The fog today has brushed the mountains with a thick white mist almost like a snow mass; yet the temperature is warm. What I found most entertaining in a writers way, was the night Chantel and I visited NOBU; “No One Beats Us.”
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF UNTAMED, UNDRESSED WILDERNESS are the unhurried pocket full of cash residents, or resident visitors, that line up in waxed sports cars and convertibles at the entrance of NOBU. I wonder if they have summer and winter cars as I watch them slouching on the terrace sofas: women in latex tight jeans, bottoms-up mini skirts, and men in tight V-Neck T’s and designer jeans.
“ Oh Chantel this is going to be so fun.”
“ You think so?”
We sat down on the terrace sofas and ordered drinks. As a thirty-year old
this sort of stylish trendy expensive dining was all I cared about and I can’t tell you why because I never got inside the groups that I followed. Thirty years later my sense of belonging is unimportant; it is the observation deck of a group that is
capable of supreme prating, joking, excessive drinking and charismatic behavior.
I spotted two men dressed in musicians gear, top hats, and dancing lace up boots swaying towards us.
“ Hello girls, do you mind if we join you.” I didn’t look at Chantel until they swayed a bit more indiscreetly, and realized they were hammered.
“You guys rock n roll musicians.” I asked
“What? How’d you know?”
“The British accent, two bottles of beer in one hand and the hat.
They bent over at the waist in laughter and collapsed on a sofa across from us.
Thirties, with squinted red eyes, and big smiles; they laughed at everything I said.
“ I like that you call us girls; but we really are. Aren’t we Chantel?”.
She smiled and when they asked her what kind of music she liked she said
‘ All kinds.”
What about you?” The less than stupid drunk one asked me.
“ Mick Jagger.”
He spread his arms out wide and then slapped the table.
“The guy is unbelievable. No truly the best man today, still. I can’t believe the guy.”
Common ground in music stroked our conversation, until the stupid drunk one
tipped over one of his beers, while trying to stand. They drifted off to their crowd and I remained fixated to the garden of youth circulating the terrace.
The indoors were crammed with shiny female legs, and beautiful male arms. There was no identification of loners or singles; just one large crowd hip to hip. No one place I’ve been to can beat the sizzling sexuality, liberation of theatrics, and prices. Two pieces of tuna are $8.00 and Sashimi is $25.00.
I left my phone that night and when I returned the next day at noon there were twenty people waiting to get in. Thinly disguised in hat, ankle length bathing suit wrap, and glasses, I did not look like I belonged and I liked that feeling. It was a star-spangled banner sort of celebration that I really don’t mind being on the outskirts. I am staying in Malibu; but I am not a Malibu moneyed account.
The next evening outing I stopped at Geoffrey’s Restaurant; in my southwest dirty 2002 Discovery. The valet was directing traffic as if he was a pilot commanding a landing of private jets.
“ You are very good with those signals.”
He nodded. No time to talk.
I tried to walk in without looking at the floor; as if I’d been there before.
The bar was half full; and the dining room tables were all taken. The backdrop was cinematic; a glorious china-blue sea, with seagulls and surfers marked through floor to ceiling spotless glass. There was so much reflection and light; the groomed and jeweled diners looked like actors on a movie set. That makes me a little uncomfortable; to be so transparent. I noticed a spot on my shoe, a tiny one that turned brownish the more I stared.
The bartendress breezed over,’ Hi. May I start you with some sparkling water’ one I’d never heard of.
“ A wine list please and the appetizer menu.” She gleamed at that.
My journal was my partner; so I scribbled away casually and felt inducted into Geoffrey’s. I ordered the crab cakes appetizer, wafer size but so delicious I would order them again. As soon as the gloaming hour arrived it was time to leave. I had not mastered the swerving mountain roads to Chantel’s in the dark.
” Check please.” I said.
What a sensational feeling to sign the slip and know there is more than enough in my bank account.
” Your card didn’t go through.”
” Try it again please. There should be no problem.”
” Sorry. The card is — not accepted.”
Not enough cash to pay a thirty-five dollar bill was more than humiliating; so I pulled an Allen Smiley.
” I’ve never heard of such a thing. Wells Fargo will hear about this!” I called Wells Fargo and followed all the instructions and then waited. By this time the owner, thirties and as pretty as the Blue Boy, appeared.
I signaled him to wait a moment just as Wells Fargo disconnected me.
Then I pitched up my voice melodramatically to the owner and talked up my frustration. As I am explaining that I am visiting and that all my ready cash was spent in one day in Malibu and I was so sorry; I went swimming in his almost Paul Newman eyes.
” It’s no problem. It’s okay. I”ll run the hand written receipt tomorrow.” He said with suave charming lips and teeth.
Then he left. I turned to the Bartendress and asked if this ever happens at Geoffrey’s. She smiled and said, ‘ No, but it used to happen in a bar I worked at.’
I left in a roundabout reminder that I should stop galloping around without cash; especially on a vacation.
The next day I walked into Wells Fargo at Trancas Canyon. Three employees welcomed me: coffee, water, how can we help, all in sync. After I explained the story to a college age man behind a walnut desk, he called someone at Wells Fargo and then I learned the trick to traveling.
” If you go out of state you need to let us know so we won’t block your account.”
” For thirty-five dollars? Don’t tell me you do that when Cher leaves town.” She didn’t laugh.
” The block is removed. Is there anything else we can do?’
” I hope not.”
The suntanned jolly man at the desk began a conversation: where do you live, how long you’re in Malibu, have you been to Trancas Beach and then he asked why I didn’t have a savings account. I leaned in real close and whispered, I don’t have that much money.
‘” I see we just sent you a platinum credit card.”
” I never received a platinum credit card.” He leaned back in his leather executive chair that really didn’t suit him at all and said, ” You probably thought it was an advertisement and threw it away.”
” Do you know what the limit is?” I asked.
He tapped on his computer and I watched in anticipation.
” Three thousand dollars.”
” Yes. Now let’s talk about you opening up a savings account. You have to have one.'”
I wanted to stand up and hug him. Instead I asked him if he surfed.
” Yea, but I’m not that good really.”
” It doesn’t always matter that you’re good; some things are just about doing it.”
To be continued.
3 thoughts on “CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN”
Wow, really a fantastic read. Humorous and quite entertaining. One of my favorites.
If you ever return we should have a conversation when we’re both sober. Experiment below.
So you think the shortest distance a straight line? Have you ever climbed a mountain?
So discipline’s the key to a happy life? Have you ever fed a child?
Lighten your grip, and embrace the zig zag flows of your life.
That’s the way to woo a woman.
DancingBear– my pet name I have one for everyone. Gloria is White Zen.
I have returned from 92065- WOW, the most enchantment I’d felt in a long time.
Loved being home and meeting a charismatic group of Europeans who were
also staying on the compound.
Liked your poem! Keep it going.
Sober sips of cafe.