At 7:50, Arthur woke up.
He disabled the alarm he had set for 8 AM.
He ignored his semi-erect penis, sat, shifted, and stood. He wore a white cotton t-shirt and pajama-shorts. He removed them, folded them, and placed them on top of a dresser. The surface of the dresser was dusty, but there was no dust in the square of space they occupied. Arthur yawned.
Ten minutes or so later, he was soaking in the shower. Ten minutes after that, he was dry and dressed. Ten minutes after that, in a Ford Mustang (black, 2005, 40th anniversary package). It was inhumanly clean. The cruise control was set at fifty-one miles per hour, six miles per hour over the speed limit. He tuned his satellite radio to an R&B station, and his stock sound system delivered Usher's "Let It Burn". He turned it up so loud that his speakers suffered, and with them, the audio quality. His muscles relaxed, but he stared strait ahead. The air conditioning could not keep his left side, the side being beaten upon by the sun, cold enough, and as a result, when he pulled up to the Mellburg Beach public access parking lot, his left arm-pit was damp. His right was not. If one were to examine his wardrobe, one might notice that his work-shirts were all just slightly faded in a gradient, from left to right.
Arthur drove around the curved lot and down a dust service road on the far end. He parked next to a line of golf carts enclosed in a gated patch of pavement, caddy corner to a one-room brick building. He was early, and he stayed in his car, now parked in the shade, until his left side was cool, and until Usher had finished singing. Looking through his windshield and a patchwork foreground of thin, interwoven bushes, he could make out the ocean rolling into surf and hurling itself onto the sand. He looked at it like one might look at a burning building; he felt how one might feel if they saw a beautiful woman running off giggling with the lighter and the gasoline. The feeling built, the flames grew painful inside him, the waves foamed, he stared, and then suddenly yanked the keys from the ignition and ejected himself from the car, tense, biting his lip. He strode briskly towards the gated golf carts.
"Morning, Arthur!" Londa the Lesbian bellowed from the door of the brick hut.
"Morning, Londa," Arthur deflected. Londa, who was, in fact, a lesbian, assumed that Arthur didn't like her. She was masculine in build and tone of voice, and tanned to a leather. Her torso was speckled with tattoos. She smiled constantly. Arthur was almost amused by her- but he was so rarely in a pleasant mood when they crossed paths that his brisk manners overshadowed his occasional genuine smile.
Arthur mounted a golf cart, put a key on his own keyring into the ignition, and drove through the open gate, up the dust road, and back into the parking lot. He stopped the electric cart and observed his territory with mute reluctance.
It was Tuesday. The cars in the immense lot were sparse and the license plates local. Therefore, the meters were probably full, and Arthur would only issue a few citations. If it had been a Saturday, it would be another story. Labor day, and he'd be on his third ticket-book by noon. Tourism was Mellburg Beach's income, catering there-to was the town's profession. Arthur worked in accounts receivable.
The difference between a young man in Arthur's profession and a desk-jockey isn't the task at hand. Arthur scribbled tickets and maneuvered a golf cart, a programmer might scribble code and maneuver an integer. The real difference is the way you feel at the end of the day. Beautiful women were a staple in Mellburg's population of inhabitants, both temporary and permanent. Every day, every other minute, Arthur was forced to watch another barely covered girl walk by. Long hair, bright eyes, soft curves- just enough cloth clung to their bodies that he was always teased, always piqued, and never desensitized. He observed from his golf cart - his jail cell - his hormones transfiguring his body until he was frustration incarnate. Girls that caught his eyes would giggle and nudge their friends. It was great fun to tease the meter maid. Some would grab each others' asses as they passed by, or if they'd had enough to drink, turn around and pull the tops of their bikinis down, grinning, then shriek at their own boldness and run away. The truly fearless, often made giddy by the freedom and carelessness of a collegiate spring vacation, might even perch on his lap and coo something they thought quite clever, like "Heeeey Mr. parking-ticket-guy, want to double-park in our private lot?" Arthur would always just smile, shake his head and say, politely, something to the effect of "Please get off my cart, Ma'am". The girls would burst into laughter, the tan, half-hidden breasts brushing against his uniform as they hopped off and headed to their hotels. It would be ten minutes before he gave another ticket, as he would be unable to stand up. The difference between the programmer and Arthur is that at the end of the day, Arthur was so pent-up, he might fuck a lamp-post.
