cottages, keeping their registers, scraping and painting each summer.  More incredible still, a modest motor hotel, piggybacking on the guests turned away from the busier hotels in Pink Bluff.  Now the beneficiary of the expansion of Pink Bluff south in the form of an outlet mall.  Stop in at the motel sometime.  You can't miss the big cabinet sign, right off the coast highway:  The Lighthouse Motel.  The restaurant has good fish and chips, a decent selection of ales and beers.  Really the only night life in Tie Camp.  It boasts a wall of glass that looks out on a bluff over the ocean.  On Friday nights the lounge features canned music for dancing, sometimes singer-songwriters with amplified acoustic guitars.  In the off- season the restaurant and lounge are populated by locals and the workers from the outlet mall expansion.  One one of these Fridays a worker parked his crew cab in one of the many empty spots in front of the main entrance and walked through the sweet warmth of the lobby to the lounge stairs.  He found a table by the window, no problem tonight.

He watched the lights.  For minutes on end they would shine steadily, as if they were mounted on some distant headland, then would go dark suddenly.  Must be some dirty water out there, he thought.  He stirred his drink.  God damn his knee hurt.  Guess the drink didn't help.  But it fixed other things.  He looked around.  Most of the older types (easy, he was one of those 'older types') had gone home.  Some local guys were dancing on the little parquet floor with their girls.  One didn't even bother to take his measuring tape off his jeans.  The tune was "San Antonio Rose", one of his favorites.

He heard a glass break behind him and a woman's voice.  "Shit," she said.  He looked around.  She looked to be about thirty, thirty-five, overworked and disappointed about something.  She wore the burgundy apron and black clothes they all had to wear there.  "I'm so sorry," she said.  He wasn't sure whether she was apologizing for the language or the glass.  He figured it was the language.  "Shit, it's all right," he said.  At least he made her laugh.  "Hard night?" he asked her.  "Yeah," she said.  "Hard day too."  He thought about his long drive back to town, his stuffy hotel room, the blinking message light.  "Hey, do you ever get a break?  I mean, why don't you join me?"  He saw a jagged piece of glass under a chair.  "Don't move," he said.  He reached for the glass and put it on her tray.  "Thanks," she said.  She looked down at the glasses and schooners on her tray.  "Uh, I don't--  Sure."  He cocked his head.  "Wow," he said.  "That was not what I expected.  Usually it's no."  She smiled.  It came and went, like a short left-turn signal.  "Maybe you're asking the wrong people."  He stirred his drink.  "Yeah, you're probably right," he said.  "Anyway I'm well pleased I don't have to drink by myself.  I always thought they tasted better with someone."  She smiled again, this time longer.  "Me too," she said.  "I'm off in a few minutes."  He smiled back.  "I'll be here."  He sat back in the horseshoe and hummed in time to the music, tapping his fingers on the formica.

