WORK
BY TERESA BERGEN

LOBSTER

        Picture me: nineteen years old, five foot eight, long blond hair, thin. Back then, I worked in a clothing store and always had new clothes. My life included attention from men, anticipation of beginning community college, and melodramatic adventures indicating an acute need for sobriety.
        The Lobster's life was simple. She lived on Riverside Avenue, across the street from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, where she managed an arcade. That two block radius contained her whole life. Her apartment was a ramshackle two-room cottage, owned by her employer. She did her laundry across the street at the Ocean Wash. Mostly she ate food that she got discounted from the Boardwalk: French fries, hot dogs, soft serve, tacos with mystery meat, pretzels, salt water taffy, chased by endless Pepsi. As far as I know, she was the only person I ever met who ate cotton candy more than twice a week.
        The first time I met the Lobster, I'd gone to the Boardwalk with three other girls. This was my summer after high school, and they were girls who graduated with me. It was a Saturday night in July and we'd smuggled in a couple of small bottles of Bacardi. We got some Diet Pepsis at the hot dog stand, took our drinks in the restroom and added some Bacardi. Then we freely walked up and down the Boardwalk, drinks in hand, looking at boys, becoming intoxicated not only by the rum but by the blackness of night and the colored lights on rides, screams of riders on the giant Dipper, the faint sound of waves, and the many, many young guys who looked back at us. The girls I was with -- Felicia, Alicia and Jessica -- were also blond. Felicia's hair was a few shades darker than mine. Alicia was short, only about five feet one. Jessica was almost as tall as me, but heavier set. We all got lots of attention, in school and out, and back then we did almost everything together. Alicia and I both had cars, and took turns driving everybody. So this night, we'd spent all our money on Bacardi. Actually, the guy who bought it for us had ripped us off for five bucks, but that's the price you pay for being underage. So anyway, we didn't have money left over for rides or cotton candy, but we didn't care. Except Alicia, who hardly ate anything, and whose only caloric indulgence besides Bacardi was cotton candy. She kind of pouted about it, and kept slamming the guy who ran off with those five bucks. I teased her and told her to grow up. I ticked her off, which is relevant to what happened later.
        So we all had that urge that descends at night, no matter how calm the day. The urge to find boys and flirt and maybe make out later and see what happened. We passed up some guys with eighties haircuts and neon-rimmed sunglasses at night. Obviously losers who'd driven over the hill from San Jose. They followed us for a while, but we just laughed at them till they gave up. Jessica was hot for some guys with long hair and tattoos, but I prefer men who bathe. So finally we meet three cute guys in their early twenties. They're all wearing shorts and lightweight jackets, casual but clean. The shortest one would usually be for Alicia, but this time he was way the cutest, even he was the same height as me. The other boys were plenty cute, too, but I liked the shorter boy's eyes, which were gray and slanted like a cat's. He almost looked sort of Oriental, but he had shaggy blond hair that looked thick and soft.
        We stood in front of Bulgy the Whale, a kid's ride where three year old sat on the backs of killer whales that swam tamely in a circle. One kid screamed anyway. The boys said they were in town for a surfing contest at Steamer's Lane. I wished the screaming kid would shut the hell up so I could hear the cutest boy's accent better. His name was Tad and he lived in Australia. I add about ten points for an accent. If it's British or Australian or European, I mean.
        "You better watch out for those sharks," I said.
        "I can take care of myself," Tad said. "We have plenty of great whites where I'm from."
        "You never know," I said. "One of those sharks might want to take a bite out of you. And I can hardly blame it." I gave him what I thought was my sexiest smile.
        Sometimes the suggestive approach just doesn't work with boys, I learned right then. "Uh huh," he said, looking really turned off. Alicia picked right up on this and started acting real feminine. Which made me want to puke, because plenty of times I heard her belch real loud or saw her clean out her ear wax with her fingernail and then look at it. She certainly wasn't a lady, fighting the boys off and saving herself for marriage, or even true love. At least I thought I was in love the first couple of times. But I won't get started on that.
        Pretty soon Alicia had Tad buying her cotton candy and everyone wanted to go on a ride. They'd all paired off and wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, which is absolutely the most depressing ride to go on alone. I mean, what do you do on a Ferris wheel besides make out? Jessica's guy was polite and tried to buy me a ticket, but I said I was afraid of heights so I'd just wait below. Alicia smiled this sweet little smile and asked me to hold her purse. It was a pink beaded shoulder bag and all it had inside was the almost empty Bacardi bottle, a Bonne Bell lipstick, a hairbrush, two Camel Lights in a crushed pack, and a Tampax. And her license and keys. I was kind of drunk and humiliated and sometimes I get seized with terrible rages, even now. Well, that's just what happened when I looked up and saw Alicia and Tad kissing, and his hand moving inside her shirt. I was so mad at that little slut! It should have been my lips, my shirt. I didn't even think what I was doing, but next thing I knew I'd run down to the beach, tripping and falling over piles of kelp, sand in my pants and hair, then I was standing on the edge of the wet sand and I drop kicked that little cunt's purse halfway to China. The moon picked up the glint of the lipstick as it broke free from the purse. Then I stood there breathing real hard, my hands clenched in fists, and I remember I said, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."
        After a minute or two my heart calmed down and things seemed kind of still. I thought I heard Alicia's voice over the music blaring from the Himalaya -- an old Van Halen song, "Running with the Devil." "Kelly!" I thought I heard carried down to the place where I stood, where the waves fled up the sand and stopped before surrendering back into the ocean. The Ferris wheel had slowed to its crawling pace as it turned one thirtieth of a rotation, stopped to let a couple off, turned another one-thirtieth, etc. Talk about feeling trapped! I was glad I wasn't on the stupid Ferris wheel.
        I calmed down enough to realize I was in a bind. I still had my diet Pepsi and Bacardi, which I sipped thoughtfully. I could hardly explain to Alicia about her purse. I'd sound like such a baby -- she kissed a guy I'd first seen ten minutes earlier, hardly the end of my life or even a trauma. I'd have to ditch them. I'd have to just get in my car and drive away. Their new boyfriends would drive them home anyway. And they'd probably want to stay out together, just the cozy, intimate six of them, for a while anyway.
        Then I remembered that Alicia had driven.
        I lived with my parents in Soquel, about seven miles away, and I didn't even have bus fare. I sat paralyzed in the sand. Only my elbow seemed to work, tipping my drink to my lips. I thought of my father, how he always warned me not to hang out at the Boardwalk because of the rough characters. I considered calling him to pick me up, but that was an absolute last resort.
Sand muffled the footsteps behind me. Suddenly a man plopped down beside me in the cool sand. I yelped, then stopped abruptly, in case Alicia could hear my voice carried on the breeze. "You want some company?" he asked.
