[Santo - The Beach]

[walk_ins]

[master post]

You have to walk down a ramp to get to the sand. The ramp stretches over sand dunes, with sea oats dotting them, blowing in the near-constant breeze. On the same level as the ramp: a boardwalk, dotted with places to get sketchy-looking fried food, to try your luck at a number of games of chance, to watch performers, to ride roller coasters of the future!!!!

When you walk down the ramp, it's all white sand and blue water. Down about half a mile is a pier that juts out several hundred feet.

It's a nice beach. Not too crowded.

Comments

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

He's got to find a way in.

This is the first time he's talked to somebody who didn't know.

"I used to own a bar," he says.

I am in this moment.

"With this guy. We grew up together. Tom. His name was Tom Seybolt. And he had a wife. And a daughter and a son. And they called me Uncle Charlie. And I had a wife. And I was a cop most of the time. Most of the time." His voice is even. It's coming with obvious effort.

"Tom, and his wife, and their son were murdered. Their daughter -- I haven't found her. Not yet. And I -- "

He makes himself take a breath in, and out.

"I need a drink. Is what I need. But I better finish it because I started it and so it goes like this. Twelve years. Maximum security prison. State, not federal. Solitary. Cop put away for a triple murder, I don't know what else anybody was gonna expect, and it wasn't behavior, you know? It was me being a target. And then -- after I --

"Constance. She -- looked at my case, and she -- she saw the, the discrepancies -- and. DNA evidence. It didn't match. She got it reopened and I got out. After twelve years. Divorced, after the first four. Mom's dead. And I got my job back. Part of the settlement. Only I got the promotion and now I get to fight crime."

Before Simon says anything: "There was some Zen in there, too. Is that still around?"

[simon_doctor]

And it's --

Twelve years.

There's more of it trying to hammer at him -- divorced hits hard, as does Mom's dead -- but that's the part his mind keeps repeating: twelve years.

In solitary confinement.



Twelve years.



Simon takes a breath, and says "Yes, that's still around. Buddhism in one form or another is the most prevalent religion in the settled worlds."

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

Charlie knows he's getting worked up. He hears, in Constance's voice: Where did you go?

I'm still here, he answers.

The word for his smile is fragile.

It's also sincere. "That's good. Almost as good as flying cars."

[simon_doctor]

He has no idea what to say.

"Are you a Buddhist?"

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"Kinda. Ish. Not a real religious one, though. I don't wanna be bald. And I like hot dogs. And if enlightenment's gonna come like a thunderclap anyhow -- " Charlie shrugs, a jerky movement.

He could say, It's a tool to keep me together. You're the medical professional, so maybe you could tell me whether or not you think I'm kind of crazy. I do. He doesn't say that.

[simon_doctor]

Simon has experience with one or two kinds of crazy.



"How long has it been since...?"

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"Little under two months." His eyes are still on the water. The sun isn't quite low enough that it reflects right into somebody's eyes. It will be soon, though. Charlie has his sunglasses.

[simon_doctor]

He's quiet for a while.




Twelve years.

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"You know what I missed the most?" Charlie doesn't wait for an answer. "Fruit. Fresh fruit. Any kind. Except mushy pears, I never liked those. Regular pears are fine. If they're really firm. But not too firm, because then you gotta go to the dentist if you're not careful."

[simon_doctor]

"Fresh fruit's hard to get on board a ship, too," he says -- it's inane, but it's better than not speaking at all. "Before we found Milliways, fruit was something we could only get once in a very long while."

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"And then there's nothing like that first bite."

He sounds a lot calmer than before. More relaxed.

[simon_doctor]

"Mm."

A middle-aged woman in a flower-print wrap over a black swimsuit walks past them, towing a complaining small boy by the hand.

"What's the strangest fruit you've ever eaten?"

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"A brown-sugar persimmon. I had to go to the farmer's market about sixty miles away. But I tried it. It's not my favorite. But it was all right."

[simon_doctor]

"Did they have red carambola in your time? I think they're a relatively recent breed."

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"...not that I know of." Charlie squints at the horizon. "What's it like? Apple? Citrus?"

[simon_doctor]

"Not much like either. It's a tropical berry, with a sort of ribbed shape -- when you cut it across," he gestures illustratively, "the slices are shaped like five- or six-pointed stars. The red ones grow to about the size of a lemon. The white ones are larger, I think. Not as sweet."

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"Sweet's good." Simon gets another sidelong look. "Citrus is best. Then grapes. But sweet's good in general."

[simon_doctor]

"My wife's favorite is strawberries."

He finds himself wondering if she's ever tried red carambola, and if he could get the bar to produce some.

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"Those are pretty good too. Only it's hard to get really ripe ones. They go better in things. Like ice cream. Maybe. Or on top of ice cream, now that's good."

[simon_doctor]

"Or chocolate-dipped," he offers.

It's a strange conversation to be having, but it seems right somehow.

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

Charlie blinks.

"That blocks out the flavor," he says, puzzled.

[simon_doctor]

"...Not that I ever noticed." Simon sounds slightly puzzled as well.

After all, one bites through the chocolate.

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"It does, though," Charlie insists. "You bite in and there's not just strawberry, and it takes it over, and it totally ruins it."

[simon_doctor]

"I suppose it's a matter of taste," he says, trying not to sound dubious.

[still-a-cop.livejournal.com]

"Something like that."

For a moment he's almost tempted to apologize. But why should he do that? He's tempted to say, Maybe I'll feel a little different in a few months.

Is that how normal people act? Is this how they function? Is this something else that's changed? Is he going to be able to fly under the radar? Is he going to be able to do his job? All of his job? Even the parts that the rest of the department won't know about until he's got something concrete, something unassailable?

"I don't talk about it," he says, finally. "People already know. And that helps. But that's got its own problems because then they think they know what side they fall on. So I don't talk about it. Or I guess I won't. If it comes up. It's still kinda new. You want to get a drink? Maybe something in a pineapple? If pineapples are still around?"