When she sat down her face had softened.  Maybe she's closer to thirty, Don thought, a bit nervous for the first time.  "You don't have to close?  I mean, I'm happy you're joining me, you don't know how-- but I figured you'd be here for the duration."  She cocked her head now and sipped through the tiny black straws in her drink.  They were drinking Long Island Iced Teas.  "Well," she said, sliding her glass back and forth.  "I was supposed to meet my boyfriend for a night out, but he had other plans."  Don put his hands on the table.  "Oh, shit," he said.  "I'm real sorry.  That really sucks."  She smiled with half her mouth and took another sip.  "Oh, it's ok," she said.  "I think I knew he probably wouldn't show up.  There was a part of me that thought he just might, but I think--" she slid her glass back and forth again.  "I think I really always knew it wouldn't last."  Don sighed and looked at his hands.  "I know how that goes.  Hell, I could be that guy."  His eyes widened a little and he stared at his drink.  "I AM that guy."  He shook his head, pulled out his straws and took a long drink.  The girl watched him and smiled.  "No, if you were that guy you wouldn't say that."  Don looked at her.  "I was that guy, but I think I just got tired of how it made me feel.  I'm Don by the way, Don Rosner."  The woman smiled and shook his hand.  "Carrie Taylor," she said.  "It's real nice to meet you," Don said.  "You too," she said.  "So what brings you to Tie Camp?"  Don sipped his drink.  "I'm a commercial painter," he said.  "We just finished a big project at the Tie Camp Outlet Mall, the Best Buy out there.  I took my vacation time now so I could see some of the coast.  My dad was a fisherman and I just wanted to see the ocean again.  I was down in Vegas before this gig."  Carrie stirred her drink.  "You staying here?" she said.  "Yeah," Don said.  "The company pays us a per diem to stay here and buy a few groceries.  It ain't much, but it's enough.  I'm so tired most days all I want to do is sleep anyway."  Carrie kept her eyes down.  "You have family out of town?"  Don stirred.  "Nah-- well, I have a little guy who spends most of his time with his mom.  We've been divorced a few years.  I've been on my own.  I see him as much as I can."  Carrie sat back and looked out at the ocean through the windows.  "That must be hard," she said.  Don looked out with her.  "It can be.  It ain't so bad.  We don't really get along, but my ex is basically a good person and she never makes any trouble when I want to see Sam.  It turned out as good as it could have.  God knows I was no picnic to live with either.  Fact, leaving me was probably the smartest thing she ever did."  He blew his breath out and drained his drink.  He let his glass down hard.  "How the hell did I do that?  We ain't even been talkin' for five minutes and I'm already talkin' about my divorce.  Come on Don!"  Carrie laughed.  "It's ok.  At least you're honest."  Don looked down.  "Nah, I'm just dumb."  Then he laughed.

It turned out all right.  They even danced a bit.  Then they had more drinks.  He thought they got into some kind of conversation about Jackson Browne, he couldn't remember.  She reminded him of Linda a little bit, and he wasn't sure if this was good or not.  If something had changed since his divorce it could be good.  That would mean that if he met another Linda that things could turn out ok this time.  That was if he wanted things to turn out at all.  He sometimes thought that Sam and his work was enough.  But there were other times-- like tonight-- when it was a real drag.  He would finish a big job somewhere and go back to the stuffy hotel room, the putty-colored phone, the ugly bedspreads, the ice bucket, the TV set, not always tired enough-- or sometimes too tired-- to go to sleep right away.  Then, he had to own, it was pretty lonely.  He turned from the window and looked down the aisle at the partition outside the bathrooms.  He had no idea of going back to the room with Carrie.  He didn't think that's what she was looking for, even if she gave the impression now that it was a possibility.  They'd had a lot of drinks.  And even if she was looking for something like that, and it pained him to admit it, he wasn't sure he would want to.  Didn't that same type of guy just let her down tonight?  And he wasn't doing so bad; he just wanted someone to have a few drinks with.  What was the use of hurting her feelings even more than they were already hurt?  He sighed and stabbed at the cubes at the bottom of his glass.  "You're losin' that killer instinct, Don," he said to the table.  "What was that?" Carrie said as she sat down.  Don looked up.  "Oh, I say I'm losing my killer instinct.  I haven't tried any of my lines on you yet."
"Come on Don," she said, sounding half-tired and half-indulgent.  "You don't use lines.  Rick used lines."  She put a lift on the word 'Rick', like a skier flying off a jump.  "You want another drink?" Don said.  She blew her breath out and looked at her empty glass.  "How many is that?"  Don looked at his, as if that would tell him how many had gone down before.  "I lost count."
"Then yes," she said, like a little girl peeling back her fortune in a cootie catcher.  "Your funeral," Don said as he twisted to signal the waitress.