        The only light was from the moon. He looked a lot older, maybe thirty. I thought I could make out some stubble on his cheeks and wondered if he was a bum, but he didn't smell bad.
        "I don't know," I said. "I don't know you."
        "Well I'll just sit here until you want me to go away." He settled back on his elbows. It was a ludicrous thing to say. Like if I never told him to go away I could come visit him in that same spot twenty years later.
        "Why am I going to ask you to go away?"
        "I really want to kiss you."
        "I'm drunk," I said, then we were lying in the sand kissing, as easy as that. It was much better than with a boy my age, and I could practically hear my heart thundering in my chest. His cheek felt rough, his tongue hot. He ran his hands over my thighs, my hips. He didn't reach inside my clothes. It was so intense, but I felt conflicted. Like I could just let him go inside me, right there on the beach, and it would feel good, but then he'd turn out to be some lunatic who strangled me and filled my nostrils with sand. I couldn't even see him in the dark. He could be anyone.
        "I can't," I said, which wasn't easy with his tongue in my mouth.
        "Of course you can," he said, and I heard his pants unzip in the dark.
        The noise of his zipper jarred me. That was just going too far, too fast, and I was already on edge because of the purse and the surfer boy kissing Alicia and not knowing how I'd get home and my friends probably furious at me already. I struggled to get up and he reached for me and what could I do? I threw a handful of sand in his face.
        "Bitch!" he cried, amazed.
        I felt guilty because I'd really liked being with him, whoever he was. But I had to go. I didn't know how to explain myself, so I just ran.
        Where to run to? Perhaps the other girls had left me already. They couldn't wait all night. I got to the steps that divided Boardwalk from sand. And there I faltered.
        And there I met the Lobster.
        She sat alone in the dark, on one of the steps, smoking a cigarette. She was so still and so calm I wouldn't have seen her except for the flaming cherry. "Hey kid," she said. "You look all worked up." I kind of thought she was a guy at first because her voice was low and her mop of curly hair fell just below her chin. And I guess because girls don't just sit so calmly in the night. Anything can happen, like the trouble I'd just got myself in with Romeo. My hair hung sandy in my face and I didn't know what to say.
        "Come on, kid. You can tell the Lobster."
        I thought she must be referencing some old movie. I mean, how was I supposed to know she was the Lobster? I wasn't even sure if she was a she at that point, and that crazy third person talk was beyond me. I started giggling like a drunken kid, then really laughing.
        "That's better," she encouraged me. "Just sit down and tell the Lobster all."
        "I'm drunk," I said, sitting heavily beside her on the step. "I'm drunk and I don't know where my friends are."
        "Still lots of people out. You might find them."
        "Better not find them. I kicked my friend's purse into the ocean. 'Cause of the surfer boy. And I don't have any money. And I threw sand at someone. I couldn't even see his face." Then I was blubbering like a loser. It was like someone had gashed a hole in me and all that stuff I always held in without even thinking about it, all escaped at once. High school was over and what the hell was I going to do with my life. Then it hit me I didn't even like my friends very much and I'd never noticed! Suddenly it seemed like we four girls looked good together, but didn't feel good together. "I don't like my friends!"
        "Friends are hard to like."
        "My life's a mess!" I sobbed to the Lobster, then stopped short, thinking I heard Alicia's voice again. This time I was sure.
        "That bitch has my keys!" Alicia whined as the three couples passed a few feet behind us. "She has my whole purse. How am I supposed to get home without my keys?"
        "Hey, relax. I'll take you home," said an Australian voice. "Come on, relax. We can still have a good time."
        The Lobster slid her arm around me. From behind, we'd look like a couple, if we were at all visible in the dark. "That was them?" she whispered, slipping her arm back into her own space, after they passed.
        "How did you know?" I asked, awed by her perception.
        "Kid, the Lobster knows."
        "My name's Kelly."
        "Well, Kelly, we better get you off the Boardwalk before they circle back." She stood so I stood. "Boardwalk's about to close. I have to lock up the arcade. Come on with me and we'll get you home."
        I followed her obediently into the Pokereno Arcade. She pulled the rolling metal door down behind us, officially closing for the night. In the glaring light of the game room, I got my first look at the Lobster. She was terribly short, even shorter than Alicia. She had coppery red hair and reddish skin, like she had a mild sunburn. Her eyes were orange. Between her height and her odd coloring, I couldn't guess her age. She must have been at least in her early twenties, maybe her late twenties, possibly even thirty or above. She wore the yellow shirt that all the arcade employees and ride operators wore. Yellow is not a flattering color for white people. Me, I never wear it. I suspected the shirt intensified the Lobster's red skin. I'd dress her in navy, I thought, or maybe earth tones.
        The Lobster seemed to be in charge of the two Mexican teenagers, a girl and a guy, who worked in the arcade. She told them to count this and clean that and wipe this. I tried to stay out of their way. All the games in the arcade seemed so familiar. I must have been in there at least a hundred times in my life. I'd played every game: Boomball, Pokereno, 21, Rolldown, Skee ball.
"Hector," the Lobster said, talking to the guy who worked there. The girl was in the back, taking inventory of Pixie sticks and tin rings and key chains. "Can you give this girl a ride home? I'll clock out for you in half an hour, and I'll take care of the rest of cleaning up around here."
        He nodded eagerly. "Si, Lobster. No problem." He talked low, with an accent.
        "Hector's fine, kid. Kelly. No worries with Hector." She didn't have to tell me twice. I followed him out to his car.
        So it was that a the end of a night that had started with such promise, a sixteen year old Mexican boy took me home and I felt only relief.

        Things changed after that night. I stopped hanging out with Alicia and Felicia and Jessica. Alicia called me three times the next morning and left messages inquiring as to the whereabouts of her purse. I had to call her back before my parents got home from their Sunday AA meeting and pancake breakfast. I didn't want to have to explain to them, too. So I told Alicia I'd got attacked on the beach by a guy who wanted to rape me, and then I'd thrown sand at him and run off to escape, but in my terror I'd forgotten her purse. "He probably has it now," I said. "If you're so worried about that cheap purse, I suggest you hang around the Boardwalk looking for a pervert bum carrying a pink purse." I sounded real indignant about her worrying more about her purse than my welfare. I've found that lies are most convincing when mixed with the truth.
        I guess she didn't really believe me, because the phone didn't ring much after that. I'd always felt popular, like I had lots of friends. But now I had to face that there had only been three of them, and they had turned against me.
        The summer was only halfway over. My community college classes wouldn't start for six more weeks. The end of summer shimmered in the far distance, but the present stretched long, lonely and boring before me. I had my part time job at the Capitola Mall. The girls I worked with weren't really people I'd hang out with outside of work. There were a couple of Mexican girls who were nice, but they had their own Mexican things, I guess, to do in their free time. There was a Santa Cruz New Age sort of girl who seemed to have been raised by psychic dolphins. Some scruffy older guy with a ponytail used to come by to see her at work. She called him her "old man." I could never bring myself to ask if he was her father or her boyfriend. Then there was the manager, but she was older and married and allowed to boss me around.
