The Ocean Side

“It’s just on the other side of those hills,” Mr. Little said reaching out for the small hand of his son Warren.
Warren crossed his arms.
“Why can’t we live over there then?” he asked. Little Warren Little’s eyes puckered pulling at the neck of his shirt. He imagined the sand tickling his toes and the taste of the cool salt water just to the west of the mountains. Nothing was sweeter than the taste.
Dave Little passed his dense hand through his thick brown hair, smiled, and reassured the boy they would visit the ocean side as much as possible. An optimistic yet foolish promise but Warren was just young enough to appreciate it. His bright blue eyes showed nothing more than innocence, naivety even.
The Littles were new in Old Mayfield. Their moving van had somehow wandered the valley roads long enough to find the tired nook of a town where stores locked the doors at eight, and the pungent odor of grass moved languidly about the air. Enveloped around the mountains and crisp trees, Old Mayfield was almost scenic. The weather was always temperate as if the air was suspended in the last day of summer, not to mention the savory, smoky taste of the valley. But every now and then, you would hear the rustle of the leaves in a sort of domino effect down the hillside. Finally, it would hit you. If unprepared for it, the gust of wind was like an unfriendly neighbor pushing you out of the way as it raced down the horizon. Old Mayfield might have been a pleasant, maybe even popular place to settle down if it wasn’t for that the sweet, cool ocean air that seeped across the mountains. Therefore, the town was merely inhabited by drifters and dreamers. The Littles were average nobodies living in average nowhere.
Early that September, Warren excitedly raced to Mrs. Peterman’s class for his first day at Old Mayfield Elementary. Warren quickly handed her a note, and Mrs. Peterman sat him next to a chubby- cheeked blonde named Sammy Gull, who wouldn’t stop smiling. Once Warren’s butterflies dissipated, he noticed a buck-toothed boy was standing in front of the class.
“Continue, Rodger,” said Mrs. Peterson.
“Anyways I’m gonna be a fireman like my daddy,” the boy declared, “…the end!” For a small runt, the kid had an unusually bellowing voice.
The class responded in a round of applause and Mrs. Peterson groaned exhaustedly as she stood. “Warren would you like to join in show and tell? We are presenting our goals for the future,” she said grinning forcefully.
Warren jumped out of his seat racing to the front of the class. “I’m going to live on the ocean side!” his words came out partially mumbled because mouth couldn’t form the words fast enough. The class was silent, their faces frozen in awe. Tired Mrs. Peterson awoke from her daze. “I’m going to have a big house and a dog and a ton of friends and the prettiest wife and –“
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Peterson interrupted, “Warren, we are talking about GOALS not wishes, not fantasy! Are you hearing me?”
Warren looked puzzled as his eyes melted into the back of his sockets. “Why can’t I live there?” he asked insistently. Silence.
The teacher rose from the chair behind her desk, walked over to Warren and stuck her twelve inch tush in the air as she bent down to his eye level. A smug smile ran across her face. “M-o-n-e-y, Mr. Little. You better just forget about that ocean,” she whispered audibly. They say Old Mayfield was a town of drifters and dreamers, but Mrs. Peterson fell under a new category, the defeated.
That afternoon, the lunchroom was filled with chatter about the new boy.
“He’s a loon!” Rodger White called causing everyone to heave in laughter by his funny inflection.
“I’ve never met a poor snob before!” joined in Danny Hanson. Another round of laughter ensued.
Small, stubby Sammy Gull took the empty seat next to Warren. “Hi,” she said sweetly covering her mouth. Warren noticed her nose was a bright shade of red opposed to her pale complexion. “Why aren’t you eating?” she asked taking a mouthful of grilled cheesse. He fumbled with the two dollars his father gave him that morning to buy lunch.
“I’m not eating,” he answered, “I’m saving to buy a house on the ocean side”.
“Oh.”
Maybe it was the way her pigtails were so perfectly uneven or the way her baby fat still curled around her body so delicately or maybe it was just because she chose to sit with him, but for some reason he didn’t feel any judgment from her.
Years went by and Warren Little never visited the ocean. Although it seemed so close that he could literally feel the ocean breeze and smell the salty water, it was actually a more difficult endeavor to get across from the valley side. His father was a single parent, always at work, always sleeping, always dreaming. However, Warren Little was not a dreamer, or a drifter, and certainly wasn’t going to be defeated. He left home (if you would even call it that) with all the money he saved to finally live on the other side.
