THE DOOR

I closed the trunk and walked back to the beach.

Robert is splayed out on his towel in the sand.

The sea gently laps the shore, a frothy light blue. It’s warm, clear—a perfect day. The kind of day when everything comes to a halt and all that matters is your tan and sunglasses and the feeling of your toes in the sand.

We’re on Tata Beach—the nearest town is Takaka, miles away—a few houses spot the shore, a path, public restrooms, etc.

I collapse on my towel and open a book, and in that moment I’m never going home, nothing exists beyond the coastline—there is no home, no stress, no anxiety, no such thing as right and wrong, nobody except the sun and myself, no government, no money, no women, no friends, no God—

Shit, damn, motherfucker.

THE KEYS.

They’re not in my pocket.

I check beneath my towel, around my flip-flops, pockets, pockets again—panic ensues—I try not to alarm Robert. I stand up, stretch, and casually walk toward car, caging my breath between clenched teeth, swallowing my heart.

I circle the car, frantic, check beneath it—they’re in the trunk—I know they are, but still I check the bushes. Reality settles in. I’m no longer on the beach. Heat tickles my brow, stress washes over me, sucking the moisture from my face.

God, no—

Fuck no.

Help me please.

But God doesn’t exist remember? It’s just me and the sun and my tan, toes in the sand, standing like a retarded chimpanzee, gapping, waiting for the doors to magically open themselves. I start to pray. Fuck, fuck, fuck, is how it goes. Help me you bastard.

But the sun just laughs and the doors don’t open, and I‘m sweating bare-chested beneath my jean-jacket.

At least I look cool—that actually occurs to me.

Prick.

Robert is irritated. He walks around the rental car once and returns to the beach. It was my mistake—my mess, my expense.

I hopelessly stagger around the bathrooms and consider hitching to town—there must be a locksmith or mechanic there. You know, I think, some lovely generous person who will help me out for the small fee of an arm and a leg.

I take a chance and walk up to the guy cleaning the toilets.

He’s a cool dude—everyone in New Zealand is so helpful and considerate. He tells me I need a hanger. I go door-to-door like a Godless Mormon, begging for a hanger. A heavyset man obliges and follows me to the car.

We spend a half-hour digging into the window, ruining the door seal and chipping the paint. He gives me his time—no questions asked—and makes unlocking the door a game. All the while I’m thankful, but chewing my tongue, wincing every time he gouges the window frame and further tears the rubber seal.

That’ll cost me.

In the end we’re unsuccessful, but still this generous soul offers me his assistance and calls for help. He leaves then and I’m sitting in the dirty part of the sand, near the car, frowning, stressing, wondering how much the damage will cost and how much the automotive with charge.

Fuck—right?

The automotive comes, pumps open the door, pops the lock and the day is saved. He tells me the expense will be charged to the rental company. I sign my name on a paper, which he examines and approves, then climbs into his truck and drives away. Robert walks up from the beach and removes his water bottle from the back seat. I hand him the keys and he returns to his spot in the sand.

I want to be glad, should feel relief, but the probable double-expense of service and damage weighs on my like mountain. I walk down the shore, wade into the sea, and clamber onto a rough pile on rocks jutting from the water.

And then I pray.

I’m not alone anymore.

God exists.

I’ve been arrogant, self-serving, and willfully oblivious—ignoring the fact. I spend an hour there, in deep contemplation, cutting my feet on the rocks—I’m sorry, help me out, don’t charge me, soften some hearts, open a door.

The next day we drop off the car and the dark-skinned woman behind the desk smiles.

She assures that there will be no charges—period.