But it wasn't spring vacation, it wasn't even a weekend, and the local hotties paid him no attention. The day lumbered along. By 3 O'clock, he'd only given one ticket. Then, rounding a corner, Arthur's eyes widened and his foot slipped off the accelerator. The cart jerked and slowed. He was looking at what might as well have been an exact replica of his first car. The ancient Toyota hatchback was the same model and year, and, amazingly, the same color- a color that it wasn't available in, that had to be painted on after purchase. Arthur's mind shot back through archives of memories, and when it hit one in particular, it stopped. The scene flooded him like light. The flames he saw each time he looked at the beach now burned within him tenfold. They crept up his throat. They transformed, they were the aftertaste of rum. The sweat beading his body was now drops of ocean, glistening by starlight. He no longer stared at the car from his motionless golf cart- it was behind him in the distance, the only car on the side of a small, dark stretch of road. He was on a beach, poised over a young girl, naked and panting, eight years prior.
She was Alice, and she was naked too. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted up, her hair a shadow across the towel she lay on. She opened her eyes slowly, smiling gently, with penetrating warmth begot by complete trust. Her small hands traced the flexed muscles of the young Arthur's back, followed his arms down to the towel. She propped herself up and kissed him, his lips, his neck. She whispered "I love you" in his ear as she ran a finger up and back along his wood. Her eyes were dark and wide. In the pale light, they were the same shade as the softly crashing water a few yards away, and her skin, curving down her round breasts and sighing tummy, disappearing teasingly into shadow between her legs, was the same pale as the moon-lit sand. The bottle of clear rum from which they'd taken a few eager, mirthful shots lay abandoned. The clothes they'd stripped off, shorts and t-shirts, a thong, boxers, were in a pile beside it. They'd ran, they'd jumped in the water and shivered and embraced and kissed, their bare warmth like an enveloping roar against the cold and quiet sea. He licked the salt off of her nipples, she gripped his hair and whimpered. The water dried from their skin and the warm breeze danced on it. She clung to him tightly as his tongue traced her, licking down her stomach. She parted her legs and he moved his hands to the small of her back, his pinky venturing between her cheeks. He looked up at her. "I love you too". Then his breath was on her crotch and she lay back on the towel, elongating a low moan, anticipating his tongue. He pulled her pussy towards his face, and then, someone honked.
"Fuck you!" yelled a voice from behind a tinted, half-rolled-down window. It belonged to the car Arthur had ticketed earlier, which was now driving by his golf cart. The crumpled ticket was flung from the car as it passed, and bounced onto the sidewalk. Arthur shook himself. He was there, staring at the Toyota hatchback, sweating in the late-afternoon heat. The hatchback's meter had expired 20 minutes ago; Arthur hadn't even noticed. He sighed and ticketed the car. Then he drove back towards the golf cart's lock-up. He was tense, he wanted to walk the rest of his shift.
That night was the last time he'd seen Alice naked. It was the last time he'd had sex with her, and it was the last time he'd really enjoyed sex, or anything. Their relationship ended the next day, painfully, when she went off to nursing school three states north. Though the circumstances that lead him to a coastal occupation were layered and multifaceted, he speculated as to whether it was truly a coincidence. Most days, he could not endure the emotional strain of walking the beach. Almost a year at his job, and he'd only gone a few times- pensive, already gripped by the memory, he had on those occasions stepped onto the sand not unlike a recovering alcoholic steps into the grocery store, eyes flickering to the wine isle with abrasive vigor. He never swam. To swim in the sea was to drink the wine, laced with arsenic. It was to jump into the fire inside of him and burn.
When he walked off the dusty road after returning his cart, he had only a half hour left on his shift. People, including the aforementioned local hotties, were returning to the few cars and leaving, various time left on their meters. Arthur saw a red meter. He approached it with his pad, and it had a ticket under the windshield wiper in twenty seconds. As he turned back, a woman's voice startled his wandering thoughts. She was angry, but he didn't hear what she said. He hated this, he hated arguing over tickets he'd issued, he hated exercising his small authority. He especially hated fingering the taser in his back pocket, on those few occasions he thought he might actually need to wield it. He never did. The woman approached. His jaw fell. She was gorgeous.
Her hair was dark and dry. She was shaped magnificently- round, slim, and round again as Arthur's eyes moved reflexively from her hips to her neck. She was barefoot, but otherwise, dressed business casual- not bikini-clad, as was the norm. He breathed out heavily. Her appearance was of no consequence. She would bitch about the ticket, and ultimately she'd drive away fuming when he didn't relent.
"Listen, I was only gone ten minutes. I'm on my way home from work; I just wanted to get my feet wet- you know how that is. right?" her tone had a pleading quality.
"No, ma'am. I'm sorry." He said, his voice almost genuine. Then, automatically, he spoke, "All parking citations are final once issued and cannot be retracted by the issuing parking officer. If you feel you've been cited in error, appeals can be made through-"
"You don't?" She interrupted.