I tried to make a list of people I truly liked. My parents both had question marks after their names because I was kind of ambivalent. There was a teacher I'd had in tenth grade I liked, so I wrote her name although I hadn't seen her for two years. Felicia wasn't so bad, but I didn't feel like there was much about her I liked, so I left her off the list. There weren't any boys I really cared about. I started to get desperate, so I wrote "Spiker," my golden retriever. Unfortunately, he didn't qualify because he wasn't a person, plus he'd been run over by a car in eleventh grade. I got real sad and started crying because Spiker had been the only creature who could really put up with me. So many times I'd lied and been phoney and I knew I looked in the mirror too much. Spiker didn't care about my flaws.
        I sat there over my pathetic list and cried. Then a picture of the Lobster crawled into my mind. She didn't even know me and she'd been totally kind and helped me. But then I started thinking if she really knew me she wouldn't have bothered. This set me off again, and I cried and rocked myself and fervently wished that at least the ghost of Spiker could come and comfort me.

        That was the summer when my drinking got bad. My parents certainly noticed, but they were caught up in their own sobriety. They did what they could, and threw around AA slogans like "Live and let live." Once my mother mentioned that alcoholism is hereditary, and my father chimed in that I knew where to get help if I wanted it. A couple of times I found AA pamphlets in my room: "Fifteen Questions" and "Too Young?"
        My parents seemed cartoonish to me. I didn't think about them much. My father went to his architecture office and my mother showed model homes, and at night they usually went out to dinner and ran around to their AA meetings. Some meetings they attended together, almost like a social thing. Some they went to separately so they could bitch about each other. Mostly they were people I shared a house with. They were kind of like older roommates, except I didn't pay rent.
        My experiences were pretty typical, I guess. Since I didn't have any friends, I gave off these kind of desperate, available vibes. Older guys around the mall started taking notice. They'd buy me drinks after work. Twice I woke up in my own bed missing some of my clothes with no idea of where I'd been the night before. Sometimes I'd get up after my parents left and there'd be coffee awaiting me in the machine and a note from Mom saying "Do you want to talk?" As my life took on a lurid glow, time stretched. The days and nights were endless, with so many low brow experiences packed into them.
        I don't know if it was still August, or perhaps September, when I went on one of these after work "dates" with a man who supplied paper cups to the mall food court. Seemed like whenever I was with these older guys, I could get in anywhere without being carded. So we go to the Jury Room on Ocean Street and it's dark and dank inside. We sit in a red vinyl booth and after a couple of Bacardi and cokes he's sitting real close. Then, boom! Black out!
        That was a Wednesday night and I was supposed to be at work at ten AM Thursday. Well, here's the scene next thing I know: I open my eyes and I'm lying on a twin bed in a small room. I'm wearing a knee length black skirt that's wet and doesn't belong to me. I'm wearing one of my Converse high tops. And that's it. That's all I'm wearing.
        The room is dark and I'm alone. I can smell old food -- maybe rotten take-out, maybe vomit. A digital clock on the floor says 10:53. Is it AM or PM? It's too dark inside to guess. My head pounds. There's a smelly gray army blanket wrapped partially around me, irritating my nipples. I'm so thirsty. My thigh is wet.
        I haul myself onto all fours and peer around me. My eyes adjust enough to see a pile of something mechanical in one corner. There's definitely lots of clothes around. I want to get the hell out of there but I can't find a light switch. I grope around in the semi dark but everything feels disgusting to my hands. I finally notice a small window with a towel thumb tacked over it. I rip down the towel and the stingy little window lets in a bit of light. Enough to know that it's definitely AM, and I'm missing work. Enough to see that my purse, my clothes, and my other shoe aren't present.
        If my head wasn't so heavy and my stomach so unsettled, I'd probably panic. But I'm too sick to panic. The window doesn't give me clues to my whereabouts; it's high and faces another building. Could this be Capitola? I think that's where the paper cup seller lives. I find a plaid shirt. It smells like a sweaty man, but what choice do I have? I button it over the wet skirt and make for the door in my one shoe.
        The door opens into a cement courtyard with a few scraggy bushes. I step out and stand in the late late summer glare. There's no one around except a toddler wearing a diaper and carrying a huge muffin. He looks at my one shoe then at my bare foot, and laughs. It's not going to do, this wearing of one shoe. I lean down, untie my shoe, remove the sock, and leave them on the stoop to the apartment I just left. I venture out of the courtyard, hoping I'm still in Santa Cruz.
        And at the end of the courtyard is Riverside Avenue. And there, just a block away, is the Giant Dipper. I'm so relieved I start to cry.
        The Boardwalk draws me toward it. Where else do I have to go? I pad barefoot into the Boardwalk bathroom and inspect the damage. My face is puffy and my right cheek is cut. I look bloated and about ten years older. My hair has lost its luster and seems to be darkening. I'm getting fat and my hair is turning brown! My clothes are wet and smell bad and they aren't even mine. Blessedly there's no full length mirror so I can't check out the extreme ugliness that is this shirt, this skirt. I go in a bathroom stall and cry quietly where no one will see me. I examine the wetness on my thigh and realize it is blood. Do I have my period? I can't remember when it's supposed to come. I don't want to think about the blood, the general soreness.
        You can't stay in a bathroom stall forever, even when you plan to die there. It's like a magazine article I once read that said you can't suffocate from holding your breath. Your body won't allow it. And so it was with the stall. Despite my intention of staying there until I died of heartbreak, loneliness or, eventually, of hunger, my fingers unlatched the lock and my bare feet padded outside and my eyes blinked painfully in the sun. The ocean flashed a magnificent blue and I yearned to throw off these dirty soggy clothes and cleanse myself in the salt water.
        As I stood there not knowing what to do next, a small red person appeared before me. "Hey, kid," said the Lobster. "You're looking a little rough." She wore her yellow Boardwalk shirt and navy polyester pants. One hand rested on her hip, the other held a cigarette. Her neck-length mop of copper hair rustled in the sea breeze. She was the size of a big child. I couldn't answer her. "You in trouble?" She peered at me. We both needed sunglasses on that bright morning.
        "I'm supposed to be at work," I moaned.
        "Where's work?"
        "Capitola Mall."
        She nodded thoughtfully. "You wanna use the Lobster's phone?"
        We walked down the Boardwalk together to her arcade. One thing that really struck me about the Lobster was how at ease she was. I usually think of funny-looking people as being insecure, always conscious of how out of place they are. But she walked around like she looked perfectly fine, and she was so convincing that no one even seemed to notice her extreme shortness and flaming skin. Instead, I felt like a freak, just because I was barefoot and my clothes didn't fit, even though I'm perfectly normal looking. People have even called me a knock out. And there I was, tagging along after the Lobster in her polyester pants.