He was relieved and disappointed when he saw Carrie head for her car.  He had been right not to press the issue.  She would go home and he would go-- well, not exactly home.  He would go wherever he went.  To bed.  They were in the chilly breezeway outside the front doors.     Then he was ashamed and glad when he saw her walk to the passenger side and try the door without even reaching for her keys.  How could he let her even head for her car?  They must've had at least five drinks apiece, all high-octane garbage compactor types.   Then the gladness was gone, replaced by a species of urgency and anxiety that he hadn't felt in a long time.  He even tried to fend it off at first, like a loud alarm early on a hangover morning.  God damn it, why now? he thought.  But then, was there ever a good time for this kind of thing?  What kind of thing, Don?  They were both dangerously drunk.  Nothing was going to happen.  One thing, she was not even getting into that car.  "What are you doing, Carrie?" he called.
"Going home," she said.  He didn't realize how drunk she really was.  "Belmar."
"Belmar?" he repeated loudly.  "You ain't driving down the block like that."  He walked over, double time.  "Come on, Carrie
," he said, softer.    "Give me those keys.  You can sleep in my bed, I've got a couch."
"You come on, Don," she said.  He couldn't decide if she was angry or amused.  "You sound like Rick."  Then she leaned on the fender, looking down.  At first he thought she had dropped the keys and he moved for them.  They were in her other hand.  She was breathing hard.  "Oh honey," he said.  "I'm sorry.  I should have stopped you.  Come on, let's just walk for a bit.  Okay?"  She put her hand on her forehead.  "Oh Don, I feel like shit," she said.  "I know," he said.  "Come on, let's walk."  She gave him her keys.

When she saw him pull out his room key she said "I knew it.  You're just trying to get me in the sack."  This time it was his turn to give her the half-smile.  "Believe me Carrie, even if I thought you wanted to, I wouldn't know where to start, I'm so tanked."  He jammed his car key in the knob.  "See?" he said, holding it up.  "My fuckin' car key."  They both laughed.  "Oh, jesus," he sighed as they walked in.  He felt for the switch.  "Why do you think I don't want to?" she said, before he found it.  He let the question settle into the warmth and general mustiness of a cheap coastal hotel in the off-season.  He even looked at the phone, almost hoping the message light was blinking; the signal that meant another job, another round of cheap hotels and watery beer in front of a flickering television.  He turned to her shape in the door.  "Well I ain't exactly what you'd call a catch.  And I guess I didn't want to get into anything when I could see you'd been let down once already."  She crossed to the blinds, opened them.  He turned on the lights.  She looked out at the black square.  "I know we're both drunk off our asses," she said.  "I just liked to think you wouldn't let me down if things were a little different."  He went to her.  "Hey, Carrie," he said.  "I had a great time.  I really like being with you.  Maybe my getting so drunk is my way of trying to do right by you, if you know what I mean.  I know that sounds fucked up."  He sighed and looked out, tried to find the lights on the horizon he had been watching earlier.  It seemed like a hundred hears ago.  Nothing out there but black.  His knee was hurting again.  Carrie sniffed.  Oh shit, he thought.  Oh shit, she's crying.  "Hey, come on," he said.  He took her to the bed.  "Come on.  It's gonna be ok."  She let him sit her down on the foot and he sat beside her.  He put his hand on her back.  He was terrified.  "Look, you get into bed, I'm going out for a smoke.  Ok?  See, there's the couch.  I'll sleep on the couch.  You get into bed.  You can worry about the rest in the morning.  It'll be a lot better in the morning, I promise."  She nodded, still sniffing.  She squeezed his hand.

He was relieved to find her in the bed with the covers pulled up.  He had smoked two cigarettes, hoping that gave her enough time.  He found some extra blankets in the closet and got into the couch.  It was a little too short.  Around two in the morning he got up and had another smoke.  His neck hurt like hell.

Something made him open his eyes.  Some of the darkness at the end of the couch had gone.  It felt like four, four-thirty.  "Don," she said.  "Come on, get off that couch.  You must be miserable."  He twisted to see her.  He must have made a sound.  "See?  Come up here.  I won't make you marry me, I promise."  He stared at the bed.  "Don.  You're keeping me awake.  I just want to sleep.  I know you do too."  He sighed, got up.  "Yeah, ok," he said.  He climbed in next to her.  She took his hand, drew his arm around her.  He was out like a light.