Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
“I’m going to put on something warmer,” I say, sliding off a tall chair in the kitchen. “I’ll take my bag upstairs.”
It is strange to be back here. I’m about to change into a sweater and jeans when Rueben walks in. I don’t really feel like having sex, but that doesn’t seem to be why he’s here. He goes into the bathroom. “Come in here for a minute.”
I go into the bathroom, and he’s standing beside the scale. “Take off your clothes and step on. I want to see how much you weigh.”
I lay my tweed skirt, brown lace shirt, bra and panties over the edge of the Jacuzzi and step on the scale.
“One hundred and 10 pounds,” Rueben says. “I’m going to fatten you up this weekend and weigh you again before you go home.”
“I can’t afford cheese and olives,” I laugh. “I intend to take full advantage of their availability.”
I put on my bra and panties and go back into the bedroom to finish dressing. Rueben bounds downstairs to check the pizza.
“It’s ready,” he calls up.
“Coming right down,” I reply, thinking that this is an awfully strange way to date someone.
“What do you want to do today?” Rueben asks, serving me a huge breakfast.
“I’d like to go to a beach.”
“A beach. OK, I’ll try to think of some place we could go.”
“It’s an island. Aren’t beaches one of the main things about being on an island?”
“This island doesn’t have a lot of beaches, but I have a couple of ideas.”
We drive for about 20 minutes, park and take a trail into the woods.
“How far is the beach?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe 15 minutes.”
“OK, so this is more of a hike,” I say. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of a beach down here.”
“But you don’t really know?”
“I’m allergic to trees, so I don’t spend a lot of time in the woods.”
We walk through a spooky forest of dead trees covered in hanging moss. Rueben is sniffling, blowing his nose. The trail takes us up and over a hill and eventually out to the water and a small rocky beach. I inspect a log with billions of wormholes in it while Rueben skips stones. Once. Twice. They sink.
“We should head back soon,” he says. “I have plans for lunch.”
“Plans?” I ask, thinking he means he has an appointment.
“Yes, we’re having lamb with fresh oregano and roasted potatoes. I need to marinate the lamb for about an hour before grilling it.”
“Sounds great. Well, thank you for the beach experience,” I say. We head back into the forest. Rueben leads the way.
“I hate to tell you this Rueben, but it looks like you’ve stepped in dog shit.”
“Oh my god,” Rueben squeals, hopping around, scraping his shoe on tree roots and moss. Back at the car, he takes off the shoe and dips it in a stream at the side of the road—cursing, wiping it with a paper towel—making a really big deal out of the dog shit. He puts the shoe in a plastic bag in the trunk. I try to start a conversation with him, but the dog-shit thing is really bugging him. He’s clenching the steering wheel with both hands, taking corners a bit faster than I am comfortable with. He backs the car into the garage, gets the bag with the shoe in it out of the trunk, takes off the other shoe and puts them both in the garbage can. He walks quickly to the house in his socks. I sit on the deck, giving him some time to cool down. Inside, I hear him shrieking, “A mouse! A mouse!” The door flies opens, and he stomps back to the garage in bedroom slippers to crash around, cursing. He returns to the house wearing a beekeeper’s mask, holding long metal tongs and several plastic bags.
“There’s a mouse in the trap,” Rueben says, sniffling. I close my eyes and think about olives, fancy cheese and lamb with fresh oregano.
A raven lands on a cedar bough, making an almost human sound. Something like laughter.