        The Boardwalk only seemed halfway open. It was too late in the summer for kids. They were back in school. Some college age girls and guys were around, but luckily not many. Some older guys lurked alone, looking at the sea. I realized any of these could have been my date last night. I could have woke up in one of their apartments and maybe one of these men was thinking of returning to me now, maybe even planning to buy me breakfast. Maybe one of these men had something to do with the dried blood on my thigh. And what did I say in those forgotten dark hours to some forgotten dark face? Since the clothes I wore weren't mine, I must have been naked at some point or points in the night. What had I felt? Had I taken off my clothes or were they stripped from me? Did I put up a fight?
        The Lobster walked a few steps ahead of me. My feet moved slow and tender against the cement. Sharp things lurked amidst the sand and spilled drinks and cigarette butts.
        "It's going to be OK, kid. Kelly." I realized there were tears in my eyes just as I felt this great warm rush of gratitude and flattery that the Lobster remembered my name.
        We ducked into the arcade. The door was rolled up only three quarters of the way, like the arcade couldn't decide if it was open or not. The Lobster put on her apron and counted change into the pockets. She inhabited that place like her feet and hands knew every inch. She looked so at home I felt another tear slip from my eye. Had I ever felt so at home, so secure?
The arcade was silent. I'd never been in an arcade without kids yelling, balls rolling, lights flashing and games announcing victory with loud bleeps. It was so peaceful, like some remembered childhood when the ultimate goal was saving strips of Skeeball tickets and winning a stuffed animal.
        "You wanna play a game of Skeeball?" the Lobster asked. I guess I was staring at the machine. "Nothing better for you in the world than a game of Skeeball." She took some keys from her apron pocket, opened the metal compartment on the front of the machine, reached inside and tripped a wire with her finger. The heavy wooden balls rolled down.
        She got a broom and swept between the Boomball games, giving me my game undisturbed. My head felt about as thick as the wooden balls and I mostly just wanted to sit down. But if the Lobster thought Skeeball could help me, playing was the least I could do after she'd been so kind. And there was something comforting about the wooden balls and the sound they made rolling toward the fifty. Though I didn't care for the indecisive sound they made as they missed the fifty and rolled back and forth, back and forth, before dropping into the ten. I only scored 130, which pretty much sucks, but the Lobster didn't say a thing about it.
        I sat on a stool by the Pokereno machine. When she finished sweeping, she brought me the phone. I held it for a minute. What could I plead this time? I'd already used car trouble and sickness at least once each in the last month. "Try the 24 hour flu," the Lobster suggested. "Then you can get yourself together and go to work tomorrow." I couldn't think of anything better so I called and lied about the flu. My manager sounded professional as always, but I could tell she was ticked off.
        "When you're sick," she said, "you should call at the beginning of your shift. Not two hours into it." I apologized ten times, hung up, and felt even more like shit.
        "You ever patch things up with your friends after that night?' The Lobster asked
        "Uh uh. I'm a little low on friends these days."
        "Little low on shoes, too, I see." The Lobster smiled like she thought my bare feet were funny. Then I really lost it. I hated that the Lobster would laugh at me. Even though I'd just met her twice, she was the only person I trusted.
        "Oh, kid, kid, I'm sorry," she said when I started bawling. She really sounded concerned, which made me cry harder. "Kelly, kid, it's OK. I was just teasing you. So you don't have shoes. Big deal. I'm sorry."
        "I lost my shoes. And all my clothes! I don't even know who these clothes belong to!"
        "What happened?" she said gently. "You can tell the Lobster."
        So I told her: about the older guys at the mall, the Jury Room, the drinking and forgetting, the waking and wondering. A couple of teenagers, probably ditching high school, came in during my story. She excused herself to make change, but never told me to be quiet or leave, which I really appreciated. I couldn't have been good for business.
        She just listened without saying anything. She nodded every now and then. I hadn't told anyone about this life of older men and drinking.
        "I don't have a single friend," I concluded.
        "Maybe you're cut out to be a loner," she said. "Like the Lobster." I'd certainly never considered this possibility. "Why do you go out with these men?"
        I just looked at her. Really, going out with men pretty much seems like what girls do. When I hung out with Alicia and Felicia and Jessica, mostly we looked for boys. And now I'd moved up to men. If I met one decent man I guess I could have a boyfriend, which would be safer and more conventional. But they weren't decent, were they? I mean, look where I'd ended up, deserted in the Beach Flats without my clothes or purse.
        "Is it just because you don't want to be alone?" her voice was gentle but insistent.
        I shrugged. "Yeah. I guess. Who wants to be alone?"
        She smiled faintly. With her orange eyes and self assurance, I could almost imagine an attractive version of her. "Seems to me you could keep yourself better company than these men you're hanging out with."
        "I don't think I'm very strong that way," I whispered. In the sunlight my life looked pretty degraded. I let older guys put their dicks in me just for some drinks and to keep from being alone. When I was sober I remembered pregnancy and AIDS and stuff. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been sexually aroused with someone. Oh, the guy whose face I threw sand in. That seemed so long ago. I wished I hadn't thrown sand in his face. Better I'd thrown it at the guy last night, who'd let me wake up in that horrid studio in the Beach Flats. What if the guy on the beach could be my boyfriend now? Suddenly I ached for him, thought I didn't even know his name or what he looked like. My life might be totally different if I hadn't driven him away.
        A couple of employees showed up, two guys who looked about sixteen years old. After a minute I recognized one of them as Hector, the boy who took me home that night I threw Alicia's purse into the sea. I was embarrassed for him to see me in such disarray twice. It crossed my mind that he might not even realize I had nice parents and decent clothes and a brain in my head. He probably just thought I was a sleazebag.
        The Lobster left Hector in charge and told me she'd be right back. She gave me a couple of quarters. I couldn't bear to stand up again so instead of Skee ball, I played Pokereno. I rolled the rubber balls down a wooden alley, trying to make them fall into holes beside the aces. If I could just get four aces, my life would be better. I got a nine, a queen, and one ace. I leaned farther forward, my arm extended halfway down the alley, under the plastic guard designed to prevent cheating. "Hey! No leaning!" Hector called and I turned, horrified to be caught cheating, accidentally letting the ball loose. But he and the other boy were laughing, enjoying how intent I was on saving my life by winning Pokereno. I turned back to the game, ten times as self-conscious as I'd ever been, and saw that I'd got my second ace. I missed the third ace but got a second nine for two pairs. On my next game I got a full house and the boys clapped. I guess I didn't look as bad as I thought. Or maybe they just didn't have anything better to do since nobody else was in the arcade. I gathered up my tickets and counted 21 of them. Then the Lobster was at my elbow, offering me a huge Pepsi and a hot dog with mustard and relish.
