Bodega

A thick coastal cloud covers the town of Bodega turning the midday into evening. Only a few minutes inland from the highway, Bodega inhabits a different universe than Bodega Bay its touristy neighbor on the coast. The one-block main street is almost deserted and the fading buildings make the town look like an old maiden that gave up all hope, and no longer spends any time in front of the mirror. Alfred Hitchcock chose Bodega as the locale for the atmospheric thriller "The Birds", yet apparently fame did not translate into prosperity.

The renovated historic schoolhouse, which featured in the movie, stands in contrast to the dilapidated stores around it. In front of the school house, two middle aged women, wearing tight leotards and white feather hats place a laptop on the pavement. They adjust it until the webcam captures the building, and then they stand in front of the laptop, flapping their arms. Are they dancing or maybe trying to recreate a scene from the movie? I inquire about their activities, but they bluntly disregard me and continue to talk to each other in a language that sounds like a hybrid of Swedish and Dutch.

Across the street, a large man wearing faded denim overalls is watching the feathered women. He is standing besides an old wooden cabin with a barely readable "Antique" plaque in the storefront window. The window is dusty, and is obscured by a faded curtain. He watches intently, but his face shows no emotion. I cross to his side of the street, but he does not avert his eyes. He assumes I am not a costumer. It has been a long while since the last costumer stepped into the store.

Next door a red neon signs reads "Casino". I peer through the narrow window, but it is too dark inside. In the doorway stands a wiry man in boots, jeans, and a leather vest. His grey pony tail is tied tightly by a leather strap. The end of a elaborate tattoo peers out of his collar. I am sure his Harley is somewhere around.

"Is this really a casino?" I ask.

"No," he answers, boulders gurgling in his throat as he speaks, "It's just a name."

He barely moves aside to let me through. I let my eyes adjust to the dark. I am the only costumer.

"Hello Honey," the plump middle age blond welcomes me from behind the bar, "how are we feeling today?"


I sip my beer quickly and go out, past the ponytail, to the street and my pickup parked by the schoolhouse.


OR

I sip my beer quickly, hoping to finish it and get out. However, with each sip, the music is transforming to a pulsating sensual flow, and the waitress is becoming attractive. The side of the bar that until now was in darkness seems to be faintly glowing. There is a door in that wall and when I touch it, it opens into a brightly lit room.

Edgar

Little Edgar was fascinated by the sea. He loved the sound of the waves crashing on shore. After a couple of years, his parents decided that this fascination was not so cute any more.

"The sea is far, far away," they explained patiently. But how do you tell a little boy that their tribe has been living in this desert for generations, thousands of miles from the nearest body of water?

When the rest of the boys played soccer on the arid desert soil, Edgar would wander over to the beach and enjoy the moist and cool ocean breeze.

"How was the beach? " his friends teased him, "Catch any fish?"

He learned not to invite them, and they got used to his absences. He could walk around the whole Island before the rest of the teenagers wrapped up their games and went home for dinner.

"You can't be a sailor" said the tribe elders, "Look at all the land we reclaimed from the desert and turned into green. You need to contribute your share."

Edgar focused on the drip irrigation systems. He would get up early to work under the desert sun, but during the long lunch break, he would wander off to the beach, sit under the palm trees, and longingly look at the hints of other islands on the far horizon.

The young women were intrigued by his handsome looks and mysterious absences, some even became his friends. None walked over to the beach with him, and even those who loved him, eventually decided he was too strange, and left.

He became known as an irrigation expert and was asked to help the other tribes in the desert. Between trips, he would go to his special cove, where he constructed a small wooden sailboat. He trained younger men in the intricacies of the irrigation technology, and spent most of his days sailing. He even reached some of the surrounding islands. At first people marveled at his stories of the far away islands and the strange people that live there.

"What a wonderful imagination," they said, "you should write a book."

However, with time, less and less people wanted to listen to his stories. His friends too avoided him. For the first time in his life, Edgar felt that he did not belong.

One morning, an unusual fog lay low over the water. A tall sailing ship emerged from the fog and glided towards Edgar. There was no one on board. He stood on the deck, and the ship moved silently away from shore. Edgar watched as the land slowly faded into white, then walked to the bow and faced the parting mist.