Great Big Beautiful Life(8)
Hayden had told the story in reverse, each section focusing on the Len of a different era as his short-term memory faded, and then, gradually, his old memories too.
In one of their final conversations in which Len remembered Hayden, he’d shared his fear of losing himself, of reaching the point where not only did he not recognize his old band, or his wife, or his daughters, but he no longer knew who he was.
Hayden had asked Len what he ought to tell him, if Len should ever ask the question Who am I?
And in a way, that question had been the scaffolding for the whole book, the thesis of who, ultimately, is the legendary Len Stirling. What, in the end, matters most about a person’s identity.
After some thought, Len had answered Hayden, “Tell me I’m your friend Len.”
By then they’d been working on the book for four years, only Len’s manager and most intimate acquaintances aware of the diagnosis that led to it.
And that final section, the portion of the book concerned with Len’s childhood in the Mississippi Delta, beautifully stripped away the legend and the mythos to present just that: a loving portrait of a friend, of a boy who’d rescued snakes from torture at the hands of the neighborhood kids, one who’d hung his head in shame after shoplifting taffy on his younger brother’s birthday, a more human Len than he’d probably gotten to be in a long time.
Obviously, I wouldn’t emulate the structure for Margaret’s book, but finding some other device like that might help to achieve something similar, to scrape away all the labels and rumors and stories piled atop this person and reveal the person herself.
Before I can think through it any further, though, I’ll need coffee.
I take a quick shower and get dressed: a pink skirt that’s technically a tiny bit too short, big watermelon earrings, and a white knit top. I step into my sandals; grab my purse, sunglasses, and room key; and step out into the cool, breezy morning, a layer of salt coating my skin almost instantly.
I jog down the steps and get into my car. I grabbed a coffee at Main Street Bean yesterday before my meeting with Margaret, and it left a lot to be desired, but I found a spot online with rave reviews, a ways back toward the bridge to the mainland.
Punching the name of it—Little Croissant—into my phone, I start the car. The Cranberries song I was listening to on the way home from Margaret’s yesterday automatically starts playing, and I crank my windows down as I pull out of the hotel’s parking lot.
Within a few minutes, the palm trees that dot the road at regular intervals are replaced by more wild foliage: cypress and live oak and massive century plants, the shaggy grass beneath them dappled in shadow by the rising sun.
I take a left onto the four-lane road that heads out of town and off island, eyes darting from the GPS to the narrow cross streets as I pass them.
Ahead, a wide dirt turnoff flanked in more palm appears, a grid of candy-colored wooden signs posted there beneath a larger sign for the Little Crescent Enclave.
Little Croissant Coffee Bar
Two Dudes Pizza
Turquoise Turtle Antiques
Esmeralda’s Fine Art & Jewelry
Sisters o’ the Sea
Booze Hound
I turn down the drive and find myself hemmed in by twin rows of squat shops, each as brightly painted as its respective sign. Both sides of the enclave are built atop graying wooden platforms—protection against flooding—and every single shop has its door(s) propped open, shoppers milling in and out with coffee cups in hand.
The road ends in a round, white-graveled parking lot, a huge gnarled tree at its center, and I take the closest spot I can find, leaving the windows open so the car doesn’t bake. I hop out, admiring the charming little nook tucked away by woods for a moment before picking my way toward Little Croissant.
The line is all the way down the platform steps, but it takes only a few minutes for me to put in my order, and since I’m just getting drip coffee, I’m waiting only a moment beneath the upper seating area’s sun-sails (there’s also a stone patio down off the side of the platform) before the teenage barista at the shack’s serving window calls my name.
“Thanks!” I call inside as I grab the cup.
Two decades’ worth of tongue burns, and I still haven’t learned to be cautious with that first sip, which is why I find myself with a very full mouth of something that is definitely not coffee, and thus somewhat disgusting.
I almost spit it out, but at the last conceivable second force myself to just hold it in my mouth long enough to turn the cup around and read the name and order scratched on its side.
Green tea. (Instantly less disgusting now that I know this.)
Hayden. (Instantly more embarrassing.)
“This must be yours then,” a low, rumbling voice says behind me, and I turn to find a large expanse of chest in front of me, a gray Purdue T-shirt clinging damply to it.
My head tips up past a collarbone, Adam’s apple, and strong jaw to an angular nose and glowering light brown eyes.
It’s a marvel I remember to swallow the gulp of tea before blurting, “Why are you so wet?”
His glower deepens as he holds the paper cup in his hand out to me, my name clearly written on the side. “It’s called sweat. It happens when you run.”
I take the cup and pass the one in my hand to him. “What were you running from?” I ask guilelessly.