        "Thought you might be hungry, kid." I didn't know if I should eat a hot dog in my condition, but I was so touched my eyes teared up. "No, no," the Lobster said. "People have fun in arcades. Eat your hot dog."
        I bit into the hot dog, which turned out to be delicious. "I got 21 tickets," I said.
        "You can get a temporary tattoo," she suggested. "Or a silver ring."
        "Or seven glow in the dark bugs!" Hector called from behind the counter.
        The Lobster went in the back room to order more prizes. I sat at the Pokereno machine until I finished my hot dog, then I went down to the beach. I put my bare feet in the cold water and wiggled my toes. The water was so cold it hurt. I heard the voice of my tenth grade gym teacher in my head. Whenever we complained of pain, she had said, "That's your body telling you it's alive!" She also never used the word "pain," instead substituting "stimulation."
        I climbed up the shore to where wet sand ended and dry sand began. I plopped down and felt the sand cool on my legs. The day was sparkly blue, but not warm enough to heat the sand. I sat there with my giant cup of Pepsi and tried to figure where I'd gone wrong. I knew it started before I threw that purse -- and my only friendships -- into the sea. There was that boy in tenth grade, a really good boy, that I threw over for a twelfth grader, only to have the senior sleep with a trampy girl from Santa Cruz High three days later. That had turned me cold against guys, and also tore me up with guilt. Had that been the turning point? But then I remembered eighth grade, when I hated a girl named Molly. I spied on her until I memorized the combination to her locker. I stole all her school books, threw them in the trash, then lied convincingly to the school counselor when I was accused. But that wasn't my first terrible act. In third grade I'd turned in the poem "Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to shit but only farted," signed with another student's name. He got in trouble and never even knew why, since the teacher was too prim to discuss the poem. All I did was laugh. But wait! In preschool, I purposely swung my feet into another kid's head while playing on the swing set, just to feel the thud of impact.
        I lay back in the sand. There had always been something wrong with me. I probably did awful things in infancy that I couldn't remember, that my parents were too kind or embarrassed to bring up.
        A couple of lone guys walked by on the beach. They looked like nice guys, lost in their thoughts, not looking at me twice. I wondered about the guy I threw sand at. I'd probably never know who he was, and I wondered whose apartment I'd woken up in, and thought about all the mean and senseless acts I'd committed in my life. My life. It was like a powerful throbbing blob, some evil organism that encompassed me. I certainly had little control over it. My life seemed so much bigger than me, with all its messy lapses of sense and the way it randomly kicked other people.
        The Lobster came to find me after I don't know how much time had passed. She said Hector could drive me home on his lunch break if I wanted a ride. I wanted to spend the day on the beach, away from the room I grew up in, which would just remind me of my terrible life. But then I imagined arriving home in the evening, after my parents came home from work, and them seeing me like this. "OK," I said and could feel how feeble my smile was.
        Hector was cute and polite on the way home. The Lobster must have filled him in on my condition, because he was very sensitive. Was the music too loud? Was the breeze bothering me? Should he roll up his window? His car was old, black and dusty. He had three buttons preset to Spanish music stations. I looked at this neatly trimmed black hair, his confident brown hands on the wheel, and wondered why Alicia, Felicia, Jessica and I had always ignored Mexican boys. Dating a Mexican boy had seemed as unlikely as dating another girl. I'd never even thought about it before.
        He caught me staring at him and a nervous look flashed across his face. He probably only dated nice girls. I'd never thought of myself as other than a nice girl until about a month earlier. My head was a mess. I needed a shower and a long nap in a clean bed. Or maybe a hot bath. And some vitamins.
        "How long have you worked with the Lobster?" I asked as we drove along Soquel Drive.
        "Two years," he said. "I started at the arcade when I was fifteen." His accent sounded sexy. What was wrong with me?
        "Do you like it?"
        "The Lobster has heart. She's the best manager at the Boardwalk."
        "She's sure helped me out."
        His brow furrowed. "It will be different when she goes away."
        "Where would she go?" My heart felt like it skipped a beat, which was kind of an extreme reaction. I'd only met her twice. And where could she fit in like she did at the arcade?
        "I don't know. Wherever they send her. After she wins the contest."
        "Contest?"
        "Yes! The international Skee ball tournament in Pennsylvania. It's next month. She practices every night."
        I'd never heard of any Skee ball contests. I started to think I was already home, hallucinating, in my bed. Maybe I hadn't been at the Boardwalk at all. Maybe I hadn't woken up in a stranger's apartment. Maybe I wasn't even late for work.
        When we got to my house, I remembered that my keys were in my lost purse. "Shit," I groaned.
        "What is it?"
        "My keys. I don't have them."
        We sat in his car, the motor running. "Maybe I can get in through a window. I'll be OK. You can go back to work."
        He turned off the engine. "Not until you get inside." He reminded me of that boy I'd thrown over in tenth grade, all politeness and concern.
        We walked to the gate at the side of the house. I reached over to unlatch it, and we walked into my backyard. The grass was a bit overgrown, but we had some pretty flowers, some kind that didn't need much attention, because God knows my parents didn't have time for gardening. "You know how to break into houses?" I asked as we faced the back door.
        This awful look passed across his face, pain and anger. It chilled me; I didn't know if he'd punch me or just walk out my gate. "I didn't mean anything," I said, confused.
        "You think just because I'm..."
        "No! I swear I didn't mean anything like that," I said, interrupting him before he could say "Mexican." I felt like shit. He thought I was some nasty racist and I hadn't meant that at all. If I'd asked a white boy from high school if he knew how to break in, he would have shown off pretending like he knew all about it. No one had ever accused me of being racist. I could feel tears on my cheeks. "I swear I didn't mean anything. You have been so nice to me. I was just kidding around. I didn't mean a thing."
        He looked even more pained by my tears, but not angry now. "I've always worked," he said. "Before the Boardwalk, I helped my mother clean people's houses. But people see me, they think I'm just a lazy kid. Or selling drugs. They think I stole my own car!"
        "I'm sorry. You can go. I'll figure out how to get in." He stood in the yard while I walked to the kitchen window. Breaking into my house turned out to be as easy as sliding the kitchen window up. If I'd just walked over and done that in the first place, we could have skipped the anger and tears.
        The window was too high. Hector wove his fingers together so I could get a leg up. I wished my clothes didn't smell so bad. I almost wanted to tell him they weren't mine, but that would make me sound even worse. I brushed my hand across his hair accidentally. It was so soft and glossy. Our eyes met for a second, then I was in the window. "Would you like to come in?" I asked from inside my house. "I could make you a sandwich."
        "No thanks. I have to go back to work."
