The Weather in Hollywood

At a roadside shack over raw clams on the half, a lime in a beer; he raised his glass and proclaimed, “Summer’s here!” Hollywood was sweating. A momentary celebration and a temporary beam flickered from his candy eyes. The gravel was full of motorcycles and picnic tables. He looked around lifting his head slightly, catching the warm breeze. People sat around in short-sleeved reprieve. The air already tasted of clear blue barbecues and sun-baked avenues. There would be work to do, but in the summer you feel a sense of freedom that carries you through, whatever it is. The same schoolboy notion of summer vacation loosens the atmosphere; obligation evaporates and responsibility runs. Pretty girls on sidewalks float past dressed in the sun. The beach calls you, neckties are undone.

Hollywood kissed horseradish off of his fingers, clam juice rolled down his pale cheek. A dirty yellow bandana wound around his head while a pair of dark Aviators rested on the bridge of his nose. Jumbo sat beside him, clad in fringed leather, staring at the glow from a shot of Montezuma in the falling light.

The wind picked up, boats back in the water tilted on the trembling glaze of the bay. A clammer twisted a pole down and up, his red back engaged in a seesaw motion. Leaves tickled the sky overhead as soft conferencing from the trees steadily rose. Gods hung from the clouds with white and gold shrouds. On such a day even cemeteries break into a smile. “It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter,” George Harrison sang from a speaker above their heads. It had been long and extra cold. It had been a long, cold, lonely couple of years. The summer before brought nothing but rain and muddled regression.

Hollywood and Jumbo deserved this to be a pure and pleasant summer. They had rode hard and far to no avail. For a moment they reveled in the idea that perhaps this would be THE summer, maybe things would finally work out. Perhaps they would find jobs and be able to park their choppers somewhere other than under the freeway overpass at night, sleeping next to other outcasts and dregs. Jumbo threw the tequila down his throat. Aaaahhhh. Then Hollywood’s face dropped suddenly, he contemplated the season near upon him. He thought about the deceptive nature of weather, he would not let himself fall to the trickery of another mid-spring’s musings. Remembering the futility of his joy and appreciation for the approaching warm weather, he tucked back and gave a subtle snarl.

“Fuck,” he said to himself.

“What's the matter?” Jumbo asked him.

His eyes blazed intensely as if a fire in his soul had been lit with a stick of dynamite. He felt a strange explosion within him, his blood boiled, his tongue leaped out of his mouth. “The clams!” Hollywood jumped from his stool and dashed to the bathroom.

Jumbo, partially shocked, partially confused, shrugged and removed his vest. He picked at some of the remaining little necks sitting on Hollywood’s plate as nearby, the iridescent insides of mussel shells reflected the rich, swirling sky from a fly-buzzed garbage can.

..and now in honor of the coming summer, Mallo the Sea Wrangler

 

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