A Dream from His Youth -- Flash Fiction

Tom woke, face down in the sand. His head muzzy. As difficult as sitting was, standing would be impossible. Where was he?

He kept his eyes closed. Using both hands, he pushed hair away from his face. At least he still had hair. Most of it anyway. The one loss he didn't have to face.

Ken shaved his head, the fashionable method of dealing with baldness. But he was a good guy, Ken was. Gave him a way back after everything. A job. A ticket to the coast.

They'd been pals all through high school. Both made the team. Had plenty of girls. Went to college. Lots of parties. Probably drank too much then, too.

Then they married. That's when they began to lose touch with each other. Ken married Alice, moved to California, and started his own business.

Tom married Marybeth and went to work for her father. Selling Real Estate. He should have known better. His dad warned him about the job and the drinking. He did pretty well at first, but he wasn't a born salesman. Then the kids came, two beautiful daughters. They needed things. They wanted things. Things he wanted to give them. But Marybeth's father did things. Business things, personal things that Tom couldn't go along with. Drinking made it easier. For a while. Then it all went to hell.

"Come out to the coast," Ken said. "Remember when we were kids and used to talk about living on the beach. Surfing from dawn to dusk."

He did remember. They'd get an old woody, load surf boards on top, and hit the beach.

"I got a job for you. I need an accountant. My guy's retiring," Ken said. "Man, I need someone I can trust and that's what you went to school for. You're a numbers guy, not a damn salesman."

So he did. He quit drinking. Moved to California. Went to meetings. Hadn't touched a drop in two hundred eight-three days. Until last night. He held his throbbing head in his hands. Oh God, what was he thinking?

Ken trusted him. With his car. With his daughter.

His mouth tasted like dirty gym socks. His hands came away from his head sandy with a smudge of red. Lipstick? Ken's daughter didn't wear red lipstick. None of the teens did. Had he been so drunk he didn't remember picking up some woman? Gentle probing discovered a gash over his right eyebrow. He needed a drink.

Ah, yes. Ken's daughter -- a beautiful beach blonde teenager who drank too much, too. At least last night she did. Tom was supposed to drive her and her boyfriend to the prom and to an after party, then deliver them home, put the car in the garage, and enjoy the rest of the weekend. No big deal. He had a book to read while he waited for the kids.

"Hah!" Oh, that hurt. He'd better be quiet.

The after party had turned into several with the kids disappearing at the third one. They took off with friends, leaving him parked in the circle drive of a spacious two-story Mediterranean estate with x-number of bathrooms, a four-car garage, a pool, and palm trees. Two million and change, no doubt.

Okay, so he'd lost Ken's daughter. What could he have done? Like she pointed out, he wasn't her father. He couldn't make her do anything.

At least he still had the car. The car, a 1936 Phantom II Woody Estate Wagon with a luggage rack on top -- £240,000.00, that's 343,200 American dollars. There it sat right beside him on the beach. A magnificent machine. Talk about a beautiful woman inspiring lust. That ultimate dream of a ride did it for him.

At least he hadn't lost that. He looked at it's roof. No surf board to mar the paint. Well, that was good. He could be glad there wasn't a surf shop open in the middle of the night.

Right now, he wished there hadn't been a liquor store open either. Too bad the kind proprietor had broken the law and sold him booze. He guessed that, technically, he'd broken the law too since it's illegal to buy liquor between the hours of 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.

Gentle waves touched him as he sat there. How near the water was he? The tide must be coming in. He'd better move the car. He checked his pockets for the keys then realized he must have left them in the car. Yes, he could see them, still in the ignition. Thank goodness for that.

He pulled on the door handle. It was locked.