        "Thanks for taking me home, Hector."
        He left quickly, still looking shook up.
        As soon as I was alone I started crying because my dog wasn't there. Why had he been hit by a car? Would I ever get over it?
        Just one glass of wine might have helped. Just a couple of ounces of vodka and my nerves would be calmer. But my clean and sober parents wouldn't keep even one goddamn beer in the fridge.
        I turned the TV on loud so I could hear it over the bath water. I stripped and stuffed the awful clothes into a plastic sack headed straight for the garbage. But I couldn't even stand to have those clothes in the house, so I opened the bathroom window and threw the sack into the yard. As I sank into the hot bath, the contents of my lost purse tugged at my consciousness. The keys. Driver's license. Maxed out VISA card. GAP card. My favorite lipstick. Phone numbers of men I'd never call. All I wanted was oblivion and cleanliness. First to be clean, then asleep in a clean bed. Without dreams. I scrubbed the blood off my thigh.
        I turned the TV off before getting into bed. I love to sleep during the day when it's sunny through the windows and everybody else is at work. As I drifted off I could fee the Skee balls in my hand, hear their calming roll up the alley, every ball in the fifty, every fifty pulling me closer to perfect sleep.

        I didn't wake up until midnight. My parents had already gone to bed. I wandered about the house in my socks, trying to be quiet, opening and shutting the refrigerator door, turning the TV on low, reading three lines of an article about skin care in my mother's latest Self magazine. I wandered outside onto the back deck. The temperature had cooled. A moon hung almost full between stars. My neighborhood was completely quiet. I was just me and the moon in my backyard, the moon much more full and alive than me. I felt like it was telling me something. Like it was only there for me. Everyone must be asleep for miles. I remembered waking up as a child and fearing that everyone else had died in their sleep. I felt like that now. Just me and the moon. The moon and me. Maybe the sun would never return and the moon and I would live out our lives together. And who did I want to be, a drunken lunatic living under a cold moon, laughing and dancing like an evil thing with no friends at all? Or a sane woman, in harmony with the moon, who felt it glowing down on her like a friend? The moon would never drink with me. Did I want to leave it hanging alone and friendless when we were the only two things left? Or could we, perhaps, glow in sync?
        Right then, I promised the moon not to drink, and I saw it wink at me. Really. The whole glowing disc was like an eye, the darkness above was its eyelid, which shut top down then slid up again. I saw it clearly, and by this time I was not a bit drunk. I promised the moon. The moon winked. We had a deal. How could I cheat the moon?
        But it wasn't easy. I was wrong about it just being me and the moon forever. I sat out there with the moon for hours. It moved in the sky and lost its power and then came a lightening of the sky and what do you know, the sun came back after all. And it brought parents with questions, and a job I was supposed to be at, and my car, I assumed, still in the Capitola Mall parking lot, and not outside my house where I could drive it.
        I walked into the kitchen and found my parents sitting at the table with a newspaper. My dad had a mug of coffee, my mom a pot of green tea. She was blond like me, but crinkled with sun and age, and sure that green tea could reverse that. They both looked up, startled to see me.
        "Where have you been the last two nights? Mom asked coolly. She was probably reciting the Serenity Prayer like crazy in her head.
        "I was here last night," I said.
        "We didn't see your car," Dad said.
        "I left it at work. Went out with friends. Which reminds me. Can one of you give me a ride to the mall?"
        My parents looked at each other and I felt this little tug of terror in my gut. I was almost nineteen years old. They could easily throw me out of their house. This had never occurred to me as a real possibility before. But I'd changed a lot just in the last couple of months. I didn't seem like the kind of person they'd want to introduce as their daughter. Especially not to their AA friends. One thing all the AA people seemed to have in common was a knack for putting themselves first, and I wasn't adding to my parents' quality of life.
        "Sure," Dad said. "I'll give you a ride. But we have to leave in fifteen minutes."
Then they both returned to the newspaper, like they'd decide to wash their hands of me. The tug in my gut turned to a chill.
        I stood there, ignored, for three more seconds, then went upstairs to dress for work. I was going to be about two hours early, but if Dad took me to my car I could drive around for a while, maybe go to Capitola Village and walk on the beach. I put on a peach sweater and black pants, brushed my hair and applied mascara, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, blush and lipstick. I even put on rose perfume. After yesterday, I wanted to look and smell good. I found an old black purse I'd saved for the Goodwill, spare keys to my house and car, and was ready to go.
        "Kelly!" Dad called from downstairs. "Come on!" I took a last look in the mirror. I looked perfectly acceptable, like someone who could pass for your daughter or your salesgirl at the mall.
        "How are things going at work?" Dad asked as he drove. He had dark curly hair and wore sunglasses. He didn't look too bad for being someone's dad.
        "Fine."
        "Your manager called twice yesterday morning. To see where you were."
        "I was late," I said irritably. "I talked to her. I took care of it."
        "When do your classes start?"
        "I don't know." Right then, I had no idea what week it was.
         "Charlie said Ralph started school last week." Charlie was Dad's best friend. They went fishing and to AA meetings together. Ralph was his ugly annoying son who was always held up to me as perfect. If he was so perfect, he'd be going to a real university, not Cabrillo College, like me.
        Then it hit me. I'd forgotten to start school and no one had even reminded me! We drove in quiet for about six blocks while I tried to get a hold of myself. My parents had probably not told me about school on purpose, just so they could point out what a fuck up I was. Tough love and all that bullshit.
        "I think my classes start next week."
        "Oh? That's strange."
        "Yes," I said through clenched teeth. "Isn't it."
        The mall loomed up before us. I could hardly wait to be there, out of Dad's car. He started to turn into the parking lot, but I told him to just let me out on the sidewalk.
        "See you tonight?" he said, taking off his sunglasses and looking right at me.
        "Yeah," I said, slamming the door. "Sure."
        I hated Dad and Mom and Charlie and Ralph and my manager and all those men and just about everybody, really.
        Very few cars were in the lot and none of them was mine. I walked all the way around the mall three times, my anxiety mounting. My car was definitely missing. Had it been stolen? Should I call the police? Had I driven it somewhere in a blackout? Maybe I'd driven myself to the Beach Flats. Maybe my car was still down there somewhere.
        I sat on the curb outside the mall. Just when I was about to scream, I remembered the moon winking at me. So my life looked like shit on the surface. I'd forgotten to start school. I'd lost my car and all my friends. My parents loathed me. But how many people have seen the moon wink? And it had winked at ME, Kelly Wood. Who was I to let the moon down after it had chosen me? I, friend of the moon, would not fall apart just because a bunch of stupid shit happened on the earth.