Soon Old Mayfield became a distant afterthought. Warren picked up a job bartending at the Dolce Club and catered lavish beachside parties to pay his half the rent in his shared condo. For a while, no two nights were the same on the ocean side. The Rutherford party on Friday, the Selsburg Anniversary on Saturday, even week night bar hops where new people always seemed to show up. A different girl every night, each one exceptionally beautiful and out of his league, a round of the hot new novelty drink, and not to mention the new money he was obtaining. After opening his own catering business at 30 years old, he was able to buy just about anything on the ocean side.
But now that he had finally made it and owned a villa along the ocean, he realized that he had forgotten the original reason he wanted to live there. Scooping up a handful of sand, he examined it against the sunlight. It was dull and grainy, almost gravel-like. He let the sand fall between his fingers. Thinking it was some sort of hoax, Warren thrusted his hand optimistically into the thick ocean water. He took his index finger into his mouth. His tongue recoiled as he spit the water out. It was no longer savory sweet, but a sickening, stale and familiar flavor.
It was the taste of the drinks he made day after day, it was smell of the people he knew who were all the same, it was the shallow ocean view he admired, it was the same dissatisfaction he understood all too well. That day Warren Little went back home for the first time.
To his surprise, much was the same; Old Mayfield truly hadn’t gotten any older. The trees were as crisp as ever, the grass just as acrid, the temperature a relaxing 67 degrees, and the valley tasted blackened again. Warren walked into town nervous yet excited like the first day of Old Mayfield Elementary. In a way, he hoped someone would recognize him as he nostalgically roamed down the dirt road. “Hey!” Rodger White would say, “You really made something out of yourself didn’t you, guy?”
Danny Hanson would follow up with, “God! You must have everything you ever wanted!”
“I misjudged you,” Mrs. Peterson would say artificially, but it wouldn’t matter. Anyhow, he wouldn’t know how to respond to any of that. It’s not like he was happy now that he had the perfect life on the ocean side.
“Warren Little!” called out a sweet faced blonde carrying groceries. As she approached, her dewy face was completely recognizable. He waved, “Sammy Gull!”
She laughed a bit, the cute laugh where she covered her mouth slightly. “Actually it’s Samantha Pearson now; I haven’t been called Sammy in fifteen years.”
“Samantha… Pearson?” In his state of shock, Warren didn’t realize his mouth was somewhat slack-jawed. He never pictured stubby little Sammy ever getting married; she was too awkward for the sort of thing, too unconventional to be a wife certainly. She had sure changed though; he thought to himself, surely she was slimmer and seemed to hold herself more confident. Her body was no longer short and stubby but petite, her shoulders were held back and away from her ears, and the only fat she still retained was a little in her face. Samantha told him about the salesman named Chris Pearson who ended up in Old Mayfield two years ago after the downturn in the economy. But Warren’s mind was still mulling over the thought of her married and why this Chris Pearson bothered him so much.
“What happened to you?” Warren blurted, almost in a yell. As if she knew exactly what was bothering him, Samantha put her arm around his neck and pulled his ear next to her mouth. “It’s good to see you again,” she said gently. For another moment she held on, then she let go and walked away with a bag of groceries in her hand. It was the last time Warren ever saw Sammy Gull.
It would be the first time Warren had seen his father since he ran away 17 years ago. Once he got to his childhood home, he found it a devastating state. Tree limbs decorated the roof, paint was chipped off the siding, windows were boarded. A cool gust of wind blew over the mountains and a moment later he felt it pass through his back. The house moaned a sigh of grief sending the fallen leaves swirling along the porch rail. He watched them for a while just fluttering, caressing the air in the salty ocean wind… then in an instant, the leaves made their way back to their home on ground. The soft dirt was so inviting, Warren wanted to lie in it too. He wanted to smell the aromatic odor of life and death. Taste every fiber of the Earth. Feel some sort of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach.
Warren Little, for the first time in his life, understood why his father moved to Old Mayfield. To him, it was roots. Hearty. Substantial. The reason he never left. No more martinis, appetizers or ocean water; Warren now no longer had to go to bed hungry. Kneeling at the base of the porch stairs, he cried long and deep. A heavy tear ran down his lip. He savored it as it touched his tongue, the perfect mixture of salt and water.