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A Day in the Life: Abandoned By The Sea Part Eight
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Posted by tomasi Wed Sep 20, 2006 10:24:03 PDT
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0 responses 0 comments Convinced that our belongings would soon arrive in Oregon, we purchased sparingly at the local K-Mart.

Coos Bay was small, especially in California terms, so it didn’t take us long to find the store. Because there was no refrigerator, we had to buy an ice chest, and rather than purchase sheets, we bought a pair of sleeping bags. Adding to that a pot, pan, two bowls, two plates, two glasses and plastic utensils, we were equipped to weather this momentary inconvenience.

Once we had unloaded our supplies at the apartment, Deb and I decided to drive over the hill to Bandon.

Just as it was at Easter break, the air was cool, crisp and fragrant with the scent of ocean and forest. Surely the fact that our house was nearly finished was only a minor setback –– or so we thought.

As happens so often, reality shattered our euphoric mood. When we turned onto Eighth Court, we noticed that our “house” was still in the framing stage, and here it was, 11 in the morning and not a single workman in sight.  Since the driveway hadn’t been poured yet, we parked on the gravel road, stunned.

Debbie kept repeating, “Peggy said it was nearly finished, I know she said nearly finished.”

It was so depressing that we didn’t even get out of the car. After a while, we drove to Peggy’s office, only to find she was out of her office. Somehow, I felt she must have been warned we were coming to town.

So, with no one to complain to, we drove around the picturesque seaside town before finding a restaurant and having lunch. We were depressed, to say the least, but with no foreseeable end to our dilemma, we returned to Coos Bay to treat ourselves to a night on the town. What we needed was a laugh, so after dinner we chose to see a Steve Martin movie, "The Jerk," and it did the trick. The intense feeling of doom evaporated with that hilarious movie.

After laughing for two hours, we decided to call home. It had started to rain, so we both crowded into the phone booth and called each of our parents’ homes –– careful to sound as upbeat as possible as we reported that we would be moving into our home within a few days.

We then called Alex and Diane and told them the truth, but they cheered us with the news that their house was now in escrow and they’d be able to join us within 60 days. Alex assured me that we were all in this together, but it was hard to feel warm-fuzzies with them hundreds of miles away. Before we hung up, Alex reminded me to contact Hemmings, the owner of The Bandon. Grudgingly, I said we would.

The next day we drove back to Bandon, and this time were able to catch Peggy in her office. She was sympathetic and apologized that she’d not been available the day before and then suggested we all drive over to the house. When we got there the workmen were framing the roof. We were in luck because the general contractor, Mike Anderson, had just arrived. Mike was sympathetic and explained that shortages had slowed down the construction. That seemed reasonable enough, but later, when we drove by the busy Bandon Lumber Mill, we were a little skeptical about his excuse.

Realizing that there was nothing we could do but wait, we dropped Peggy off at her office, assured that she would stay on top of things. Just as we were pulling onto the highway, Debbie remembered our promise to let Mr. Hemmings know we were in town, so we turned onto Third Street and parked across the street from the theater.

It was almost like a flashback to see Edgar sweeping the sidewalk, wearing the same ski hat and mittens. Through the open door we could see activity behind the concession counter.

Eager to be part of the theater, Debbie bounded from the car and crossed the street.

I sat there and stared. When had I agreed to this, and what, exactly, was our responsibility here? We had no percentage in the theater, and other than helping our friends, we had no reason to waste our time.

To tell the truth, the theater was creepy, the owner was creepy, and Edgar, poor old Edgar, was icing on the cake –– but at least he didn’t speak.

As I stepped into the theater, I saw my wife talking animatedly with Hemmings. I didn’t even bother trying to interject a comment. Instead, I was trying to process the aroma of freshly popped corn intermingled with the stench of mold.

As I walked up to meet the concession girl –– long hair, peasant blouse, a sprig of some flower in her hair –– I chuckled to myself, wondering if her name was Moon Flower or Sun Beam. As it turned out, I wasn’t too far off.

 

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