        Luckily, this calm remained with me, even after the mall opened, after I reported to work, during and after receiving the news that I was fired. "I'm sorry, Kelly," my ex-manager said. "You do good work when you're here. But you've missed so many days of work, and sometimes, like yesterday, you leave us in a real bind." I concentrated on a visible booger marring her otherwise perfect, professional appearance. I took comfort in that booger. "I just don't feel confident relying on you to show up for work." She gave me my final paycheck, which was already waiting in an envelope for me even though pay day wasn't until next week.
        I still knew people in the mall, so I got a guy at Chick-Fil-A to cash my paycheck. I wandered through the mall for the last time. Everything seemed so phoney, I couldn't believe I'd spent hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours of my life working and shopping here. There were shop windows filled with expensive stylish clothes for young people, and next to those were shop windows filled with cheap knock offs of expensive stylish outfits. The clothes all looked about the same. They made me think of Felicia, Alicia and Jessica. We used to call each other to decide what we would wear, so we'd look good together. We planned our lives like mannequins in a display window. And now, after losing my car and job and friends, I feel half as lonely as you might think.
        Next I had to look for my car. I waited on the bench outside the mall until the bus came. When the bus was halfway to downtown, a tall dark-haired guy boarded and sat down behind me. I had this feeling about him that he was the man who had kissed me on the beach. My heart sped up. I was sure the man would recognize me. I sat stiffly, not daring to turn around, waiting for his hand to lightly touch my hair in recognition. I wanted to whirl around and apologize for the sand in his face. I sat, trying to summon the nerve, for about two miles. Then he got off the bus.
        I felt a little less good than at the beginning of my ride. So many things in life were mysteries. Where did my car go? Who did I kiss? Whose apartment did I wake up in?
        I got off at the downtown bus station. I bought a cup of coffee at the Santa Cruz Coffee Roasting Company, where they make it by the cup so it's always strong and dark and perfectly fresh. The smell alone uplifted me. I knew drinking the whole cup would do wonders.
        I walked along the San Lorenzo River toward the Beach Flats. It was a tidal river at low tide, seagulls walking around the slick bottom, picking out tidbits of muck or fish guts or something, I couldn't see that far. The river curved away from me at Riverside Avenue. I went with the avenue, searching for my car in the lots of sleazy $26/night, weekly rates available, motels. This was a weekday, it must have been September, so there weren't many people out. I turned a corner deeper into the Flats and the population increased. Mostly young Mexican guys out selling some morning crack or heroin. "What you need today?" one of them whispered as I passed. I walked faster. My car was too red to hide, but I didn't see it anywhere. I passed the apartment complex I'd awoken in the previous morning. No car. I crisscrossed all the streets in the Flats, not seeing my car, increasingly aware that my impeccable salesgirl look stood out around here.
        The Beach Flats cover a small area. Before long, all the streets dead end at the Boardwalk. And so I wound up in the Lobster's arcade for a second day in a row.
        "Hey, kid, you look great!" the Lobster greeted me. She stood atop a Pokereno machine, unjamming a stuck ball with a long stick.
        "Better than yesterday, I hope."
        "Things going better?"
        I had some problems, but at least I knew where I'd spent the night. "Things aren't really going like they should. But for some reason I don't care so much."
        She smiled. "That's the secret to life."
        At that moment, I thought she was right. I'd been wondering about that secret for a while.
        There wasn't a customer in the arcade, and no one else was working yet. We sat on the Pokereno stools.
        "You wanna tell the Lobster what's going on?" She looked good this morning, too, or maybe I was getting used to her weird looks.
        "Oh, I came down here looking for my missing car. My day was suddenly freed up because I got fired. And my dad pointed out that my college classes started last week but I forgot to go.
        The Lobster laughed so hard she doubled over and quarters rained down from her apron. "Oh, that's all? No wonder you look so good."
        "Hector said you have a big contest coming up."
        She suddenly looked serious. "Yes."
        I wanted her to tell me about it, but she didn't go on. "It's a Skee ball contest, right?"
        She nodded. "The international tournament."
        "Wow." This was too weird. "What happens if you win?"
        She smiled a little smile, but her face looked strained. "Life won't be so simple anymore."
        We were both real quiet for a couple of minutes, looking outside the arcade at the pirate swing ride. It hung still, no wannabe buccaneers lining up to ride. The season had grown late, and soon the Boardwalk would only open on weekends.
        "Don't you want to win?"
        "Of course. Everyone wants to win. You can't help that."
        We might have sat there for hours all grim and quiet. But after a few minutes, Hector walked in. "Hey, you look nice," he said. I think we both blushed. He looked cute, even in Boardwalk attire. I remembered how soft his hair was.
        The Lobster set me up with a free game of Skee ball. "Why don't you play?" I asked.
        "I don't play during work hours."
        "She'd scare away the customers!" Hector said. "How many perfect games of 450 could they stand to watch?"
        Hector watched me play but the Lobster discreetly removed herself to stock the prize shelves. I made 200 this time, which wasn't so bad. I won two tickets, for which Hector offered me a glow in the dark plastic bug. I chose a praying mantis.
        After my game, I returned to the serious business of looking for my car. I'd exhausted the Beach Flats, so determined to climb Beach Hill. The hill looked out over the ocean and over the Flats. Up there, the houses were Victorian and the people were Anglo. I'd heard people say it was nicer because junkies can't climb hills.
        I saw some gorgeous ocean views, but no car. The day was moodier than yesterday, with dark grayish blue patches int he ocean and sneaky clouds above. I walked up every street, but no red Chevette.
        I wandered back down the hill and sat on the beach and thought about my future. For a second it seemed like life would be much easier with a paper cup of Bacardi and Pepsi in my hand. I wouldn't have to feel so much. I'd worry less about the job I lost and the classes I missed. Just when the bad feeling in my stomach took over and life seemed like a dead end, I heard my name.
        "Kelly!" I heard on the wind. "Kelly!" And there was Hector, twenty feet away and rapidly closing in. "I was looking for you. Do you want to ride the Giant Dipper?"
        "Right now?" Roller coasters are the opposite of depression. Could I switch moods that fast?
        But Hector gave me no chance to hesitate. He reached a hand down and helped me up.
"I don't think I've ridden the giant Dipper all summer," I said.
        "Well come on, then!"
        There was no line, and the kid at the gate let me and Hector on for free. The Dipper was ancient, maybe 70 years old, and made entirely of wood. The whole structure shook as the coaster approached the platform.
        Somehow we got the coveted first row seats, and then we zoomed up and down, tracks clattering, sun emerging from behind a cloud. I shrieked and we both laughed. We caught each other's eye at one point and I saw the happiness in his face that I felt in mine. There was nothing in the world I could do about the rising and falling of the coaster.
        When we got off the Dipper, I felt reborn. "Thank you," I whispered to Hector. "Thank you."
        "No problem."
        We returned to the arcade. "How was the Dipper?" asked the Lobster.
