The Reef - 1994

Dead chant on bells of Tibet, monks barefoot in the wilderness of teenage wasteland. A motel room in a cold midwestern suburb, where blue collar jocks build gasoline combustors. Snarfing room service in the blue TV light, wondering if, “this is it?”. Remote control through endless sitcom repeated from forgotten generations. Out in the hallways, the remnants of the night’s show at the Palace are floating in dirty tie-dyes and cheap incense.

The years of roving with the holy church of guitars and the blotter trails of migrant glory, gave way to the canned beat. The steady thump of the dance floor drowning the melody and harmony. It was with the lady in our presence that a new order was born. Strobe lights setting the motion to slow, and insisting on the steady mix. I left the rental car at the snow curb side and entered the halls of dance.

Within the halls of Industry the dance floor was pumping. Somehow I had stumbled into this totally dope scene. It didn’t matter about Midwest, East Coast, or West Coast, the scene was the same. The Lady and Bootsy had both traveled the same path. I found solace in their shadowland. The scantily clad babes were dodging the dudes on the dance floor. Pumping, grinding, and finding another place to be.

Hanging out at the upstairs tavern with Sharon and Dan. Swapping sweat with the tightly packed cliques. This was like a haven and it is as close to home as this trip had brought me.

So I ordered another round and talked of Andy painting soup cans. “Everyone’s famous for 15 minutes she quoted. Yes a little culture can go a long way. Yet nobody knew what the
Surfrider Foundation was or even that Sunday Night was a benefit party for them. It was just another night to sling drinks and pocket the loot.

It was around midnight that Leon came to me in vision. Dancing to the love sexy sound beat, he drifted back to memory. He was talking about the power of love. He was talking about the power of music. The Shelter People bringing the Gospel truth to light. Another case of an artificially induced religious experience and everything is going to be all right now.

Yet somewhere she was watching the waves lap the sand in the sunset. Through the clink of bar glass I could hear the crash of the point. The pack hooting on the wicked rights. When the sun rose again on the frosted plains, I would be longing for my home peak. She was waiting for me to exchange silver for technology. Bequested to establish the server, I had only to deploy the clients. Business thus completed would allow escape on the great silver clouds.

On big days she used to surf “Second Peak” with her gang. They were a fun crew and I was quite taken by her kindness. I only knew her as “Windy”. Lost from any true encounter, I etched the memory of her form and grace on my inner retina. Never to be realized, never to be gained, a chance of meetings amid an ocean of take offs.

When the week had turned to end, I was paddling out again. The salt waves rolling their power in the brisk sunrise. It was just me and the mother. What could possibly go wrong?

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Copyright © 1996 to 2015 by W. Dire Wolff


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