The verb ‘to moon’ once had dreamlike qualities. It meant either to be infatuated romantically or to roam aimlessly. Mooning is also the word that has long been attached to the crude practice of exposing one’s fanny to prove a point. Sometimes, you can’t be heard unless you do something shocking.
“Cute shoes,” Mike told me as we stomped up the stairs.
“Thanks, but they’re totally uncomfortable, lumpy even,” I noted, disappointed. Raina’s gift was so sweet, so unexpected. It sucked that they weren’t as perfect as her intentions had been.
In our corner, binoculars in hand, Mike pointed to the beach. The hot August sun was sinking behind the sea. Tourists loitered, soaking up the leftovers. Two old men stood there, hands on hips, staring out at the sea, bulging bellies hanging over their swimming trunks.
I shrugged. “I don’t get it.”
“Watch.”
Two swift tugs, and the two men dropped their trunks. I gasped. Two pasty white butts with a forest of curly hairs darted for the sea – two full moons shocking the heck out of tourists and me. My breath caught in my throat and I barreled over laughing.
“How did you know?” I questioned.
Mike chuckled. “Bill and Ted – yes, that’s really their names – do that about once every three months. They made some kind of bet with each other when they were kids and they’ve just kept on doing it. It’s the worst in the winter, especially when you see them coming out of the icy ocean.”
Laughter spilled from both of us, and it felt good. Bill and Ted splashed and dove into the waves briefly, before heading back to the shore. I averted my eyes. I smiled and set my binoculars down. Below, I heard the faint sound of a car door close and the hum of an engine. Sam was leaving. My smile faded.
“You okay?”
“Course.”
“Sorry if I interrupted something down there,” Mike said again. “My timing seemed bad.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I returned. “Our binocular moments never keep to a schedule and it truly would’ve been a shame to miss that.” I laughed, and though it trickled out of me, it didn’t feel real.
“Things okay with Robo-Cop?” Mike grinned. Mike always referred to Sam this way, and the nickname fit, though I’m not sure he meant it as playfully as I took it. Still, his question stuck in my throat like an allergen, making me want to cry.
I didn’t linger on the rooftop with Mike. I tossed out a few excuses about work, and retreated back to the empty store. Once back inside, I paced the length of the shelves, for no reason in particular. I climbed up the spiral staircase, and meandered along the open balcony. I leaned over the railing, staring down at the dark counter. It’ll be great. Sam had etched those words on the dust-caked counter the first day I came to Tipee. A smile crossed my lips. Then, I envisioned a make-shift science experiment on that counter. A car battery. Dead cockroach. I laughed, out loud.
I turned around and scanned the titles. I found Frankenstein and flipped through its pages. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?
I smirked. Frankenstein’s monster and I have some things in common. I set the book back upon the shelf.
I needed to stop mooning or roaming aimlessly and give people a jolt, not by exposing my bummer, of course, but by exposing myself in a different way. Great Aunt Laura made books come alive for people. Maybe there was a way I could do the same thing.