        "Perfect," I said, realizing she'd put Hector up to it. But that was even better. No one had ever looked out for me like the Lobster.

        I became a fixture in that arcade. For the next several weeks leading up to the Lobster's tournament, I was in there every day and night. My life outside the arcade was rocky. My parents were furious about the lost car and job and classes. I went to see some professors at Cabrillo College, but only the creative writing teacher let me join class a week late. So all I had going was a writing class two days per week.
        The nights were best. The Boardwalk cut back its hours in September, so now it closed at six. Everyone left but the Lobster and Yeardly, the night watchman. The Lobster closed herself inside the arcade and practiced Skee ball for two or three hours every night. She let me sit in there as long as I didn't talk much. I loved to watch her play. Here she was at her most graceful. Her movements were small and economical, her concentration total. She had a rhythm where there was the same amount of time between each ball. If I closed my eyes it sounded like the perfect machine. Roll..... drop. Roll..... drop, into the fifty, over and over. The tournament would consist of one player at a time playing ten games in a row. Whoever had the high score won. In case of ties, each player played ten more games. And the winner?
        "Travel." She smiled that tight little smile, the only nervousness in her totally cool demeanor. "Travel and money. Go around the country and promote Skee ball. And maybe go to Japan. They think it's about to catch on big over there."
        It hypnotized me, the sound of her wooden balls rolling and dropping, rolling and dropping. Tranquilized my nerves. And after two hours of watching her, Yeardly the night watchman came to take me to an AA meeting.
        The Lobster and Yeardly had a deal. He let the Lobster play Skee ball after hours, and she covered his shift for an hour and a half while he went to the AA meeting he never missed. As far as I could tell, both Yeardly and the Lobster worked seven days per week. Their arrangement was totally against Boardwalk rules, but management seemed to leave them alone. I guess employees willing to work seven days per week in season, and never complain, are hard to find. So Yeardly took me to his meeting, which was in the old train depot just over Beach Hill. I never had to worry that I'd run into my parents at this meeting. This was the haven of the down and out, where half the attendees seemed to be homeless people after free hot coffee. Everyone sat at long wooden tables facing a podium up front. People talked and ranted. Many appeared drunk. Some people couldn't sit still, instead jumping up and stomping out, only to stomp back in three minutes later and demand a cigarette. The place was lousy with smoke. Somehow I found the repetitious readings from the AA book comforting, not unlike Skee ball. After my first few meetings, I felt the knot in my gut relax as soon as someone said, "This is 'How it Works' from chapter five of the AA Big Book: 'Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path....'"
        Yeardly was an odd fellow, probably fifty years old and single. He looked like he'd had a pretty rough life. He was skinny and over six feet tall. In the light, his skin was sallow and pocked. He walked stiffly, and barely talked on the way to or from the meetings. If the Lobster hadn't endorsed Yeardly, I would have definitely found him creepy. He talked more in AA meetings than in casual conversation, but his speech was like some memorized summary of his mishaps, a prayer to Saint Sobriety that he'd been repeating for years. Every time he talked in a meeting, he started with, "Drinking led me straight down the shitter. I been beat up with rifle butts, stabbed in the gut, shot in the head, pushed out of a moving car, dropped in a well and left for three days, had my eyeball knocked out and been attacked by a bear." This litany gave me the giggles, and I had to dig my fingernails into my arm to regain composure. It was awful to want to laugh at poor Yeardly's misfortunes. But how had drinking led to bear attack? And both his eyes looked perfectly normal.
        I guess I felt above these AA people in some ways. They made me look pretty good. What's a lost job and car and some missed college classes next to stabbing and beating and bear attack? I might have lost hours of memory, but my eyeballs were intact.
        Then again, if these people had survived such dreadful misfortunes, what did I have to whine about? These people were tough. Survivors. They had something I wanted.
        After the meeting, Yeardly walked me downtown to the bus station and I took my bus home. This is strange to say, since anyone would think my life up to this summer had been nearly perfect, what with my parents having a nice house and my friends being popular and I was probably the prettiest girl at Soquel High and my hair was naturally blond. But I have to say it: These were the happiest days of my life up to that point.
        Of course, perfection never lasts. The days grew shorter and the tournament closer. The Lobster practiced Skee ball far into the night. I never doubted she'd win the tournament and even though I wanted her to stay in Santa Cruz, I couldn't begrudge her win. She was right: everyone wants to win, even if they don't like the prize. Look at her Skee ball arcade. The prizes were junk, useless plastic things, most of them hideous. But everyone who came into that arcade wanted strips and strips of tickets, longer than their arms.
        Two days before the tournament, the Lobster took me aside. I could see the veins in her forehead and the circles beneath her eyes. I couldn't remember her smiling in the last week. "Kid," she said. "I might be gone a while. You think you could look after some stuff for me?" I nodded. I felt like crying, like she was telling me she had cancer and would soon be dead. I suspected I'd never see her again. She took a key out of her change-making apron. "My apartment's paid up for three months. Maybe you could look in on it a couple of times a week. Take in the mail, if any comes. Water my plants."
        "Sure, Lobster."
        "If you need a place to stay, you can stay there." I'd never even been to her apartment. "And I don't know if you're looking for work, but if I win this tournament, Hector will be manager here and he'll need someone to work weekends this winter. I'll put your name in front of the bigwigs if you want." I nodded some more. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine what I'd do without the arcade, without the Lobster. "You're gonna make it, kid," the Lobster said, smiling.
        And that was it. Hector drove her to the airport that Saturday night, and when I saw him Sunday he was quiet and sad. The day was gloomy and hardly anyone was at the Boardwalk. It was the last day of the season. The boardwalk would only open from twelve to five on Saturdays and Sundays until late spring of next year. Winter in Santa Cruz brings rain and fierce wind. Skee ball players would have to bundle up against the gusts coming off the Pacific through the wide open arcade door.
        Hector was the only worker int he arcade. We sat on the Pokereno stools, feeling gloomy, until someone came to relieve him for his break. "Let's go on the Ferris wheel," he said.
        As the wheel lazily rolled us up, down, and around, Hector looked at me and smiled. "The Lobster says you're gonna come work for me." I didn't answer because I hadn't promised anything. I hadn't really decided. "You better do the paperwork this week and get your uniform 'cause I'll need you next Saturday."
        From the height of the wheel, I surveyed the Lobster's domain. There was her cotton candy stand, and the kiosk by the arcade where she got her Pepsi. There was the Giant Dipper, clattering down its wooden tracks carrying just four riders. There was the carousel with three green seahorses on top. Beyond stretched the Beach Flats. I wondered which building was the Lobster's home. I'd go find it that afternoon and check on her plants.
        "Yeah," I said. "Next Saturday." the gray skies weren't so gloomy. They looked soft like dirty cotton.
        I could feel the Lobster all around us.