Sunburnt

Greta hits rock bottom and trades in her Chardonnay for coffee. She moves to sunny Bombay Beach, Florida where she gets a new apartment in a quaint cottage, a new job and a new lease on life. She spends time at the beach soaking up the sun and reflecting on her past destructive relationships. She meets a mysterious married man Garth, who she keeps bumping into. Greta dates a local musician Jimmy, but after his untimely suicide she must find the cause of his death. She and her girlfriend Kat put on a concert with the help of magnetic club owner Sly and invite superstar Crash to perform all of Jimmy’s music. Will they discover why Jimmy took his own life?

Sly is a dazzling man, living the high life as owner of one of the towns hottest clubs, Voodoo. He has it all, wine, women, a beach house and a sister who has one of Hollywoods’ hottest cooking shows, Elvira! He cannot find love in his life, until he meets Greta. But is it too late to change his ways?


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2. Sunburnt

Chapter 2

 

If it's illegal to rock and roll, throw my ass in jail!

Kurt Cobain

 

Past is past, and now I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. A non-alcoholic, coffee drinking leaf where café latte is the new Chardonnay. I live in a town full of rehabbers, people on the edge of life, clinging to salvation from themselves and their inner demons.

 

Today is Saturday morning and I head to the beach to catch some sun. I’ve got my towel and my sun block SPF 25, well prepared for harmful rays. I stop off for breakfast at The Green Heron Restaurant, a worn down, old fashioned diner on Atlantic Avenue, the last vestiges of the old fashioned Mom and Pop stores that haven’t yet been taken over by corporate America like Starbucks.

 

The diner is crowded, full of people on this Saturday morning. They sit at their tables, New York Times newspapers poised, Blackberries chirping merrily with varied ring tones and Rolexes gleaming in the morning sun like fine crystals of snow on a glacier. I wait for a table. The hostess is a petite blonde with frazzled hair that points me in the direction of a small corner table, under a skewed print of a green heron drawing in a tacky wooden frame. The food smells good.

 

I sit and stare ahead. The waitress pours me a steaming cup of coffee and takes my order, eggs scrambled, bacon and white toast. It’s a hearty meal, maybe the only meal I will eat all day. My appetite has diminished these days after drinking. Food seems excessive now. It makes me sick sometimes. But this particular morning I am starved. I lazily watch the cooks in the kitchen, scrambling around.

 

A Rolex gleams in front of me on a fine blonde haired wrist. The wrist belongs to a preppy, blonde man in his fifties, handsome and tan, reading his Kindle. For a split second he makes discreet eye contact with me and then poof, the moment is gone. His wife, a buxom brunette talks at him while he tries to read. He seems disinterested in what she has to say. She talks loud enough for the entire diner to hear, apparently she wants someone, anyone, to pay attention to her demands.

 

“I need to stop by the hairdresser today Garth.” She whines. “Okay dear.” He says absent mindedly, reverting back to his Kindle.

 

I go back to staring ahead again. I am looking forward to my day at the beach. It’s been too long since I felt the sun on my body, my toes in the sand and the wind on my face. I have my paperback book, a thriller by James Patterson in my bag. I am ready to forget the world and retreat into fantasy. The waitress pours me another cup of coffee and I ask for more creamers, they never give you enough of them.

 

The preppy blonde man gets up to leave. He leaves a generous $5.00 tip on the table. He stares at me again and I smile a little smile. He is very attractive in a safe, fatherly sort of way, unlike most of the druggies and alcoholics I have been hanging around with. I wonder at my choice of men. It must be true that women like bad boys, because that is all I am usually attracted to. The word losers comes to mind. Maybe it’s time to make a change.

 

 

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