People Watching, The Beach Boy

People just pass you by on the street, and you never stop to think of what could happen. What if you looked up at the same moment or if you all reached for the same lucky penny on the ground? Could that sketchy man you just passed become infatuated with you and stalk you for life? Scary, but not boring. Could that little old lady ask you to help her with her groceries and then turn out to be a millionaire and leave you her entire fortune as thanks for your one kind deed?
It’s strange to think that people want to remain isolated, heads to the ground looking for stray coins when the real treasures are behind the faces above.
I spent this morning on North Beach in Burlington. It’s kind of a smelly place, with the occasional hobo camping out, no romantic landscape to be sure, but if you keep your eyes out on the water and concentrate on the wind, you can pretend well enough. There were only a few others there since it was so early and too cool to swim.

I made sure to wear my red flowy skirt so it would fly in the wind as I waded half up to my knees in the water, and I could pretend I was from a Victorian novel. Later I would lean against one of those beautiful knotted trees and look pensive and turmoiled.

Before I get to the tree part, though, I’ll tell you about the rather magnificent boy there. He himself was leaning on a tree, looking out over the water. I don’t want to guck him up and say he was looking out determinedly, or desperately, or hopefully, because I really couldn’t tell from my distance. All I knew was that he was tall, and much too skinny (almost goofy); his hair was straw colored, and had gone a little wild. He was too freckled to be devastatingly handsome, but “dashing” might do it.

To me, he looked like the sort of person you could trust not to hassle you. He looked like he would say things that needed to be said, even if they were uncomfortable or awkward, and not bother you with things like Halo or parties, or cars. If anyone could convince me to run away with someone, this would be the boy. He seemed a gentleman in exile. I don’t know what it was about him, maybe the way he held his head up high without seeming arrogant, or the way he smoked his cigarette in a half committed way, but it seemed like he could be persuaded to dance.

I wanted to run through the boiler room of the Titanic with this boy, I wanted him to teach me to smoke (no no, I know, smoking is bad), and I wanted to show him to waltz. I wanted him to tell me dirty jokes that I would inwardly appreciate, and I wanted to get close enough to be certain that his eyes were the green color they seemed to be.
I walked past him as I made my way to the grove of trees. I hoped to look out of breath and carefree, with my skirt damp on the edges and still blowing a little.

I was victorious this morning when I looked up to see that he did have the carefulness to look into people’s faces, to look into mine, if only for a second, and that his eyes were exactly the green I had guessed.